Benevolent Dictatorship

It seems a growing number of persons in our Great Republic have come to believe it should not be a republic.  They think it may continue to be great, of course, unless they're one of those who believe it isn't great currently, but may be again, once it is no longer a republic.  

Those who think this way apparently favor a form of government more in line with autocracy or dictatorship.  They're certainly not the first to do so.  The belief that there has been or may be such a thing as a benign despot, or benevolent dictator, has a long history in our long, and sad, history.

It's an attractive belief.  We imagine someone holding near absolute or absolute power who would do the thinking for us, act in our interest, for our benefit, dispense what we think is justice, create and maintain prosperity, allow us to do what we think we should be able to do, all without hinderance from opponents or onerous regulations and requirements.  But has there ever been such a ruler, or could there be one?

Pictured above is one person who was considered a benevolent dictator, Lucius Ouinctius Cincinnatus.  He was quite literally a dictator as that was a position one could be appointed to by the Roman Senate.  The Roman dictator had unlimited authority, or imperium, but only for a specified period of time (usually 6 months).  A dictator was appointed in times of emergency.  Cincinnatus held the position twice.  When his term was up, he returned to private life.  In accordance with his legend, he's shown plowing his fields when representatives of the Senate arrive to tell him of his appointment. 

He's a model of the disinterested figure who takes up sole power solely for the benefit of the state and its citizens, and gives it up when his service to the state is done.  George Washington enjoyed being compared with him.

Later dictators weren't necessarily as popularly remembered.  Lucius Cornelius Sulla in particular is remembered as a man who brought his legions into Rome in violation of tradition, during the conflict between him and Gaius Marius, and essentially through force of arms remained dictator as long as he pleased.  During his dictatorship he proscribed all those he considered his enemies and dangerous to the patricians he favored.  He did give up his powers, though, eventually, and lived a comfortable private life until his death.  

Augustus may actually have been something close to a benevolent dictator after he seized supreme power in Rome, but was ruthless in his quest to obtain it.  The later so-called "good" emperors, Nerva, Trajan, Hadrian, Antoninus Pius and Marcus Aurelius, may be called benign at least in comparison to other emperors of Rome.

In more recent history, Frederick the Great was thought of as a benevolent despot but I suspect that was because he was something of a philosopher, learned and cultured, in addition to being a great military leader, and such things played very well in the Age of Enlightenment.  Napoleon was believed to be one as well, at least by some, at least for restoring order and glory to France after the chaos of the French Revolution and the Terror.

Subsequent rulers with great power can't reasonably be considered benevolent, however.  Lenin, Stalin, Mao, Hitler and Mussolini aren't considered benign by most, and for good reason.  It seems they were considered to be benevolent for quite some time, however.

A dictator must be considered disinterested to be benign, I think.  In other words, the ruler's goals and conduct mustn't be selfish, or favor friends and relatives, or supporters, primarily if not solely.  Likewise, enemies should be punished based on the extent the state is harmed by them.  Although great or absolute power may be exercised, it must be in the service of the state or its citizens.  Otherwise, a ruler is merely self-serving.

But what one considers a benign dictatorship is subjective, now, entirely.  And calls made for it are, sometimes blatantly, dishonest,  Those seeking power for themselves or others do lip service to justice and impartiality and patriotship, but do so in such an inane manner as to bring their credibility in question.  Just listen, and hear.

Lenin, Stalin, Mao, Hitler and Mussolini considered liberal democracy to be a weak and ineffective form of government, too inclined to consider elements they and those like them thought to be foreign or contemptible.  Those who now dream of an autocracy replacing the democratic type of government here think much the same, judging from their comments.  They imagine absolute power applied in their favor and against others.  There's nothing benign about an autocracy which is intolerant and exclusive.  

If there is such a things as a benevolent dictatorship, that's not what's being sought or desired, here and now, and no amount of fear-mongering or misrepresentation can hide that fact.  What's being sought is a government by certain people, for certain people and of certain people.

The Fate of Satire

Reference to a dictionary will reveal that "satire" is, broadly speaking, a work using humor in such forms as irony and exaggeration to ridicule the vices and stupidity of individuals or entities.  So defined, satire has been around for thousands of years.  In the West, when ancient satirists are considered mention is normally made of Aristophanes among the Greeks, Juvenal, Petronius and Lucian among the Romans.  Martial as well, perhaps, though his satire was far more condensed being in the form of epigrams.  Seneca too, among the Romans, at least for his ridicule of the Emperor Claudius, applying for membership in the fellowship of the gods after his death. There have been many other satirists throughout history--Rabelais, Voltaire, Cervantes, Swift and Poe, for example, are some of the more famous of the lot. 

Satire is generally thought of as a kind of literature, and those named just above are of course writers.  Sometimes, though, drawings and paintings are satirical, like the print by Gillray at the top of this post, called The Plumb Pudding in Danger.  The plumb pudding is, obviously, the world and it's being carved up by William Pitt, Prime Minister of England, and Napoleon, who had by then become Emperor of France.

The quality of satires varies considerably.  So does the kind of humor or style of writing employed by the satirist.  Aristophanes' humor was somewhat farcical, as in his lampooning of Socrates and his circle The Clouds.  Lucian also targeted philosophers and philosophy, as well as other people and things, and was a mocker.  Juvenal's humor was dark and sharp; he had no light touch (I think of his satires as more in the way of rants).  Seneca's satire on Claudius struck me as more cruel than witty.  Rabelais seems to have made use of absurdity in Gargantua and Pantagruel.  Petronius' humor was deadpan, in my opinion.  His Trimalchio is unquestionably vulgar and pompous, but Petronius makes this evident merely by describing his statements and conduct, rather than commenting on them.  Irony seems to have been Swift's weapon of choice.

In these dark times, there's a concern by some that wit and humor, which would include satire, are being restricted if not entirely eliminated by the tendency of some others to condemn those who use them in referring to certain people or groups of people who are perceived as being or having been treated unjustly because of their difference from what's considered normal.  The most recent example that comes to my mind relates to the character Apu in The Simpsons and the apology made by Hank Azaria (his "voice") for his contribution in the stereotypical (though intended to be humorous) depiction of the character running a convenience store.  The apology caused John Cleese, formerly of Monty Python, to apologize for mocking white people as part of that group.

Cleese's point is fairly obvious, I think--that humor, and satire, are used in reference to all people indiscriminately, and should be.  In other words, that no one should be exempt from mockery merely by virtue of what they are.

That makes a certain sense, as does a related claim being made in these dark times--that nobody should be discriminate against, and therefore treating certain people better than others because or their race or religion, for example, is wrong.  From that, of course, it follows (or so it's claimed) that white, Christian people are being discriminated against when others are given certain advantages or benefits, or are deemed to have special claims to be satisfied.

In order for that position to accepted as appropriate, however, it's necessary to assume that we all are in the same position when it comes to treatment by each other, society and government.  If we existed on the fabled "level playing field" then a case can be made that favoring one group or person over another merely because they have a certain skin color or religion or other characteristics would be unjust.  That playing field doesn't exist, however, and never has existed.  To pretend that it does for purposes of complaining about discrimination against currently privileged people is fatuous, and indeed unworthy.  

