Dramatis Personae
Apuleius, a Romantic.
Lord D–, another Romantic. They might be lovers.
William De G–, who knows? Apparently a third Romantic, but that mysterious cape covers much of his identity.
Randomly Created Just For the Sake of an Ending and Therefore Ultimately Pointless Musician, a musician.
Various Musicians, filler roles for bad actors between food service jobs.
SCENE 1
On top of a hill, early morning. Birds sing from a tree, a dog rests at the base. Apuleius sits opposite, writing in a folio. From the other side of the hill Lord D– enters carrying a cane.
LORD D: You have picked a very beautiful tree under which to write. What are you composing?
APULEIUS: Words, words, words.
LORD D: You know, I think that’s been done before. Your readers would appreciate something a little more original. You do have to think about them, you know.
APULEIUS: I’m not going to worry about them now. I don’t care what they think. What the hell do they know anyway? I’m the artist, not them. If they were so smart, they would be the ones publishing.
LORD D: True enough, vicious rabble. You know, my last book only made it into its seventeenth edition.
APULEIUS: They didn’t understand you. My Notes From Salisbury was stopped after its twelfth. But I think this one here is genius. I’m reflecting on the hedgerows – natural barriers, they are!
LORD D: Nice premise.
APULEIUS: It is impossible that this one is going to fail with the publisher.
LORD D: Your father didn’t particularly like your last book, Ode to Childhood. Except for the scene where he and you were boxing in the servants’ quarters.
APULEIUS: Well, he is the person who made me deaf in one ear. And anyway, I hardly touched the girl.
LORD D: She did produce a child for you. By and by, where is he now?
APULEIUS: Last I heard he had gone to join a war or something. Byron took many of my household with him the day he came by the manor.
LORD D: That bastard was a born leader. His pilgrimage took four of my servants with him as well. (Feeling around, he leans against the tree and listens) So, do you not hear the glorious song coming from this tree?
APULEIUS: Aye I do, but it sounds faint. When I look to my left at the sunset, I can hear it. When the sun is out of view, there is no song. The faintness of the song does allow me a more unique inspiration does it not?
LORD D: ‘Tis a shame, the birds in this tree are magnificent.
APULEIUS: There is only one bird in the tree.
LORD D: Nay, three. The others are to your right.
APULEIUS: (Looking up into the tree) Damn it all! That decimates my aesthetics after the third verse! (Scratching out the remaining verses)
LORD D: So much for inspiration.
APULEIUS: Don’t you talk to me of inspiration! I seem to remember during one of your trips to Prussia that you got lost in the forest for three days chasing a butterfly.
LORD D: It had the most beautiful of patterns on its wings. Reminded me of the mists of Avalon.
APULEIUS: There never was an Avalon.
LORD D: Herectic!
APULEIUS: You were still lost in Mallory and de Troyers, I think. And what the hell do you know anyhow? You are as blind as a fucking mole at the best of times.
LORD D: Well yes, but I could feel the creature’s beauty. Some things go beyond the sense.
APULEIUS: True enough. Weren’t you receiving a spiritual aid, however?
LORD D: Actually, I did have a copious amount of mushrooms in my belly. I think that it was Percy’s hashish that really helped me to navigate the forest.
APULEIUS: I find that my soul is best served when I have my Virgil beside me. One time after I read about the underworld, I went out into my garden and saw spirits in my perennials. My creative potency returned to full strength after staring at one of my roses for six hours.
LORD D: Isn’t that always the case with roses? How Freudian. (sits beside Apuleius)
APULEIUS: What are you talking about?
LORD D: I don’t know. I was just babbling and it came out.
APULEIUS: It sounds as though you are well ahead of your time.
LORD D: Do you know what else has let my quill flow? (dramatic pause) Absinthe!
APULEIUS: Once again, you a re a few years too early, I think.
LORD D: (picking up a sheet of Apuleius’s folio) It has yellowed. Are you striving for the aged look. Oh precious antiquity! Perhaps a lost manuscript? A newly-found Boethius? A (pause) Homer?
APULEIUS: Nay. My dog felt that he needed to express himself.
LORD D: I always feel as though I were from another age. As if my destiny were entwined with that of another from years past, perhaps even Odysseus himself. (jumps up quickly) Wait! (pause) I’m feeling the deepest of inspirations! (runs off into the forest, colliding with several trees in the process)
APULEIUS: Finally I am rid of him. A corrupting influence, he is. Now I may return to my work. (stares at a small flower by his feet as several minutes pass)
SCENE 2
A library. Several books are scattered about the floor. Apuleius sits reading. Lord D– enters followed by De G–, who is wearing a long cape. The narrator is forced to smirk with contempt.
LORD D: My Lord Apuleius. How goes your study?
APULEIUS: (starting) D–! I didn’t hear your admittance.
LORD D: Well then allow me to further introduce to you one of the most eminent man of letters of this generation or any other, a genius beyond measure, and a man for all seasons! William De G–, here in your very presence! (De G– bows slightly) I have brought him here to read your new work.
APULEIUS: Very kind of you, and Monsieur De G–, I am honoured. I was moved to tears by your Fall of Encolpius. What pain! What suffering. What need for lubrication!
LORD D: Indeed a watershed and a glorious triumph of the English language.
APULEIUS: Here is my folio. Please do not hesitate to critique it as you will.
LORD D: I am positive that you will only benefit from De G–‘s opinions. It was from him that I learned how to transcend mere description and use words to touch the face of God.
(De G– reads through the folio, nodding at various times)
APULEIUS: See, I knew this work would have a mark! It was a glorious month for me, as I felt prodigiously creative.
LORD D: Hold your thoughts for a second and let De G– finish. (After a few pauses during which he continues to nod ever more violently, De G– hands the folio to Apuleius. He ponders for a few moments, steadying his chin between his thumb and forefinger, then grabs a large pendant from around his neck and opens it. He pulls out a piece of paper and begins to write, while nodding to himself)
APULEIUS: Ha! Look! He is himself inspired to write! I think that my present work shall be my masterpiece, and a hallmark for future generations of under...um...graduates.
LORD D: Future what? Do you predict radical social change? A utopia run by these under...graduates, whose language and beauty shall enlighten all of humanity? Keep this future to yourself for the time being. In truth, De G– is writing his own opinions to you. (De G– hands the paper to Apuleius)
APULEIUS: What is this?
LORD D: Did you not know De G– is a mute?
APULEIUS: No I did not! (begins to read) And what is the meaning of this writing? Is this man truly touched by the gods?
LORD D: (examining the paper) Ah, well you must understand that in addition to being mute, De G– also suffers from spiritual possession which inspires all of his life’s work.
APULEIUS: This note looks as though it had been written by a constipated donkey.
LORD D: The spirits touch De G– by means of chronic, uncontrollably violent muscle spasms. Well, every true artist must develop his own unique style. I think that his spasmodic contractions add a great primitivism to his work, like a noble savage.
(De G– continues to nod uncontrollably)
SCENE 3
Feeling an almost total revulsion at the presumption and futility of the previous scene, the narrator ends it. Presently, Apuleius and Lord D– sit by the side of a lake observing the mists rising. De G– stands over them, the nodding of his head providing what, for our two protagonists, is a pleasing contrapuntal element to the scene in front of them.
