amor ille penitus insitus

   From their father may your children learn peaceful ways and from their grandfather may they learn generosity, and from them both eagerness for glorious virtue.

–Statius, to Julius Menecrates

   He was mine, mine. I saw him lying upon the ground, a new-born baby, and I welcomed him with a natal poem as he was washed and anointed. When he demanded air for his new life with trembling cries, I set him in Life's roll.

   From your very moment of birth I bound you to me and made you mine. I taught you sounds and words, I comforted you and soothed your hidden hurts. When you crawled on the ground, I lifted you up and kissed you, and rocked you to sleep myself and summoned sweet dreams for you.

–Statius, Silvae (5.5, extracts)

Image: A Roman boy before his father practicing rhetoric (note the boy's scroll and hand gesture.) Detail from a sarcophagus. Mid 2nd century. Louvre, Paris.

Shakespeare and the Roman Regime

Paul Cantor, Clifton Waller Barrett Professor of English at the University of Virginia and author of Shakespeare's Rome, leads a discussion on Shakespeare and the Roman Regime.

Three Portraits

How do you capture an individual? How do you condense an essence into an expression? Not over the course of a novel or film but in as short a time as possible? What medium do you choose: word, image, or sound? Are they all even possibilities? Perhaps I have made the task sound unduly difficult for surely we all have favorite photographs of ourselves and others. How often, though, are these images mere captures, mere documentations. Usually one can simply say, "He looks happy," or "she looks pretty." Quite difficult it is to suggest that the state in the photograph is the character of the person. We might think of a particular picture as being a "classic" or "typical" look of someone we know, but how do you suggest that in just one viewing?

With those questions in mind, let us take a look at how three masters did it in three different mediums.

Sargent, Nancy Astor

The painting is probably the form most associated with the notion of a portrait. Maybe such is so because the medium is especially suited to a balance of both the literal and figurative. Here Sargent balances just those choices, capturing the decisive character of the viscountess with that so bold line down the left of her figure. The shimmering sash is a splash of flair and serves to lead one's eye back up and left to her face. Inclined forward and turned to you, one feels as if she's deigned to look at you for a moment before moving on. Indeed she is the woman who, as the story goes, told Winston Churchill, "If you were my husband, I'd poison your tea."


Catullus, 41 & 43

41 Ameana puella defututa tota milia me decem poposcit, ista turpiculo puella naso, decoctoris amica Formiani. propinqui, quibus est puella curae, amicos medicosque convocate: non est sana puella, nec rogare qualis sit solet aes imaginosum.

43 Salve, nec minimo puella naso nec bello pede nec nigris ocellis nec longis digitis nec ore sicco nec sane nimis elegante lingua, decoctoris amica Formiani. ten provincia narrat esse bellam? tecum Lesbia nostra comparatur? o saeclum insapiens et infacetum!

Catullus' colorful vocabulary is a wonderful counterpart to Sargent's palette.  This pair of poems forms an indirect attack on a certain Mamurra, a Roman prefect under Caesar and well-known profligate, by way of his girlfriend. Here Catullus lets it rip from line 1 with defututa (you'll have to look that one up yourselves, dear readers) and follows it up with her fee. Catullus caps off the first salvo with the delicious little phrase, "turpiculo naso," a "somewhat ugly" nose. So call together her relatives to come take care of her, because with her looks she must be quite out of her head to charge that price. Certainly she's not used to consulting the mirror.

43 is a catalog of the defects of this Ameana, with her perfectly awful features. Her nose is of not minimum size, her feet are not pretty (perhaps too big), her fingers are too short, and her mouth is, we might say, too runny. Just what Catullus means by lingua, whether speech or actual tongue, is not specified but she's not very refined with it.


Mozart, Sonata for piano in C, KV.309 (284b)

Mozart wrote this movement for Rosa Cannabich, the daughter of Christian C., director of the court orchestra at Munich. Mlle. Cannabich was Mozart's pupil while he wrote this musical portrait of her in the autumn of 1777, when the composer was 21 and Rosa 16. In a letter to his father Mozart reports his student was "a very pretty and charming girl. She is very intelligent and steady for her age. She is serious, does not say much, but when she does speak, she is pleasant and amiable." He goes on, "She is exactly like the Andante. . ."


II. Andante un poco adagio, in F

Standing out foremost in this sonata are the sarabande-like rhythm and continuous variations between forte and piano. Mozart emphasized this andante "must not be taken too quickly" and indeed to do so would be to disrupt the genteel pace and motion which unifies the expressive contrasts. Could Mlle. Cannabich have been, or anyone be, as charming as this sonata, so expressive yet gracious, and growing lovelier still in each variation?

While we see these are each brilliant portraits, it is hard to say whether their success owes to some separate skill for portraiture. These artists all demonstrate a talent for color and a command of large and small scale structure elsewhere. Is it some balance of a keen perception and skill in the medium? One might suggest they are simply works of exaggeration, but I would propose a turn of thought from T. S. Eliot, the "working up of the ordinary into poetry," and "expressing feelings which are not in actual emotions at all." Hence the difference between an accurate depiction and a living portrait.

Eliot on Education

Modern Education and the Classics

These ten pages of excellent and admirable reflection on the ends of education are so filled full with throw-away insight one wishes on every page Eliot had elaborated. It ought to be much longer. Cutting to the quick of the multitudinous debates on education Eliot states the overlooked obvious: to know what an education must be one must know what it ought to do. To know what we want to do, we must know what we want from life. "Ultimately, then, the problem is a religious one." Let us discuss.

Eliot discerns a number of confusions which plague those seeking an education and in particular he notes a contrasting pair of missteps, the notions of education for getting on and education for leisure. The first problem might be rephrased as education toward getting more. Getting more money, more possessions, more power or agency, rising in social respectability, and so forth. Not just more, mind you, but specifically more than others. Now Eliot's examination of this position is quite unexpected. One might have predicted the commonplace defense of "education for its own sake" or for "self-betterment" or some such similar apologia. Yet his critique is more oblique and, in fact, timely. With this justification,

Education becomes something to which everybody has a "right," even irrespective  of his capacity; and when everyone gets it–by that time, of course, in a diluted and adulterated form–then we naturally discover that education is no longer an infallible means of getting on. . .

Readers who recall our discussions of the Founding Fathers' thoughts on education will sense my imminent accord. Dispensing with yet another discussion of what a "right" can and cannot be, we recall that Jefferson's education plan for Virginia would have offered someone as much education as he was able to make use of, i.e. as much as he could actually comprehend. As we said, though, Eliot's criticism is more subtle and in fact roots itself in the observation that such a justification for education is in fact relative: by not specifying what education is actually for, simply making one-upmanship the end, if you give it away to everyone you foil your plan. The result of education for everyone irrespective of capacity and irrespective of end is merely to wade into the quagmire of mediocrity we sop in today.

The other half of this pair of fallacies is the notion of education for leisure. Of this apparently highbrow claim we may simply ask: what is leisure for? Why ought one devote himself to laboring Aristotle and Homer, and the unavoidable drudgery required by serious study? Cannot recreation and entertainment sufficiently pass the time and provide relief from life's cares? Why exactly ought one study?

