Areopagus Volume LXIV

Welcome one and all to the sixty fourth volume of the Areopagus. No poetry and no announcements to lead us in this week; let the Areopagus commence cleanly and smoothly! Seven short lessons... and off we go.

I - Classical Music

Nine Tunes for Archbishop Parker's Psalter

Thomas Tallis (1567)

Performed by the Tallis Scholars
​Canterbury Cathedral by Childe Hassam (1889)

Thomas Tallis (1505-1585), the leading composer during the reign of the Tudors, was responsible for introducing the burgeoning music of Renaissance Europe to Britain. His influence is immense and therefore hard to quantify. Suffice to say that alongside his star pupil William Byrd, who would go on to exceed him in eminence, Tallis can be considered one of the definitive musicians of post-Reformation England.

Now, these nine short tunes you hear are all musical settings of verses from the Book of Psalms. But, you may have noticed, the words are in English! Throughout the Middle Ages the Bible was printed and read exclusively in Latin, the language of clergy and of scholars. There had been many reformers who thought it should be translated into the language of ordinary people (i.e. the vernacular languages, whether English, French, Dutch, or German etc.), but it wasn't until the invention of the printing press and the subsequent Protestant Reformation that such translations were officially allowed.

Against this rather exciting backdrop there emerged a trend of translating the Psalms into English and then versiyfing them — i.e. turning them into poetry — after which they would be set to music and sung in church. These collections were known as "metrical psalters" — psalter being the name for any standalone edition of the Book of Psalms, and metrical referring to their use of poetic metre. Tallis wrote these nine tunes for Matthew Parker, Archbishop of Canterbury, who translated the psalms himself and then commissioned a metrical psalter for them. The first eight of Tallis' tunes are for psalms 1, 68, 2, 95, 42, 5, 52, and 67 respectively. The final tune, however, is a musical setting of the Veni Creator Spiritus, a popular ninth century hymn.

Two notes by way of conclusion. First: the eagle-eared among you may have noticed something familiar about the third of Tallis' nine tunes. This is because it was the basis for Ralph Vaughan William's majestic Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis, written in 1910. Second: at the beginning of his psalter Archbishop Parker wrote a rather charming preface entitled "To the Reader" with instructions for how to use the music and verses within. It begins with the startlingly honest admission that he may have made mistakes, and invites the reader to correct him:

Followed by a moving invocation to tune our instruments and prepare our voices so that our hearts may sing in kind:

II - Historical Figure

Lucretius

Atomic Poet

There is very little I can tell you about the life of Titus Lucretius Caro — there is very little anybody can tell you about him. All we know for certain is that he lived in Rome during the 1st century BC, that he was devoted to the ideas of an Ancient Greek philosopher called Epicurus, and that his artistic patron was called Gaius Memmius.

Now, Lucretius was a committed Epicurean and he wanted to spread the word. So he wrote what must go down as one of the strangest epic poems of all time: De Rerum Natura, usually translated as On the Nature of Things. This is not a story of heroes and villains or of gods and wars; it is an extended analysis of our universe and how it works according to the philosophy of Epicurus.

Epicureanism has a bad reputation; the word epicurean in English is synonymous with hedonism. This is largely because of writers like Cicero, who preferred Stoicism and dismissed the philosophy of Epicurus as pleasure-seeking, self-indulgent, godless nonsense. That seems a little unfair, for as Lucretius explains, Epicureanism is about recognising the material nature of the world and reconciling ourselves to our animal nature; all we need to survive is basic sustenance and all we need to be happy is freedom from suffering. This state of psychological peace was called ataraxia, and Lucretius explains that luxury and carnal indulgence will not help us find it. They are physical pleasures, and therefore brief and fragile, whereas true mental pleasure is long-lasting and invulnerable; he describes it as a citadel.

Dante, in keeping with the standard Christian view of his time, condemned Epicureans to the sixth circle of hell in his Divine Comedy. Why? Because they believed the soul was interminably linked to the material body and therefore died with it. No resurrection and no afterlife.

That flies in the face of just about every religion; you can see why Epicureans were treated with caution. But, Lucretius concludes, this means we shouldn't be afraid of death — there won't be any eternal suffering in the underworld. Lucretius says, rather:

Lucretius was convinced that the gods had nothing to do with the material world; here we find one of the earliest examples of serious atheism. He even dismisses religion as harmful superstition:

That being said, Lucretius understood why people started believing in the gods:

But, he says — and this is crucial to Epicureanism — we ought to study the world rationally:

Lucretius is aware that his philosophy is controversial, and that it will be shocking to most people. But, and this is among the most striking things about De Rerum Natura, he seems to take great pleasure in writing about it, and sincerely hopes to convince us of something beautiful and exciting. There is an unusual joy to his poetry:

His basic argument is that nothing can come from nothing — when animals die they do not simply "disappear", otherwise the universe would run out of materials.