LORD D: Beauty is everywhere, is it not?
APULEIUS: Aye. But despite the lucidity of the scene before me, my mind is elsewhere.
LORD D: Oh, another love? Christ, who is it this time?
APULEIUS: Lady Hamilton. She has captivated my heart. I do not think that I can continue without her.
LORD D: Nor should you.
APULEIUS: Those graceful hands that I need to clasp. Her luscious lips that I wish to kiss that ehy may provide me with such a delightful fever. Her cascading hair! And those breasts!
LORD D: Yes, much will be written about Lady Hamilton’s breasts.
APULEIUS: I wrote to her several Odes, encased in a velvet sleeve with pressed roses on its cover.
LORD D: She didn’t buy your ruse, did she?
APULEIUS: Nay. She told me that she thought I just wanted to fuck her.
LORD D: Women just do not have the capacity to understand true love.
APULEIUS: Well, she did allow me a quick lay.
LORD D: Quick?
(quick??)
APULEIUS: Well, I certainly cannot control the outpouring of my emotions! You really can’t restrain yourself, can you? That’s not very creative.
LORD D: I am sure that she appreciated your artistic integrity. (pause)
APULEIUS: I am a man in love as much as Ovid.
LORD D: You know, I don’t think that the poor can ever trule fall in love. How can they when they cannot even afford books? (long pause) Sometimes I think that God does not really know where it is going with all of this. (waves his hand in an extravagant gesture)
APULEIUS: What do you mean?
LORD D: It all seems so random, doesn’t it? So arbitrary. As though there really was no master plan. That God was really just writing what it felt like writing without thinking things though a little further.
APULEIUS: I agree.
(De G– hands Lord D– a note)
LORD D: So does De G–. He says that there really isn’t a God after all, that life is purely chance. God would provide proof if it really exis–
SCENE 4
Lightning strikes a tree, which then falls onto Lord D–, killing him instantly. It is a magnificent scene.
SCENE 5
Apuleius sitting opposite De G– by the lake.
APULEIUS: What the hell was the point of that? I guess that you are right, De G–.
(De G– nods, perhaps in accordance. They stare at each other for several minutes. Growing increasingly bored, the audience decides to vacate the theatre)
APULEIUS: Well, do you think that’s our cue?
(De G– nods)
APULEIUS: Alright, how do you want to do this, then?
(De G– begins drawing on a sheet of paper from his pendant, then hands it to Apuleius)
APULEIUS: Well, that should work. Do you have any rope?
(The narrator, having blown his cover with the whole lightning incident in the fourth scene, spontaneously creates two lengths of rope and places them beside De G–. The two climb up a tree and begin to tie the ropes to one of the tree branches, and then around their necks)
APULEIUS: This is not in vain, my friend. Our deaths will be studied for years to come. THIS is art! (Apuleius hurls himself from the tree and hangs himself. De G– follows, but their combined weight snaps the tree branch. He remains prostrate on the ground, shaking uncontrollably. After a few seconds he sits up and writes a note, leaves it on the ground, stands up nodding his head, and slowly exits)
...
(The note: well, there isn’t an audience anymore, so what the fuck. A troupe of travelling musicians enters into the scene. One of them finds the note beside Apuleius’s body and reads it)
RANDOMLY CREATED JUST FOR THE SAKE OF AN ENDING AND THEREFORE ULTIMATELY POINTLESS MUSICIAN: It just says: “I couldn’t even do this properly!” Poor soul. Must have been one of those Romantics. (Exit. The narrator can no longer withstand the blunt satire of his narrative, so...)
END
Friday, March 26, 1999
Tuesday, March 09, 1999
Gender Issues
After the women’s movement became more or less institutionalized in the late 1970s and early 1980s, new discourses arose over the concerns that feminism had failed to address. Chief among these was an evaluation of homosexuality within the newly created sphere of gender issues. Foucault establishes the groundwork for future criticism in this field by discussing the nature of sexuality within power structures. His ideologies are taken up by Judith Butler, who applies them to her specific situation as an “out of the closet” lesbian.
In The History of Sexuality, Foucault advances the notion that homosexuality is not a set of behavioural patterns but instead as a discourse between itself and heterosexuality. The two are not mutually exclusive binaries, but are part of the same power structure. He argues that any power or authority exists simultaneously with its forms of repression and resistance. They do not operate as an exteriority to power, but are instead multiple points of rebellion within the power structure. Thus he argues that both discourse and silence are simultaneously supportive and subversive of power. Neither is this authority a centralized figure, but in a sense a spread of influence acting omnidirectionally: it is “exercised from innumerable points” (p. 184). Foucault consequently argues that repression has always existed, that the era of Victorian prudish sexuality is not an anomaly situated between periods of liberation. Forms of repression change with the times, with the changing technological structure, and with changing definitions of power-knowledge. He ends this extract by defining sexuality not as a force in and of itself, but as a historical construct determined by power-knowledge. In terms of relationships, a deployment of alliance and a deployment of sexuality have been merged in the form of the family in the modern West. The family unit was itself created as an economic entity, but sexuality emerged in the family which served to disrupt the alliance. It is at this point that “the young homosexual who rejects marriage or neglects his wife” (p. 192) emerges and joins the discourse of sexuality.
Set as a backdrop to Butler’s essay is her belief that gender is an ideological construction which is assumed; it is not a matter of genes, but of impersonation. Gender is merely a continuum which is the superstructure for the binaries of male and female. In this regard she refers somewhat to the Lacanian-Derridian concept of slippery signification. The signifier ‘Female’ does not strictly adhere to a signified feminine heterosexual identity, but indeed can refer to any pattern of sexuality along the continuum. She posits drag to exemplify this principle: “Drag is not ... an act of expropriation or appropriation that assumes that gender is the rightful property of sex, that ‘masculine’ belongs to ‘male’ and ‘feminine’ belongs to ‘female’” (p. 332). Alternately, she proposes that “gender is a kind of imitation for which there is no original” (p. 333). One slips from one imitation to another as easily as from one signifier to another. Heterosexuality is an infinite repetition of imitation: it desires to be like the original. Yet by defining itself as the original, heterosexuality immediately describes homosexuality as a necessary. But the inclusion of homosexuality within heterosexuality (and of course, vice versa) does not suppose the derivation of the former from the latter. Butler remains very aware of the Derridian interplay between the binaries. It forces her to examine what it means to be ‘out of the closet’, as both out and in require each other for their own definition. Additionally, she refers to a Foucault’s notion of the mulitvalency of discourse: by coming out of the closet she alters the locus of what the closet symbolizes. Similarly, she describes gay and straight defining each other and even in some instances constituting each other: “the self from the start is radically implicated in the ‘Other’” (p. 336). This ‘Other’ derives from a sense of loss, and is the capacity for the self to realize its identity. She states that this sense of self-identity, specifically of sexual self-identity, emerges as a repetition of psychic compulsions; it is the performance which realizes this illusion of ‘sex’, but fails in its expression of a ‘natural sex’.