One might imagine a rejoinder from proponents of either position: "surely more education cannot be a bad thing?" they may say. Once again we say: why do you call it a good if you don't know what it is for? Saying such of course passes over the unintended consequences of incentivizing education, or particular disciplines, without attention to what people can do, want to do, what needs to be done, and how these variables change, onsequences like thousands of students learning the same amount of material, or slightly more or less, over a greater period of time and at greater expense. Students spend more time, parents more money, but no one focuses on what anyone hopes to accomplish other than to get on, to get ahead of the other students, a fashion perfectly captured in the gross and absurd process of applying to universities.

This "education inflation" is difficult to reverse first because when you allocate resources such as building a campus and hiring large faculties, it is difficult to shrink them without losing much money re-allocating the resources and second because you turn out students trained to be teachers in other universities. The whole scheme is set up to expand without purpose or end.

Such prescient observations but set the stage for Eliot's point about the philosophy of education, of which he identifies three: the liberal, the radical, and the orthodox. The central fallacy of the liberal program of education is that it passes no judgment on the discipline. The student ought to study what he wants at the exclusion of what he dislikes and what he is good at instead of what is challenging. Such is a recipe for a most distasteful and parochial education. Toward the end of understanding, who would not be disappointed by the mathematician who cannot see his discipline's relation to music, and vice versa? As Eliot notes in the most disarmingly everyday way, "those who have more lively and curious minds will tend to smatter."

Now whereas liberalism does not know what it wants of education, radicalism knows and wants the wrong thing. Radicalism shuns the classics as deprecated or simply wrong. All that remains is, as one might expect, Eliot's position of an orthodox education. An education distinguished from its rivals by placing specific and finite ends toward education and the classics. The importance of Greek and Latin is not the pragmatic end of improving one's English or employing it to invoke some esteemed past, but as an integral part of a living Christian tradition. "A professedly Christian people should have a Christian education."

This may sound a cheat the to Classicist, but why read Homer? It's a beautiful poem, but why should you be glad about what it glorifies and condemns? You may learn from it, but what will you do with what you learn? Or if you simply wish to know, why? I'm not saying any of these reasons are unsatisfactory but whatever they are, you need values of your own to make use of an education. Art may hold the mirror up to nature and education may reveal its causes, but to what end? The philosophy of education flows from one's philosophy of life.

A Presidential Speech: Worthy of Marble?

Demosthenes.

Rhetoric is among the oldest and most venerated of Western traditions. The ability to express yourself well and persuade your audience has been the mark of a great man since Achilles railed against Agamemnon. Training in the rhetorical arts has formed the center of all education for just as long. History is decorated with the speeches of great orators and literature with their speeches. Some of these men were great and laudable, others great and terrible. All wielded considerable political power. Beyond a doubt Demosthenes and Cicero dominate the field of orators and their speeches all rhetorical works.  Likewise Aristotle's On Rhetoric and Quintilian's Institutio Oratoria hold prime place amongst treatises on the craft.  Against these men and works all other speakers and speeches are judged.

Now it would be legitimate to compare any speech to one from Cicero and Demosthenes and to see how it measures up to Aristotle's or Quintilian's standards but it would also be more than a little obtuse and less than a perfect indication of the speaker's success. We must, then, have two criteria: the quality of the speech and the success of the speaker. A perfect speech does not exist in a vacuum rather it must be tailored both to the intended audience and the speaker as a line of dialogue in a film is suited both to the character who speaks it and the audience to whom it is meant to affect. The actor Satyrus educated Demosthenes himself on this point by having the aspiring orator recite a poem and then reciting it himself, attuned to the context of the character and situation. Plutarch relates a story in which Demosthenes, when asked about the most important aspects of oratory, replied, "Delivery, delivery, and delivery."

A speech then is appropriate to the speaker, the audience, and the occasion. We ought to pause and reflect on the audience for a moment. Assuming as we do that the author of the speech (and we must separate the speaker from the speechwriter since some great writers like Lysias wrote for others) is a great writer and the speaker a great speaker we must assume that what they offer is what they think will persuade the audience. Should a speech be elevated or plain, original or traditional, complex or simple, we must assume the speaker thinks such will please the audience. A speech, then, distinctly reveals the speaker's opinion of his audience.

Cicero denouncing Catiline

Today's speechwriter carries a heavy burden, then, but it is in fact heavier still since he must consider not only the Classical speeches and treatises, the speaker, the occasion, and the audience, but all famous speeches throughout literature, from Homer to Shakespeare.  Too he must consider modern political speeches from Washington to Churchill.

Thus when a modern speech is referred to as "worthy of marble"[1] we might grow curious: the speech in question, the 2009 Inaugural Address, must be extraordinary. Such praise inspired me to be especially critical since such a statement starts to step on the toes of dear Demosthenes and Cicero. At times we may appear to be too critical, but some speeches can stand up to such criticism thus I don't think it unreasonable to subject a highly-regarded modern speech to the same standards.

I would note that I won't be commenting on the truth of statements though we may reflect on interesting turns of logic as means of persuasion. I decided to look at this  speech only because of the praise lavished upon the President as an orator and on this speech in particular. As such, this analysis is not meant to be a commentary on the President in any way other than as an orator. In fact it is as much if not more a reflection on the speechwriter.

Let us take a look, then, line by line.

You can read and listen to the speech here at American Rhetoric.

–

Thank you, thank you.

My fellow citizens:

I stand here today humbled by the task before us, grateful for the trust you've bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our ancestors. I thank President Bush for his service to our nation, as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition.

A fairly standard "thank you."

Forty-four Americans have now taken the presidential Oath. The words have been spoken during rising tides of prosperity and the still waters of peace. Yet, every so often the Oath is taken amidst gathering clouds and raging storms. At these moments, America has carried on not simply because of the skill or vision of those in high office, but because We the People have remained faithful to the ideals of our forbearers, and true to our founding documents.

He establishes the continuity of government and society with, "forty-four Americans" and "forbearers" and "founding documents." Some of this seems a little clunky and repetitive: "have now taken," "have been spoken," "has carried," and "have remained faithful."  The phrase "Have now taken" has set him on an awkward path to maintain consistency. The tidal and storm comparisons are simple and cliché. He appeals to the people as being one of them, distancing himself from the fact that he occupies a "high office."

So it has been. So it must be with this generation of Americans.

"So it has been. So it must be" is much more formal and nearly striking but diminished because the segue is awkward and the segue is awkward because of the tense. The phrases "have been" et cetera keeps us rooted in the present looking at the past. This of course distances us instead. "So it has been" is then parallel. "So it must be" is meant to break the parallelism because the picture of the past is not clearly drawn. Most of the description, in fact, is taken up with weak verbs like "have been" and clichés. Nothing specific has been mentioned. 

That we are in the midst of crisis is now well understood. Our nation is at war, against a far-reaching network of violence and hatred.

Another inelegant tense use and phrasing: "that we are in is. . ." and " is now well. . ." Finally the present tense follows. Two features appear again which will dominate the landscape of the speech: a preponderance of commas/pauses and a lack of specifics. The war is "against a network" not against anyone in particular. The distance from the people at war is increased by the fact that he doesn't even use any word for them at all, but merely refers to what they do, "violence" and "hate." Interestingly he uses "far-reaching" which emphasizes their reach but not their strength.