When we insist that we should treating each other as if we all existed on a level playing field, we acknowledge that it would be desirable that we should live on that level playing field.  If we acknowledge that, though, we have to admit that we don't at this time, at least if we're honest.  So, one would think it would also be desirable that levelling steps should be taken,  But that would mean that those underprivileged or discriminated against unjustly, here and now, be benefited more than those who are not. Unfortunately, that's not something the haves are normally willing to grant the have-nots, particularly if that would mean the haves would have less than they do now.

So, I don't think this is a viable position, even when it comes to humor.  Does that mean that humor, and satire, will inevitably disappear?  

I doubt it, unless we expect that the kind of totalitarian society envisioned by the notoriously humorless Plato and put into place by such as Stalin and Mao will be our future.  The great Roman satirists lived in Imperial Rome, not exactly a free society, and managed to thrive.  I don't think shaming of the kind being practiced now will significantly restrict our tendency to mock and ridicule each other.  As well expect that wars will end.  Perhaps the more egregious kind of ridicule will be reduced, which wouldn't be a bad thing.  Satire is best when it is witty and subtle, not blunt and obvious or offensive.  It will survive all the moralists of this time as it has in the past.

Napoleon + 200 Years = ?

 

It's to be expected, it seems, that whenever a figure of the past is considered or noted for one reason or another, there is someone ready to point out something that figure did or said or thought which we now abhor.  This is particularly true when the figure is significant, and even especially when that figure is or has been thought heroic or admirable.  The fact is that most of the people now dead did, said or thought things which we find objectionable, and rightly so.  Our ancestors seem to become in certain respects more and more disturbing to us as the years between our time and theirs' grows  greater.

I doubt that Napoleon Bonaparte is considered a hero by anyone now, but he was for a time.  He was, I think, a hero of the worst kind--a Romantic hero.  In other words, Romantics thought him heroic.  The first half of the 19th century was cluttered with Romantics, people who loved romance, naturally enough, but also individualism, emotion, fervor, brilliance.  People who deplored the merely reasonable, and were artists or thought themselves artists, who delighted in going their own way, whatever that may be, shocking the stolid burgesses and philistines of their era.  It's likely that some even worshipped him.  They were, as I said, Romantics.

I've always thought this a bit odd, as I think Napoleon was in many ways an exceedingly rational person when weighing ends and means, a master of administration and organization, who was normally not inclined to make decisions based on emotion and impulse.  He was of course thought to be unpredictable, and as "the Corsican Ogre" was deemed an excitable and brutal person.  He was after all a Frenchman, and worse yet perhaps from the perspective of the English someone of Italian descent, necessarily unstable.  He was, though, fully capable of employing this reputation to his advantage as well.  I think therefore that much of it was an affectation.

He clearly was an autocrat, a despot, and very much an Emperor in the Roman sense.  Quite literally an emperor, in fact, and very deserving of that military title--imperator, a victorious general.  In these times it's probable that the fact he was an autocrat is not considered to be as much of a flaw in him as the fact he was a misogynist and a racist, and reestablished slavery in France and its colonies, and empire.  Suppression of personal liberty in general appears to be less unworthy than bigotry and enslavement of a race in particular in these culturally sensitive times.

For my part, I've never thought him to be a heroic figure.  He's not someone to be emulated.  It's not unreasonable to marvel at his energy and swift intelligence, his vast memory and his great military ability.  I think it has to be acknowledged he accomplished a great deal.  He restored order to a nation which had been through Revolution and Terror, he reorganized a society which in many respects remained mired in feudalism and aristocratic castes and tradition, promoted equality and recognition and reward of merit, created a modern national administration, and fostered and even contributed to the creation of a great system of laws which remains in force in many nations across the world.

He may be said to a tragic figure, though, if not a hero.  He died in miserable circumstances 200 years ago today, exiled to a remote island, a captive there for six years.  He was by then burnt out and ill, becoming sick and weak as the dull years passed.  Chained to a rock like Prometheus, to make an allusion which has long been made.  "Tragic" in a way that moralists might use the word as well; someone of great ability who failed to devote his talents to promote the well being and happiness of others.

But in exile he also managed to create his legend, through his memoirs and those of the retainers who were in exile with him, and in that manner became a hero to some.  He was in them the Son of the Revolution, greatly misunderstood and condemned, but through his example and ability capable of extending the ideals of Liberty, Equality and Fraternity throughout Europe, destroying the old dynasties which held Europe in slavery for centuries.  Anthony Burgess wrote a book about him called Napoleon Symphony, in which this achievement is emphasized.  The reference in the title is of course to Beethoven's Eroica Symphony, which Lovely, Lovely Ludwig Von admitted was written with Napoleon in mind but renamed after he declared himself Emperor.  By dying Napoleon managed to make himself even greater than he was in life.  He was resurrected, as it were, through the legend born in St. Helena; a Christ-like figure in a sense, who suffered and died for France and enlightened people everywhere.  Burgess makes this comparison at the end of his book.

The painting of Napoleon above was done in 1814, at the time of his abdication and exile to Elba.  For some reason I've always liked it.  I certainly like it more than the paintings depicting him as a hero atop a horse, or in his imperial robes, which I think made him look silly.  In this painting he looks tired, resigned, contemplative, knowing--I'd say accepting but for the fact he didn't accept that exile (although there is evidence that this was provoked by the failure of the European powers to abide by certain of the terms of his abdication, and even perhaps by threats to his life).  I also like one of him at the head of a group of cavalry or an escort, riding through a grey, winter-like landscape, wearing a grey coat and his famous hat.  It may depict the retreat from Moscow, but I like to think it shows him leading the remnants of his army, much diminished, in the campaign of 1814 where he faced many enemy commanders with much larger armies invading France and beat them in a series of brilliant victories before the inevitable end.

What is he now, after 200 years?  Not a hero.  Not a loathsome figure, not the subject of anachronistic contempt.  But a remarkable figure of the past who contributed to the world in which we live, for good and bad.  

The Sad End of Napoleon Bonaparte

It's arguable that Napoleon Bonaparte was the most able person who ever lived.  

All know he was a military genius.  But I refer to his ability generally; of what it was about him that distinguished him from others in terms of talents, not merely what made him a great general.

By all accounts, his memory was vast.  He could recognize people he had met years previously and recall the circumstances of their meeting in detail. I'm not sure whether he had what's called  "photographic memory" but what he read in reports and correspondence he didn't forget, sometimes much to the chagrin of those that prepared or were mentioned in the reports.

He could focus on matters which were presented to him for decision intensely, and without being distracted by anything else.  He compared his mind to a cupboard:  "Different subjects and different affairs are arranged in my head as in a cupboard.  When I wish to interrupt one train of thought, I shut that drawer and open another.  Do I wish to sleep?  I simply shut all the drawers and there I am--asleep." This intensity of directed thought to a problem must have been of great advantage to him.

