As you may well suppose, my friends, following Chesterton I believe both in the miraculous and in the magical, but it has recently come to my attention that these must be distinguished. For the miraculous has a precise theological meaning, while magic does not. The magic of which I speak must also be severed from any sort of sorcery, thaumaturgy, witchcraft, fraudulence, and so forth. Those things are not magical. They are sorcery, thaumaturgy, witchcraft, fraudulence, and so forth. It was miraculous when Jesus rose from the dead. It was not miraculous that the sun rose that day, but it was magical. Similarly, it is not at all miraculous that there were green things growing in the garden, but it is magical that they were green and growing.
So what is a miracle? David Hume tried to argue that a miracle is a violation of the laws of nature, and that the laws of nature are grounded in our experience of what always happens. The regular rising and setting of the sun, for example, is explicable by such laws. From this definition of miracle, however, Hume tried to argue that belief in the miraculous is inherently unjustified, stating that the only way belief in the report of any miracle can be justified is when the miracle's not occurring is more implausible than the miracle itself. As a violation of the laws of nature, for Hume a violation of all experience, this could never be, so no testimony of the miraculous is ever trustworthy. Generally speaking, attacks aim for Hume's definition of miracle, which turns out to be quite poor, in addition to the fact that his entire scheme depends on an empiricist epistemology.
It seems a far more agreeable and general definition would be that of an event that is a sign from God. For miracles always occur to communicate something to those experiencing it. The Gospel of John, for example, records seven miracles from the ministry of Jesus: the transformation of water into wine at Cana in Galilee, healing the royal official's son, healing the lame man at Bethesda, feeding the five thousand at Galilee, walking on water, healing the man blind from birth, and raising Lazarus from the dead. Why were any of these carried out? It can only be that they legitimized the person of Jesus, so as to inculcate belief. Jesus himself says, when approached by the royal official, "Unless you people see miraculous signs and wonders...you will never believe" (John 4.48). Thus they were given signs and wonders, that they themselves might bear witness to what they have seen and what they have heard.
Even the miracles of the Torah and elsewhere in the Old Testament can be explained in this way. Why should God apporach Moses through a burning bush but to legitimize himself with this strange sign? Furthermore, when Moses' staff becomes a snake, is he not told, "This...is so that they may believe that the LORD, the God of their fathers--the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob--has appeared to you" (Exodus 4.5), and are the signs of his leprous hand and the water to blood not merely intended to reinforce the first sign? Indeed, miraculous events come to prove a point, and generally, as in both the times immediately surrounding both Jesus and Moses, they tend to come in number.
Now we come to magic. What makes the sunrise or the greeness of growing things magical? The magic is in what might not have been. For an empiricist like Hume, everything is as it is on the authority of natural law. There is no room for supposing things might have been different. There is no will in natural law. For the believer in magic, there is such a will: the Word of God through whom all things that have been made were made. It is no stretch to suppose that green and growing things might have been willed otherwise, say blue. Just as easily, they might have been made ugly or not at all, but these things are not so. On the contrary, green and growing things are green because of choice, and they are beautiful in reflection of the magician that makes them. Just as the sun rises by magic--a miracle might be if the sun did not rise one morning--by that same magic trees branch out bearing leaves and fruit. They might as well have borne birds, though, but it is not so. Trees as they are might not have been, and they also happen to be good, and in this we can get a faint glimpse of the good magician, and we might do well to wonder what magic awaits us in what not yet is.
At last we come to a point, which was our destination at the start. In both the magical and the miraculous, God is telling us something, but these are two very different means. Magic is ever present in the air, but barrages of miracles are few and far between. It seems appropriate to conclude with what Paul had to say to the Romans about magic, "for since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities--his eternal power and divine nature--have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse" (Romans 1.20). Magic, however, is not to be taken by itself, for Paul goes on to tell how men made idols of magical things, such as reptiles, and this is bad. Turn ye therefore to the Magician, and be filled with wonder.
Again I acknowledge my debt to G.K. Chesterton for providing me with almost everything I said. Also Ken, Ben, and Todd.
24 February 2009
19 February 2009
Genre and the Red Scare
My friends! O gnos, O friends, mythos and dianoia have returned, and they have brought company! There are two questions I know you are asking now. First, you must wonder why this happened. Well, when I was told to analyze genre, I decided I wanted to do so philosophically rather than arbitrarily, so I turned to Aristotle. This made my paper three pages longer than it needed to be, and it took me about a week and multiple late nights to adequatly grasp what I was going to say, but it was worth it. Second, you must wonder what I am doing in a college writing class. Well, I do not know why that is, except that it is demanded of all philosophers, but the subject about which the class writes is the Sacco-Vanzetti case. Enjoy!
Also, in the real paper, the Greek terms are in Greek, but that did not translate to 'blogger. Forgive any bizarre monsters I may have missed.
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In the Poetics of Aristotle, genres are differentiated by some disparity between the means, objects, and manner of one text and another (Aristotle 2316). By means, the Philosopher refers to “language, rhythm, and harmony” (Aristotle 2316). By objects, he refers to “actions, with agents who are necessarily either good or bad” (Aristotle 2317). By manner, he refers to how “each kind of object is represented” (Aristotle 2317). For Aristotle, there are also six elements by which he defines tragedy, which shall here be appropriated to define speech, memoir, and political cartoon. These elements are opsis, or spectacle; ethos, or character; mythos, or plot; lexis, or diction; melos, or melody; and dianoia, or thought (Aristotle 2320). In this way genre shall be drawn from the texts before us. The first is Frank Goodwin’s 1927 speech to the conservative Kiwanis Club in Lawrence, Massachusetts, called “Sacco-Vanzetti and the Red Peril,” in which he interprets the Sacco-Vanzetti case positively for its exposure of dangerous radicals in the United States (Topp 151). The second is Louis Post’s 1923 memoir, The Deportations Delirium of Nineteen-Twenty, which recalls his observations of the red scare from his post as assistant secretary of labor (Topp 81). Third, there is the political cartoon, “Come unto Me, Ye Opprest,” which appeared in the Memphis Commercial Appeal on 5 July 1919 (“Come unto Me”). The common historical thread of the red scare is chosen arbitrarily but in hopes that the commonality will ease understanding beyond content.