Our economy is badly weakened, a consequence of greed and irresponsibility on the part of some, but also our collective failure to make hard choices and prepare the nation for a new age. Homes have been lost; jobs shed; businesses shuttered. Our health care is too costly; our schools fail too many; and each day brings further evidence that the ways we use energy strengthen our adversaries and threaten our planet.

More inelegance with "is badly weakened." More vagueness follows: some people did something bad and everyone failed to do something else. What does "prepare the nation for a new age" in fact mean? How does it relate to the previous or succeeding thought? The first actual rhetorical devices follow in the form of asyndeton (lack of expected conjunctions): "Homes have been lost; jobs shed; businesses shuttered." He follows with another, hyperbole: "each day brings further evidence." The phrase "that the ways we use" is again inelegant. A very pessimistic paragraph.

These are the indicators of crisis, subject to data and statistics. Less measurable, but no less profound, is a sapping of confidence across our land -- a nagging fear that America's decline is inevitable, that the next generation must lower its sights.

The next sentence treats the last paragraph as an argument: he has established we are in a crisis. "Subject to data and statistics" is a peculiar addition. What does it precisely mean? It sort of implies that the data might suggest a threshold for a crisis, but it is unclear. They function to make what precedes appear quantifiable and practice and what follows to be somehow spiritual. What follows is quite clever. Sapping is visceral and effective here, though the gerundial treatment is too lengthy to achieve a strong, concerted impact. Then we get "decline," really out of nowhere. It is wholly unprepared and we go from "crisis" to "decline." How can the fear be nagging if the fear is new? The fear can only be nagging if the decline is in the past and has been perceived and the crisis is present, yet he seems to be suggesting that the crisis is what would precede the decline (if we don't do what is necessary to avoid it.) It would not make sense to suggest that one has a nagging fear that the country is going to decline at some point in the future at some particular threshold, which would require present indicators of decline which would constitute said decline.

Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America: They will be met.

The direct address is meant to bring him closer to the listener again, to come back to him after all of the frightful talk of crisis and decline.

On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.

This is all quite vague but reveals a few interesting things. First, it is merely an expanded way of saying "you voted for me and my ideas." Second, "On this day we gather" ignores that there were people gathered who did not support him. Here, then, he is only addressing his supporters. He also sets up some strange dichotomies: hope will lead to success and not fear, that having different purposes leads to conflict. These are of course not well-accepted or even intuitive contrasting pairs and he does not argue for them but rather asserts them. None of the "petty grievances" et cetera are named.

We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to "set aside childish things." The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.

"We remain a young nation" is slightly out of place here since he is about to talk about founding documents and of course though the nation is old that it is governed by these same documents and has been for hundreds of years makes it in fact considerably older than many in this respect.

What childish things is he talking about? We went from "faithful to the ideals of our forbearers, and true to our founding documents" to "put aside childish things." He never names the bad ideas, but goes on to mention the three fundamental freedoms of America slightly modified. Instead of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" we have "all are equal," "freedom," and "full measure of happiness." This is a simple but effective passage, despite the vague "reaffirm."

In reaffirming the greatness of our nation, we understand that greatness is never a given. It must be earned. Our journey has never been one of short-cuts or settling for less. It has not been the path for the faint-hearted -- for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame. Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things -- some celebrated but more often men and women obscure in their labor, who have carried us up the long, rugged path towards prosperity and freedom.

Again there are no specifics. We don't know how we're going to "reaffirm" anything. He uses no specific examples of events, people, places, or professions. There is no distinct picture. It is meant to praise hardworking, non-famous Americans but is vague to the point of being un-affecting. It desperately needs examples, which follow. Yet the fact that they follow makes this paragraph float adrift. We begin to feel the speech lacks a large-scale structure to relate ideas and create a fluidity which carries us through.

For us, they packed up their few worldly possessions and traveled across oceans in search of a new life.

For us, they toiled in sweatshops and settled the West; endured the lash of the whip and plowed the hard earth.

For us, they fought and died, in places like Concord and Gettysburg; Normandy and Khe Sahn.

These sentences are carefully constructed to suggest 1) all Americans are immigrants, 2) to praise both urban and farm workers, 3) praise both farmers and slaves, and 4) a praise all military service. It also sets up a causal relationship of service: they did what they did for us. As we see in many other places, this needs something to persuade us. Perhaps he could have addressed them or utilized an abrupt pause? Might not that have been affecting here?

Time and again these men and women struggled and sacrificed and worked till their hands were raw so that we might live a better life. They saw America as bigger than the sum of our individual ambitions; greater than all the differences of birth or wealth or faction.

Again, we feel like we are being told facts when we should feel like we are being drawn into a narrative. The two parts of the second sentence are not logically connected: they worked hard because they didn't believe in "the differences of birth or wealth or faction?" If delivered in a rapid, excited, or emotional manner it could function an anacolutha, i.e. a breaking off in the structure for dramatic purpose, in this case to enhance the fact that the "differences of birth or wealth or faction" are meaningless and older generations were great and America is great for not considering them. It is also a light polysyndeton (the use of excessive conjunctions.) If delivered straightforward it merely seems a mistake.

This is the journey we continue today. We remain the most prosperous, powerful nation on Earth. Our workers are no less productive than when this crisis began. Our minds are no less inventive, our goods and services no less needed than they were last week or last month or last year. Our capacity remains undiminished. But our time of standing pat, of protecting narrow interests and putting off unpleasant decisions - that time has surely passed. Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America.

What journey was that? Carrying forward the "noble idea" and working for the next generation. What follows is an assertion of power and an assertion that America's problem is one of will and not any tangible force. As before, the ill forces are ill-defined.

For everywhere we look, there is work to be done. The state of our economy calls for action, bold and swift, and we will act -- not only to create new jobs, but to lay a new foundation for growth. We will build the roads and bridges, the electric grids and digital lines that feed our commerce and bind us together. We will restore science to its rightful place, and wield technology's wonders to raise health care's quality and lower its cost. We will harness the sun and the winds and the soil to fuel our cars and run our factories. And we will transform our schools and colleges and universities to meet the demands of a new age.

All this we can do.

All this we will do.

The opening phrase is effective, the two halves "everywhere we look" and "there is work to be done" of equal syllables. The parallel uses of "we will" emphasizes action with more specifics than before in the speech. The couplet makes concrete the assertions.

Now, there are some who question the scale of our ambitions -- who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans. Their memories are short. For they have forgotten what this country has already done; what free men and women can achieve when imagination is joined to common purpose, and necessity to courage.

This is an interesting bit of logic. He gathers his critics into one group and says their criticism amounts to being short-sighted and ignorant of American's greatness. This clever turn of logic would have been made much more powerful had he followed with any example. Too it is of interest to note that he cites what the country has done as an example that great things can be done and ascribes the success of those things to imagination and unity but not the actual skill it took to do them (whatever it was.) This is the essential logic of the speech. We will see it play out again later: communism and fascism were defeated not with tanks but alliances. Nuclear dangers will be avoided "with allies."

What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them -- that the stale political arguments that have consumed us for so long no longer apply. The question we ask today is not whether our government is too big or too small, but whether it works -- whether it helps families find jobs at a decent wage, care they can afford, a retirement that is dignified. Where the answer is yes, we intend to move forward. Where the answer is no, programs will end. And those of us who manage the public's dollars will be held to account -- to spend wisely, reform bad habits, and do our business in the light of day -- because only then can we restore the vital trust between a people and their government.