In The History of Sexuality, Foucault advances the notion that homosexuality is not a set of behavioural patterns but instead as a discourse between itself and heterosexuality. The two are not mutually exclusive binaries, but are part of the same power structure. He argues that any power or authority exists simultaneously with its forms of repression and resistance. They do not operate as an exteriority to power, but are instead multiple points of rebellion within the power structure. Thus he argues that both discourse and silence are simultaneously supportive and subversive of power. Neither is this authority a centralized figure, but in a sense a spread of influence acting omnidirectionally: it is “exercised from innumerable points” (p. 184). Foucault consequently argues that repression has always existed, that the era of Victorian prudish sexuality is not an anomaly situated between periods of liberation. Forms of repression change with the times, with the changing technological structure, and with changing definitions of power-knowledge. He ends this extract by defining sexuality not as a force in and of itself, but as a historical construct determined by power-knowledge. In terms of relationships, a deployment of alliance and a deployment of sexuality have been merged in the form of the family in the modern West. The family unit was itself created as an economic entity, but sexuality emerged in the family which served to disrupt the alliance. It is at this point that “the young homosexual who rejects marriage or neglects his wife” (p. 192) emerges and joins the discourse of sexuality.
Set as a backdrop to Butler’s essay is her belief that gender is an ideological construction which is assumed; it is not a matter of genes, but of impersonation. Gender is merely a continuum which is the superstructure for the binaries of male and female. In this regard she refers somewhat to the Lacanian-Derridian concept of slippery signification. The signifier ‘Female’ does not strictly adhere to a signified feminine heterosexual identity, but indeed can refer to any pattern of sexuality along the continuum. She posits drag to exemplify this principle: “Drag is not ... an act of expropriation or appropriation that assumes that gender is the rightful property of sex, that ‘masculine’ belongs to ‘male’ and ‘feminine’ belongs to ‘female’” (p. 332). Alternately, she proposes that “gender is a kind of imitation for which there is no original” (p. 333). One slips from one imitation to another as easily as from one signifier to another. Heterosexuality is an infinite repetition of imitation: it desires to be like the original. Yet by defining itself as the original, heterosexuality immediately describes homosexuality as a necessary. But the inclusion of homosexuality within heterosexuality (and of course, vice versa) does not suppose the derivation of the former from the latter. Butler remains very aware of the Derridian interplay between the binaries. It forces her to examine what it means to be ‘out of the closet’, as both out and in require each other for their own definition. Additionally, she refers to a Foucault’s notion of the mulitvalency of discourse: by coming out of the closet she alters the locus of what the closet symbolizes. Similarly, she describes gay and straight defining each other and even in some instances constituting each other: “the self from the start is radically implicated in the ‘Other’” (p. 336). This ‘Other’ derives from a sense of loss, and is the capacity for the self to realize its identity. She states that this sense of self-identity, specifically of sexual self-identity, emerges as a repetition of psychic compulsions; it is the performance which realizes this illusion of ‘sex’, but fails in its expression of a ‘natural sex’.
Monday, March 08, 1999
Negative Art Never Exists
There came a time during a repeated viewing of the movie Armageddon in which I began to ask myself why it is that movies such as this enter into production. Pop-art remains the most beautiful and profound of artistic enigmas. Certainly such vacuity cannot echo any great aspect of the human experience. Yet only a misanthrope could argue for its uselessness and invalidity. A purely monetary explanation remains superficial and elliptical; similarly limiting is an escapist analysis.
By altering the definitions of “What constitutes Art?” and “What makes Art engaging?”, a more satisfying solution can be reached. A materialistic approach is generally taken to answer such questions. For an object or image to be recognized as artistically valid it must contain within its conception a certain quality which appeals to the observer. Greek proportions, harmony, balance, structure; the totem of artistic cannon in this regard casts a grand shadow over any who wishes to probe its abstruseness. Even in the writing of the most able art critics, however, a haze of ambiguity obscures any attempts to truly define aesthetic appeal. Dadaism has proven the disunity between Art as institution and any ‘true’ aesthetic values. Similarly, many amateur and lesser poets can be quite adept at utilising the forms and structures traditionally held sacred to their art. Yet, their work frequently lacks that transcendent emotional quality which allows a work to be more universally praised.
Refocusing can in some instances yield clarity. Materialism is limiting. Positing a theory of Art-as-interaction allows a more universal application. Art is not the quality of an object, nor of its various constituent parts. Instead it can be seen as the interaction between the object and the observer. It can be likened to human relationships: it is the space between the two which defines both. Art cannot exist without the observer; the concept of the “lost work of art” is a fallacy and an oxymoron: until they are rediscovered, the lost works of Aeschylus will remain merely interesting facts. Art never exists merely for its own sake. Art is inspiration looking for a lover; the drive is a purely organic one. This interaction may be extremely profound and enduring. It may also be superficial and of only minor interest. Neither is more valid while the observer is in the immediacy of experiencing the interaction however; Dionysus blinds as frequently as he liberates.
Furthermore, art cannot be held responsible for being an influence on society. Believing this allows one to escape one’s own responsibilities. In this regard it is interesting to note that in condemning the pop-artist Marilyn Manson, the American christian coalition uses more graphic language describing his supposedly perverse acts than Manson himself does. How could the works such ‘perverse’ artists such as Manson or Joel-Peter Witkin corrupt society while their critics remain uncorrupted by their exposure to it? By arguing they negate their own argument. Is art a mirror of society, or is society a mirror of art? That is perhaps the wrong question to ask. Is it not more true that art is the act of society looking in the mirror? Such a question allows both the christian coalition and Marilyn Manson to be equally valid answers.
Such a definition allows for the great variety observed in the personal tastes of individuals, as well as the ascent or atrophy of the appeal of an individual work. In this capacity a Lysippian statue or a concerto by Mozart will affect many for centuries. Likewise, a work such as Armageddon will affect many for a much more limited time, which for myself was a few minutes at most. That was, of course, its entire purpose.
By altering the definitions of “What constitutes Art?” and “What makes Art engaging?”, a more satisfying solution can be reached. A materialistic approach is generally taken to answer such questions. For an object or image to be recognized as artistically valid it must contain within its conception a certain quality which appeals to the observer. Greek proportions, harmony, balance, structure; the totem of artistic cannon in this regard casts a grand shadow over any who wishes to probe its abstruseness. Even in the writing of the most able art critics, however, a haze of ambiguity obscures any attempts to truly define aesthetic appeal. Dadaism has proven the disunity between Art as institution and any ‘true’ aesthetic values. Similarly, many amateur and lesser poets can be quite adept at utilising the forms and structures traditionally held sacred to their art. Yet, their work frequently lacks that transcendent emotional quality which allows a work to be more universally praised.