Following Aristotle, let us begin with the means of each text, the first being Goodwin’s speech. In the delivery of a speech, there are two elements present, lexis and opsis. Of the former, for our purposes, there are two types, the first being syntactical diction the second being audible diction. Both make up the means of the speech, in conjunction with opsis. Goodwin’s syntactical diction is communicated in prose throughout, but of what sort of prose? Consider the example of the speech’s conclusion, “that we are not ready yet to substitute as our national emblem the red flag of anarchy, for the Red, White, and Blue” (Goodwin 152). This is the destination of the whole speech, its telos; all was building to that point, so the lexis of a speech primarily consists of poetical points bolstered by elaboration. Goodwin, for instance, uses the supposed crime of Sacco and Vanzetti, describing all the ways in which their conviction was judged fair, linking it all to anarchy almost in the form of a list (Goodwin 152) before moving on to any forceful or general statement like his conclusion.
This is amplified by the audible diction, which describes how Goodwin speaks his prose. The mere presence of this type of diction is important to defining speech as a genre, but is highly illuminating when considered in conjunction with opsis. Though the latter is not essential, as a speech can be delivered by an unseen speaker, it is a frequent occurrence, and it is present for Goodwin’s “Sacco-Vanzetti and the Red Peril.” The intended feeling of the prose should be intensified by audible diction. The above quotation does not do well to be recited in a droll monotone. Optical signs in a way harmonize the audible text. Together, not only can the audience hear how the speaker wants them to feel, but they can also behold the responses of the speaker. It is bodily rhythm harmonizing audible rhythm. Though one is musical enough, how much the more so with both? One can imagine a pound of the fist or a wave of the arm accompanying Goodwin’s reading of his conclusion to fine effect. The means of a speech, then, are audible prose, often with optical accompaniment.
The means of Post’s memoir, The Deportations Delirium of Nineteen-Twenty, are much simpler, being merely the syntactical diction of lexis. Unlike a speech, a memoir is not inherently presented aloud, and there is no need or even frequency of optical accompaniment, neither of which are at all present in Post’s piece. Rather, the lexis of Post is mere prose, like that of Goodwin’s speech, the essential difference being inaudibility. Take, for example, Post’s statement, “Nor were search warrants used, though homes were invaded, trunks broken open, personal papers seized and personal privacies shamefully disturbed” (Post 81). The whole of Post’s means are visible here, and they are purely lexical. This list alone must be effective enough to convey the outrage of the misbehavior it describes, without the rhythmic pounding of the fist on each point or grim anger in vocal intonation. His words, “invaded,” “broken open,” “seized,” and “shamefully disturbed” must act alone to properly convey his negative attitude toward the events he describes. These are the essential means of memoir, as demonstrated by Post: mere, written prose.
It is interesting to note that the same elements that define the means of the cartoon “Come unto Me, Ye Opprest” also define Goodwin’s “Sacco-Vanzetti and the Red Peril.” These, of course, are lexis, as with Post, and opsis. In the cartoon, however, the spectacle is primary. In fact, it is the only truly necessary element, but the accompaniment of lexis is frequent and effective. The means of a cartoon are necessarily instantaneous in the sense of spectacle, as the whole image presents itself once and for all. This differentiates itself from the opsis of the speech in two ways. First, that of the speech is ongoing. It has multiple instances and it takes place for the duration of the speech. Second, it is not essential to the speech, but a cartoon without opsis ceases to be a cartoon. An analogy may be drawn with lexis. In memoir and speech, at least the syntactical diction of lexis is essential, but in the cartoon, it is not essential, just as the opsis is not essential to the speech. In this cartoon, the lexis amplifies what would otherwise be unclear, identifying the “European anarchist” and providing the caption, “Come unto Me, Ye Opprest” (“Come unto Me”). Neither is necessary, especially not the caption, but it adds to the effect of the cartoon. Not only does the anarchist seek to defeat liberty, but he also seeks to defeat the very liberty that welcomed him. These, then, are the means of the political cartoon: an instantaneous image, often with lexical augmentation.
We come now to the objects of these three texts, beginning again with Goodwin’s “Sacco-Vanzetti and the Red Scare.” For the speech, the objects represent dianoiai, one good and one bad. This Goodwin puts forth at the very start, beginning with the bad dianoia. He describes the general sort of ideal society envisioned by the average radical saying, “but as yet we are far from that state of mind, even in the colleges where they are teaching that there is no God, or in Godless Russia, where they murder their enemies without trial” (Goodwin 151). Essentially, Radicalism has been a failure, but for the good dianoia, “Thank God for the fundamentalists…they are practical enough that it is better to hold fast to what we have than attempt new experiments before we are mentally or morally ready for them” (Goodwin 151-152). Each is an idea, or thought, the radical ideas of the Reds and the conservative ideas of the fundamentalists, and they are opposed. It is interesting that this opposition should arise in this speech, as both a good and bad object need not be present. The opposition, therefore, is not essential to the speech, but the appearance of the object as dianoia is essential. It is imperative for a speech to be a speech, it not speak of characters or deliver a story, lest it become one. It must speak of ideas, the ideas of its speaker, whether he or she is real or fictional. The objects of speech, then, are the thoughts of a character, or ethos.
