Areopagus Volume XV

Welcome one and all to the fifteenth volume of Areopagus. I had considered writing this edition exclusively on the subject of Queen Elizabeth II. However, there is such a profusion of content about her online and elsewhere that I don't think there's anything of value I could add.

In which case - on with the show. Seven short lessons to make your Friday more interesting, useful, and beautiful. Forza!

I - Classical Music

7th Symphony, 2nd Movement

Anton Bruckner (1883)

Why this piece?

This is what symphonies are all about, no? Much modern music is very good, but you can't do as much with three minutes as you can with twenty three. Bruckner will take you on a journey. And, as all great art does, it may even show you a part of yourself you didn't know was there.

I do thoroughly recommend listening to the whole of Bruckner's 7th - watch out for a terrifying surprise at the beginning of the third movement - from start to finish, but I singled out the second movement as my favourite. And, though I know even at 23 minutes it is longer than the music we're accustomed to, I implore you to hear it out. From its opening, tentative strings through the warbles of serenity and thralls of heart-wrenching drama and all that ensues until the final, ineluctible note, this is a masterpiece of emotional storytelling in music.

What style is it?

Bruckner's 7th Symphony is Romantic music (1830-1900, roughly) at its finest. An expansive, soaring, deeply emotional examination of human spirit. It is in these Romantic symphonies that the orchestra as we know it today truly established itself: a vast and varied arrangement of instruments which taken together can produce oceans, deserts, and mountains out of wood, string, and brass. 

What was Anton Bruckner?

Anton Bruckner (1824-1896) was an Austrian composer and among the Romantic Era's greatest. And he was also a fairly unusual person. For while his music is often gargantuan and bombastic, he was reportedly a shy and humble man who was extremely critical of his own work. Indeed, he often rewrote his music, thus leaving many of his pieces with more than one version. Deciding which version is definitive has proved a headache for music scholars ever since.

II - Historical Figure

Cincinnatus

The embodiment of Roman virtue

Why Cincinnatus?

This one comes from a request made two weeks ago. Britain's erstwhile Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, stepped down recently. In his farewell speech he made reference to Cincinnatus, drawing a comparison between their political careers. So this seemed like an appropriate time to talk about him.

Why is he interesting?

Cincinnatus (519-430 B.C.) was one of Ancient Rome's greatest leaders. But he was more than that, too. For the Romans, Cincinnatus represented an ideal of civic virtue toward which they believed all citizens should aspire. The fact that his story came early in the lifetime of the Roman Republic - it had only been founded in 504 BC, during Cincinnatus' adolescence - is important. He set the threshold, if you like, for what the Republic was all about.

The story goes that Rome was at war with the Aequi, a tribe who lived nearby. Remember: at this time Rome was just a city, not a vast republic or empire, and so their immediate concern was conquering the lands of the people who inhabited Latium, the region around Rome itself. But the Roman army, led by the consul as the time, was surrounded by the Aequi and unable to escape. This placed the city in a precarious position and panic ensued.

Enter Cincinnatus. The Senate sent a delegation to him, offering him the Dictatorship - a special role appointed only in times of national crisis; one man with the power to make decisions quickly and effectively. But would Cincinnatus, a former politician turned humble farmer, accept?

Livy, one of Rome's greatest historians, wrote this vivid account of how Cincinnatus was called to the dictatorship:

Cincinnatus led the Roman armies to a swift and decisive victory. All told it took him only sixteen days. And when victory had been achieved Cincinnatus resigned his dictatorship and returned to his farm. You can see why his story became so famous. The Dictator held something close to absolute power, but Cincinnatus was not tempted by this. His duty was to Rome, and once completed, he had no interest in further rule. His resignation and withdrawal from public life was a choice. You may draw your own conclusions about Mr Johnson's comparison.

I should also add that the American city of Cincinnati takes its name from Cincinnatus. You can see below a statue of him in one of the city's gardens.

III - Painting

Three Fish

Liu T'sai (14th century)

Why this painting?

I am cautious of saying too much about Three Fish. There is such harmony here that I fear any words would upset its balance. To me this is an ideal of simplicity. And yet it isn't a rudimentary simplicity. It is neither aggressively abstract nor childish. All extraneous detail has been removed; we can fill in everything else, if anything else is required. I can stare at Three Fish for a very long time without getting bored.

What is it?

These three fish are painted on silk using inkwash. This was the most common method of painting in China at the time. Indeed, Chinese inkwash painting has a long and magnificent history, starting in the 4th century and maturing over the next thousand years.

These Chinese painters knew about perspective, composition, and colour, and believed that a painter should master them. But - and this is quite hard for us to understand in the 21st century - the nature of Chinese syncretism was such that poetry, painting, and philosophy were almost united disciplines.