More interesting logic here. He again bypasses any negative ideas or criticisms: "they no longer apply" and "the question we ask to day is not. . ." This paragraph is somewhat awkward insofar as it alternates between extremely brief phrases like "programs will end" and a very casual style, "jobs at a decent wage," "care they can afford," ". . . that is dignified," "reform bad habits." These are very familial virtues. The paragraph concludes with an interesting bit of logic: accountability will restore trust. Not virtue or success but accountability.

Nor is the question before us whether the market is a force for good or ill. Its power to generate wealth and expand freedom is unmatched, but this crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye, the market can spin out of control. The nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous. The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our Gross Domestic Product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on the ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart -- not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good.

This paragraph is unremarkable in terms of style but it contains another interesting bit of logic: it equates spinning out of control with crisis and crisis with favoring only certain people. It too is vague, though, insofar as it doesn't mention the manner in or mechanisms by which anything occurs or has occurred.

As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals. Our Founding Fathers -- Our Founding Fathers, faced with perils that we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to assure the rule of law and the rights of man, a charter expanded by the blood of generations. Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience'[s] sake. And so to all the other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born: Know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman, and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity. And we are ready to lead once more.

He rejects the dichotomy between safety and ideals, but does not say why. He asserts "We will not give them up for expedience'[s] sake." Who suggested to do so? What exactly is he talking about here? There needs to be something here to persuade. He moves right into the Founding Fathers building off of "ideals." That transition is very smooth but he says "we can scarcely imagine" which is ineffective because he is trying to draw a comparison. We need to imagine, he needs to draw a picture. (See concluding paragraph.) Interestingly he again avoids mention of specific founders or the titles of the documents, "Constitution" and "Declaration on Independence," but refers simply to a charter (with emphasis via a little anaphora.)

Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with the sturdy alliances and enduring convictions. They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please. Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use; our security emanates from the justness of our cause, the force of our example, the tempering qualities of humility and restraint.

We see still more pairs of ideas: fascism and communism, missiles and tanks, alliances and convictions. Again too is the "neither. . . nor. . . but rather. . ." construction. It is also interesting to argue that security, security in particular, emanates from righteousness. Does it? Being righteous may make you many things, but secure? Too, why does "prudent use" increase your power? Prudent use might do many things, why this in particular?

The syntax and sense with the clause beginning "instead" is clumsy. We have three sentences, beginning:

• Earlier generations faced down x and y not with a and b but c and d
• They understood neither e nor f was true. . .
• Instead they knew g, h, i, and j.

First, he throws too much out here which makes the paragraph border on being simply a list of assertions. Instead of building the third statement off of the second the sentences should have been kept parallel. The third clause begins "instead" despite the fact that the sense is the same as the preceding sentence, i.e. that earlier generations knew something. It should simply begin, "they knew." Obviously this is not a mistake but rather a deliberate, albeit sloppy, attempt to create a climax. This passage has the material ("earlier generations," "convictions") for a climax (lit. "ladder") and it would have been effective here more strongly to link the ideas. A climax here would have increased tension by provided a clear (and convincing) path from earlier generations to today and suggested the timelessness of the convictions. It should have concluded with "enduring convictions" which would have flowed nicely into the next paragraph.

Instead we have the typical situation of short and thinly connected sentences concluding with the awkward and unseemly, "restraint" (which at least should have been replaced by a steelier word, one more dignified and associated with virtue like "forbearance," "moderation," "reserve," "discipline," et cetera.)

We are the keepers of this legacy. Guided by these principles once more, we can meet those new threats that demand even greater effort -- even greater cooperation and understanding between nations. We will begin to responsibly leave Iraq to its people, and forge a hard-earned peace in Afghanistan. With old friends and former foes, we will work tirelessly to lessen the nuclear threat, and roll back the specter of a warming planet. We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense, and for those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents, we say to you now that our spirit is stronger and cannot be broken. You cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you!

This introduction is effective despite the poor preceding climax. "Once more " implies the principles were dropped. This whole paragraph is a much more effective building of tension and climax with smooth transition from sentence to sentence and thought to thought. It is very simple though somewhat heavy on adjectives and adverbs. Interestingly, though, we have gone from, "nor does it entitle us to do as we please" to "We will not apologize for our way of life." Instead of using the word "terrorists" he says, "Those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror." That is a striking circumlocution to avoid the word.

For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness. We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus -- and non-believers. We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.

"For we know" implies a connection to the preceding paragraph which in fact is absent. The strength from being of "patchwork heritage" is a strength, but cannot be the only strength by which the enemy will be defeated. The disconnect is more clear if you remove the pause: we will defeat you because (for) we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength. The "we know" makes the syntax and sense more awkward since it ought to read we will defeat you because (for) our patchwork heritage is a strength. We couldn't defeat them if it were a weakness? Obviously he is trying to say that diversity is a virtue but has struggled to work it in.

He identifies not our present differences but past differences as a strength. Where he once drew distinctions between earlier generations and present, now he uses "we" to describe both: earlier generations faced down fascism and communism but we all tasted the bitter swill of civil war. "Bitter swill" and "shall" are clunky usages designed to make the paragraph feel more grand and formal.

To the Muslim world, we seek a new way forward, based on mutual interest and mutual respect. To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society's ills on the West -- know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy. To those -- To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.

To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to the suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed, and we must change with it.

He now addresses other groups but does not say much. He offers no judgments of any kind, simply saying they are on the "wrong side" of history. The "fist" image is terribly cliche.

As we consider the road that unfolds before us, we remember with humble gratitude those brave Americans who, at this very hour, patrol far-off deserts and distant mountains. They have something to tell us, just as the fallen heroes who lie in Arlington whisper through the ages. We honor them not only because they are the guardians of our liberty, but because they embody the spirit of service; a willingness to find meaning in something greater than themselves. And yet, at this moment -- a moment that will define a generation -- it is precisely this spirit that must inhabit us all.

More standard images: an unfolding road, far-off deserts, distant mountains. "That" figures so strongly in all of these constructions it now seems a sort of crutch. Why does he use "And yet. . .?" What contrast is implied? Again a simple sentence without some preparatory phrase would have been more effective: This spirit must inhabit us all.

For as much as government can do and must do, it is ultimately the faith and determination of the American people upon which this nation relies. It is the kindness to take in a stranger when the levees break, the selflessness of workers who would rather cut their hours than see a friend lose their job which sees us through our darkest hours. It is the firefighter's courage to storm a stairway filled with smoke, but also a parent's willingness to nurture a child, that finally decides our fate.

Some much needed specific examples if somewhat crudely written. "Willingness to nurture a child" is an odd turn of phrase designed to make the parent's sacrifice seem honorable when in fact it makes it seem optional.

Our challenges may be new. The instruments with which we meet them may be new. But those values upon which our success depends -- honesty and hard work, courage and fair play, tolerance and curiosity, loyalty and patriotism -- these things are old. These things are true. They have been the quiet force of progress throughout our history. What is demanded then is a return to these truths. What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility -- a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task.

This is the price and the promise of citizenship.

This is the source of our confidence -- the knowledge that God calls on us to shape an uncertain destiny.