A memoir is quite opposed to the speech in this regard, for in Post’s narrative, ethoi abound, from Post himself to the unnamed detainee who was found insane. Rather than being the action of enunciating dianoia as is the case in speech, the ethoi of the memoir act through a mythos, these actions being good or bad, defining the goodness or badness of the ethos thereby. The acts of the Department of Justice define its badness in the course of the mythos, such as the act of releasing prisoners “as arbitrarily as they had been arrested, after periods of imprisonment ranging from a few hours to two or three days” (Post 82). Obviously, this is supposed to reflect poorly on the Department of Justice, by the mere report of what it did. As acts compound, the mythos progresses and the goodness or badness of the ethos is revealed, and such are the objects of memoir.
Interestingly, it is possible for speech to occur within any genre whose objects are displayed through mythos, as dianoia can certainly be among the acts. In fact, whenever a character speaks, especially at length, dianoia is revealed. When Post quotes the judge George Anderson as saying, “‘a mob is a mob, whether made up of Government officials acting under instructions from the Department of Justice, or of criminals and loafers and the vicious classes’” (Post 82), he is working within the framework of the mythos, expressing his dianoia, exposing, at least here, the goodness of his ethos. Even here, the objects of memoir are expressed by ethoi through the advance of mythos.
At last we come to the objects of the cartoon, “Come unto Me, Ye Opprest!” Like memoir, these are expressed through eqoi, but in an instant there can be no mythos. Rather, in this case the ethoi, just like the giver of a speech, act through dianoia. In the cartoon before us, the objects, one good and one bad, could hardly be more apparent, something that would appear necessary to an instantaneous image. The first object is the European anarchist, labeled as such, and his ethos illustrates the badness of the anarchist dianoia. He appears perfectly unsavory, shrouded in the darkness of Liberty’s shadow, masked and holding a bomb and a knife. There is further no question that both are meant for Liberty, upon whom he sneaks. This is his action, captured in an instant, and it shows him to be bad. Of the ethos of Liberty, she stands shrouded in the light of her torch, amplified by the text, “Come unto Me, Ye Opprest!” and this is her dianoia, that of light, figuratively speaking. She is shown good by representing this dianoia, encapsulated again in the instant. Thus the objects of the cartoon are ethoi expressing dianoia in the instant.
Finally, each genre has its own manner. As to the manner of speech, it has already been noted that speech communicates the dianoia of some ethos. This fact is indispensable. Not only must the speech be delivered by a single individual, but it also must be delivered in character. For example, Goodwin’s character is merely himself. There is no way for a speech to be delivered in the third person, unless one ethos starts sharing the thoughts of another as conceived by that other, and this is absurd. The speech must also take place before an audience, either an audience of peers, like Goodwin, or an audience at a drama or something of that kind, if one is portraying another character. Regardless, a speech delivered to no one is impossible, as it is arguably even both possible and inevitable to be one’s own audience.
The manner of Post’s memoir consists of his delivery as an individual, telling the story in the first person. In this way there is similarity to speech, that the narrator speaks in character, namely of himself or herself. It departs when the stories of others are narrated, the stories of things witnessed rather than things in which the narrator was involved, for example. So while the manner of speech is limited to the individual speaking in character, the manner of memoir allows the individual to speak both in character and narrate the acts of other characters. Another difference arises in that, while speech can be delivered in character, the only character available to the memoirist is himself or herself. Such is the manner of memoir.
At last, there is the manner of the cartoon, which consists of communication by the individual artist through the ethoi of his cartoon, representing dianoiai. Unlike both the speech and the memoir, the representation is entirely separate from its deliverer. The characters, eqoi, do not deliver themselves, they are composed by another. In this way cartoons are akin to drama, wherein the stage is set within the panel, and all interaction takes place therein. The characters behave “as though they were actually doing the things described” (Aristotle 2317), which is Aristotle’s description of the dramatic. The difference is instantaneity. Such is the manner of cartoon.
It falls to us finally to define each genre against the others, thereby discovering what each essentially is. In sum, the genre of speech consists of the means of audible prose, often with optical accompaniment; the objects are the ideas of its speaker; and the manner is of communication by an individual character to an audience. The genre of memoir consists of the means of mere, written prose; its objects are the actions of characters through plot; and the manner is that of an individual speaking as himself or herself and of the actions of others. The genre of cartoon consists of the means of an instantaneous image, often with lexical accompaniment; the objects of characters representing thoughts; and the manner of drama, that is the narrator representing characters that act as themselves. Such, at least, is indicated by our texts; that even bearing similar subject matter, none of their genres agree. Furthermore, even in this arbitrary selection, each genre is distinct and irreducible, lest the definitions cease to represent the genres they are supposed to define. At last, such are speech, memoir, and cartoon.
Works Cited
Aristotle. Poetics. I. Bywater, tr. The Complete Works of Aristotle. 2 vols. Ed. Jonathan Barnes. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1984.
“Come unto Me, Ye Opprest.” Red Scare. 19 Feb. 2009
Goodwin, Frank. “Sacco-Vanzetti and the Red Peril.” The Sacco and Vanzetti Case. A Brief History with Documents. Ed. Michael Topp. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2005. 151- 152.
Post, Louis. The Deportations Delirium of Nineteen-Twenty: A Personal Narrative of an Official Historic Experience. The Sacco and Vanzetti Case. A Brief History with Documents. Ed. Michael Topp. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2005. 81-84.
Topp, Michael. The Sacco and Vanzetti Case. A Brief History with Documents. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2005.
Also, in the real paper, the Greek terms are in Greek, but that did not translate to 'blogger. Forgive any bizarre monsters I may have missed.