He could also, however, manage while doing one thing, regardless of its significance and complexity, to address other things, sometimes minutia.  It seems that micromanagement for him was not a liability, but something easily achieved, and that he excelled at it.  He had enormous energy, and worked extremely hard.  He would dictate on different matters to several writers at the same time.  Those who worked with him found themselves exhausted when he was still eager to continue.  What he could accomplish and the speed in which he accomplished it amazed people.  He apparently slept for no more than 4 hours a day.  While dressing after sleeping he would sometimes tear his own clothing in his impatience to go about his day.

It was apparently this eruption of nervous energy which led him to indulge in long, hot baths--the only thing known to relax him.

He could also charm just about anyone.  He inspired real devotion in his soldiers and in others.  

He had all the qualities which could, and did in most cases, make him a superb chief executive of a nation and military commander.  He was remarkable.  B.H. Liddell-Hart, in his book Strategy, wrote that he thought generals like Napoleon and Frederick the Great had the advantage over other great captains because they were also chiefs of state.  What he overlooked, I think, is that at least in the case of Napoleon he was always highly involved in affairs of state, not just on the battles, even when on the battlefield or in his campaigns.  Running a state and leading an army at the same time would, to me, be more challenging than leading an army.

He died when 51 years old, exiled to the island of St. Helena in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, months travel from anywhere else on the Earth.  He lived there for 6 years, closely watched and guarded in isolation.  

It would have been a dreary exile for someone who had so much energy, let alone someone who had ruled Europe for years.  It seems that for a time he was as active as he could be on St. Helena, riding and walking about the island, preparing his memoirs.  He visited and had visitors.  Then, especially after Sir Hudson Lowe arrived at the island to take on the duties of governor, he gradually stopped doing most anything at all.  Sometimes the old energy would return, and he would take on the role of master gardener or landscape artist, laying the foundation for the lovely gardens which still grace the area around Longwood House.  But for the most part, his life became grim and boring, always seeing and interacting with the same small set of people, cooped up in a damp house on a damp, windy plain.  He spent more and more time in his small bedroom on one of the two camp beds that he brought with him to the island.

The English seemed to have chosen for him a place and style of exile which was the most painful available for someone of his characteristics.  They clearly had enough of him, as had all of Europe, and his escape from prior exile on the island of Elba no doubt made them wary of putting him anywhere close to that continent.  But the place, together with the petty and seemingly meaningless restrictions placed on him when escape was nearly inconceivable strikes one as cruel, or perhaps mere reckless indifference combined with spite.

A cruel end for such a man.  He nonetheless managed in combination with those exiled with him to create a glorious legend which survives to this day; the new Prometheus.  He was right to say that his jailors would be known to history only because of their treatment of him.  Was that his greatest achievement?

I can't help but wonder if it would have been possible for him to be more the First Consul, recreating the French nation from the ruins of the Revolution, and less the Emperor.  Then he may have remained a wondrously capable creator rather than a destroyer. But would he have been able to refrain from war?  Was war pushed upon him in some cases at least, and could he have devoted himself to civil pursuits only?  What would he have achieved then?  Was the world deprived of his extraordinary ability by circumstances or did he himself choose to devote them to his own glory?  He was certainly careful of his own glory.  He is compared by some to a condottiere, and to an extent was similar to the leaders of the Medicis, Sforzas and Borgias in their promotion of their families (which he came to regret) but I think he was more "entirely out of Plutarch" as was said of him by Paoli.

It's regrettable that he didn't address these questions while stuck on his rock in the middle of the ocean.  

The Supreme Being and Revolution

In 1794, during the excesses of the French Revolution, the National Convention established by Decree what has since been called The Cult of the Supreme Being.  It seems to have been created entirely by Maximilien Robespierre, called "the incorruptible."

It was one of those cults that last as long as their leader, although it wasn't formally outlawed until Napoleon outlawed it and other cults in 1802, except, it may be said, the cult of Napoleon himself (but note the small "c"; Napoleon never considered himself God, or even a god).  Napoleon had reached an agreement with the Catholic Church, which The Cult of the Supreme Being and presumably other outlawed cults had sought to replace.

The Catholic Church had to be replaced by something, evidently.  Or so thought Robespierre, and it seems other leaders of the Revolution.  For some it was to be replaced by what was called The Cult of Reason.  That cult didn't have much in the way of a divinity, and didn't hold with the doctrine of the immortality of the soul, however, and was considered a kind of atheism.  Robespierre thought a divinity and belief in an immortal soul appropriate and even necessary for morality and social order, and it seems he even believed in a Supreme Being, though one consistent with the Enlightenment, not with the Church.

Thus The Cult of the Supreme Being envisioned, unsurprisingly, a Supreme Being; one which created the universe and set it on its way to operate according to natural laws, discernible by the use of reason.  Those natural laws formed the basis for morality, and their application resulted in a virtuous life, virtuous people and a virtuous nation, which would be a republic.

The Cult of the Supreme Being became the declared religion of France, for a brief time.  And so as shown in the image above the French people, or at least the National Convention speaking as the French people, asserted belief in the Supreme Being and the immortality of the soul.

Having become the national religion it was thought only appropriate, by Robespierre and likely others, that it be celebrated in some fashion.  Therefore, a Festival of the Supreme Being was held in June, 1794.  The artist David was put in charge, and the festival was, according to contemporary accounts, neatly and precisely choreographed.  It featured a statute of Atheism which was duly burned, a mountain constructed of mostly paper-mache, and a pillar on which a statute of Hercules was placed, atop the mountain.

Robespierre and other notables then climbed the mountain, and Robespierre himself gave a speech from its summit.  There was singing, and people marched about the mountain.  Accounts indicate that the festival was popular.  But Robespierre was criticized for making it appear he was the messenger of the Supreme Being, if not a god himself.  I wonder whether the comparison with Moses on Mount Sinai was made.

Like the Enlightenment, The Cult of the Supreme Being looked back to ancient Greece and Rome for inspiration, and its principles seem consistent with the pagan philosophies of the ancients, even with Stoicism to a degree.  In itself, this cult seems noble, and certainly harmless.  Just what appeal it would have for most people of the time is unclear, though.

1794 was a busy year for Robespierre.  He created a religion.   Then, contrary to it, he inaugurated the Reign of Terror.  Then he was executed by his opponents, who had by that time had quite enough of Robespierre, the Terror and perhaps the Supreme Being as well.  He had his encounter with the guillotine like so many others, many of them his own victims.  But it was a time of extraordinary violence, if what we read is true, and the guillotine may have presented a merciful manner of death in comparison to those inflicted by the mobs which arose, or were summoned.

It's interesting that lawyers were so involved in the French and American Revolutions.  Robespierre was one, so was Danton, so were many others.  Lawyers made up the majority of the National Assembly and its successor, the National Convention. In the French Revolution I suspect that lawyers played a leading role in part at least because they were orators, and trained in rhetoric.