And now we reach the most striking Epicurean belief: that everything in the universe is made up of particles called atoms. That's right — long before they were ever "discovered", these ancient philosophers realised that such a theory was the only logical explanation for the nature of the universe. Lucretius explains how everything is made up of these tiny, indivisible, unobservable atoms which take different forms and can join together to create different elements:

When one creature dies and another is born, when the mountains are eroded and the rivers dry up, this is part of a grand cycle in some fixed, logical cosmic order. And so, like Epicurus, he was a strict materialist who believed in cause-and-effect. He wasn't always correct about how natural phenomena occurred, but we can admire his efforts to find what we would call a scientific explanation for them rather than merely attributing lightning to the wrath of the gods:

He even speculates about aliens!

And seems to create a sort of proto-theory about evolution:

All of this leads him to the radical conclusion — normal to us, but revolutionary then — that nothing in the universe can maintain its form forever. Just like a flaming torch, Lucretius says the sun and stars are burning up their fuel and must eventually fade:

Lucretius had a wonderful eye for detail, and this is part of what makes On the Nature of Things such a compelling and enjoyable poem. He always uses examples from daily life — many of which are still familiar to us — to make his points about the existence of atoms:

The influence of Lucretius' peculiar poem was immense: there would have been neither a Virgil nor Horace without him. But, that being said, On the Nature of Things was very nearly lost to time. It was only when the great Renaissance manuscript-hunter Poggio Bracciolini rediscovered the sole surviving copy in a German monastery that it re-entered European culture. Some have argued that the materialist, highly scientific mindset for which De Rerum Natura proselytised was an important influence on the Scientific Revolution and Enlightenment. Perhaps. Suffice to say that the likes of Niccolò Machiavelli, Molière, Francis Bacon, Michel de Montaigne, Edmund Spenser, Ben Jonson, and Thomas Jefferson were all familiar with Lucretius' great work.

Was Lucretius right? Well, as far as modern science goes, his theories can be considered a fair estimate of what microscopes and telescopes have since discovered — and the mindset he defended a central tenet of the scientific method. Whether or not the Epicurean principles he drew from these theories and presented in De Rerum Natura are a viable mode of living is not for me to say. What I can say, however, is that Epicureanism has been unfairly maligned by centuries of derision. Stoicism might be the world's most popular ancient philosophy right now but, if you're curious, Epicureanism might also be worth exploring.

What I want to emphasise above all, however, is that Lucretius' delightful poem flows from his close and careful observation of the things happening around him. He reminds us, more than anything, to truly look at the world:

We end with an excerpt from Lord Tennyson's 1869 poem about Lucretius. It captures rather well, I think, how it must have felt for Lucretius to suddenly perceive that the universe truly was made of atoms:

All quotes are taken from A.E. Stalling's 2007 translation of De Rerum Natura

III - Painting

Crucifixion

Gerardo Dottori (1926)

Where do you suppose this painting is held? You may be surprised to learn that it is in the Vatican City, only a few minutes' walk from the Sistine Chapel. We have a tendency to associate modern art (by which I mean everything from the Impressionists onwards) with anti-traditionalism. Were not Picasso and Dalí and their ilk all taboo-busting, morally outrageous, anti-establishment rebels? Perhaps, but plenty of these modern artists were also devout Christians, and the Catholic Church has been more willing than we might expect to embrace their modernist take on religious art.

Gerardo Dottori himself was a Futurist. Futurism was an Italian artistic movement of the early 20th century which sat somewhere between Cubism, Art Deco, and Expressionism. Its paintings are defined by a combination of sharply geometric shapes with sleek, chrome-like surfaces, all in vivid and unnatural colours, and by an atmosphere of quasi-mechanical movement and industrial vigour. Their inspiration came from the revolutionary technologies and the general pace and chaos of modern life. Perhaps you can sense a machine-like quality in Dottori's painting? Notice too that Christ seems to be illuminated by a spotlight. And Mary is rather reminiscent of the famous robot from Fritz Lang's 1927 film Metropolis.

So, what do we make of Dottori's Futurist Crucifixion? Is it appropriate? We have been conditioned by three centuries of Post-Renaissance art to believe that religious paintings must be in some sense both "realistic" and "idealised", and therefore beautiful. Consider these depictions of the Crucifixion by two superstar painters of the 17th century, Guido Reni (left) and Peter Paul Rubens (right).