------------------------
In the Poetics of Aristotle, genres are differentiated by some disparity between the means, objects, and manner of one text and another (Aristotle 2316). By means, the Philosopher refers to “language, rhythm, and harmony” (Aristotle 2316). By objects, he refers to “actions, with agents who are necessarily either good or bad” (Aristotle 2317). By manner, he refers to how “each kind of object is represented” (Aristotle 2317). For Aristotle, there are also six elements by which he defines tragedy, which shall here be appropriated to define speech, memoir, and political cartoon. These elements are opsis, or spectacle; ethos, or character; mythos, or plot; lexis, or diction; melos, or melody; and dianoia, or thought (Aristotle 2320). In this way genre shall be drawn from the texts before us. The first is Frank Goodwin’s 1927 speech to the conservative Kiwanis Club in Lawrence, Massachusetts, called “Sacco-Vanzetti and the Red Peril,” in which he interprets the Sacco-Vanzetti case positively for its exposure of dangerous radicals in the United States (Topp 151). The second is Louis Post’s 1923 memoir, The Deportations Delirium of Nineteen-Twenty, which recalls his observations of the red scare from his post as assistant secretary of labor (Topp 81). Third, there is the political cartoon, “Come unto Me, Ye Opprest,” which appeared in the Memphis Commercial Appeal on 5 July 1919 (“Come unto Me”). The common historical thread of the red scare is chosen arbitrarily but in hopes that the commonality will ease understanding beyond content.
Following Aristotle, let us begin with the means of each text, the first being Goodwin’s speech. In the delivery of a speech, there are two elements present, lexis and opsis. Of the former, for our purposes, there are two types, the first being syntactical diction the second being audible diction. Both make up the means of the speech, in conjunction with opsis. Goodwin’s syntactical diction is communicated in prose throughout, but of what sort of prose? Consider the example of the speech’s conclusion, “that we are not ready yet to substitute as our national emblem the red flag of anarchy, for the Red, White, and Blue” (Goodwin 152). This is the destination of the whole speech, its telos; all was building to that point, so the lexis of a speech primarily consists of poetical points bolstered by elaboration. Goodwin, for instance, uses the supposed crime of Sacco and Vanzetti, describing all the ways in which their conviction was judged fair, linking it all to anarchy almost in the form of a list (Goodwin 152) before moving on to any forceful or general statement like his conclusion.
This is amplified by the audible diction, which describes how Goodwin speaks his prose. The mere presence of this type of diction is important to defining speech as a genre, but is highly illuminating when considered in conjunction with opsis. Though the latter is not essential, as a speech can be delivered by an unseen speaker, it is a frequent occurrence, and it is present for Goodwin’s “Sacco-Vanzetti and the Red Peril.” The intended feeling of the prose should be intensified by audible diction. The above quotation does not do well to be recited in a droll monotone. Optical signs in a way harmonize the audible text. Together, not only can the audience hear how the speaker wants them to feel, but they can also behold the responses of the speaker. It is bodily rhythm harmonizing audible rhythm. Though one is musical enough, how much the more so with both? One can imagine a pound of the fist or a wave of the arm accompanying Goodwin’s reading of his conclusion to fine effect. The means of a speech, then, are audible prose, often with optical accompaniment.
The means of Post’s memoir, The Deportations Delirium of Nineteen-Twenty, are much simpler, being merely the syntactical diction of lexis. Unlike a speech, a memoir is not inherently presented aloud, and there is no need or even frequency of optical accompaniment, neither of which are at all present in Post’s piece. Rather, the lexis of Post is mere prose, like that of Goodwin’s speech, the essential difference being inaudibility. Take, for example, Post’s statement, “Nor were search warrants used, though homes were invaded, trunks broken open, personal papers seized and personal privacies shamefully disturbed” (Post 81). The whole of Post’s means are visible here, and they are purely lexical. This list alone must be effective enough to convey the outrage of the misbehavior it describes, without the rhythmic pounding of the fist on each point or grim anger in vocal intonation. His words, “invaded,” “broken open,” “seized,” and “shamefully disturbed” must act alone to properly convey his negative attitude toward the events he describes. These are the essential means of memoir, as demonstrated by Post: mere, written prose.
It is interesting to note that the same elements that define the means of the cartoon “Come unto Me, Ye Opprest” also define Goodwin’s “Sacco-Vanzetti and the Red Peril.” These, of course, are lexis, as with Post, and opsis. In the cartoon, however, the spectacle is primary. In fact, it is the only truly necessary element, but the accompaniment of lexis is frequent and effective. The means of a cartoon are necessarily instantaneous in the sense of spectacle, as the whole image presents itself once and for all. This differentiates itself from the opsis of the speech in two ways. First, that of the speech is ongoing. It has multiple instances and it takes place for the duration of the speech. Second, it is not essential to the speech, but a cartoon without opsis ceases to be a cartoon. An analogy may be drawn with lexis. In memoir and speech, at least the syntactical diction of lexis is essential, but in the cartoon, it is not essential, just as the opsis is not essential to the speech. In this cartoon, the lexis amplifies what would otherwise be unclear, identifying the “European anarchist” and providing the caption, “Come unto Me, Ye Opprest” (“Come unto Me”). Neither is necessary, especially not the caption, but it adds to the effect of the cartoon. Not only does the anarchist seek to defeat liberty, but he also seeks to defeat the very liberty that welcomed him. These, then, are the means of the political cartoon: an instantaneous image, often with lexical augmentation.
We come now to the objects of these three texts, beginning again with Goodwin’s “Sacco-Vanzetti and the Red Scare.” For the speech, the objects represent dianoiai, one good and one bad. This Goodwin puts forth at the very start, beginning with the bad dianoia. He describes the general sort of ideal society envisioned by the average radical saying, “but as yet we are far from that state of mind, even in the colleges where they are teaching that there is no God, or in Godless Russia, where they murder their enemies without trial” (Goodwin 151). Essentially, Radicalism has been a failure, but for the good dianoia, “Thank God for the fundamentalists…they are practical enough that it is better to hold fast to what we have than attempt new experiments before we are mentally or morally ready for them” (Goodwin 151-152). Each is an idea, or thought, the radical ideas of the Reds and the conservative ideas of the fundamentalists, and they are opposed. It is interesting that this opposition should arise in this speech, as both a good and bad object need not be present. The opposition, therefore, is not essential to the speech, but the appearance of the object as dianoia is essential. It is imperative for a speech to be a speech, it not speak of characters or deliver a story, lest it become one. It must speak of ideas, the ideas of its speaker, whether he or she is real or fictional. The objects of speech, then, are the thoughts of a character, or ethos.