In Europe, at the same time, Gothic art reigned supreme. That was about conveying the stories, lessons, and truths of scriptural teaching to those who could not read (which produced exquisite art in its own right). But, for the Chinese Neo-Confucianist/Buddhist/Taoist painters, who trained for years to paint a single natural element in its essence - a pine tree, a mountain, a river - there was no message to send, nor any story to be told.

It was about capturing the hidden, cosmic pattern of the universe as expressed in a single scene. These painters would study a subject and meditate on it deeply, then let their mind guide the brush as if writing poetry. Whereas landscape painting in Europe wasn't taken seriously until the 17th century, it was regarded as the highest form of art in China. Three Fish isn't a landscape, but I think it conveys that search for the philosophical essence of a subject. It isn't an attempt to depict fish in a realistic way - none of their landscapes were - and yet, somehow, it does more than any realistic depiction ever could.

IV - Architectural Masterpiece

Melk Abbey

A Baroque Manifesto in Gold & Stone

Fact-File

We go from the understated simplicity of Three Fish to the overwhelming splendour of Melk Abbey. It was originally founded in 1089 by Leopold II, Margrave of Austria, and soon built up an extordinary collection of manuscripts. This library still exists; an invaluable source for historians. But the abbey as we see it today was built in the early 18th century under the guidance of Jakob Prandtauer, a stonemason-turned-architect.

Why is it a masterpiece?

Melk Abbey is one of the finest achievements of the Baroque Era (1600-1750) in architecture. But to really understand Baroque you've got to know about the Counter-Reformation. See, when Martin Luther posted his 95 Theses in 1517 and Protestantism started to spread across Europe, the Catholic church had to respond. How?

Protestants disapproved of the art, corruption, and luxury of the Pope and his wealthy institution. They believed in humility, hard work, and modesty, and their churches were therefore stripped of any unnecessary decoration. Precious metals, elaborate ornamentation, anything gold or silver, even paintings; all was removed. This was challenging for artists, because religion had for so long been the subject of their work.

So the Catholic Church responded by embracing art, beauty, and luxury more than ever before. They figured that it would stand in even greater contrast to the austerity of Protestantism if their churches became majestic, splendid visions of earthly glory. Hence the extravagant ornamentation, the gold and the silver, the infinitely detailed mouldings, the statues, and the paintings. All hallmarks of Baroque architecture.

You'll notice that the interior is full of movement and life. Nothing is stationary; there are no flat or unadorned surfaces, and seemingly every element has a subtle curvature to it. Baroque was all about the heart rather than the head. It was, when used in churches, a style designed to convince you - emotionally and aesthetically - of the virtues of Catholicism. Less thinking; more awe. If one were to enter Melk Abbey and look up at its ceiling, pictured below, it would be hard not to find yourself carried away.

For some people the Baroque style of architecture is simply too much. But regardless of whether you like it, surely no style has ever more vigorously embraced the notion of ornate beauty.

V - Rhetoric

Quintilian's Golden Rule

I've written about Quintilian before, and no doubt will again. His Institutio Oratoria, published in the 1st century AD, is the definitive treatise on rhetoric. He goes into granular detail on every conceivable element of communication, discussing what other great rhetoricians and philosophers - such as Cicero and Aristotle - had to say, and introduces a wealth of his own analysis. It is more than a book; it's an education.

But Quintilian makes one thing very clear. Despite offering a huge number of useful guidelines, rules, and advice for how to communicate effectively, Quintilian says this:

It is quite remarkable for somebody who wrote an almost exhaustive study of how to speak and write was ready to admit that they cannot give you hard and fast rules. But Quintillian is correct. Despite what the great and good may advise, sometimes you've just got to say to hell with this! and find your own way to communicate.

Advice is helpful - of course it is. But good communication (whether writing or speaking) is much harder than following the rules laid down by others, even their technical rather than stylistic ones. After all, they've already produced their work. It's your aim to make yours. So always bear that in mind, and with Quintilian backing you up, do not be afraid of disregarding or indeed disagreeing with advice from others, however successful they may be.

VI - Writing

Abstract and Concrete

The aforementioned Quintilian, along with Arthur Quiller-Couch and George Orwell, all of whom I often turn to for great writing advice, shared many views. There was one, in particular, about which they all felt very strongly: that writers should use concrete rather than abstract words.

What's the difference? Well, Quintilian emphasised the importance of propriety in writing and speaking. A word has propriety when it refers to something specific and easily understood, such as read, family, or argue. In many cases it is something tangible like tree, fire, or water. Put simply, a concrete word is one your reader can instinctively understand.