This is the simplest, clearest, most specific, and best passage in the speech (aside from the use of the word "instruments.") It is still somewhat rough, though, as the change of structure from "those values. . ." to "these things" is somewhat cheesy. "What is demanded" is awkward and not vivid enough. This was the prime spot for a striking, defining, image of the "moment that will define a generation."

This is the meaning of our liberty and our creed -- why men and women and children of every race and every faith can join in celebration across this magnificent mall, and why a man whose father less than sixty years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant can now stand before you to take a most sacred Oath.

This is again a little vague. How can what he just said "mean" liberty? What creed? The first "this is the price" refers to the preceding paragraph. The second refers to the "knowledge that God calls. . ." What does this one refer to? 

So let us mark this day with remembrance, of who we are and how far we have traveled. In the year of America's birth, in the coldest of months, a small band of patriots huddled by dying campfires on the shores of an icy river. The Capitol was abandoned. The enemy was advancing. The snow was stained with blood. At a moment when the outcome of our revolution was most in doubt, the father of our nation ordered these words be read to the people:

Let it be told to the future world...that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive...that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet [it].

America: In the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship, let us remember these timeless words. With hope and virtue, let us brave once more the icy currents, and endure what storms may come. Let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations.

Again, this simple passage is among the best. The images are very traditional, the sentences are very short. It paints a picture which would have been much more effective at the beginning to build on and draw comparisons to rather than to lead up to. It also would have provided a vivid image which would have hovered over the whole speech.

–

Brief Comments

What may we say in general about this speech? 1) it is quite light on figurative language or elaborate syntactical constructions. 2) The periodic length is very short and thus the ideas are easy to follow.  3) There are very few details, examples, or specifics. 3) He does not address critics. 4) There are a lot of weak verbs like "are" and "is" which are lost opportunities to be more specific and more vivid. 5) clauses are heavily dependent on the word "that" for clarity. 6) the vocabulary is limited, simple, common, and bland. 7) There is an overabundance of adjectives.

In particular, the "weak verbs" are problematic since they rob the speech of intensity and variety. Consider the phrase, "they have something to tell us" which is completely indistinct. Perhaps it could have read, "the soldier's sacrifice inspires the civilian. . ." Too "we are ready" might read "we stand ready." "They have been the quiet force of progress throughout our history" would be stronger if stated as a truism (the rhetorical term is dilation, i.e. broadening the theme to include universal ideas) and 1) more tersely, 2) in grander fashion, or 3) with an image or example.

1) These private virtues make men–and nations.
2) The world moves not only through grand leaps captured by newspapers and recorded in books but also, more I think, through the silent virtues of decent men.
3) The triumph of today's hero might move the world for an hour, but the unprofitable, unseen, and unknown virtues of Americans move us day by day.

These are a but a few phrases which are bland and difficult to breathe life into.Let us compare this speech to one from the Founding Fathers President Obama mentioned.

George Washington's First Inaugural Address

AMONG the vicissitudes incident to life no event could have filled me with greater anxieties than that of which the notification was transmitted by your order, and received on the 14th day of the present month. On the one hand, I was summoned by my country, whose voice I can never hear but with veneration and love, from a retreat which I had chosen with the fondest predilection, and, in my flattering hopes, with an immutable decision, as the asylum of my declining years—a retreat which was rendered every day more necessary as well as more dear to me by the addition of habit to inclination, and of frequent interruptions in my health to the gradual waste committed on it by time. On the other hand, the magnitude and difficulty of the trust to which the voice of my country called me, being sufficient to awaken in the wisest and most experienced of her citizens a distrustful scrutiny into his qualifications, could not but overwhelm with despondence one who (inheriting inferior endowments from nature and unpracticed in the duties of civil administration) ought to be peculiarly conscious of his own deficiencies. In this conflict of emotions all I dare aver is that it has been my faithful study to collect my duty from a just appreciation of every circumstance by which it might be affected. All I dare hope is that if, in executing this task, I have been too much swayed by a grateful remembrance of former instances, or by an affectionate sensibility to this transcendent proof of the confidence of my fellow-citizens, and have thence too little consulted my incapacity as well as disinclination for the weighty and untried cares before me, my error will be palliated by the motives which mislead me, and its consequences be judged by my country with some share of the partiality in which they originated.

Comparison

1) Varied, [More] Complex, and Vivid Vocabulary: vicissitudes, predilection, immutable, despondence, transcendent, disinclination.
2) Longer Periods: The whole paragraph is only five sentences and is one thought.
3) Specific, Eloquent, and Memorable Turns of Phrase: vicissitudes incident to life, fondest predilection, flattering hopes, immutable decision, asylum of my declining years, the addition of habit to inclination, distrustful scrutiny, overwhelm with despondence, faithful study, grateful remembrance.

The first sentence is a brilliant introduction beginning with a vast concept, "the vicissitudes incident to life" and then inserting himself among them. The following sentence is a poetic and beautiful way of describing the call to service, "I was summoned by my country, whose voice I can never hear but with veneration and love. . ." It is also reminiscent of Demosthenes' First Olynthiac, "The present crisis, Athenians, calls on you, almost with an audible voice" [2]  a passage which President Obama could have quoted nearly verbatim. Washington's opening also is a clear exordium, or introduction, in which he clearly sets out his point with another Demosthenic device, the phrase "on the one hand. . . on the other." He also, a la Demosthenes, nests other clauses within the "one the one hand. . . on the other" structure. Among other virtues, this construction creates a large scale structure which alleviates you from have to make and link many smaller sentences with kludges like "Yet" "every so often," "at these moments" "for. . ." "that we are" which are wasteful insofar as they add nothing, grow wearisome to the ear, and break flow. 

Consider the following passage from Washington's Address:

. . .there is no truth more thoroughly established than that there exists in the economy and course of nature an indissoluble union between virtue and happiness; between duty and advantage; between the genuine maxims of an honest and magnanimous policy and the solid rewards of public prosperity and felicity; since we ought to be no less persuaded that the propitious smiles of Heaven can never be expected on a nation that disregards the eternal rules of order and right which Heaven itself has ordained; and since the preservation of the sacred fire of liberty and the destiny of the republican model of government are justly considered, perhaps, as deeply, as finally, staked on the experiment entrusted to the hands of the American people.

It is not so different from President Obama's in several respects, is it?

Our challenges may be new. The instruments with which we meet them may be new. But those values upon which our success depends -- honesty and hard work, courage and fair play, tolerance and curiosity, loyalty and patriotism -- these things are old. These things are true. They have been the quiet force of progress throughout our history. What is demanded then is a return to these truths. What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility -- a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task.

Washington's passage is one sentence of smoothly rising tension to a climax, building from an asserted universal truth that duty and advantage go together and ending with the ultimate arbiter of success: the American people. His vocabulary is firm: thoroughly established, indissoluble union; bright:magnanimous, prosperity, felicity; and grand: liberty, destiny. He also invokes the sacred with subtlety and elegance not by quoting it but by adopting its vocabulary: Heaven itself, ordained, and sacred fire. The images are also visual: smiles of heaven, fire of liberty. He does not say values as if values may differ, but instead he says truths and thus doesn't have to double back and waste words to add, "these things are true" as President Obama does. What President Obama says obliquely with "What is required," Washington unabashedly ascribes to the divine, "Heaven itself has ordained." For Washington the "destiny of the republican model" is in the people's hands and for Obama the people have "a difficult task."

