Areopagus Volume LVIII

Welcome one and all to the fifty eighth volume of the Areopagus — and, this week, an express edition. For I have set myself the challenge of using no more than two hundred words (not including quotes) in each section! What was it Robert Browning said about a man's reach exceeding his grasp?

Well, if we are to begin as we mean to carry on, then it is to the ultimate form of brief poetry — the Japanese haiku — and its unmatched master — the 17th century travelling poet Matsuo Bashō — that we must turn for inspiration and guidance:

a dragonfly / vainly trying to settle / onto a blade of grass

Summer in eleven words! So often it is with less, by the evocative power of implication, that we say most. All that remains to say, then, is onwards...

I - Classical Music

Violin Sonata in G Minor

Giuseppe Tartini

Performed by Tatiana Daubek (violin), Gonzalo X. Ruiz (baroque guitar), Leon Schelhase (harpsichord), and Sarah Stone (cello)
The Fallen Angel by Alexandre Cabanel (1847)

I will let the composer of this piece — the prolific and supremely talented Venetian violinist Giuseppe Tartini (1692-1770) — explain its genesis himself:

One night, in the year 1713, I dreamed I had made a pact with the devil for my soul. Everything went as I wished: my new servant anticipated my every desire. Among other things, I gave him my violin to see if he could play. How great was my astonishment on hearing a sonata so wonderful and so beautiful, played with such great art and intelligence, as I had never even conceived in my boldest flights of fantasy. I felt enraptured, transported, enchanted: my breath failed me, and I awoke. I immediately grasped my violin in order to retain, in part at least, the impression of my dream. In vain! The music which I at this time composed is indeed the best that I ever wrote, and I still call it the "Devil's Trill", but the difference between it and that which so moved me is so great that I would have destroyed my instrument and have said farewell to music forever if it had been possible for me to live without the enjoyment it affords me.

A rather frightening but altogether poetic story; and a fair summary of what artistic inspiration can feel like! And hence why the Violin Sonata in G Minor is usually known as the Devil's Trill. It is notoriously difficult and enduringly popular, balancing as it does the drama of the Baroque Era and the refined simplicity of the Classical Era. The Devil's Trill was originally written in three movements for violin accompanied by a basso continuo — the technical term for a continuous bassline — which in Tartini's day would have been provided by a harpischord and, usually, a bass instrument such as a cello. Such was the standard sonata form in the 18th century, but modern performances often use alternative arrangements.

II - Historical Figure

Ibn Battuta

"I never took the same road twice..."

You've probably heard of Marco Polo, the famous Venetian traveller who once met Kublai Khan, and I've written about the Chinese Admiral Zheng He before, another of history's great adventurers. But which pre-modern person travelled further than any other? Ibn Battuta.

He was born to a family of judges in 1304 in Tangier, Morocco, and died there in 1377. He left home in 1325, at the age of 21, ostensibly to complete his pilgrimage to Mecca — the Hajj — and study under renowned legal scholars in Egypt on the way back. But this journey whetted his appetite for travel and so he vowed to see the world without ever "travelling any road a second time" — this he did. Ibn Battuta journeyed more than seventy thousand miles all told, mostly on foot, and became incredibly famous in the process — sultans, kings, emperors, chieftains, and dukes all received him like a dignitary. After all, he was uniquely possessed of potentially useful information about the world, whether political or commercial or cultural. But it wasn't always easy; Ibn Battuta had plenty of run-ins with pirates, unfriendly kings, and natural disaster. Stretches of his travels were completed with nothing but the shirt on his back.

Ibn Battuta visited forty countries on three different continents: through Persia to Shiraz and Isfahan, to Baghdad, Yemen, and Constantinople, through Central Asia, including Samarqand, to Delhi, to China, the Maldives, Sri Lanka, and all the way back, as far south as Kenya and all the way to great Islamic kingdoms of Western Africa.

When Ibn Battuta returned to Morocco after three decades he wrote an account of his travels — or, rather, dictated them to a scribe and scholar called Ibn Juzayy, who inserted some passages of his own. The result was a marvellously titled book called A Masterpiece to Those Who Contemplate the Wonders of Cities and the Marvels of Travelling — or the Rihla for short, which is the Arabic word for travelogue. From describing the food in India:

Minced meat cooked with almond, walnut, pistachios, onion and spices placed inside a thin bread and fried in ghee.