A memoir is quite opposed to the speech in this regard, for in Post’s narrative, ethoi abound, from Post himself to the unnamed detainee who was found insane. Rather than being the action of enunciating dianoia as is the case in speech, the ethoi of the memoir act through a mythos, these actions being good or bad, defining the goodness or badness of the ethos thereby. The acts of the Department of Justice define its badness in the course of the mythos, such as the act of releasing prisoners “as arbitrarily as they had been arrested, after periods of imprisonment ranging from a few hours to two or three days” (Post 82). Obviously, this is supposed to reflect poorly on the Department of Justice, by the mere report of what it did. As acts compound, the mythos progresses and the goodness or badness of the ethos is revealed, and such are the objects of memoir.
Interestingly, it is possible for speech to occur within any genre whose objects are displayed through mythos, as dianoia can certainly be among the acts. In fact, whenever a character speaks, especially at length, dianoia is revealed. When Post quotes the judge George Anderson as saying, “‘a mob is a mob, whether made up of Government officials acting under instructions from the Department of Justice, or of criminals and loafers and the vicious classes’” (Post 82), he is working within the framework of the mythos, expressing his dianoia, exposing, at least here, the goodness of his ethos. Even here, the objects of memoir are expressed by ethoi through the advance of mythos.
At last we come to the objects of the cartoon, “Come unto Me, Ye Opprest!” Like memoir, these are expressed through eqoi, but in an instant there can be no mythos. Rather, in this case the ethoi, just like the giver of a speech, act through dianoia. In the cartoon before us, the objects, one good and one bad, could hardly be more apparent, something that would appear necessary to an instantaneous image. The first object is the European anarchist, labeled as such, and his ethos illustrates the badness of the anarchist dianoia. He appears perfectly unsavory, shrouded in the darkness of Liberty’s shadow, masked and holding a bomb and a knife. There is further no question that both are meant for Liberty, upon whom he sneaks. This is his action, captured in an instant, and it shows him to be bad. Of the ethos of Liberty, she stands shrouded in the light of her torch, amplified by the text, “Come unto Me, Ye Opprest!” and this is her dianoia, that of light, figuratively speaking. She is shown good by representing this dianoia, encapsulated again in the instant. Thus the objects of the cartoon are ethoi expressing dianoia in the instant.
Finally, each genre has its own manner. As to the manner of speech, it has already been noted that speech communicates the dianoia of some ethos. This fact is indispensable. Not only must the speech be delivered by a single individual, but it also must be delivered in character. For example, Goodwin’s character is merely himself. There is no way for a speech to be delivered in the third person, unless one ethos starts sharing the thoughts of another as conceived by that other, and this is absurd. The speech must also take place before an audience, either an audience of peers, like Goodwin, or an audience at a drama or something of that kind, if one is portraying another character. Regardless, a speech delivered to no one is impossible, as it is arguably even both possible and inevitable to be one’s own audience.
The manner of Post’s memoir consists of his delivery as an individual, telling the story in the first person. In this way there is similarity to speech, that the narrator speaks in character, namely of himself or herself. It departs when the stories of others are narrated, the stories of things witnessed rather than things in which the narrator was involved, for example. So while the manner of speech is limited to the individual speaking in character, the manner of memoir allows the individual to speak both in character and narrate the acts of other characters. Another difference arises in that, while speech can be delivered in character, the only character available to the memoirist is himself or herself. Such is the manner of memoir.
At last, there is the manner of the cartoon, which consists of communication by the individual artist through the ethoi of his cartoon, representing dianoiai. Unlike both the speech and the memoir, the representation is entirely separate from its deliverer. The characters, eqoi, do not deliver themselves, they are composed by another. In this way cartoons are akin to drama, wherein the stage is set within the panel, and all interaction takes place therein. The characters behave “as though they were actually doing the things described” (Aristotle 2317), which is Aristotle’s description of the dramatic. The difference is instantaneity. Such is the manner of cartoon.
It falls to us finally to define each genre against the others, thereby discovering what each essentially is. In sum, the genre of speech consists of the means of audible prose, often with optical accompaniment; the objects are the ideas of its speaker; and the manner is of communication by an individual character to an audience. The genre of memoir consists of the means of mere, written prose; its objects are the actions of characters through plot; and the manner is that of an individual speaking as himself or herself and of the actions of others. The genre of cartoon consists of the means of an instantaneous image, often with lexical accompaniment; the objects of characters representing thoughts; and the manner of drama, that is the narrator representing characters that act as themselves. Such, at least, is indicated by our texts; that even bearing similar subject matter, none of their genres agree. Furthermore, even in this arbitrary selection, each genre is distinct and irreducible, lest the definitions cease to represent the genres they are supposed to define. At last, such are speech, memoir, and cartoon.
Works Cited
Aristotle. Poetics. I. Bywater, tr. The Complete Works of Aristotle. 2 vols. Ed. Jonathan Barnes. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1984.
“Come unto Me, Ye Opprest.” Red Scare. 19 Feb. 2009
Goodwin, Frank. “Sacco-Vanzetti and the Red Peril.” The Sacco and Vanzetti Case. A Brief History with Documents. Ed. Michael Topp. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2005. 151- 152.
Post, Louis. The Deportations Delirium of Nineteen-Twenty: A Personal Narrative of an Official Historic Experience. The Sacco and Vanzetti Case. A Brief History with Documents. Ed. Michael Topp. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2005. 81-84.