This passage from President Obama's speech is not at all bad, but its vocabulary is dull and its lack of structure imposes awkward phrases and transitions. Clearly the speech attempts to mimic Washington's in several respects and the last sentence in the selection is not so far from succeeding.

Evaluating the Speech

It seems prudent first to consider what this occasion calls for in a speech. The Presidential Inaugural Address is, to use Aristotle's categories, part political and part epideictic. That is, it is partly concerned with urging a particular course of action and partly concerned with esteeming something. (See Rhetoric I.iii, 1358a.) The speech fails as a political speech on account of its vagueness. It conveys no course of action on which one can deliberate and it does not attempt to persuade. It can be an effective course not to present the ideas of your opponents, as this speech does, but the course you do suggest must be all the more clear. As Aristotle says, (Rhetoric I.ii, 1357a) the duty of rhetoric is to deal with matters for which we have no arts or system so guide us and which seem to present us with alternate possibilities. The job of the speaker is to make clear and appealing a particular course of action. Too, it would rhetorically have been effective to concede a point, perhaps to re-frame it or to use its truth to his advantage, or simply to appear magnanimous.

As a ceremonial speech it is more successful because it praises the American way of life, though as we saw in contrast to Washington's speech it is vague and bland. It is more successful as an epideictic speech when it simply extols the virtues of "loyalty and patriotism" than when it attempts to be grand, e.g. "Guided by these principles once more" "hatreds shall someday pass."

In addition to the fundamental nature of the Inaugural Address we ought to consider the circumstances of January 2009 when it was delivered. Most notable among the circumstances was the economic crisis. Part of any speech delivered that day would be to assure the people that they chose the right president and give them a way forward.

We ought to dwell a bit longer on Aristotle who noted (Rhetoric I.ii) that three modes of persuasion exist: 1) of the personal character of the speaker, 2) putting the audience in a particular frame of mind, 3) proof or apparent proof of the words themselves. We pass over evaluating the first aspect since such would be an overtly and exclusively political analysis. We have also observed that the speech does not address specific points of policy, thus it does not attempt to prove anything (mode 3.) The only mode remaining is that of putting the audience in a frame of mind. The speech certainly seems to be of this nature as it attempts to paint a situation of a new beginning and a fresh start. In this respect the speech's lack of argumentation is not a weakness and it somewhat succeeds in getting the audience to put things out of their minds. For a speech of this nature, though, the lack of attractiveness of the prose and the lack of structure (which would amplify the euphoric feeling it attempts to generate) are severe detriments. It needed to paint two vivid pictures: one of the past and one of the present. The speech did not do this. With such strengths and flaws I cannot see how someone who was not already in favor of President Obama could have been persuaded by the speech. (Consider for yourself "Mode 1" mentioned above.) It simply does not seem designed to win over critics. The plans it presents are not specific enough even to acknowledge as plans, the praise is not specific enough to endear, it is not grand enough to impress, it is not beautiful enough to captivate, and there is no attempt to persuade by argument. Too it does not succeed in developing a clear, plain style, a grand style, or a moderate one.

Aristotle at the opening of the Rhetoric identified the craft as that which utilizes the best of the available means of persuasion. The author of this speech would not seem to have availed himself of the potential means.

It is easier to say whether or not a speech is a good piece of literature than it is to say whether it accomplished its aim. As a piece of literature I think it is clear this speech is competently written but unremarkable, certainly not "worthy of marble." It pales in all respects before the great Classical speeches. It is seen to be rather limited in expression. It clearly expects less of its audience, and offers less, than Washington's.

Before we conclude, though, Demosthenes and Cicero have another lesson to teach us. It concerns evaluating the success of a speech. Both men rather infamously failed in their ultimate political quests, Demosthenes to rally the Greeks to successful opposition against Philip of Macedon and Cicero to prevent the republic from slipping under totalitarian control. The two men were also executed by the political parties which eventually gained power. Thus while their speeches define the form we would be hard pressed to say they were successful. (They did, of course, deliver many successful speeches throughout their careers.)

Was President Obama's Inaugural Speech successful as a political speech? I'll leave that for others to argue. Personally, one might consider the following: What do you remember about it? What did it persuade you of? What did it cause you to do or not do?

Permit me my personal reflection. I read President Obama's inaugural speech, in its entirety, closely and several times in writing this essay. I cannot presently recall the opening paragraph. I can, however, recall with great clarity and accuracy the opening of Demosthenes' 2nd Olynthiac, which begins with a theme not so dissimilar from President Obama's, but which I have not looked at in several years. Demosthenes' speech begins (translated):

On many occasions, men of Athens, one may, I think, recognize the manifest favor of heaven towards our city, and not least at the present crisis.

You may wish to read the speech here at the Perseus Project, which has both the original Greek and an English translation. This opening is a marvel of compression and clarity. The Greek is pleasing to the ear but not distractingly beautiful or poetic. It is perfectly balanced in tone, neither pedestrian nor highfalutin. It moves clearly from the past to the future, not only moving from past fortune to present crisis but also subtly intertwining the ideas. It makes you want to hear the argument to come. That's the power of but one sentence of Demosthenes and that's the standard for being "worthy of marble."

–

[1] http://www.tnr.com/article/politics/striking-new-chord
[2] Olynthiac 1.2 at the Perseus Project

Shakespeare's Death of Priam

One of the pleasures of getting on in years is getting to revisit art. How different a work can seem after more living. How much more truthful, inspiring, and unique they can seem. Everyone has, I think, a variety of relationships with art. Some works become thoroughly internalized and part of one's mental furniture, others seem to grow right alongside you. Some we neglect, unfairly, and others we adore. Sometimes a piece we have read or heard many times suddenly strikes us for the first time with its full force. I had that experience the other day when revisiting Hamlet. Specifically I was surprised by the end of the second scene of Act II in which the prince first meets the players. [See eText]

Hamlet, Act II, Scene II

Hamlet greets the players and asks the first of them to play a little scene, "'tws Aenas' tale to Dido; and thereabout of it especially where he speaks of Priam's slaughter:" Hamlet, in trying to cite the line actually plays some of the scene himself.

We should first consider this scene's context within the play. The play-within-a-play feature is of course a famous device and the play Hamlet arranges to test Claudius is quite well-known. Here though is not just an inserted scene but one of radically different style. This difference though seems not to be of form since the scene is not strictly an aside, a dramatic monologue, or an instance of ekphrasis though it shares features of those forms. The difference is instead of style, particularly diction, tone, rhetoric, and syntax. Rather than treating each feature in turn let us look at this act straight through.

Hamlet begins by describing Pyrhhus, the son of Achilles also called Neoptolemus, first as rugged but then as "Hyrcanian." This is interesting in two respects. First it is a dash of the exotic. To the Greeks and Romans Hyrcania, the region surrounding the southern tip of the Caspian Sea (mare Hyrcanum), was distant and exotic, lying at the heart of the Persian Empire. (see Catullus, II.5.) In Aeneid IV Vergil refers to the land's tigers: Caucasus Hyrcanaeque admorunt ubera tigres. This association seems to have fascinated Shakespeare too since he uses it not only here but in Macbeth (III.iv) and Henry VI, Part III (I.iv). It quickly evokes exoticism and savage beastliness. Now quite cleverly Hamlet pauses as if he has misquoted the line and begins again without "Hyrcanian." Shakespeare of course gets the effect of the word anyway but he also seems to be making another point. Now of course this use demonstrates that Hamlet has not only memorized this passage, but has confused it with another, apparently one of equal grandiosity. Alongside his rhetorical ability and wit which we see in his normal speech, it's a very subtle hint about Hamlet's education, mind, and personal world.