To tales of the fabulous and frightening:

We too saw the ruins of a house with a chamber of hewn stones, in the midst of which there was a platform of hewn stones resembling a single block, surmounted by a human figure, except that its head was elongated and its mouth on the side of its face and its hands behind its back like a pinioned captive. The place had pools of stinking water and an inscription on one of its walls in Indian characters. ‘Ala al-Mulk told me that the historians relate that in this place there was a great city whose inhabitants were so depraved that they were turned to stone, and that it is their king who is on the terrace in the house, which is still called ‘the king’s palace.’ They add that the inscription gives the date of the destruction of the people of that city, which occurred about a thousand years ago.

This summary could never hope to convey the fullness of Ibn Battuta's travels, nor the treasury of knowledge and adventure that is his Rihla. But, I hope, you get some sense of a man who was surely among history's greatest explorers.

III - Statue

The Quirinal Boxer

This statue has several names: Boxer at Rest, Seated Boxer, or Defeated Boxer among them. It was discovered on the Quirinal Hill in Rome in the 19th century and is, even regardless of its appearance, remarkable simply by virtue of being a fully intact bronze statue. We tend to think of all ancient sculptures as having been made from marble, but that is only because they have survived in greater quantity than their equally common bronze equivalents, most of which have long since been melted down to make other statues or, more likely, weapons.

When was it made? Scholars have dated it to some point between the 4th and 1st centuries BC. This is because the Quirinal Boxer shows all the defining qualities of Hellenistic Art. This was a style of art which arose during the 4th century BC, especially after Alexander the Great's conquests and the subsequent spread of Greek culture all around the then-known world. Rather than the idealised, more austere statuary of Ancient Athens — which is usually referred to as the Classical Greek or Severe Style — Hellenistic sculptures were far more realistic: notice the boxer's broken nose, cauliflower ears, scarred face, bruised eyes, and hand-wraps. This is a technical masterpiece of gripping, wholly unidealised, almost brutal realism.

Hellenistic art also tended to be more dramatic, emotional, and psychologically intense. Think of Laocoon and his Sons, another statue I've written about in the Areopagus. Here, with the boxer's turned head and striking expression — of exhaustion? disappointment? disbelief? rousing himself before another fight? — and hunched back, his huge and tired arms resting wearily on his knees, we have a profoundly insightful and immensely evocative work of art; the Quirinal Boxer is Hellenistic sculpture at its finest.

IV - Architecture

Misericords

Medieval Compassion; Gothic Delight

What is the most interesting part of a church? An unanswerable question. But there is one common and relatively underappreciated element of church architecture to which, if ever you do visit a church, I urge you to direct your attention.

Medieval liturgy required people to stand in prayer for extended periods of time. For the old and infirm this was difficult, and so to give them some respite carpenters installed seats which could be folded upwards to create a ledge on which they might lean for support while standing. Hence the name: misericordia means something like pity or clemency, and so these ledges were called misericords, or "mercy seats".

But, typical of the Medieval mind, these folding seats also offered an opportunity for artistry. And so carpenters and sculptors decorated these ledges — which, we must remember, were hidden from view most of the time — apparently as they liked, indulging their darkest imaginings, their ribald humour, their piety, or their simple love of pattern. What misericords represent is not "refined" sculpture, as such; rather, they are perhaps the most delightful, frightening, amusing, intensely personal, and revealing woodwork of the Middle Ages. As with gargoyles, these craftsmen were free to follow their own creative inclinations — a major difference between Gothic and Classical or Neoclassical architecture, where workers have to follow a strict, top-down decorative design scheme. In the Middle Ages, meanwhile, there was nothing — no surface, no architectural element — which could not be decorated and enlivened, even something so humble as the underside of a seat. In misericords we find scenes from the Bible, fantastical creatures, dirty jokes, ruthless caricatures, comical characters, grapevines, flowers, and more; an endless array of joyous artistic variation.

Misericords are delightful on their own terms: a feast of imaginative spectacle carved for you by some nameless carpenter centuries ago. They also, as their name indicates, reveal a certain compassion we do not usually award to the Middle Ages. And, above all, they tell us everything we need to know about the Medieval worldview and the nature of Gothic art and architecture more generally.

V - Rhetoric

Bathos

Even if you have not heard the word bathos you know exactly what it is. Though bathos as a term was first coined by the poet Alexander Pope in the 18th century, it refers to the old rhetorical device generally known as anticlimax. You build toward some lofty conclusion, using sophisticated language and powerful imagery to prepare your audience for a profound, serious, and impactful climax — only to suddenly fall into vulgar and lowly language, or make some undignified remark which is ridiculous by comparison with what precedes it. Though this is usually done for comic effect, none too many writers and speakers have also used anticlimax unintentionally — and much to their humiliation.