Dottori's Futurism, though inspired by the thrilling possibilities of the modern world, actually harks back to the art of the Middle Ages. Consider this 11th century mosaic from the monastery of Hosios Loukas in Greece, a stellar example of Byzantine religious art:

Would you say this is realistic? You can certainly tell what is going on, but this a far cry from the graceful lines and masterful composition of Reni or Rubens — and much closer to Dottori's highly stylised, altogether stranger, far graver vision of the Crucifixion. John Ruskin argued that the problem with overly realistic and idealised paintings of religious figures is that people inevitably end up admiring the skill of the artist rather than thinking about the scene they are depicting. We will think of them as beautiful rather than truthful:

Whether Ruskin was right you may decide for yourselves. But it certainly seems to be the case that Futurism, despite its name, has more in common the art of the Middle Ages than that of the Renaissance. Perhaps Dottori's Crucifixion does belong in the Vatican after all.

IV - Architecture

Jilong Castle Country Club

Fantasy of a Fantasy

This may look like a European castle, but it's actually a hotel in Guizhou Province, China, and it's barely more than a decade old. You may have noticed that Jilong Castle Country Club (which is powered by its own hydroelectric power station on Wanfeng Lake!) bears more than a passing resemblance to the famous Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany. Well, that was its inspiration, and hence some people have called it "fake".

But the funny thing about any accusations of inauthenticity is that Neuschwanstein is itself "fake". For, as I have written before in the Areopagus, Neuschwanstein was built in the 19th century by the mad but brilliant King Ludwig II of Bavaria. He adored the Medievalist operas of Richard Wagner and, inspired by his thoroughly romantic depictions of knights and maidens, had the fantastical, Neo-Medieval Neuschwanstein built in his honour — installed with flushing toilets and telephone lines, of course. Though Jilong Castle isn't a precise copy of Neuschwanstein, some of the design features, its overall form, and the romanticised Medievalism behind it are much the same. No doubt Ludwig, with his taste for the dramatic, would have also found it to his liking.

But Jilong Castle is not unique. All over China there are similar recreations of European architecture. Some are direct copies of existing buildings and others simply take inspiration from them. There is a version of Venice in Dalian, a housing estate modelled on Paris in Hangzhou (with its own Eiffel Tower), and a British-inspired project in Shanghai called Thames Town.

Then there are Huawei's R&D offices: one huge model European town, drawing together an eclectic mix of the best styles from all around the continent:

Not all these projects have been successful — some of the housing estates are ghost towns — and it's also important to distinguish between different levels of "imitation". Stone and mortar are one thing; plastic and cardboard another. But Jilong Castle and these other projects are really about the broader question of whether it is wrong or inauthentic to copy famous buildings and imitate architecture from around the world.

Well, nobody is under the illusion that the version of Venice in China was actually built by Venetians during the Middle Ages and Renaissance. It isn't about pretending to be the real thing so much as getting the sense of a place you might never be able to actually visit. Because some things are real: the physical appearance of a building or city and how it makes a person feel. If somebody finds a street or building beautiful... is that inauthentic? Just because it's a "copy" doesn't mean it can't have aesthetic value in its own right. And, after all, this isn't unique to China. All Neoclassical Architecture is directly imitative of the architecture of Ancient Greece and Rome. And 19th century European architecture was all about imitating buildings and styles from the past: Neo-Gothic, Neo-Baroque, Neo-Romanesque, Neo-Byzantine, Neo-Moorish... the list goes on. I have written before about the Temple Works Flax Mill in Leeds, England, which was directly inspired by the Temple of Horus at Edfu in Egypt. Why does that deserve to be called "Historical Revivalism", while something like Jilong Castle is simply labelled as fake?

Critics during the 19th century called this sort of architecture inauthentic — and now people treasure it. As I wrote last week when discussing Vajdahunyad Castle in Budapest, it requires humility to acknowledge that something is beautiful and to simply recreate it for other people to enjoy. Ego can drive the desire to be original instead of accepting that somebody else has already made something good enough to be preserved and shared more widely. Take the Austrian village Hallstatt, a UNESCO World Heritage Site with thousands visiting every day and photos of it going viral all the time. People evidently love it, so why shouldn't the people of Huizhou have their own version? Is it inauthentic to give people architecture they want?

There are counter-arguments, of course, and I don't mean to say that any of this is a foregone conclusion; perhaps in the modern world we are too attached to the idea that we should simply have everything we want. But I think this is, at the very least, a point of view worth exploring. The value of any imitation will always depend on the context: some are cheap knockoffs and others can be kitsch or rather vulgar. But in principle, and when done properly, is there really anything wrong with "fake" buildings like Jilong Castle? It can be surprising to learn that over 80% of the world's population has never been on an aeroplane. Very easy for those with the means to travel to say that such architecture is "inauthentic", for they can go and see the real thing in Bavaria, Austria, or London. For everybody else, however, this sort of imitative architecture might be the only opportunity they will ever have to experience the urban design of Paris or Venice for themselves. If people can't travel, why shouldn't architecture do the travelling instead?