Topp, Michael. The Sacco and Vanzetti Case. A Brief History with Documents. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2005.
10 February 2009
The Gnome's Grand Adventure
My friends, it is quite probable that you remember a piece of music that I composed in May 2007 for strings, called "The Gnome's Grand Adventure." In late December, I decided that I would rework this music for solo piano, and I finished this task in the middle of January. Because of certain computer difficulties, I am only now posting the music, whose audio file is ready for download onto your computer or iDevice on the left.
Now, why did I choose to rework "The Gnome's Grand Adventure," you wonder? There are several reasons. First, the original score is a disaster, full of basic part writing errors, poor voicing, and boring harmonies. Doing the rewrite for the piano was an obvious course of action for me. I wanted to make it playable, and I wanted to augment my volume of piano pieces. One day I want to make a book of them. Focusing on recasting all the harmonies and several melodies such that they are not technically horrid, I think that I have made "The Gnome's Grand Adventure" into a far more interesting piece of music. Notice that the middle section is almost completely different. It was beyond help, really. I was also able to balance the structure with a coda, and I was happy to defeat what had once been a very abrupt ending.
Enough on the specific changes I made. I would also like to state why, of all the error-ridden pieces of music I have composed, did I choose "The Gnome's Grand Adventure" to change. First of all, it has the most wonderful subjects: gnomes and adventure. I do not feel the need to explain why these are such elevated themes, so I will move on to my second reason, that being the propensity and nature of comments I have received about this piece. It is the one that is most frequently mentioned to me by my friends. I mean, on the relatively uncommon instance that I wind up in a conversation about my music, I remember hearing about "The Gnome's Grand Adventure" more than any others. Since of course I do not actually keep track of this sort of thing, I could be wrong, but you see my reasoning. For another, I believe that "The Gnome's Grand Adventure" has been complimented above its musical comrades more than any other. The final push came when in the middle of December I found out that "The Gnome's Grand Adventure" might be the piece of music that is most associated with me, at least by one excellent reader. How could I let its defective form live on after that?
Without further ado, let me express my thanks that the song of my little gnome has been appreciated. I hope that I have made it better to ears other than my own.
Now, why did I choose to rework "The Gnome's Grand Adventure," you wonder? There are several reasons. First, the original score is a disaster, full of basic part writing errors, poor voicing, and boring harmonies. Doing the rewrite for the piano was an obvious course of action for me. I wanted to make it playable, and I wanted to augment my volume of piano pieces. One day I want to make a book of them. Focusing on recasting all the harmonies and several melodies such that they are not technically horrid, I think that I have made "The Gnome's Grand Adventure" into a far more interesting piece of music. Notice that the middle section is almost completely different. It was beyond help, really. I was also able to balance the structure with a coda, and I was happy to defeat what had once been a very abrupt ending.
Enough on the specific changes I made. I would also like to state why, of all the error-ridden pieces of music I have composed, did I choose "The Gnome's Grand Adventure" to change. First of all, it has the most wonderful subjects: gnomes and adventure. I do not feel the need to explain why these are such elevated themes, so I will move on to my second reason, that being the propensity and nature of comments I have received about this piece. It is the one that is most frequently mentioned to me by my friends. I mean, on the relatively uncommon instance that I wind up in a conversation about my music, I remember hearing about "The Gnome's Grand Adventure" more than any others. Since of course I do not actually keep track of this sort of thing, I could be wrong, but you see my reasoning. For another, I believe that "The Gnome's Grand Adventure" has been complimented above its musical comrades more than any other. The final push came when in the middle of December I found out that "The Gnome's Grand Adventure" might be the piece of music that is most associated with me, at least by one excellent reader. How could I let its defective form live on after that?
Without further ado, let me express my thanks that the song of my little gnome has been appreciated. I hope that I have made it better to ears other than my own.
03 February 2009
The Poetry of Courtship
Good afternoon, and happy day after Groundhog Day, my friends! In the aftermath of this momentous festival, we are left with the prognostication of six more wintery weeks, for the Prophet Groundhog did see his shadow. Today is not a day of groundhogs; however, today is a day of art and love!
Long ago, there was a variety of poetry known as the poetry of courtship. This is what a young man writes when he courts a young lady. It is oft accompanied by the music of courtship, if the courtier happens to be skilled in music, as he should be. Alas, as far as I know, almost nobody does this anymore. There are many reasons for this, the most obvious being that there are not many courts in which courtiers can court these days. Of course, courtship has long gone on without any actual court; the persistence of the verb "to court" is really no more than a linguistic curiosity. More significantly, the loss of poetry and music in courtship can be attributed to a widespread lack of ability in both those subjects among young men. These are no longer essential parts of a well-rounded education, cast into the outer darkness, weeping and gnashing their teeth alongside Greek and Latin. If a young man is to learn poetry and music, he must do so of his own accord. God willing, he might even discover the wellspring of inspiration stowed among mythologies, histories, and Classics, not to mention the Truth.
Let us suppose that a young man has sought after these lost arts, and let us suppose a young lady has caught his fancy. The young man has been very reckless in allowing this to happen, but it is only with a bit of recklessness that a fantastic adventure may begin, as Chesterton once said. Bilbo was not forced to leave Bag End, and Frodo was not asked to bear the ring. Neither Bilbo nor Frodo sought his adventure nor was either at all adventurous. That is what makes them adventurers. Like these fine hobbits, our dear fellow remains on the road onto which he has wandered, able to be reckless and adventurous because he is not at home. The adventurous man by nature is at home adventuring, so he can never be adventurous or reckless.