Refocusing can in some instances yield clarity. Materialism is limiting. Positing a theory of Art-as-interaction allows a more universal application. Art is not the quality of an object, nor of its various constituent parts. Instead it can be seen as the interaction between the object and the observer. It can be likened to human relationships: it is the space between the two which defines both. Art cannot exist without the observer; the concept of the “lost work of art” is a fallacy and an oxymoron: until they are rediscovered, the lost works of Aeschylus will remain merely interesting facts. Art never exists merely for its own sake. Art is inspiration looking for a lover; the drive is a purely organic one. This interaction may be extremely profound and enduring. It may also be superficial and of only minor interest. Neither is more valid while the observer is in the immediacy of experiencing the interaction however; Dionysus blinds as frequently as he liberates.
Furthermore, art cannot be held responsible for being an influence on society. Believing this allows one to escape one’s own responsibilities. In this regard it is interesting to note that in condemning the pop-artist Marilyn Manson, the American christian coalition uses more graphic language describing his supposedly perverse acts than Manson himself does. How could the works such ‘perverse’ artists such as Manson or Joel-Peter Witkin corrupt society while their critics remain uncorrupted by their exposure to it? By arguing they negate their own argument. Is art a mirror of society, or is society a mirror of art? That is perhaps the wrong question to ask. Is it not more true that art is the act of society looking in the mirror? Such a question allows both the christian coalition and Marilyn Manson to be equally valid answers.
Such a definition allows for the great variety observed in the personal tastes of individuals, as well as the ascent or atrophy of the appeal of an individual work. In this capacity a Lysippian statue or a concerto by Mozart will affect many for centuries. Likewise, a work such as Armageddon will affect many for a much more limited time, which for myself was a few minutes at most. That was, of course, its entire purpose.
Thursday, February 11, 1999
Strategy, Tactics, and Supply: The Art of War in the First Crusade
There can be no doubting the importance of the Crusades to the medieval world. For several centuries after the conflict, men in Europe celebrated the glories of the Holy War in poetry and art. It was believed to have been the most virtuous of causes, demanded by God for the glory of God. William of Tyre in particular stressed the purity of the Holy Cause, calling the Crusaders ‘dominici’, or God’s people. Such praise frequently centres upon the First Crusade, which was the most immediately successful expedition. One historian has even stated that “the first crusade was by far the most outstanding military achievement of the feudal period”. Within four years the crusading host had marched to Jerusalem, captured the Holy city, and established a kingdom in the Holy Land. To the Christians, such a quick realization of their objective confirmed that God was indeed behind the Crusade. During the siege at Antioch, Anselm of Ribemont wrote “we have certainly captured for Our Lord two hundred cities and castles. May our Mother Church rejoice that she has borne men who have won for her such a glorious name ... in such a glorious fashion”. Despite such spiritual rhetoric however, the material grounds for the crusaders’ successes did in fact include spiritual matters, which affected the morale of the army. While the conception of any grand strategy was largely foreign to the leaders of the crusade, they did have some measure of tactical ability which allowed them to overcome the Moslems. Indeed, it must be stated that despite the opinions of some early historians, the First Crusade was a success not because of accidental actions taken by commanders, but because of conscientious decisions taken by those leaders with regard to several tactical considerations. Interconnected with both strategy and tactics are logistical considerations, which for the crusaders almost became of strategic importance. Attending to such details allows one to deviate from the stereotype held by earlier historians; the crusading knight was not a barbarian inspired by God but acting wholly as an individual and without regard for the ‘art’ of warfare.
There is a general consensus among historians that the overall strategy of the campaign was only vaguely understood by the crusade leaders. Certainly, the very existence of four separate divisions of crusaders hindered strategic cohesion, as communication between them was extremely limited. Therefore, any degree of strategic deployment against the Moslems – as occurred at Dorylaeum, where Bohemund’s army was hard-pressed by the Turks until the cavalry of Godfrey de Bouillon and Robert of Normandy arrived – was more a matter of coincidence or accident than forethought. Additionally, the mystical nature of the crusade prohibited the development of any overarching strategy, as the crusaders felt that they were in fact led by divine plans. Yet the most obvious and seemingly unsophisticated notion of strategy held by each of the commanders was also the only guarantee for their success. The sole objective for the First Crusade was the capture of Jerusalem, and the crusaders accomplished this end using the most direct means. The crusading host was never a large force, and was greatly outnumbered by the Moslems, therefore a massive expedition to capture every city controlled by the infidels would not have been possible. As the crusaders approached the Holy City in 1099, two war councils were held to determine the strategy of attack. While some nobles wished to advance along the coast, securing port cities along the way in order to allow reinforcements and supplies to reach the crusaders, a direct attack on Jerusalem itself was favoured. In order to achieve their ultimate goals, the crusaders isolated several cities as key to success in the Holy Land, notably Nicea and Antioch.
Linked with this direct attack was the desire to completely annihilate the enemy armies, not to merely conquer the Moslems in individual battles or to take prisoners for monetary gain. Such strategic vision explains the sorties from Antioch and Jerusalem, which were undertaken to exterminate the remnants of the Moslem armies surrounding the newly captured cities. Indeed, it was by following such a direct and immediate strategy that the crusaders did in fact succeed in capturing Jerusalem. It has been argued that the single-mindedness of the leaders of the First Crusade was due to their divine inspiration; their success in campaigning was indeed a rare exception for the Middle Ages. There were some hindrances and tangents to the crusaders’ strategic goals, however. The most pointed of these was the desire of the nobles to gain territories and extend their own holdings into the Holy Land. Baldwin, brother to Godfrey de Bouillon, had separated from the main host of the crusaders after the capture of Antioch “on the pretext of protecting the flanks of the main army”; certainly his goals were territorial however. These territorial ambitions began to disrupt the crusade, as occurred when sub-divisions of Godfrey’s army led by Baldwin and Tancred contested over control of Tarsus. Yet even such petty ambitions served to further the success of the strategic operation. The territories captured by both Baldwin and Tancred served to protect the crusading host in Syria from Turkish armies west of Edessa. In this regard, the opinions held by many earlier historians that the crusaders’ strategy was largely accidental can be only partially substantiated. The many strategic decisions taken by the crusade leaders demonstrate the opposite however, that they did have some sentience about the operational arts.
Similarly, a primitive awareness of and ability in tactical matters was exhibited by the four division leaders. This was not immediately the case however, as the battle of Dorylaeum proves. When attacked by the Turkish army, Bohemund’s forces pursued conventional European battle tactics. The foot soldiers pitched camp, while the cavalry circled in formation, waiting for a charge against the Moslem horsemen. The Turks did not conform to such tactics however. The strength of the Moslems was their mobility, as they donned light armour if any at all; this was especially true of their mounted archers. They would encircle the crusaders at a distance and let loose a hail of arrows upon them, arresting their cavalry charge until the enemy was wounded and confused. In this instance, Bohemund’s forces were saved only by the arrival of cavalry under Godfrey and Robert. He did not adapt to the changing tactical situation; such was the nature of tactical instruction given to Frankish nobles, however. Certainly, the Byzantine army was knowledgeable of Moslem tactics however: Leo VI the Wise had written a treatise dealing with that very subject, stressing the importance of open field engagements with the Turks. The crusaders, however, were far too distrustful of the Byzantines to adopt their tactical advice. By the siege of Antioch however, the commanders had learned how to deal with Moslem tactics. Success lay in cavalry tactics: a series of regiments in the front line, backed by a reserve regiment guarding the flanks would prevent the crusaders from being turned. Such tactics were in fact adopted by Bohemund during the sortie from Antioch. He divided his forces into six regiments, which formed a front line while Bohemund’s regiment held the rearguard position. The Moslems wished to outflank the crusaders and secure the bridge leading into the city, but were checked by Bohemund’s rearguard. The Moslems then tried a faux-retreat to break apart the crusaders’ formation – a tactic proposed by Leo – but were routed by the crusaders in close combat upon their own disorderly retreat. One cannot focus solely on the cavalry however, as the importance of the infantry was felt at Antioch, Ascalon, and Jerusalem. Initially, they protected the horses of the knights before they charged, then they protected the rear flank; at Ascalon they served as mop-up units, additionally aiding knights who had been wounded or unhorsed. Furthermore, with their greater range crossbowmen kept enemy horse-archers at bay.