Read this passage from John Dryden for an idea of what bathos or anticlimax looks like, and why it is so funny:

The cave of Proteus rises out of the sea, it consists of several arches of rock work, adorned with mother of pearl, coral, and abundance of shells of various kinds. Through the arches is seen the sea, and parts of Dover Pier.

To build up the image of a classical grotto, a scene from ancient mythology, and then land on an ordinary scene from modern life — Dover Pier, in Dryden's case — is ridiculous, and therefore rather amusing.

This device is sometimes called catacosmesis, in which the order of a set of words or ideas is arranged in terms of decreasing importance or dignity, usually slowly but sometimes abruptly. And anticlimax, or catacosmesis, or bathos, has seen a remarkable resurgence in the last two decades — especially in blockbuster cinema. If you have ever watched a superhero film made by Marvel — think of Iron Man, Spiderman, or The Avengers — then you will be very familiar with bathos. Consider this scene from Dr Strange, in which the eponymous hero has been reunited with his magical cloak and is ready, finally, to confront the villain:

Whereas we would usually expect this moment — indicated also by the music, which swells in magnitude and heroic intensity — to conclude with a moment of triumphal conviction, we are instead treated to the annoying antics of Dr Strange's magical cloak. Very funny. And the sort of joke with which film-fans are perhaps all too familiar. Indeed, I suspect you can also see the danger of bathos — that, when overused, it results in a speaker, writer, or film which can never manage to take itself seriously, because every potentially profound or meaningful moment is immediately sacrificed for the sake of a quick joke. Bathos can be incredibly funny — but use it, like all rhetorical devices, with caution.

VI - Writing

Epitaphs

What would you have written on your grave? Forgive me for asking what might seem like a morbid question, but in the words inscribed on tombstones — which are inevitably brief — we find some of the wittiest and wisest things ever written. After all, an epitaph (the name for such an inscription) is in some sense the last thing we ever say — and, equally, the thing we go on saying for time immemorial. It might be a summary of ourselves, a parting word of advice, an obscure message, a warning, or even a joke. In which case I thought it might be worth reviewing some of history's greatest (and most notorious) epitaphs, to see just how much one can say with nothing more a handful of words.

On the gravestone of the novelist Joseph Conrad are written a few lines from Edmund Spenser's 16th century epic poem The Faerie Queen:

Sleep after toyle, port after stormie seas,
Ease after warre, death after life, does greatly please.

And, on that of Edmund Spenser himself:

Here lyes,
expecting the second Comminge of our Saviour Christ Jesus,
the body of Edmond Spenser, the Prince of Poets in his time;
whose divine spirit needs no other witness
than the works he left behind him.

Those famous words of warning on William Shakespeare's tomb:

Good friend, for Jesus's sake forbear
To dig the dust enclosed here.
Blessed be the man that spares these stones,
And cursed be he that moves my bones.

And, to give us pause for reflection, on that of the writer Aphra Behn:

Here lies a Proof that Wit can never be
Defence enough against Mortality.

On that of F. Scott Fitzgerald a line from his own novel, The Great Gatsby:

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

On Dorothy Parker's memorial plaque:

Excuse my dust.

And, true to form, on the grave of the Irish comedian Spike Milligan:

I told you I was ill!

Perhaps boldly, if not laconically, on the grave of Christopher Wren, who was buried in the great church he had designed, St Paul's Cathedral:

If you require a monument, look around.

Or, to humble all who read it, the reputed epitaph on the long-lost tomb of Alexander the Great:

A tomb now suffices him for whom the world was not enough

By admiring friends, on the tombstone of Erasmus:

Bonifacius Amerbach as heir and Hieronymus Froben and Nicolaus Bischoff as executors of his last will have set this stone for Desiderius Erasmus of Rotterdam, a man distinguished in every respect, our excellent patron, whose incomparable erudition in every scholarly discipline — coupled with great intelligence — posterity will admire and praise. They did not do it for the sake of his memory, which he himself has rendered immortal by publishing his writings whereby he, as long as the world exists, will continue to live and to talk to all scholars in the whole world, but they did it to give his mortal body a resting place.

And to uplift our spirits, on Frank Sinatra's grave:

The best is yet to come.

VII - The Seventh Plinth

The Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon

Has it ever happened that you hear about something new, of which you hadn't previously heard or paid much attention — perhaps a certain individual, a particular country, or even an unusual word — and, suddenly, you start noticing it everywhere.

This is known as the "Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon" and is best described as the tendency to notice something more often after noticing it for the first time, which usually leads us to incorrectly conclude that this particular thing is more common than it actually is. In this way it is a cognitive bias — a shortcut or trick used by our brain to process the huge amount of information in the world. Cognitive biases can be useful but they are often misleading and we ought to watch out for them, lest they lead us astray and toward poor decision-making.