The lawyers of the French Revolution were very different from those of the American who. together with rich merchants and farmers made up the majority of American revolutionaries.  Compared with the lawyers of the French Revolution, who seemed most successful when whipping up fervor in their fellows and the populace and were themselves often frenzied by what they thought to be the injustices of monarchical France, the lawyers of the American revolution seem at most highly annoyed by the injustices they faced, and their contribution was primarily in creating the founding documents and institutions of a nation.  The lawyers of the American revolution ultimately were, and remained, lawyers.  Those of the French Revolution became something very different.

The French Revolution was the Enlightenment gone mad.  The American Revolution also had its basis in the Enlightenment, but wasn't mad at all.  Was this due to differences in national character or culture, or something else?  It certainly wasn't a result of The Cult of the Supreme Being, or that of Reason.  But the French Revolution serves to remind us that reason may show us that certain things, people, institutions are wrong or undesirable and may even show us what is right, but we're always inclined to dispense with it if we can, especially when outraged.  Or when seeking power.

"As Swimmers Into Cleanness Leaping"

I was reading some of the so-called "War Poets" last evening, preparatory I suppose to Memorial Day, or perhaps more properly inspired by it.  Those poets were, of course, poets of the First World War.  Rupert Brooke, from whose poem Peace the title of this post is taken, was for me the most able of those poets.  He was also the most inclined to write of the war they called the Great War as truly great, as it seems to have been to him in some manner grand.  Not in showy sense, not in a glorious sense, but profound.  A means he may have thought by which men also became great.

It's unfortunate, then, that he died as he did.  His death wasn't grand, or inspiring or profound.  He died of a mosquito bite which became infected, on a ship on its way to Gallipoli.  In those days infections of various sorts could turn out to be fatal. 

That said, the image of death invoked by the title to this post is striking.  It's said Brooke was an atheist, but it's difficult to think of him as such while reading this poem, or sonnet.  If I interpret it correctly, which is always uncertain, one is blessed by the peace of death, transformed into a part of something very great indeed.  Something different from and finer than humanity or the world we humans have made.

His poetry is his memorial.  Is it a memorial of war, though? 

It's interesting in considering Memorial Day to wonder just what memorials of war are supposed to be, what they are and what they have been.  It seems to me that war memorials now are something different from what they were in the past.  It's likely we've always made such memorials, but for a different purpose or different purposes.  Ancient Roman war memorials abound.  There are the arches of Titus, Constantine, Septimius Severus; there are the columns of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius.  They and most if not all ancient war memorials honored great victories of great men.  Although soldiers appeared on the memorials, particularly on the columns, they were not memorials of the soldiers themselves.

War memorials came to be erected to honor those who fought the wars only recently in the scheme of things as far as I can tell.  We see them beginning in the 19th century.  The late 19th century, I believe, is when they became common.  Even the memorial erected after the battle of Waterloo, the so-called Lion's Mound, though it wasn't intended merely to commemorate the Prince of Orange  but the victory over Napoleon, can't be said to be a war memorial as we know them now.

Perhaps they began with the U.S. Civil War.  That would seem to be when special cemeteries were set aside for those killed in battle, in any event.  Then came the First and Second World Wars, and more cemeteries, and tombs of unknown soldiers, and monuments, everywhere.

The memorials we're familiar with seem to be associated with war as it came to be fought not by professional or mercenary armies, but armies which were formed by conscription.  Or, perhaps, they came to be as war came to be fought by huge masses and came to impact on societies in general.  The losses incurred in the terrible wars fought beginning in the 19th century were so enormous and affected so many that it was felt necessary to memorialize them in ways that were different in quality and quantity from prior memorials.

Those memorials are altogether fitting, to paraphrase Lincoln at Gettysburg.  The sacrifices made should be honored, as they're beyond measurement.  And it's good we honor those who sacrificed themselves and not merely emperors and kings and generals who committed them to their fates.

Memorials are supposed to serve another purpose as well, though, or so it's said.  They're to serve to remind of those losses.  And doubtless they do.  It's curious, though, that while we remember we continue to wage war.  We don't forget the horrors of war but keep fighting wars, and then erect additional memorials to them and those who died fighting them.

History and Anachronism

 

 

Behold, above, "a chronological misplacing of persons, events, objects, or customs in regard to each other"; in other words (or more properly word) an anachronism.  In the case of this altered photograph Abraham Lincoln appears to be holding a boom box.  The image is amusing, as such things can be, because we all know that Lincoln could hold no such thing.  The thought of him carrying one blaring around the White House is funny, though, or at least is to me.

 

History, according to Napoleon, is a fable agreed upon.  I've read that he made other comments about it as well that were not quite as dismissive.  For example: "History is the version of past events that people have decided to agree upon."  "Past events" sounds somewhat more respectable than "a fable."  Another quote attributed to him is this one:  "Skepticism is a virtue in history as well as philosophy."

 

Skepticism certainly can be appropriate in history, I think, provided it is a healthy skepticism.    Doubt is appropriate when there is reason to doubt.  It happens that with respect to past events, particularly events long past, we can have reason to doubt, sometimes many reasons.  The extent to which we have reason to doubt depends on the circumstances, the sources available--the evidence.  That at least seems to me a sensible way to approach history.

 

I've noted before in some past post that it seems these days that authors of works of history take the time in lengthy "Forwards" to apologize for what they've done.  They acknowledge that they've dared to write about, and perhaps even draw conclusions regarding, another time, another place, people who lived then and events which seemingly transpired.  This, they confess, is not really possible, because we can't "really" know what happened nor can we "really" opine about it because we weren't there, we live in a different society/culture, etc., nearly ad infinitum.

 

I'm not as inclined as others are to maintain that we can't make reasonable inferences about other people, places, times and events.  But I think it's fair to say that those who make claims regarding history--people who lived, events which took place--have a responsibility to be as certain as possible, given the evidence, that what they claim is correct, or appropriately qualified.

 

Anachronism may be employed deliberately in order to be amusing, or by artists, composers and authors, creatively in pursuit of some entertaining or artistic purpose.  The most prominent current example I can think of is the musical Hamilton, which (I haven't seen it) apparently depicts the Founding Fathers of our Glorious Republic rapping, and uses in some cases black actors to play historical figures we know to have been white.  Of course nobody (yet?) believes that George Washington, for example, was black, and incongruous as it is to watch him rap it would also be incongruous to watch him sing at all.  But this use of anachronism in itself does no disservice  because it's safe to assume that it will be recognized as such; nobody will think that Washington and it seems all the Founding Fathers were rappers, or that the slave-owner Washington was himself black.  Anachronism can be harmful, though, when it is confused with history or purports to be historical.

 

Unfortunately, we see this now and then.  Oliver Stone's movie JFK comes to mind.  Stone may have been trying to make some point regarding the implications of sealing records, but in doing so he actively depicted as true conspiracy theories which have no significant basis.  Regrettably, people believe such theories and films and other works of art can demean history, reasonable efforts at relating history in a responsible manner, and contribute to the perversion of history.