Three further aspects of tactical operations that were of vital importance to the success of the crusade were discipline, reconnaissance, and supply. Without adequate control over his troops, a commander would not be able to organize them into formation; in the Holy Land this would have meant the routing of the army. Keeping the crusaders together was perhaps the greatest challenge faced by the commanders. The armies did manage to stay together however, most likely due to the strength of their religious convictions. Morale – an aspect of and contributor to discipline – was similarly raised by religious belief, most pointedly demonstrated by the Lance of Christ found before the sortie from Antioch. Nicephorus Phocas had stated the importance of reconnaissance, mainly for the knowledge of enemy positions. Of equal importance was knowledge of terrain. The crusaders were at a great disadvantage in that they were traversing foreign lands, and indeed, their lack of geographical knowledge had caused several defeats. They were not without recourse, however, as they had access to many spies and traitors to aid them in reconnaissance.
A more grave issue throughout the First Crusade was the supply of the army. Emperor Alexius had promised to supply the crusaders, yet once they were outside his realm his fleet could not reach them because all of the ports were held by Egyptian forces. Consequently, the crusaders were frequently in need of provisions; their dearth became acute during sieges, such as at Antioch and Jerusalem. Indeed, many among the Christian forces began to starve during the siege of Antioch, leading to low morale and a high rate of desertion. Alexius did however finally manage to supply the crusaders with siege equipment and engineers to allow the capture of the city. The peasants who had joined the host did not aid in food collection, but rather were a further burden on the already stretched supplies. The normally fertile areas surrounding the cities in the East had been poisoned by the Moslems to hinder the crusaders, thus forcing food collection parties to wander far from the siege camp to accomplish their task. The crusaders required a fairly high amount of food to sustain themselves: military exertions by knights required a diet high in meat; furthermore, the horses consumed three to four times the weight in food as their riders. Consequently, the sources stress the importance of the “capture of foodstuffs as booty”. Indeed, the knights depended on such booty for their very status. The provisioning of the army had drained their monetary resources, and therefore without the seizure of such booty they could fall into poverty. Many knights had to sell their arms and armour to buy food, instead using arms captured from the Moslems. Additionally, there are numerous instances of knights who had lost their horse in battle being unable to remount and consequently joining the infantry. The crusaders had expected such hardships, perhaps even viewed it as part of their penance as defined by the initial call by Pope Urban II, and therefore despite starvation and poverty, they succeeded in capturing Jerusalem.
As has been stated, the First Crusade was unique in that it almost immediately accomplished its goals. Certainly the religious fervour incited by the Pope’s call-to-arms as well as the many local priests drove the crusading host to realize what they believed to be the wishes of God. A more materialistic reason for their successes can be forwarded, however. It was because of the abilities of the leaders of the crusade on both strategic and tactical levels that Jerusalem was captured with the fairly limited supplies and troops available. There were setbacks to be sure, but the expedition succeeded within a relatively short period, and the Holy City became under Christian control.
Bibliography
Bradford, Ernle. The Sword and the Scimitar. Milan, Italy: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1974
Contamine, Philippe. War in the Middle Ages. Trans. Michael Jones. New York: Basil Blackwell,
1984.
Daniel-Rops, H. Cathedral and Crusade. London: J.M. Dent & Sons, 1957.
Edbury, Peter W., and John Gordon Rowe. William of Tyre: Historian of the Latin East. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1988.
Guillaume de Tyr. Chronique. Corpus Christianorum. Vol. 63. Ed. R.B.C. Huygens. Brepols, 1986.
Hyland, Ann. The Medieval Warhorse from Byzantium to the Crusades. Dover, UK: Alan Sutton
Publishing Limited, 1994.
Koch, H.W. Medieval Warfare. London: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1978.
Leyser, Karl. Communication and Power in Medieval Europe. London: Hambledon Press, 1994.
Nickerson, Hoffman, and Oliver Lyman Spaulding. Ancient and Medieval Warfare. London:
Constable and Company Limited, 1994.
Oman, C.W.C. The Art of War in the Middle Ages. Revised and edited by John H. Beeler. New York:
Great Seal Books, 1953.
Severin, Tim. Crusader. London: Hutchinson, 1989.
Verbruggen, J.F. The Art of Warfare in Western Europe During the Middle Ages. Trans. Sumner
Willard and S.C.M. Southern. Amsterdam, Netherlands: North-Holland Inc., 1977.
Supplementary
Barker, Ernest. The Crusades. London: Oxford University Press, 1923.
Rousset, Paul. Histoire des Croisades. Paris, France: Payot, 1978.
Tierney, Brian, and Sidney Painter. Western Europe in the Middle Ages. New York: McGraw-Hill,
1992.
There is a general consensus among historians that the overall strategy of the campaign was only vaguely understood by the crusade leaders. Certainly, the very existence of four separate divisions of crusaders hindered strategic cohesion, as communication between them was extremely limited. Therefore, any degree of strategic deployment against the Moslems – as occurred at Dorylaeum, where Bohemund’s army was hard-pressed by the Turks until the cavalry of Godfrey de Bouillon and Robert of Normandy arrived – was more a matter of coincidence or accident than forethought. Additionally, the mystical nature of the crusade prohibited the development of any overarching strategy, as the crusaders felt that they were in fact led by divine plans. Yet the most obvious and seemingly unsophisticated notion of strategy held by each of the commanders was also the only guarantee for their success. The sole objective for the First Crusade was the capture of Jerusalem, and the crusaders accomplished this end using the most direct means. The crusading host was never a large force, and was greatly outnumbered by the Moslems, therefore a massive expedition to capture every city controlled by the infidels would not have been possible. As the crusaders approached the Holy City in 1099, two war councils were held to determine the strategy of attack. While some nobles wished to advance along the coast, securing port cities along the way in order to allow reinforcements and supplies to reach the crusaders, a direct attack on Jerusalem itself was favoured. In order to achieve their ultimate goals, the crusaders isolated several cities as key to success in the Holy Land, notably Nicea and Antioch.