Back to our dear fellow, it is evident by his pursuit of music and poetry that the lyric impulse, as Chesterton called it, is upon him, and now he suddenly has an immediate subject of which he must sing. There is no choice in the matter. To ignore the lyric impulse is to remain silent despite welling with song, and to do this is to inflict a sharp heartache. If our young man is genuine, he should have much to express regarding this young lady, with whom he has stumbled upon such wonderful excellence. I daresay that the poetry of courtship, in some form or other, is an absolute necessity, for the lyric impulse is itself loving adoration.
When I identify the lyric impulse, that which drives us to create, with love, my reasoning should already be evident in my definition of the lyric impulse. Do not, however, misunderstand the sense in which I here employ the English word "love." I do not limit my meaning to romantic love, which is adventurous love. I mean to cover the breadth of its meaning, from brotherly and sisterly love (the love of friendship), to the love between parents and their children (domestic love), and beyond, ultimately tracing itself to Divine love, which is Love. Is it not for the sake of love that we are made, not only initially, but also continually restored by the resurrection of the Christ, who is Love? And surely this does not cease upon the shedding of this mortal coil.
I have already explained that romantic love is adventurous. How strange that its consequence is generally the domestic love of parenthood, which is the opposite of adventure. Really, it is ideal, this familial interplay, because it is a paradox. (Chesterton would be proud of me right now.) How else can these varieties of love, even in contradiction, be fused so perfectly? Between the parents, there is all the adventure of romance. With children, the family is born, and thus the children have a home in this strange and wonderful (and too often terrible) world all around. With more children, brotherly and sisterly love expands, as do the other varieties. It is not by chance that procreation and love are ideally and inseparably linked.
Does this reflect the Divine Love? Indeed, for what love is more reckless and so adventurous as a surrender of one's very self to another? This is Christianity, in which there is no place for any uncrucified and unresurrected self. It is all adventure: the adventure of death, only to be met with the strangest and most unexpected adventure of all, resurrection, an ongoing adventure that leads straight home. In fact, it is home in the making. So it is all domestic. God is our Father, and he makes it very clear time and time again that we do well to view him as such, and we are all His children together. It is all brotherhood, sisterhood, and friendship. Christ is our brother, and the head of His Church. We are His body, together the children in the Divine family. Christianity amplifies Love.
Having digressed, let us now return to our friend. If our young man were to fail to possess some modicum of the lyric impulse or fail to heed it, he would only be fooling himself, and his misadventure would end in disaster. He would have to have been wrongheaded from the start. Having no urge to express love, it must be absent. As an aside, some who call themselves artists speak highly of expressing themselves, and this is wrong. Art is optimally about expressing some variety of love, ultimately Love, not oneself. Who is this artist to think that anyone is interested in him, but everyone is interested in love, something that is far greater than any artist. The surest sign that an artist is a fraud is that he calls himself an artist.
What of this simple young man, though, struggling to compose some reflection of this beautiful maiden? That is precisely it: reflection, or in a more philosophical terminology representation. When our lad composes a sonnet or a liebesleid for his lass, he does so in an effort to represent the inexpressible excellence he sees when her mere presence alights his eyes or when the simple sound of her voice graces his ears. When he has finished an artistic work of this kind, however, he finds himself in a complex situation. He has, at least for a time, sung the lyric impulse, and all is well. Alas, of his completed work, he is keenly aware that its excellence does not fully capture the excellence of its subject. One would expect this to be disappointing, but in truth this realization is far from it. The young man has made a work of art, something that is meant to be beautiful above all else, something that is beautiful, and yet his beloved is immeasurably more so.
What of the quality of the work? It is an interesting point of the poetry of courtship that, as far as the latter conclusion is concerned, ability is only of relative concern. A sonnet of Shakespeare and a lyric of our dear friend are on equal footing. Whether the Bard, by his immaculate verse, sings a mere semblance of the beauty of his beloved or our friend, in his childish folly, bellows but a poor reflection of his own fair maiden, it does not matter. The only condition is that each worked his song with all the resources he could offer, only to reach that invariable conclusion to which I have already alluded. The lover will be humbled, and by this tribute so too should be the beloved. For she, I suspect, should sense that our young man has bled his heart into his work, producing something beautiful as a reflection of her. To see reflected back from the artwork the immense adoration of our young man, she ought not help but to feel humbled that someone thinks so highly of her, for if she is nearly as excellent as our young man thinks, she will not place herself on such a pedestal, even if she could. Each, therefore, will be in humble adoration of the other, thanks to the poetry of courtship.
Is work of higher quality better? For the above purposes, I am honestly inclined to think that the question, outside of extraordinary circumstances, highly irrelevant. Where the question of artistic quality enters into relevance is the ability of our young man to enjoy his own work and perhaps for others to appreciate the art. It is better, I think, to have representations that can be enjoyed without necessarily any knowledge that they refer to anyone. To love a Shakespearean sonnet does not require that you know anything about its subject. What an honor it must be, though, to be the subject of a much beloved work of art. How much greater would our young man's tribute be if it turned out to be a great work of art? The question of quality is most relevant for our young man's striving with all his being to do something great, but even if he did, he and his lady would still face certain happy humility.
The question of the third party, those who might enjoy a work of art, eschews the position of an interesting possibility, as seen in the latter case, and assumes a position of prominence when it comes to making art reflecting God and the things of God. True, Handel could have kept the Messiah all to himself as his own little worshipful exercise, but why? It reduces the capacity of the artistic process to honor the Living God. The creation and enjoyment of virtually any sort of art (real art, that is) can be directed thus, but for the sake of illustration, let us suppose that I am working on an oratorio on the story of Gideon (I am not, though it would be awesome), the likes of which the world has never seen. The creative work itself makes the first half of the artistic process. The release of the completed work makes the second. The former allows for individual worship through artistic creation, and the second allows that same worship to expand into the community.