 

We seem to be especially vulnerable to the misuse of history and even the description of current events now that everyone can purport to be not only a historian but a journalist, even an expert, simply by being able to type and download or upload information on  a computer.  If we take liberties with history, we change our perception of the past, which is to say that we don't know it and so can't learn from it.  

 

As George Orwell wrote:  "Who controls the past controls the future.  Who controls the present controls the past."  We live in a time where the ability to shape perception of the present and the past is omnipresent, and where there is a widespread belief in the malleability and of facts and their significance; not just absolute, objective facts, but even of the reasonably probable.  The more we treat history carelessly, the more we'll be careless in the here and now.





An Escape Into Another Dark Time

I find that I'm overwhelmed by the urge to comment on things which have nothing to do with the increasingly grotesque politics of our Great Republic and the bizarre person soon to become its enormous, orange head.  So bear with me if you please as I turn from one kind of darkness to another.

I've heard since I was in college (that is a long time ago, alas) that what is called the Dark Age of Europe wasn't nearly as dark as commonly thought.  Unsurprisingly, I've heard this claim from scholars of the Dark Ages, both professors and students.  I happened to hear a lecture to that effect by a learned professor while driving home one night.  What the professor referred to, though, were events and persons which took place and lived from roughly the 11th century to the 14th centuries.  If those are unjustly considered the Dark Ages, I wonder what we call, or should call, when considering the history of Europe (the Latin West) the period from the end of the 5th century to the 11th century.  In other words, the period from the fall of the Western Roman Empire traditionally thought to take place around 475 C.E. to the bright, brilliant, not at all dark period commencing sometime in the 11th century, when, as the professor noted, Aristotle was rediscovered in Europe, Abelard and Heloise loved and thought, etc.

Do those 5 or 6 centuries constitute something different from what are called the Dark Ages according to learned academics of our time?  Are they, for example, the Really Dark Ages, or the Very Dark Ages?

I can understand that it's appropriate to note that some good and interesting, and indeed admirable, events took place from the loosely defined Fall of Rome in the West to the Renaissance.  There were significant achievements during the Medieval Period and significant people lived during those times.  We have a tendency to identify as significant persons--as worthy of note--the influential thinkers, rulers, artists who appear in history.  Events we tend to identify as significant are usually military battles and conquests, political revolutions, inventions, and laws.  Especially during what are delightfully referred to as the "High" Middle Ages, (usually considered the 12th, 13th and 14th centuries) it's easy enough to identify "significant" history.  What of that part of those Ages which wasn't High?

Identifying what and who were significant in that period isn't as easy, unless it's easy by virtue of the fact that there are few events and people typically considered significant to history during those times.  Again, I refer to Europe and specifically Europeans, not Byzantines or Muslims.  Augustine of course didn't live to see the traditional End of the Roman Empire.  The next significant philosophical figure would, I suppose, be Boethius.  Boethius had a wonderfully Roman name:  Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius.  He's sometimes called the Last of the Romans.

Boethius served as minister to Theodoric the Great, an Ostrogothic king, but one of several of what I think can fairly be called the quasi-Roman rulers in Europe who reigned after the Western Empire fell.  These kings and their kingdoms are justly considered Roman successor states, I believe.  They mimicked the Empire in various respects, even in the manner of their administration.  Boethius served until he was imprisoned by Theodoric and later bludgeoned to death by his minions.  While in prison he wrote his famous Consolation of Philosophy, and it's to be hoped he was consoled by it, particularly as he was beaten to death.

The Europeans seemed to have busied themselves primarily  by fighting off the infidels and fighting among themselves until the Frankish kings came along and, eventually, one Frank in particular, Charlemagne, became the (first) Holy Roman Emperor.  While he ruled, the Holy Roman Empire may not have been holy, but was in fact an empire and was in fact rather Roman.  The ghost of Rome certainly was regularly seen in those times and haunts us still today.

It was during Charlemagne's relatively benign and enlightened rule, and the fitful peace that resulted, that what is considered dark became less dark.  So we see such thinkers as Duns Scotus appearing, a greater appreciation of learning and writing (needed for administering a large territory).  We may owe to Charlemagne what there is of Latin Christian learning, knowledge and art during the less-than-high Middle Ages.

Naturally, Europe was impacted as well during the time of the less-than-high or darker Middle Ages by the incursions of the Byzantines while Justinian was Emperor of the East.  Justinian aspired to be Emperor of the West, and due to the ability of his generals Belisarius and Narses actually conquered portions of the old Western Empire, but only for a relatively short time.  The Arabs of course had taken North Africa and the Spanish peninsula, and held Spain until the Reconquista. 

Just what is "Dark" and how dark were the Middle Ages in Europe?  It seems there can be no question that something very bad happened after the Western Roman Empire fell, no matter what is said regarding those times.  Even what we today consider simple things, such as the provision of flowing water to people and the handling of their waste, disappeared.  Such things didn't reappear in cities like Paris until Napoleon's reign. 

It must have been a remarkably dirty world after the Roman baths stopped functioning. Roman moralists used to claim that the baths, which were frequented by many who relished soaking in the hot and cold water rather than merely washing themselves hurriedly, sapped the strength and weakened the sense of stern morality fostered by their ancestors. I think it's likely, though, that even the most censorious moralist would have been more appalled by people who either didn't bathe at all or did so only rarely. The effect on health and hygiene must have been profound. The poor have always been poor and miserable, but it's likely that they became more miserable during the Middle Ages, and less of them were educated and more died by hunger, disease and war.  Urban life was almost nonexistent for a time.

People no longer knew how to do certain things. The legions were gone, and the work they would do to build and maintain infrastructure when not making war was not done by anyone else. People began to borrow stone and marble from old buildings in order to construct anything new, not having the knowledge or skill--or perhaps even the opportunity--to do otherwise. Knowledge of the natural world wasn't encouraged, the world being less important than it was to those of the past.

It may be that the Renaissance led many to think of the Middle Ages as being Darker than they were in fact.  But it's difficult to think they were not darker times than what came before and what came after, in many important respects.  Why and how they were darker is an important question to be addressed.

The Other Man of Steel

"Stalin" was a name chosen in the days before the so-called October Revolution; so-called as it actually took place in November according to the modern calendar subsequently adopted.  It means "steel", as all or most now know.  I suppose that makes him the first Man of Steel.  The other one, a/k/a "Superman", was created in 1933 according to the invaluable Wikipedia--by high school students in Cleveland.

Stalin was, once, something like a high school student himself.  He was once other things as well, before he became Stalin.   He wrote romantic poetry in his native Georgian about his native Georgia, which it seems was considered rather good (the poetry, I mean).  A romantic boy he may have been. He was not a romantic man, however.  He was once a Georgian patriot, and came to be against Georgian nationalism, indeed nationalism of all kinds which endangered the unity of the Soviet Union. In fact, he came to extol Russians over the members of other nationalities subsumed by the Soviet Union.  He was a seminarian who came to believe in God, if he did believe in God, as something no seminarian would recognize as God.