Linked with this direct attack was the desire to completely annihilate the enemy armies, not to merely conquer the Moslems in individual battles or to take prisoners for monetary gain. Such strategic vision explains the sorties from Antioch and Jerusalem, which were undertaken to exterminate the remnants of the Moslem armies surrounding the newly captured cities. Indeed, it was by following such a direct and immediate strategy that the crusaders did in fact succeed in capturing Jerusalem. It has been argued that the single-mindedness of the leaders of the First Crusade was due to their divine inspiration; their success in campaigning was indeed a rare exception for the Middle Ages. There were some hindrances and tangents to the crusaders’ strategic goals, however. The most pointed of these was the desire of the nobles to gain territories and extend their own holdings into the Holy Land. Baldwin, brother to Godfrey de Bouillon, had separated from the main host of the crusaders after the capture of Antioch “on the pretext of protecting the flanks of the main army”; certainly his goals were territorial however. These territorial ambitions began to disrupt the crusade, as occurred when sub-divisions of Godfrey’s army led by Baldwin and Tancred contested over control of Tarsus. Yet even such petty ambitions served to further the success of the strategic operation. The territories captured by both Baldwin and Tancred served to protect the crusading host in Syria from Turkish armies west of Edessa. In this regard, the opinions held by many earlier historians that the crusaders’ strategy was largely accidental can be only partially substantiated. The many strategic decisions taken by the crusade leaders demonstrate the opposite however, that they did have some sentience about the operational arts.
Similarly, a primitive awareness of and ability in tactical matters was exhibited by the four division leaders. This was not immediately the case however, as the battle of Dorylaeum proves. When attacked by the Turkish army, Bohemund’s forces pursued conventional European battle tactics. The foot soldiers pitched camp, while the cavalry circled in formation, waiting for a charge against the Moslem horsemen. The Turks did not conform to such tactics however. The strength of the Moslems was their mobility, as they donned light armour if any at all; this was especially true of their mounted archers. They would encircle the crusaders at a distance and let loose a hail of arrows upon them, arresting their cavalry charge until the enemy was wounded and confused. In this instance, Bohemund’s forces were saved only by the arrival of cavalry under Godfrey and Robert. He did not adapt to the changing tactical situation; such was the nature of tactical instruction given to Frankish nobles, however. Certainly, the Byzantine army was knowledgeable of Moslem tactics however: Leo VI the Wise had written a treatise dealing with that very subject, stressing the importance of open field engagements with the Turks. The crusaders, however, were far too distrustful of the Byzantines to adopt their tactical advice. By the siege of Antioch however, the commanders had learned how to deal with Moslem tactics. Success lay in cavalry tactics: a series of regiments in the front line, backed by a reserve regiment guarding the flanks would prevent the crusaders from being turned. Such tactics were in fact adopted by Bohemund during the sortie from Antioch. He divided his forces into six regiments, which formed a front line while Bohemund’s regiment held the rearguard position. The Moslems wished to outflank the crusaders and secure the bridge leading into the city, but were checked by Bohemund’s rearguard. The Moslems then tried a faux-retreat to break apart the crusaders’ formation – a tactic proposed by Leo – but were routed by the crusaders in close combat upon their own disorderly retreat. One cannot focus solely on the cavalry however, as the importance of the infantry was felt at Antioch, Ascalon, and Jerusalem. Initially, they protected the horses of the knights before they charged, then they protected the rear flank; at Ascalon they served as mop-up units, additionally aiding knights who had been wounded or unhorsed. Furthermore, with their greater range crossbowmen kept enemy horse-archers at bay.
Three further aspects of tactical operations that were of vital importance to the success of the crusade were discipline, reconnaissance, and supply. Without adequate control over his troops, a commander would not be able to organize them into formation; in the Holy Land this would have meant the routing of the army. Keeping the crusaders together was perhaps the greatest challenge faced by the commanders. The armies did manage to stay together however, most likely due to the strength of their religious convictions. Morale – an aspect of and contributor to discipline – was similarly raised by religious belief, most pointedly demonstrated by the Lance of Christ found before the sortie from Antioch. Nicephorus Phocas had stated the importance of reconnaissance, mainly for the knowledge of enemy positions. Of equal importance was knowledge of terrain. The crusaders were at a great disadvantage in that they were traversing foreign lands, and indeed, their lack of geographical knowledge had caused several defeats. They were not without recourse, however, as they had access to many spies and traitors to aid them in reconnaissance.
A more grave issue throughout the First Crusade was the supply of the army. Emperor Alexius had promised to supply the crusaders, yet once they were outside his realm his fleet could not reach them because all of the ports were held by Egyptian forces. Consequently, the crusaders were frequently in need of provisions; their dearth became acute during sieges, such as at Antioch and Jerusalem. Indeed, many among the Christian forces began to starve during the siege of Antioch, leading to low morale and a high rate of desertion. Alexius did however finally manage to supply the crusaders with siege equipment and engineers to allow the capture of the city. The peasants who had joined the host did not aid in food collection, but rather were a further burden on the already stretched supplies. The normally fertile areas surrounding the cities in the East had been poisoned by the Moslems to hinder the crusaders, thus forcing food collection parties to wander far from the siege camp to accomplish their task. The crusaders required a fairly high amount of food to sustain themselves: military exertions by knights required a diet high in meat; furthermore, the horses consumed three to four times the weight in food as their riders. Consequently, the sources stress the importance of the “capture of foodstuffs as booty”. Indeed, the knights depended on such booty for their very status. The provisioning of the army had drained their monetary resources, and therefore without the seizure of such booty they could fall into poverty. Many knights had to sell their arms and armour to buy food, instead using arms captured from the Moslems. Additionally, there are numerous instances of knights who had lost their horse in battle being unable to remount and consequently joining the infantry. The crusaders had expected such hardships, perhaps even viewed it as part of their penance as defined by the initial call by Pope Urban II, and therefore despite starvation and poverty, they succeeded in capturing Jerusalem.
As has been stated, the First Crusade was unique in that it almost immediately accomplished its goals. Certainly the religious fervour incited by the Pope’s call-to-arms as well as the many local priests drove the crusading host to realize what they believed to be the wishes of God. A more materialistic reason for their successes can be forwarded, however. It was because of the abilities of the leaders of the crusade on both strategic and tactical levels that Jerusalem was captured with the fairly limited supplies and troops available. There were setbacks to be sure, but the expedition succeeded within a relatively short period, and the Holy City became under Christian control.
Bibliography
Bradford, Ernle. The Sword and the Scimitar. Milan, Italy: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1974
Contamine, Philippe. War in the Middle Ages. Trans. Michael Jones. New York: Basil Blackwell,
1984.
Daniel-Rops, H. Cathedral and Crusade. London: J.M. Dent & Sons, 1957.
Edbury, Peter W., and John Gordon Rowe. William of Tyre: Historian of the Latin East. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1988.
Guillaume de Tyr. Chronique. Corpus Christianorum. Vol. 63. Ed. R.B.C. Huygens. Brepols, 1986.
Hyland, Ann. The Medieval Warhorse from Byzantium to the Crusades. Dover, UK: Alan Sutton
Publishing Limited, 1994.
Koch, H.W. Medieval Warfare. London: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1978.
Leyser, Karl. Communication and Power in Medieval Europe. London: Hambledon Press, 1994.