Now Pyrrhus is "sable," sable meaning dark but also connoting heraldry since sable is a heraldic color. Shakespeare avoids "dark as night" (which must have been cliché as long as "cold as ice") and instead uses "black as his purpose" but still works in the night, compensating for the cliché by 1) separating it from the object it describes, 2) reversing the order of the phrase, 3) metrically making sure you can quickly bounce through it, 4) and using it as a bridge to the following phrase, which too picks up on the darkness in the "couched in the ominous horse."

Shakespeare continues: his dark figure is even more dismal for what he has already done. He is "total gules" i.e. all red with the "blood of fathers, mothers, and daughters." (Specifically gules is the heraldic term for red.) Shakespeare uses a culinary vocabulary to describe the caked on blood, "bak'd, impasted, roasted." Calling Phyrrus "trick'd" refers not simply to him being adorned with blood but to the process of "tricking" (i.e. prefiguring/sketching/notating) a coat of arms on a surface. We ought read tricking as metonymy for the actual act of painting. This would continue the heraldic theme and link Pyrrhus with his father Achilles, (to whom Priam compares him later in Vergil's account.)

The light from the burning city is "tyrannous and damned" as is the death of Priam, i.e. Priam and his city are being dominated and destroyed. The phrase "Hellish Pyrrhus with his eyes like carbuncles," (i.e. reddish-brown gems) is so covered in blood he is "oversized" contrasts with the gentle "old grandsire Priam." The word order also mirrors the sense as "old gransire Priam" is surrounded by Pyrrhus' seeking: the hellish Pyrrhus old gransire Priam seeks.

Now Hamlet, realizing he has gotten carried away with himself, asks the First Player to continue. The groundling Polonius makes the ridiculous and passionless compliment that the prince spoke well and with "good discretion." The First Player takes over.

Old Priam is "striking too short" at the Greeks with his old sword which is "rebellious to his arms" and "repugnant to command." In contrast Pyrrhus is so enraged he swings wide and misses, but Priam falls from the "whiff and wind" and the ferocity of the swing. You can take "whiff and wind" as pleonastic or whiff literally meaning the stench coming off his sword. Shakespeare here personifies the Trojan citadel, "Ilium," which itself reacts to Pyrrhus' blow by collapsing (as in a last-ditch effort) to stop the intruder. While it only "takes prisoner Pyrrhus' ear" it catches him amidst his blow, his sword "declining on the milky head of reverend Priam" and he pauses. He stands there as if painted, "neutral to his will and matter," i.e. balanced (and thus still) between what he wants to do and what he can do. Shakespeare follows with classic (or clichéd) references to the calm before the storm and the silence of death. 

Yet even with those not-so-fresh images this scene of Pyrrhus' power paused in hurling Priam's deathblow amidst the flaming ruins of falling Troy achieves a dreadful grandeur. It is as if Shakespeare has drawn a relief for us of this clash from a long-lost epoch. The following analogy has a particularly classical ring:

And never did the Cyclops' hammers fall

On Mars' armor, forged for proof eterne,

With less remorse than Pyrrhus' bleeding sword 

Now falls on Priam.

The aside about the quality of Mars' armor, the personification (remorseless hammers) and transferred epithet (bleeding sword) and conclusion in the present tense make this passage especially vivid. Now he aspostrophizes to Fortune and the gods, pleading that they stop the deed. Break "all the spokes and fellies" refers to the notion of the rota fortunae, or wheel of fortune, and the changefulness of fate. Hamlet will again consider fortune in the very next act when he says, "To be or not to be–that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. . ." Shakespeare also uses the image in Henry V, Act 3 Scene VI (a cruel trick of fate and a turn of silly Fortune's wildly spinning wheel) and throughout Macbeth in the form of the doomed Thane's rise and fall. Shakespeare will continue the theme shortly in Hamlet.

At the height of the scene's poignancy Shakespeare now, in brilliant fashion, has Polonius interrupt complaining, "This is too long." Hamlet deftly rebukes him for his lack of taste and sensitivity, "He's for a jig, or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps." The player continues with "the mobled queen" and Polonius notes that he approves of the turn of phrase, still missing the point of the performance.

Shakespeare now paints despairing portrait of Priam's wife, Hecuba. Her head, once crowned, is now mobled (wrapped or muffled) with a clout (rag) and as she runs barefoot up and down she "threatens" the flames with "bisson rheum," or blinding teary-discharge. The archaism of the phrase suggests more of an uncontrollable outpouring than a weeping over some intellectualized matter. Shakespeare calls her "overteemed" and thus sets up a contrast between her and Priam, who are naturally at the ebb of their power and vitality, and Pyrrhus, who is unnaturally engorged ("o'ersized with gore") with strength. The sight, we are told, would cause anyone to cry treason at the cruelty of Fortune:

But if the Gods themselves did see her then,
When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport
In mincing with his sword her husbands limbs,
The instant burst of clamor that she made,
Unless things mortal move them not at all,
Would have made milche the burning eyes of heaven,
And passion in the gods."

This climax is perhaps the most simple, and moving, part of the speech, enlarged and made more grand only by the two asides, (When she saw. . . limbs, and unless things. . . not at all.) Anyone, the poet says, should be moved by such a pitiful sight. Except for Polonius, who instead of getting caught up in the speech disapproves of how emotional the player has become, and now we come to our point which Hamlet states shortly thereafter when everyone else leaves. "All for nothing! For Hecuba!" he says. This man has worked himself to tears with pity for a stranger from history and here Hamlet, whose father was murdered and mother stained and kingdom robbed, can say and do nothing. Hamlet in fury and frustration lets loose a torrent of insults against himself before the scene ends with his plot to "catch the conscience of the king."

–

We must ask now, why this particular scene? We could have had a slightly different speech with seemingly similar effect. For example, if Hamlet had found himself moved at the scene he could have asked, "Why can I be moved by this fiction and not by my own misfortune?" Hamlet speaks approvingly of this piece, that it is more handsome than subtle, modest, without affection, and of honest method. It is of course quite embellished and florid, driven more by imagery and description than deep probing into the psychology of the character, a contrast which seems perhaps untrue until the depths of Hamlet's introspection in the following speech sharpens the contrast.

Perhaps Shakespeare's point in imitating this style is the same as his choice of material,  its distance. Surely the style is moving in some respect, but it is so formal and elaborate it becomes removed and less intimate. Still, though, the player is moved. We know this style was still popular in the dramas of the Admiral's Men, the second most popular troupe (to Shakespeare's own) in London so it was not quite alien and it was certainly well-known through Marlowe's Dido's Lament and Vergil himself. Let us look at these works and then consider anew Shakespeare's point in re-writing the story as he does.

Marlowe's scene emphasizes the theme of fortune:

Achilles' son, remember what I was,
Father of fifty sons, but they are slain,
Lord of my fortune, but my fortunes turned,
King of this City, but my Troy is fired,
And now am neither father, Lord, nor King:
. . .
Jove's marble statue began to bend the brow
As loathing Pyrrhus for this wicked act.