V - Rhetoric

Don't be afraid to catch fish

I have said before that everything in the Areopagus ought to be interesting, useful, and beautiful. So forgive me for casting off the latter two and focussing squarely on the first, but there is a wonderful word I simply must share. Have you ever listened to a song and then repeated its lyrics to somebody, only to be told that you are saying completely the wrong words? This peculiar phenomenon has a name: mondegreen. It was coined in a 1954 article for Harper's by Sylvia Wright:

What "And Lady Mondegreen" should have been, from Thomas Percy's collection of poetry was: and laid him on the green. No doubt this phenomenon is familiar to all you. The question of why we hear mondegreens is rather fascinating, involving everything from confirmation bias (when there is ambiguity we are more likely to hear what we expect to hear) to cognitive overload, such they tend to be incredibly personal.

Wright goes on to argue, if not a little drolly, that mondegreens are inevitably better than whatever the actual words should have been. I am inclined to agree, if only because I recall mishearing the song Feels by Calvin Harris, Pharrell Williams, and Katy Perry when it used to play on the radio a few years ago. For weeks I heard the chorus line "don't be afraid to catch feels" as "don't be afraid to catch fish", which I thought was a stroke of surrealist genius. It was only when I told a friend about this that they corrected me — and left me bitterly disappointed!

The mondegreen is related to but different from a malapropism, which is where somebody mistakenly uses a word that sounds similar to the word they intended to use. When the former Australian Prime Minister Tony Abbott referred to the "suppository of all wisdom" he meant, of course, repository. This, too, is a phenomenon with which I am sure you are familiar. If you can recall hearing any mondegreens then do email them to me, and I shall gladly share them in next week's Areopagus.

VI - Writing

A Sword of Lightning

What is the most famous poem of the Romantic Era? Ozymandias, written by Percy Bysshe Shelley in 1818, surely takes that title:

This poem was inspired by the recent discovery in Egypt of a colossal statue of Pharaoh Ramesses II, who was called Ozymandias in Greek. But here's the thing: Shelley had never seen the statue. News of its discovery had broken and it was being shipped from Egypt to London as he wrote, but Shelley had gone into his Italian exile, never to return, by the time it arrived at the British Museum. This is interesting, at the very least, because the snarling face described by Shelley is rather different from the doughy, somewhat bemused expression of the real statue of Ramesses:

Do not think I am trying to find fault with Shelley. Rather, this is a wonderful example of the power of imagination and — dare I say it — poetic license. Shelley needed know no more than that the crumbling statue of an ancient and once-mighty king had been discovered beneath the sands of Egypt, and the vision of fallen grandeur, of the churn of the wheel of fortune, fired his pen to action. It may be the case that, had Shelley actually seen the statue, Ozymandias would not have been written as it was. Perhaps this is a problem with the Internet Age, then: that we have images ever at our fingertips and so our imaginations are left to languish.

But consider this, from Shelley's glorious Defence of Poetry, an essay in which he argues for poetry as a pillar of human civilisation, knowledge, love, and beauty. He distinguishes very clearly between reason and imagination:

Perhaps seeing the real statue would not have impeded Shelley's poem, for he clearly knew when to set reason aside. This, I think, is vitally important for any writer — especially in the world as it exists today. We mustn't be afraid, like Shelley, to let our imagination take control. And he goes on:

This being the case, Shelley explains the importance of imagination in improving the world, and therefore of poetry also:

Poetry is not merely entertaining — it is the very force which draws humankind together! And so, should anybody ever tell you that you ought not write poetry, and that you should focus on something more serious or useful, Shelley shall be your friend in arguing otherwise. And here, to conclude, is one final, sublime line from his Defence:

VII - The Seventh Plinth

Last week I asked you:

What is something you are proud of about your home country? It could be a person, building, work of art, place, moment in history, or anything else.

And your responses were so heartfelt, nuanced, and enlightening that I could not but share them as fully as possible. The Seventh Plinth is yours, my Dear Readers...

Jide O

Diana D

Anonymous

Sean

Manuel G

Chris C

Jane L

David M

Simon D

Roger P

Kayra

Begaya

Amelia D

Question of the Week

And for this week's question to test your critical thinking, inspired by a part of De Rerum Natura, we have a classic problem:

Does free will exist?

And that's all

Enough words for now. Perhaps we ought, like Lucretius, to go outside and look at the skies above as if we have never seen them before. For the world is filled with wonders — if only we choose to see them. Birds soaring, clouds scudding, rain falling. Lift up a penny, drop it, and watch it fall — gravity in action! The light of the sun, the sparkling of the stars, the glow of the moon — a whole universe unfolding before us! Wherever you are in the world I hope these final days of September bring with them abundant blessings and myriad delights. Adieu, and until Friday next.

Yours,

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