Nickerson, Hoffman, and Oliver Lyman Spaulding. Ancient and Medieval Warfare. London:
Constable and Company Limited, 1994.
Oman, C.W.C. The Art of War in the Middle Ages. Revised and edited by John H. Beeler. New York:
Great Seal Books, 1953.
Severin, Tim. Crusader. London: Hutchinson, 1989.
Verbruggen, J.F. The Art of Warfare in Western Europe During the Middle Ages. Trans. Sumner
Willard and S.C.M. Southern. Amsterdam, Netherlands: North-Holland Inc., 1977.
Supplementary
Barker, Ernest. The Crusades. London: Oxford University Press, 1923.
Rousset, Paul. Histoire des Croisades. Paris, France: Payot, 1978.
Tierney, Brian, and Sidney Painter. Western Europe in the Middle Ages. New York: McGraw-Hill,
1992.
Tuesday, February 02, 1999
The Interpretive Framework of Marxist Ideology
It can be argued that the entire cannon of modern socioeconomic theory has emerged either to support or reject the works of Karl Marx. Indeed, his statement that “life is not determined by consciousness, but consciousness by life” has become a mantra for leftist thinkers and an anathema for more conservative theorists. To a great extent, Marx intended such controversy. His theory is centred upon the concept of an economic base (the production of the basic necessities for a society) which underlies a superstructure (religion, politics, law). It is the interaction and conflicting interests between individuals within this dual structure which gives rise to ideology. Such ideology originates in the socioeconomic status of the individuals which produce it. Generally, the expression of ideology within a society is limited to the dominant class; historically, art and religion exemplify such theory. The oppositions and disparities inherent in the economic base do manifest themselves in a society’s ideological complex, however. History therefore becomes the study of opposing ideologies: conflicting economic interests between the ideologies of the proletariat and the bourgeoisie gives rise to a third ideology which surmounts the initial opposition and itself becomes the dominant ideology. In artistic terms, Marx’s dialectic materialism demands that art both supports and rejects – that it is a function for and a critic of – the dominant ideology. An artistic creation, or more broadly any creation of the superstructure, cannot therefore arise in a society which has a differing ideology than that in which it does arise.
There have been numerous reinterpretations of Marxist thought, yet few have had the influence that the works of Louis Althusser have had. He reinterpreted Marxism to focus on the works of the more mature Marx, which he believed did not correspond with simple dialectic materialism. In his rereading, economy is not the originator of ideology. While the dominant class imposes its ideology upon individuals of the lesser classes, the dominant ideology originates in the means of production and the relations between the classes. Termed in a more Althusserian manner, the Subject controls the subject, but is itself a reflection of the Subject-subject relationship. Particular ideologies were indeed based on material conditions, yet they also had an imaginary aspect: Althusser reads in the later Marx that individuals have an imaginary relation to their means of existence. Ideology does however express itself in materialistic terms: a policeman’s shout, a prayer. Most radically, Althusser challenged the notion of the binary relationship between base and superstructure, which he believed was in fact a simplistic reading of Marx. In between these two categories lies a third concept, the ‘problematic’, which is the unconscious ideology which dictates the forms and content of a discourse. The problematic is the function of both the base and the superstructure. Within this framework, history becomes the study of the subconscious within texts. That which is concealed by the author is of equal importance as the text itself; thoughts cannot arise which are incompatible with the dominant apparatus of ideology.
Juliet Mitchell provides a more concrete example for Althusserian belief. In Femininity, narrative, and psychoanalysis she applies the historical process of Marx-Althusser to a specific definition of history, that of the novel. She describes the novel as primarily the domain of women, beginning with autobiographical works. Novels become for women a definition of and a reaction to their existence within bourgeois society. Through writing, women establish themselves as (Althusserian) subjects, as ‘hysterical’, simultaneously accepting and rejecting “sexuality under patriarchal capitalism” (p. 151). One does get a sense in Mitchell’s work of a parallel with Marx and Althusser, in that women could not think outside of the context of the ideological state apparatuses. In this regard, Mitchell argues that there is no distinct form of women’s writing. Alternately, female novelists are reflections of their repressed existence within a patriarchal society; the very language itself is phallocentric. Thus, in Althusserian terms, women novelists became subject (with the latent double-meaning of the word) to the Subject. Working within the terms of patriarchal capitalism, women nevertheless were able to provide an alternate history for themselves by the very act of writing. They therefore became manifestations of Althusser’s concept of Subject-subject reflection, they became in a sense bisexual.
While Marx’s original maxim can be validly interpreted as it stands, there have been numerous reappraisal of its validity. The consequence of Althusser’s work is the complication of Marx’s original precept to include “subconsciousness as determined by life”. Mitchell subsequently limits the general concepts of Marx and Althusser to a specific example and ideology, that of women novelists writing under early modern patriarchal capitalism. At its most fundamental level however, Marx’s statement remains pertinent.
There have been numerous reinterpretations of Marxist thought, yet few have had the influence that the works of Louis Althusser have had. He reinterpreted Marxism to focus on the works of the more mature Marx, which he believed did not correspond with simple dialectic materialism. In his rereading, economy is not the originator of ideology. While the dominant class imposes its ideology upon individuals of the lesser classes, the dominant ideology originates in the means of production and the relations between the classes. Termed in a more Althusserian manner, the Subject controls the subject, but is itself a reflection of the Subject-subject relationship. Particular ideologies were indeed based on material conditions, yet they also had an imaginary aspect: Althusser reads in the later Marx that individuals have an imaginary relation to their means of existence. Ideology does however express itself in materialistic terms: a policeman’s shout, a prayer. Most radically, Althusser challenged the notion of the binary relationship between base and superstructure, which he believed was in fact a simplistic reading of Marx. In between these two categories lies a third concept, the ‘problematic’, which is the unconscious ideology which dictates the forms and content of a discourse. The problematic is the function of both the base and the superstructure. Within this framework, history becomes the study of the subconscious within texts. That which is concealed by the author is of equal importance as the text itself; thoughts cannot arise which are incompatible with the dominant apparatus of ideology.
Juliet Mitchell provides a more concrete example for Althusserian belief. In Femininity, narrative, and psychoanalysis she applies the historical process of Marx-Althusser to a specific definition of history, that of the novel. She describes the novel as primarily the domain of women, beginning with autobiographical works. Novels become for women a definition of and a reaction to their existence within bourgeois society. Through writing, women establish themselves as (Althusserian) subjects, as ‘hysterical’, simultaneously accepting and rejecting “sexuality under patriarchal capitalism” (p. 151). One does get a sense in Mitchell’s work of a parallel with Marx and Althusser, in that women could not think outside of the context of the ideological state apparatuses. In this regard, Mitchell argues that there is no distinct form of women’s writing. Alternately, female novelists are reflections of their repressed existence within a patriarchal society; the very language itself is phallocentric. Thus, in Althusserian terms, women novelists became subject (with the latent double-meaning of the word) to the Subject. Working within the terms of patriarchal capitalism, women nevertheless were able to provide an alternate history for themselves by the very act of writing. They therefore became manifestations of Althusser’s concept of Subject-subject reflection, they became in a sense bisexual.