Whatever he was, he came to be a monster, though not a mere monster as sometimes maintained.  He was often underestimated by Lenin, by Trotsky and others in the party and out of it, it seems to their regret.  He survived them all.  Sometimes he survived them by being responsible for their deaths, sometimes their imprisonment in the Gulag, sometimes he simply rendered them harmless or made them puppets of his will.  He never forgot a sleight and rejoiced in destroying those who thought him a lesser man or lesser intellect. 

Lenin was a special case.  Stalin wouldn't hesitate to disagree with him even while he was alive.  Lenin even criticized Stalin and warned that he was inclined to accumulate power, but he criticized Stalin's great rival and enemy, Trotsky as well.  It seems Stalin admired and respected Lenin in some ways, but in any case knew that he had become a totem of Marxism, the Revolution and  Bolshevism and in that respect could not be challenged.  Lenin also conveniently died in the 1920s, while Stalin was on the rise but not yet claiming the summit of power.

All  evidence indicates that Stalin was a highly intelligent man, and I think we underestimate him still by thinking him to be "only" evil.  We tend to attribute evil to the Devil, or upbringing and environment, or psychological deficiencies.  But people do evil things not just because they're bad, or immoral, due to some inherent defect or by being influenced by a malevolent supernatural power. 

Stalin was even cultured, in his own peculiar way and patronized certain writers, again in his own peculiar way, rebuking them when he thought appropriate.  He was not known as a great political thinker, but he read extensively.  He worked very hard.  He was a very able negotiator, as became known to the Western powers during and after the Second World War.

It's an amusing exercise to compare great tyrants and despots.  Napoleon had his own romantic youth, and was an ardent Corsican patriot, but turned away from such childish things.  Corsica became as unimportant to him as Georgia became to Stalin.  Napoleon had no artistic pretensions, so far as I know, though like Stalin he had his favorite artists.  He was an enormously hard worker and read constantly.  He had a vast memory and formidable intellect.  Goethe famously said Napoleon was as intelligent as a man could be without wisdom, and as great as a man can be without virtue. 

Hitler was a failed artist, but it seems he differed from Stalin and Napoleon in various respects.  He wasn't a hard worker, and may be called lazy in comparison.  His intellect doesn't seem to have been impressive.  And yet he's credited by such as B.H. Liddell-Hart with insight into military tactics and as being behind the Blitzkrieg and an astute proponent of the "indirect approach" to strategy, for a time, at least.  Before his descent into madness or drug-induced irrationality and mania.

All three men were alike in their ruthlessness, though, in pursuit of their goals.  That much seems clear.  The ruthlessness of Stalin and Hitler is particularly striking and horrifying because in pursuing their goals they sanctioned the deliberate and coldly planned death of millions.  Napoleon's wars caused a great deal of death and suffering as well, but Stalin and Hitler inflicted death not merely in war, but even more in the pursuit of ideological ends.

There is a difference, I think, between war and the planned annihilation of millions apart from war to achieve ideological or other ends.  Stalin was responsible for the deaths of millions through starvation and by other means in the effort to modernize industry and collectivize agricultural production in the Soviet Union.  He was responsible for the deaths, incarceration, persecution of peasants, kulaks, Cossacks, professionals and intelligentsia, all of which he deemed necessary under Marxist-Leninist theory.  It seems evident that he sincerely believed what he did was required in order to make the Soviet Union a great power and in the pursuit of the goals of the October Revolution.  While he was a vengeful man, it's not the case that he killed only because of personal hate or animosity or to achieve absolute power.

The fanatical pursuit of ideological goals regardless of consequences to others is far more destructive than hate or ambition, particularly where fanaticism is combined with ability.  Stalin was a fanatic and a talented one.  There's no doubt that he hated many within the party and wanted absolute power over it and the Soviet Union itself but he is truly monstrous because he was a true believer, and as such he thought that those who didn't believe as he did should be destroyed.

Fear is an Idiot

Fear is much on my mind these days, or I should say the prevalence of fear.  More specifically, the prevalence of fear here, in God's favorite country.

I suppose this is to be expected now, as we are in the midst of a seemingly endless political campaign for the presidency.  The great Sage of Baltimore, H.L. Mencken, noted that it is the goal of practical politics to keep the people alarmed, and our politicians, practical or not, are busy doing so, none so diligently than Mr. Trump.  Mencken also knew (and said) that people value security more than liberty.  Napoleon commented that the two levers which move mankind are fear and self interest.

One can of course find other quotes about fear with considerable celerity, thanks to the Internet.  But one which seems particularly appropriate at this time is the statement by Ambrose Bierce to the effect that fear has no brain, and is an idiot.

Bierce was no stranger to fear, having fought in several battles of the Civil War, including the battle of "Bloody Shiloh."  He seems to have been reasonably successful in keeping his wits about him during combat, but there's every reason to believe he was correct in concluding, as I think he did, that those overwhelmed by fear are thereby overwhelmed by stupidity as well.

These are fearful times; quite literally fear-full.  The fear seems to arise more and more from the random violence which results from, or is inspired by, terrorism.  If the fear is also caused by random violence otherwise inspired, though, it seems that fear is given less attention, particularly if that fear relates to the use of firearms by those who are not terrorists.

The surplus of fear  may be due to the fact that in the politics of the moment, simple answers are sought, but not sought as much as simple characterization of problems.  Good and bad, black and white, Muslim and Christian, Americans and immigrants.  It's desirable to characterize these problems in a simple manner as by doing so our politicians--and media--may better maintain that they may be answered simply as well, and whine when they aren't answered quickly.  Simple answers to complex problems are stupid answers, but stupid answers appeal to the fearful, fear being, as Bierce noted, an idiot.

Sadly, among the Republicans, many seem enamored of a man whose political ability and acumen (for all I know he is a very able businessman) seem to me equivalent to that of the know-it-all one may always find at the local bar, and who is likely to respond much as that know-it-all would to questions after perhaps three drinks.  That is to say, loudly and without thought.  His popularity may be attributable to the fact fear has no brain. It's to be hoped that such an individual won't become president, but fear being an idiot anything is possible.  It's disturbing that it seems many understand him to be dangerous, but it doesn't seem to matter.  It must be wondered whether Mencken was correct about democracy and that we will, inevitably, eventually elect a moron to the presidency. 

That fear is an idiot may work to the advantage of our politicians, but provides us with little hope of resolving the problems we face.  It may instead lead to more problems, or rather an increase of problems of the kind we experience.  Events such as that which took place in San Bernadino seem to have at least one predictable result; the increase in the sale of firearms.

The possession of firearms isn't, to me, objectionable in itself.  But I think when fearful people have firearms, it's likely they will use them and use them ineptly, accepting as I do Bierce's description of fear.  I question whether those who buy firearms out of fear will go to the trouble of learning how to use them well and safely. I also think it likely that angry people will use them if and when they can, if they're very angry.  Anger may be an idiot as well.