An abstract word is conceptual; it needs explaining. Technically speaking, words such as love and time are abstract, because what they reference is intangible. But these words are so widely used and understood that we needn't fear them. The real problem comes with words that are vague, overly-technical, and too far removed from ordinary discourse. Alternatively, they can refer to very loosely-defined theories. You see it more frequently in academic writing than anywhere else. Many words (especially new words) that end in -ize/ise or -ism/ist are abstract. Consider this passage, written by the influential American academic Judith Butler, which won a "Bad Writing Award" in the late 1990s:

Using such words - when you don't explain exactly what you mean by them - has a few consequences. Foremost is that it asks more of your reader (which isn't always a bad thing), because the meaning of those words isn't immediately obvious. So the reader has to stop, thinking, reread, and read again to understand your point. The worst case scenario is that they simply won't understand you at all.

They can also make you sound terribly pretentious. Why not just use a "one-dollar word" instead, as Hemingway once asked. But it goes beyond that. By virtue of being conceptual, abstract words often rely on other people's definitions. Because when you read a word like "structuralist" or a phrase like "structural totalities" you don't have an instinctive understanding, but nor do we (usually) have the author's definition either. Instead we refer to what, at some point in the past, somebody else told us that concept meant.

So, by using these words, you are also using other people's thoughts. Few things are worse for a writer. Use overly abstract language at your risk.

VII - Historical Anecdote

Recommendations

This week's historical anecdote has been supplanted by something else altogether. I am often asked for recommendations, and now seems like a better time than any to offer some. So here is one recommendation for each of the Areopagus' sections:

Classical Music: I suppose there are some good books about classical music. But I figured I could share with you an introductory classical music playlist I made several weeks ago. Taken together it doesn't make much sense, but that's the point. It's a mix of different genres, eras, and styles. Hopefully, if you listen, you'll find something you quite like and explore it further.

Some Classical Music The Cultural Tutor

Historical Figure: Suetonius is perhaps more famous, but he doesn't come close to Plutarch, the ultimate ancient biographer. Plutarch's Parallel Lives - 48 short biographies of famous figures from Roman and Greek history - are usually published in shorter collections. They are entertaining, insightful, and memorable. There is no better place to start with ancient history and its many heroes and villains than Plutarch.

Painting: E.H. Gombrich's The Story of Art is probably the most famous art history book ever written. And, when you read it, you'll find out why. We are in capable hands here, because Ernst Gombrich wasn't just an expert, he was also a brilliant thinker. All the little threads already in your head will be woven together by Gombrich's masterpiece.

Architecture: It's tempting here to recommend Pevsner, but given that I've already suggested one overview (that of E.H. Gombrich) I think it would be better to suggest something more specific. The Classical Language of Architecture by John Summerson is brief but brilliant; you'll fly through it. There is no better introduction to Renaissance and neoclassical architecture.

Rhetoric: It should be Quintilian. But, that being said, I can't honestly suggest you try to read his entire Institutes. Equally, Aristotle's On Rhetoric is rather dense. As such, I think the best way to get an idea about rhetoric is to read and evaluate famous speeches. Here are three options from different eras: Pericles' Funeral Oration, Henry V's speech in Shakespeare's Henry V, and Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. You can find them all online.

Writing: There have been some excellent treatises on writing, but few can match George Orwell's Politics and the English Language. It's a relatively short essay, available online, and well worth your time. He wrote with extraordinary clarity. And many of his arguments ring no less true now than they did seventy years ago. You will learn more from this essay than a whole semester of writing class.

So there's your starter for ten. I would happily consider introducing a "recommended" section to Areopagus; each week I'd pick a particular book and explain why you might want to read it. Let me know if you'd like to see that. If so, I shall gladly oblige. There are so many extraordinary writers who are far less well-known than they ought to be, and that is much to our loss.

Question of the Week

Last week's question (or, rather, the one posed a fortnight ago) to test your critical thinking was:

Do humans have free will?

You lot are a terribly clever bunch. Miguel Q summarised the neuroscientific view very succinctly:

While Sean M took a more moderate position, arguing for neither extreme:

In Juan M-C's answer, after a fascinating exploration of behaviouralism, he came to the "disappointing" conclusion that we don't have free will. I really liked that spark of honesty from Juan. But I think Tom W's response handles that disappointment rather well:

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

We do not choose to be born, so why should we obey a political order we never chose to be a part of?

And that's all

I hope you found this week's instalment of the Areopagus to be interesting, useful, and beautiful. This has been a rather unusual week in the United Kingdom, for obvious reasons. I may put some words together about that. But, for now, it shall suffice to say adieu!

Yours,

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