While Marx’s original maxim can be validly interpreted as it stands, there have been numerous reappraisal of its validity. The consequence of Althusser’s work is the complication of Marx’s original precept to include “subconsciousness as determined by life”. Mitchell subsequently limits the general concepts of Marx and Althusser to a specific example and ideology, that of women novelists writing under early modern patriarchal capitalism. At its most fundamental level however, Marx’s statement remains pertinent.
Tuesday, January 19, 1999
Of Language and Discourse: de Saussure and Bakhtin
When analysing a text, critics usually attempt to determine its symbolic importance, frequently in terms of literary theme A representing concept B. Such symbolism occurs at a macro level however; the study of linguistics seeks to ascertain the origins of symbolism at the micro level of linguistic structure. Fundamental to the discipline is the work of de Saussure, who defined linguistics in such terms, and posited it at the base of all humanist studies. Mikhail Bakhtin’s Discourse in the Novel argues that the importance of any given speech is determined by the social context in which it is given.
One of the principles of de Saussure’s work is that linguistic structure is based on two facets of language. Simultaneously, language contains both the physical attributes of phonetic “facts” as well as the conceptual attributes of words and phrases. De Saussure models the interaction between these two elements by means of a speech circuit. A concept within an individual’s brain, termed psychological by de Saussure, triggers a corresponding physiological response allowing the transmission of the concept as a pattern of sound waves, which then enters into the ear of another individual and is changed from a physical pattern into a physiological one, and finally into a psychological concept. The words themselves do not contain the whole nature of language however, as it has both a social context (langue) and an individual one (parole).Concepts of language are defined collectively, but the differences in an individual’s expression of them are determined by their own ‘psychological speech-circuits’. De Saussure quickly points out that the concepts themselves are not naturally ordained, but instead are more or less arbitrary. While some terminology such as exclamations and onomatopoeic words are somewhat determined by their complimentary physical sound patterns, most terminology is collectively determined for other reasons (which he does not define, but leaves to future scholars of semiology). He defines a sign as an underlying psychological signification (concept) which is triggered by a physical signal (sound pattern). De Saussure calls for the new discipline of semiology to be established, which would study the social significance of sings. It is in this manner that literary critics have contributed to linguistic study by applying de Saussure’s principles to their own field.
In his Discourse in the Novel, Mikhail Bakhtin further analyses the social influence on an individual’s understanding and usage of language. Fundamentally, Bakhtin concerns himself with the ‘Other’ of discourse; one virtually defines one’s identity based on what is said by the Other. This can be viewed in the common social context of daily life, as expressed by the gossip and rumour of public opinion, which can have a profound psychological influence upon an individual. More importantly however, the social context in which a conversation is had is of crucial importance. The transmission of speech determines its understanding, and any manipulation can thus alter the meaning of discourse: “thus it is...very easy to make even the most serious utterance comical” (p. 531). It is thus of critical importance to determine the nature of the speaker and the context in which they are speaking. As an example, one would understand that any medical advice given by a doctor would be almost sacrosanct in relation to the same advice given by a plumber. Similarly, if the aforementioned doctor had given his advice to an individual with whom he had earlier scuffled, one would be naturally more sceptical of the validity of the advise. Furthermore, if such advise had been published and utilised for a lengthy period, it would become almost a dead argument, or a relic. If one were to adopt it, such must be done wholly, as there could be no refusal of the validity of certain parts of the argument. Such forms of discourse Bakhtin terms authoritative. On a more personal level, any discourse which finds a resonance within an individual is coined internally persuasive. In general it is more contemporaneous with the receiver of the discourse than the artefactual transmission of concepts within authoritative discourse, and can be viewed as part of their own ideology, and not the textual ideology of the Other. There can however be a interplay between the two forms of discourse, but Bakhtin acknowledges that such is rare. The importance of Bakhtin’s work can be seen in light of narration, as it can be used to examine the relationships between two characters engaged in discourse. Furthermore, it is possible to use his ideology to analyse the relationship between the author and the reader.
One of the principles of de Saussure’s work is that linguistic structure is based on two facets of language. Simultaneously, language contains both the physical attributes of phonetic “facts” as well as the conceptual attributes of words and phrases. De Saussure models the interaction between these two elements by means of a speech circuit. A concept within an individual’s brain, termed psychological by de Saussure, triggers a corresponding physiological response allowing the transmission of the concept as a pattern of sound waves, which then enters into the ear of another individual and is changed from a physical pattern into a physiological one, and finally into a psychological concept. The words themselves do not contain the whole nature of language however, as it has both a social context (langue) and an individual one (parole).Concepts of language are defined collectively, but the differences in an individual’s expression of them are determined by their own ‘psychological speech-circuits’. De Saussure quickly points out that the concepts themselves are not naturally ordained, but instead are more or less arbitrary. While some terminology such as exclamations and onomatopoeic words are somewhat determined by their complimentary physical sound patterns, most terminology is collectively determined for other reasons (which he does not define, but leaves to future scholars of semiology). He defines a sign as an underlying psychological signification (concept) which is triggered by a physical signal (sound pattern). De Saussure calls for the new discipline of semiology to be established, which would study the social significance of sings. It is in this manner that literary critics have contributed to linguistic study by applying de Saussure’s principles to their own field.
In his Discourse in the Novel, Mikhail Bakhtin further analyses the social influence on an individual’s understanding and usage of language. Fundamentally, Bakhtin concerns himself with the ‘Other’ of discourse; one virtually defines one’s identity based on what is said by the Other. This can be viewed in the common social context of daily life, as expressed by the gossip and rumour of public opinion, which can have a profound psychological influence upon an individual. More importantly however, the social context in which a conversation is had is of crucial importance. The transmission of speech determines its understanding, and any manipulation can thus alter the meaning of discourse: “thus it is...very easy to make even the most serious utterance comical” (p. 531). It is thus of critical importance to determine the nature of the speaker and the context in which they are speaking. As an example, one would understand that any medical advice given by a doctor would be almost sacrosanct in relation to the same advice given by a plumber. Similarly, if the aforementioned doctor had given his advice to an individual with whom he had earlier scuffled, one would be naturally more sceptical of the validity of the advise. Furthermore, if such advise had been published and utilised for a lengthy period, it would become almost a dead argument, or a relic. If one were to adopt it, such must be done wholly, as there could be no refusal of the validity of certain parts of the argument. Such forms of discourse Bakhtin terms authoritative. On a more personal level, any discourse which finds a resonance within an individual is coined internally persuasive. In general it is more contemporaneous with the receiver of the discourse than the artefactual transmission of concepts within authoritative discourse, and can be viewed as part of their own ideology, and not the textual ideology of the Other. There can however be a interplay between the two forms of discourse, but Bakhtin acknowledges that such is rare. The importance of Bakhtin’s work can be seen in light of narration, as it can be used to examine the relationships between two characters engaged in discourse. Furthermore, it is possible to use his ideology to analyse the relationship between the author and the reader.
Tuesday, December 01, 1998
The Government and Modernization of Japan
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.
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.
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?
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