The unusual name of the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon, sometimes called the frequency illusion, stems from a letter written in 1994 by one Terry Mullen to a local newspaper in Minnesota, whence it spread around the world:

Many years ago, I identified a phenomenon so startling and so broad in its application that it encompasses the current wonder surrounding the number 23, as well as many other forms of eerie coincidence.

I have dubbed it The Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon – named after the notorious West German gang of terrorists. The phenomenon goes like this: The first time you learn a new word, phrase or idea, you will see that word, phrase or idea again in print within 24 hours. (This does not apply to topical things – just obscure words, etc.)

As you might guess, the phenomenon is named after an incident in which I was talking to a friend about the Baader-Meinhof gang (and this was many years after they were in the news). The next day, my friend phoned me and referred me to an article in that day’s newspaper in which the Baader-Meinhof gang was mentioned.

And the funny thing is that you'll almost certainly end up reading or hearing about the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon in the next few days...

Question of the Week

Last week's question to test your critical thinking was:

What is your favourite book — and why?

Here, then, is a readers' reading list:

Airton D

Dostoevsky is well-known for his deep dive into characters' psychology. "Notes from the Underground" may not be as well-known as other novels written by this great writer, but it is the best example of how he could penetrate the most obscure layers of the human mind. A Brazilian writer, Clarice Lispector, however, was able to associate a thorough comprehension of the human mind with a fascination for exploring the limits of language and expressing what cannot be said. Perhaps the book where these aspects are most clearly present is "The Passion According to H. G.".

Adam C

I’m an avid reader, making this a difficult question. I do think my favorite book changes from time to time, and my answer could change depending on my mood on any given day. But one that comes to mind, in my personal quest for the “Great American Novel” is Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy. Its poetic prose effortlessly weaves beauty and horror. The novel's lyrical language paints vivid images of the American frontier, contrasting the natural grandeur of the landscape with the brutal violence of human nature. McCarthy's ability to juxtapose these elements creates a profound, unsettling effect that leaves a lasting impression on the reader. His deliberate choice of words and intricate sentence structure elevates the storytelling to a near-mythical level, imbuing the narrative with a timeless quality. This amalgamation of the poetic and the terrifying renders Blood Meridian a masterpiece in literary fiction, in my humble opinion. It’s a must read.

Rupert S

It’s The Napoleon of Notting Hill, by GK Chesterton. Why?

Firstly, it’s by Chesterton. He’s an author whose love of paradox made him hugely attractive when I was young, and thought myself terribly clever for discovering him. As I age, I find greater and greater depths in Chesterton’s astonishingly prolific works, and see the same aspect of paradox that Nils Bohr expressed as “the opposite of a profound truth may well be another profound truth”.

Secondly, it’s very funny. One of the most delightful first lines in literature (“The human race, to which so many of my readers belong…”); the lovely conceit of being set in a future 100 years ahead where the only change is that a new King is chosen at random; the musings of the eccentric monarch, reviving the age of chivalry, on his anticipation of parts of London living up to their evocative names (North Kensington he imagines as some sort of semi-Arctic neighbourhood)…

It’s also full of the usual paradoxical observations, some of which feel rather prescient today (“In the beginning of the twentieth century you could not see the ground for clever men. They were so common that a stupid man was quite exceptional, and when they found him, they followed him in crowds down the street and treasured him up and gave him some high post in the State.”).

But most of all, it is full of passages of a terrible beauty, as romanticism meets progress, that stir the blood amidst farce. The description of the pragmatic businessman, Buck, finding himself drawn into a pitched battle of swords and pikes, and sacrificing himself for his arbitrary London borough is devastating. The whole book is a glorious monument to the power of taking a joke seriously.

Kay J

I just finished reading Perfume by Patrick Suskind and I would definitely recommend it to anyone who wants to read something dark and twisted. It has a similar theme to Shelley’s Frankenstein (another book I highly recommend) and also reminds me of American Psycho, especially towards the end where Grenouille (the main character) becomes more and more determined to perfect the 'human scent.'However, what I love most about the book is its ability to describe many of the protagonists experiences through smell. Born with the gift of an extraordinary smell, the main character learns how to exploit this gift and use it for his personal pleasure, but Suskind’s narrative style really makes the reading experience worthwhile. I don’t want to spoil anything, but I just finished reading this last week and can't stop thinking about it, and I’m sure that even after a couple of months I will remember it so vividly because of how absorbing it is!