FDR famously noted in those bleak times that we had nothing to fear but fear itself.  Sadly, fear itself gives us good cause to fear in these all too interesting times.

Nothing Worthwhile

Napoleon Bonaparte, First Consul of France and later Emperor of the French, and without question a remarkable general and great homme de guerre, had the following to say about torture:  "The barbarous custom of having men beaten who are suspected of having secrets to reveal must be abolished.  It has always been recognized that this way of interrogating men, by putting them to torture, produces nothing worthwhile."

Most would agree that Napoleon was not a terribly squeamish fellow and not one to hesitate to kill vast numbers of men who stood in his way on the battlefield.  He is known to have committed what would today be considered a war crime by ordering the massacre of between 2,000 and 4,000 prisoners of war during the siege of Jaffa.  He was not an especially delicate, namby-pamby, pacifist sort of fellow.  He was ruthless in the pursuit of his goals and in waging war.  He was also, by all accounts, almost frighteningly intelligent.  His assessment of torture as barbarous and worthless thus must be respected, even by the most virulent of our many arm-chair generals.

A report on the interrogation techniques employed by Central Intelligence Agency has been released, and it is not such as to redound to the credit of that organization.  Regrettably, that organization is closely associated with our Great Republic, and its conduct is taken by many to be the conduct of the United States.  So there has been concern, which is probably well-founded, that it will lead to our nation as being considered something less than the last best hope of the world.  Whether it will result in violence towards U.S. soldiers and citizens remains to be seen, at least at the time this is being written.

The potential for violence is of greater concern, to me, than the potential for disillusionment.  That the CIA engaged in questionable interrogation techniques and even torture in some cases has been strongly suspected by if not known to many for some time now.  Some, unfortunately, even glory in it, or at the least consider it a necessary evil.  I think this is to take an extremely selfish and short-sighted view.  Those who applaud torture are generally those who are unlikely to be tortured.  But as they sow, so shall those who put themselves in danger on their behalf reap.  An enemy who considers himself to be subject to torture by us will be inclined to torture us if they can. 

So the disillusionment of the world with the practices of our City on a Hill in pursuit of information is likely something we are confronted with already.  That such disillusionment will be bolstered or considered supported by this report is not a significant worry.  If violence will result, as it seems many believe will be the case, that is another thing.  It would seem to make more sense to prosecute or punish torturers and abolish torture than to flaunt instances of torture, particularly where violence is likely to result.  And of course flaunting them for political purposes is inappropriate; but I'm not convinced that is what is taking place.

I take it as a given that we should know what is done in our name.  Such knowledge is required for any honest and honorable assessment of our policy and ourselves.  A determined ignorance of such things is sought only by the weak and the callous among us.  If we are going to sanction torture, we should damn well know what torture is rather than seek to wrap ourselves in scented cotton-wool and leave the dirty work and knowledge of it to others.

Most of all, however, we should know that if we sanction torture we must expect that others will torture as well.  We can't pontificate when others engage in it without being hypocrites, and contemptible ones at that.  We should also know, though, that the efficacy of torture has been doubted even by such as the Corsican Ogre. 

Should we accept, without question, the claims of those who torture that the torture was necessary and produced valuable results?   I would say no, if it was accepted even by Napoleon that it was useless.  We should put them to the proof.  And what if the proof is provided?  Is the torture then justified?

The intentional infliction of great pain in the form of torture would not be justified merely by the fact that valuable information is obtained, because torture by others would in that case be justified.   The assessment to be made and the factors to be weighed are not so simple.  We would render ourselves and others subject to torture if we accept such a rationale.  Following orders has also been justified as valuable, because it contributes to order and efficiency, and we've seen the results.

The Socrates of Snails

This title is made up of words of Wallace Stevens, appearing in his poem The Comedian as the Letter C which in turn appears in his book Harmonium.  The title "Socrates of Snails" is given in the poem to man; that is, to human beings considered as a whole.  What, I wonder, is a group of snails called?

It is a belittling title, to be sure.  What is it to be the Socrates of snails?  The wisest, the best of snails?  A snail others look up to?  Perhaps he mocks the pretensions of our species, and there are enough of them, certainly; though it may in that case be more appropriate to substitute some great religious figure for the great philosophical figure, our colossal conceit being more evident in religion even than in philosophy.  Mockery runs throughout the poem, particularly in its descriptions of its hero, Crispin, who is "the auditor of insects" among other silly things.

There are interpretations enough of the poem, but I can only speak for myself, as one of the snails.  Crispin seems to go on a journey, France to the Yucatan to North Carolina.  He also seems to commence his journey with grand ambitions, full of expectations of achievement, in understanding and knowing and doing, only to gradually lose them--while being mocked, repeatedly, by the words of the poem.  He goes from the sublime not to the ridiculous (Napoleon's words while stopping in Warsaw on the retreat from Moscow) but to the mundane.

The poem appears in his first book, so one wonders why he would write something which seems to portray life's rise and fall and most ordinary end.  But he came late to poetry, having practiced law as an insurance lawyer for many years before he became known as a poet.  I can attest that the practice of law can be wearisome and can tell us much of our similarities to the snail.

Stevens, most annoyingly, wrote extensively about poetry generally if not his own poems in particular, and so assured that it's difficult to interpret his poetry as being anything but what he claimed poetry to be.  It may be this was a clever anticipation of criticism and a means of addressing it, a tactic a good lawyer might employ, similar to drafting an agreement with an eye towards potential disputes.  But there's no reason to think that by writing of poetry, he was being insincere.  However, he did call poetry the supreme fiction, and it's interesting to consider whether an analysis of the supreme fiction would of necessity be fictive itself.

Again, I speak only for myself.  But for me, for all his word-play, for all his concern with great philosophical matters, for all his undoubted sophistication, he intended to express that we live only in the mundane, can only know the mundane, are only content when we live a mundane life, when we become content with the mundane.  Our pretensions befuddle and confuse us as a result.

The question we snails must address and answer is whether we are content to be snails.  We must first, of course, recognize we are what we are, and this would seem to be what living can teach us, if we're not deluded by our conceit.  But isn't it disappointing, at best, to be snails, to be humans? 

As I noted, Stevens was no adolescent when he wrote his poetry, and so cannot be considered, presumptively, filled with angst.  And the cool, precise, complicated beauty of his poetry indicates he was not one of the adult adolescents who fail to accept that they were not born for a special purpose, are not God's favorites, are not the highest concern of the universe, and spend their time telling us they resent this is the case and insisting we share in their resentment. He was a man.

 I think he accepted that we are not what we pretend to be, but simply are what we are, seeking a means by which to do the best we can with what we have and take the rest as it happens, to paraphrase Epictetus (I'm not the first to think that Stevens was in some respects, at least, a Stoic).  But doing the best we can with what we have can be significant if we have the necessary strength, intelligence, patience and humility to know ourselves and use those qualities we possess secundum naturam.