Here Hecuba in a frantic and futile gesture throws herself between her husband and his attacker before she is quickly and easily tossed aside. Also, Priam here pleads with Pyrrhus.

Vergil's account is by far the most graphic, emphasizing the violence and cruelty of Pyrrhus. Priam's son Polites is rushing to his parents with Pyrrhus hot on his heels and is run through just as he gets there. The scene is frenetic and vivid in Vergil. From Book II:

saucius. Illum ardens infesto vulnere Pyrrhus
insequitur, iam iamque manu tenet et premit hasta. 530
Ut tandem ante oculos evasit et ora parentum
concidit ac multo vitam cum sanguine fudit.

Priam rises in outrage, castigating Pyrrhus that his father Achilles treated him better, for while he desecrated Hector's corpse in rage, he honored the suppliant's rights, returned the body, and let Priam return home. Priam then hurls a spear at Pyrrhus which he easily dodges before his cruel reply:

Cui Pyrrhus: 'Referes ergo haec et nuntius ibis
Pelidae genitori. Illi mea tristia facta
degeneremque Neoptolemum narrare memento.
Nunc morere.' 550

Shakespeare's seems now a sort of pasticcio, but one in which he shifts the focus away to Hecuba, famous for her suffering. In fact Shakespeare mentions her in in Cymbeline, Act II, Scene II:

Pisanio, All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks,
And mine to boot, be darted on thee!

and in The Rape of Lucretia. . .

To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come,
To find a face where all distress is stell'd.
Many she sees where cares have carved some,
But none where all distress and dolour dwell'd,
Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,
Staring on Priam's wounds with her old eyes,
Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot lies.

Yet one still wonders why Shakespeare shifted the focus to Hecuba. He does not at all draw on the part in Vergil's telling in which the old king, impotent as he was, rose in anger to throw that spear at Pyrrhus. That scene surely has a parallelism to Hamlet's situation. Yet that would not have worked as well since Priam was a great king of old. Instead, here this humble player has enough command of himself to grow pale and tearful and choked up over nothing, over Hecuba. Hamlet has not failed to live up to the example of Priam, which would be understandable, but up to the player, which makes him still more distraught: Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!

Additionally, Shakespeare instead of making the speech about Priam as Marlowe does, uses his fall to build to the higher climax of his wife's despair. The outburst of the address to Fortune and the gods accomplishes this amplification, as in fact do Polonius' foolish interruptions.

This little speech, which seems often to get cut in abridged productions, is a most clever and carefully constructed piece, its style and substance both constructed to fit the needs of the larger drama in which it sits. It is dense with description, imagery, and classical figurative devices and while it begins with two traditional themes (arms, and specifically heraldry, and men) its focus takes an unexpected turn. Finally the end to which Shakespeare puts the speech is simply inspired.

Meditating with Marcus Aurelius

This brief post has in fact several origins. Such is because its brevity had until now dissuaded me from posting it until I could write at greater length and significance. Yet now I am prodded into posting. Again, the origins are as follows:

1) I want to note that Frank McLynn's biography of Marcus Aurelius from 2009 is excellent and well worth reading. I'm not too keen on reviewing biographies, not quite knowing what to say. Aside from whether or not it held your interest and informed you, I suppose you "review" the ideas, in which case you could review those ideas by themselves. Anyway, it is well worth reading.

2) Likewise for the Hicks' translation of the writings of Marcus Aurelius, the "exhortations to myself." Their translation is currently published by Scribner under the title, "The Emperor's Handbook." It is far and away the best translation I have read. Oddly, though, the thin volume is a hardcover and while the cover is of a high quality the pages are of a very poor quality: dry and slightly yellowed after only a few years.

3) Philosophy can be a very ascetic discipline, sometimes, even often, too ascetic. Likewise even moral philosophy, which considers others and their rights, always seems to reduce to what it is best that I do

4) As regular readers know we pay manners a good deal of attention here. We like to maintain a gentlemanly disposition and keep up at APLV a congenial yet vigorous atmosphere. One might say most briefly that we refrain from being needlessly intemperate. This requires some kind of understanding of one's self in relation to his surroundings. Now as you might guess I'm inclined to make a philosophical problem out of that situation: i.e. people need philosophy and there really ought to be an argument as to why manners are necessary. Yet many manners are simply traditional. Too I don't think many people really want to quibble about the philosophical roots and dimensions of manners.  I think Fred Astaire was right too when he said, "The hardest job kids face today is learning good manners without seeing any."

So lack of manners can be part lack of understanding and part lack of emulation. (Let's not split any more hairs about that, shall we?) Some people are, of course, rude. Yet something rather perturbed me just before. In the comments section on what I had considered a particularly civilized corner of the internet an author, scholar, and bright fellow reacted to a rather innocuous comment by saying, as if to someone else, "This nobody. . ." Aside from having seen arguments to better advantage, and what is that comment other than an attempt to discredit, what a nasty thing to say. It is even nastier upon further consideration. Now nasty things get said all the time and I wouldn't waste your time calling on everyone to be nice. I'm sure you could find something quite intemperate on cable news after only a few seconds.

My point is that he is a well-thought of and, I'm sure, normal person. Yet he just publicly referred to someone else as, essentially, being an insignificant non-entity, and when I read that I thought, "I don't want to be like him." That's what reminded me of Marcus Aurelius, since Book I of the sayings collected and usually published as his "Meditations" begins with a series of reflections on people in his life. He writes on about sixteen or so people, "From him I learned X."

Alexander the Platonist cautioned me against saying or writing in a letter, either too often or without absolutely needing to, "I'm too busy," as well as against using the demands of work as a constant excuse for ducking my social obligations and family duties.

Catulus taught me not to ignore a friend who is cross with me, even if I have done nothing to deserve his bad temper, but to seek to regain his affection.

My father enjoyed, without pretension or self-indulgence, the luxuries that his fortune lavished upon him; but when these were not available, he never seemed to miss them. . . He respected sound learning and those who seek the truth, and he remained on good terms with the rest, but from a distance.

From my father I learned "a cheerful and friendly disposition, within reason" and "a true regard for those who have mastered a particular skill or subject."

There is a great deal to discuss when considering these writings, but here I just want to note that this seems to me to be a fruitful exercise. The reflection is practical and personal, centered on people we know. It helps one see oneself in relation to others and to learn from and appreciate them. Also and considering our discussion of manners above, it helps one learn from the mistakes of others. Have we all not, at some point, met someone not so dissimilar from ourselves and not really enjoyed his company? On the other hand is there not someone we seek to emulate in some way? Surely most people we know are worthy of emulating in some way. This reflection seems also to emphasize considering character, our own and others', and not just isolated deeds. Do we like our character, do we work at improving it or is it a passive process of ossification by which it changes? What about the people we know? Do we want to be like them? Do we like them but still not want to be like them?

It seems to me this type of reflection might make for a third of a program of reflection. One like this which focuses on reflecting on others, one which focuses on one's personal character (perhaps something like Benjamin Franklin's "Thirteen Virtues" books) and something focusing on spirituality, like the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius.

That probably sounds like a lot of reflection to some people, but consider the alternative.