Javi M

I would choose "American Gods" by Neil Gaiman. Despite my lack of faith in god (or gods), I have always been fascinated by theology and mythology. It's interesting to see how society has always believed in all sorts of deities and the lengths that they go to keep them happy. This book mixes fantasy with aspects of modern and ancient mythology, while adding the main character's own tragic woes. Overall, it's an interesting book and as a historian, a refreshing read from the normal type of books I indulge in. I have not seen the show adaptation, but perhaps I'll watch it soon.

Laura W

In terms of fiction, I studied the Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood at A-level, it was this book that taught me the multilayered meaning of a story and the power of fiction in conveying truths to the reader. It sparked a deep appreciation of literature which I have carried throughout my adult life. I recently re-learnt this lesson with Impressions of Theophrastus Such by George Eliot. Both books offer a first person narrative and both reveal the protagonist is dead by the time the reader turns the first page. Among their many themes, both works offer a lesson in how we construct others and, in turn, ourselves.

In terms of non-fiction, Sapiens by Yuval Noah Harari offered a rich introduction to the history of the human race - perhaps the biggest takeaway is that the most important things never change. We are nowhere near as advanced as we wish to believe we are. Likewise, Bruce Lipton's Biology of Belief taught me that everything is a version of something else. On a more personal level, The Comfort Crisis by Michael Easter is a fantastic read and, for me, led to a number of changes in my everyday life.

These may appear to be disparate offerings, yet for me they tie together in seeking to answer the evergreen problems of the human race - how & why do we exist and how should we live?

Deborah G

The book that immediately came to mind was "A Natural History of the Senses" by Diane Ackerman. After reading just a few pages of a borrowed copy, I realized I needed to own it. Since then, I've purchased four additional copies because I find myself constantly giving it away. This beautifully written book both invigorates and soothes, and its impact on me remains strong even after four decades.

Speaking of a forty-year span, that’s how long I've been following a long-standing mystery series set in London, penned by a Texan author with an impeccable grasp of all things British. Deborah Crombie's novels are intelligent, thoughtful, and engrossing. Her ensemble of characters, led by Duncan Kincaid and Gemma James, placed in vividly described settings, keeps me returning to the world she has crafted. The fact that the narratives lack intricate nuance or intellectual depth doesn't diminish my affection for them; Crombie has managed to create something truly beloved.

If I were to gauge my 'favorite' based on how many times I've gifted a book, then William Steig's children's stories, such as "Sylvester and the Magic Pebble," "Doctor De Soto," "The Amazing Bone," and "Amos and Boris," would take the spotlight. Oddly, "Sylvester" and "Amazing Bone" essentially share the same storyline, yet both are enchanting. Geared towards readers of all ages, these books have an enduring quality that continues to captivate me.

Picking out one favorite anything is challenging, but it’s been fun to think about what has most appealed to me over the years.

Katherine V

The “Master and Commander” series by Patrick O’Brian. I often think that if the Captain and the Doctor invited me on a voyage, I would leave my comfortable 21st century life and disappear into theirs. Then, I remember, a Royal Navy frigate is no place for a woman.

And for this week's question to test your imaginative thinking:

If you could go back in time to one specific day, which would it be?

Writing online has changed my life; perhaps it can change yours. What follows is a brief message from Write of Passage – for the past year they have been sponsoring me as a Writer-in-Residence so I can focus on my work and share it with as many people as possible.
_________

You’ve spent years honing a unique perspective, whether you realize it or not. Your experience is valuable. Ideas that feel obvious to you would amaze others if you started writing online. Maybe you have…

Years of hard-won wisdom at work, but it’s trapped in your head.
The perfect idea for a product, but no audience to listen.
Creative potential swirling inside you, but no outlet.

Write of Passage helps you get your best ideas out of your head and into the world. You’ll publish your writing and start building an audience with the support and encouragement of hundreds of curious, driven students.

Join our community here.

And that's all

If we are to conclude as we set out, it is surely Sappho to whom we ought to award the epilogue to this week's Areopagus. She was an ancient Greek lyric poet who lived in the 6th century BC, so renowned for her verse that she was deemed the "Tenth Muse". But of her work only fragments have survived; tantalising, shattered threads of glittering, sensuous, electrifying prosody:

Of all the stars, the loveliest…

How do you suppose this poem went on? And, perhaps Sappho's most startling fragment:

someone will remember us
I say
even in another time

From a string of broken words a long-lost world entire unfurls in our imagination, and the mind and heart of somebody who lived so long ago suddenly, briefly, lives once more as we speak what she wrote and felt, as we think and feel and wonder it ourselves. Shall someone, someday, remember us in another time?

Yours,

The Cultural Tutor