The Allure of the Obscure

Napoleon Bonaparte, prior to becoming Emperor of the French, asserted that a Constitution should be short and obscure.  Joseph Addison, English essayist extraordinaire, noted that there is no defense against criticism except obscurity.  Both of these gentlemen recognized that obscurity may have significant benefits, albeit benefits which (to be obscure?) are not, really, beneficial in every sense, and are instead beneficial only in a limited sense, and less than beneficial in other respects.

The benefit of obscurity in the case of a constitution, from Napoleon's perspective, was likely though not necessarily entirely selfish.  Obscurity in the law mandates interpretation.  Unambiguous language is not to be construed, but is instead to be applied.  Ambiguity in language is subject to judicial interpretation, which may be supported by all manner of factors, such as legislative history, rules of construction, definitions.  Such interpretation requires the forming of an opinion, which may in turn be influenced by all manner of other factors.  Opinion is susceptible to error, and self-interest.  Interpretation can also be manipulation.  The more nebulous the law, the more it can arguably, at least, be subjected to creative construction; that is, construed to mean something agreeable to those doing the construing.

Napoleon seems to have been someone likely to manipulate an obscure constitution to his own advantage.  Then again, as someone of immense intelligence (if not virtue, pace Goethe) he may have felt that an obscure constitution might allow for interpretations which would be appropriate given societal changes. 

Addison evidently recognized that by being obscure a writer/thinker may avoid criticism as obscurity renders intent and meaning unclear, indefinable.  Criticism in order to be apt requires a comprehensible subject.  Without such a subject, criticism is always suspect and is also subject to a most convincing if perhaps irritating riposte--"That's not what I (or he or she) meant.  What I (or he or she) really meant is.....  You're simply too dense or insensitive or ignorant to comprehend."  This particular benefit of obscurity is primarily if not exclusively selfish.

I would add another benefit which is perhaps a variant of of the benefits of obscurity resulting from the fact that the obscure must either be disregarded or interpreted.  Obscurity's benefit may not be limited to those who are obscure, intentionally or otherwise, but may extend to those who purport to interpret the obscure.  This results from the creative and purposeful use of the obscure to further certain ends regardless of what might have been the intent of the author of the obscurity.

Obscure thought and language, being uncertain and undefined, may be used in ways never imagined by the obscure.  They are a kind of clay which may be formed to match or support defined ideas through the instrument of interpretation.  In that manner obscure religious, political, philosophical sayings and writings are used in the furthering of various agendas.  Those who make use of the obscure in this fashion may even think that they use it appropriately.  And who could dispute them in their belief, given the intimidating uncertainty of the obscure?

So it can pay to be obscure; it can even pay to tout the obscure.  Obscurity can be useful not only to those who manufacture the obscurity but also those who do not create it but instead take advantage of the obscurity for their own purposes. 

Obscurity can be attractive to many of us, because what is obscure can at least be said to be profound, mysterious, insightful because of its very obscurity.  It's difficult to disagree with such claims because the obscurity of the obscure has the result that those who condemn it can only do so because it is obscure; nothing else can be said about it by its condemners.  It's at least possible something profound is involved, of a kind that can only be communicated obscurely.  The obscure can be said to be most everything, except clear.

And, except with respect to the possibly difficult task of being sufficiently obscure or strategically obscure, the authors of the obscure may be thought of or insist they should be considered profound, mysterious and insightful even if they have not devoted any thought or effort to understanding that regarding which they obscurely proclaim.  Obscurity renders pontificating undemanding.

Hume wrote that certain books should be consigned to the flames--those not containing abstract reasoning regarding quantity or number and those not containing experimental reasoning concerning matters of fact or existence.  It seems a rather arrogant contention; one wonders how many of his own works would have survived the conflagration.

I would propose something less absolute and draconian regarding obscure works (which are not works of art, which may be obscure because they are art) which purport to make claims regarding how we think and act and regarding the nature of the universe of which we are a part.  Call it presumptive disregard, or perhaps the presumption of gibberish.  If the authors of such works fail to communicate their ideas or assertions in clear, precise and simple language, we should presume they write nonsense.  But this presumption should be rebuttable.  If the author of the obscurity can explain the communication without creating one anew, or other portions of the author's work provide an explanation of the obscurity, the presumption will be rebutted.

This presumption may save us all a good amount of time and trouble.

Romanticism and Heroes

Being something of an fan of the history of the Roman Republic and Roman Empire, I took up and began to read, though not through the agency of a divine voice like St. Augustine, a book called Imperial Purple by Edgar Saltus, and was reminded again that there are those who feel excessive admiration for "great men of action" and wondered just why they do.

Saltus essentially drools over Julius Caesar, working himself into a seeming frenzy of adoration, and then proceeds to heap scorn on his chosen heir and adopted son, whom we know as Augustus Caesar.  This puzzles me.  In salivating over Julius, Saltus reminds me of Colleen McCullough, who did much the same in her entertaining books on ancient Rome, and Mary Renault, who may have worshipped Alexander the Great, in her fine novels regarding that remarkable figure, as well as her "non-fiction" effort breathlessly entitled The Nature of Alexander.

It's interesting that these authors glorify the characters and careers of men who were responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands if not millions while simultaneously criticizing, often in a very ad hominen fashion, their more sedate contemporaries.  For Saltus the opposite of his hero is the "cool politician" Augustus (which is how Gore Vidal once referred to him); McCullough selected Cicero as target for her barbs, and Renault chose Demosthenes and Aristotle.  Renault goes so far as to imply that Aristotle had some part in causing the death of Alexander (if her novels are any guide, she seemed disinclined to believe, as do others, that he caused his own death by self-destructive stupidity).

Augustus, Cicero, Demosthenes and Aristotle were certainly not warriors.  What glory they achieved didn't involve wholesale slaughter, at which Julius and Alexander excelled.  They didn't inspire men to race to their deaths or send others to theirs; they probably were not even loved by all but a few.  But we remember them nonetheless.  They are great figures of history.

To focus on Augustus, he was ruthless in his pursuit of power, and condemned hundreds to death in obtaining it.  He was a very poor soldier, and even frail, physically.  He managed, though, to give the Roman world decades of peace--something Julius never could do, and didn't seem particularly interested in doing.  Julius Caesar was certainly a brilliant man, as was Alexander, and neither were "mere" soldiers.  They each had many talents.  But they were also in some sense incapable of imparting peace or stability to the worlds they dominated, assuming they were concerned to do so, which is questionable.  The same could be said of another great romantic hero, Napoleon.  Augustus had enough sense to realize that he could wield almost absolute power without encouraging others to murder him, and had the wit to find a way to structure the state for that purpose.  Julius apparently was incapable of such an effort.

Why do many of us succumb to hero-worship of great military men?  I think we do so for emotional reasons, or perhaps more accurately psychological reasons.  If we paused enough to think, we would likely realize that no reasonable person could admire the devastation wrought by such men in pursuit of what was ultimately their personal glory, regardless of their skill and talents.  But we don't care to stop and think, in this and other things, far too often.  Romanticism is excessive by nature and its heroes are excessive as well.  Reason is skeptical of excess.