To conclude, I think it is only right to return to the music and poetry of courtship. Some of the finest examples of both music and poetry were written to this end. A look at the life of G. K. Chesterton, from whom I borrowed most of the ideas in the above article, shows that he well understood the importance of such poetry. He has left us some fine examples to be followed, as has the Bard, as has Petrarch, as have more than I can count. There are even some among the works of Poe. John Keats is a unique case, as he composed his while he died of tuberculosis, in lieu of being able to actually form a romance. Landing once again upon that word, Romance, I think it is best to leave the conclusion to Chesterton. This is really his argument, anyway, if he wants it. Romance, says Chesterton in the first chapter of Orthodoxy, is Christianity's answer to the double spiritual need for the familiar and the unfamiliar. It is adventure and homeland at once. It is a paradox, but it is true.
Long ago, there was a variety of poetry known as the poetry of courtship. This is what a young man writes when he courts a young lady. It is oft accompanied by the music of courtship, if the courtier happens to be skilled in music, as he should be. Alas, as far as I know, almost nobody does this anymore. There are many reasons for this, the most obvious being that there are not many courts in which courtiers can court these days. Of course, courtship has long gone on without any actual court; the persistence of the verb "to court" is really no more than a linguistic curiosity. More significantly, the loss of poetry and music in courtship can be attributed to a widespread lack of ability in both those subjects among young men. These are no longer essential parts of a well-rounded education, cast into the outer darkness, weeping and gnashing their teeth alongside Greek and Latin. If a young man is to learn poetry and music, he must do so of his own accord. God willing, he might even discover the wellspring of inspiration stowed among mythologies, histories, and Classics, not to mention the Truth.
Let us suppose that a young man has sought after these lost arts, and let us suppose a young lady has caught his fancy. The young man has been very reckless in allowing this to happen, but it is only with a bit of recklessness that a fantastic adventure may begin, as Chesterton once said. Bilbo was not forced to leave Bag End, and Frodo was not asked to bear the ring. Neither Bilbo nor Frodo sought his adventure nor was either at all adventurous. That is what makes them adventurers. Like these fine hobbits, our dear fellow remains on the road onto which he has wandered, able to be reckless and adventurous because he is not at home. The adventurous man by nature is at home adventuring, so he can never be adventurous or reckless.
Back to our dear fellow, it is evident by his pursuit of music and poetry that the lyric impulse, as Chesterton called it, is upon him, and now he suddenly has an immediate subject of which he must sing. There is no choice in the matter. To ignore the lyric impulse is to remain silent despite welling with song, and to do this is to inflict a sharp heartache. If our young man is genuine, he should have much to express regarding this young lady, with whom he has stumbled upon such wonderful excellence. I daresay that the poetry of courtship, in some form or other, is an absolute necessity, for the lyric impulse is itself loving adoration.
When I identify the lyric impulse, that which drives us to create, with love, my reasoning should already be evident in my definition of the lyric impulse. Do not, however, misunderstand the sense in which I here employ the English word "love." I do not limit my meaning to romantic love, which is adventurous love. I mean to cover the breadth of its meaning, from brotherly and sisterly love (the love of friendship), to the love between parents and their children (domestic love), and beyond, ultimately tracing itself to Divine love, which is Love. Is it not for the sake of love that we are made, not only initially, but also continually restored by the resurrection of the Christ, who is Love? And surely this does not cease upon the shedding of this mortal coil.
I have already explained that romantic love is adventurous. How strange that its consequence is generally the domestic love of parenthood, which is the opposite of adventure. Really, it is ideal, this familial interplay, because it is a paradox. (Chesterton would be proud of me right now.) How else can these varieties of love, even in contradiction, be fused so perfectly? Between the parents, there is all the adventure of romance. With children, the family is born, and thus the children have a home in this strange and wonderful (and too often terrible) world all around. With more children, brotherly and sisterly love expands, as do the other varieties. It is not by chance that procreation and love are ideally and inseparably linked.
Does this reflect the Divine Love? Indeed, for what love is more reckless and so adventurous as a surrender of one's very self to another? This is Christianity, in which there is no place for any uncrucified and unresurrected self. It is all adventure: the adventure of death, only to be met with the strangest and most unexpected adventure of all, resurrection, an ongoing adventure that leads straight home. In fact, it is home in the making. So it is all domestic. God is our Father, and he makes it very clear time and time again that we do well to view him as such, and we are all His children together. It is all brotherhood, sisterhood, and friendship. Christ is our brother, and the head of His Church. We are His body, together the children in the Divine family. Christianity amplifies Love.
Having digressed, let us now return to our friend. If our young man were to fail to possess some modicum of the lyric impulse or fail to heed it, he would only be fooling himself, and his misadventure would end in disaster. He would have to have been wrongheaded from the start. Having no urge to express love, it must be absent. As an aside, some who call themselves artists speak highly of expressing themselves, and this is wrong. Art is optimally about expressing some variety of love, ultimately Love, not oneself. Who is this artist to think that anyone is interested in him, but everyone is interested in love, something that is far greater than any artist. The surest sign that an artist is a fraud is that he calls himself an artist.
What of this simple young man, though, struggling to compose some reflection of this beautiful maiden? That is precisely it: reflection, or in a more philosophical terminology representation. When our lad composes a sonnet or a liebesleid for his lass, he does so in an effort to represent the inexpressible excellence he sees when her mere presence alights his eyes or when the simple sound of her voice graces his ears. When he has finished an artistic work of this kind, however, he finds himself in a complex situation. He has, at least for a time, sung the lyric impulse, and all is well. Alas, of his completed work, he is keenly aware that its excellence does not fully capture the excellence of its subject. One would expect this to be disappointing, but in truth this realization is far from it. The young man has made a work of art, something that is meant to be beautiful above all else, something that is beautiful, and yet his beloved is immeasurably more so.
What of the quality of the work? It is an interesting point of the poetry of courtship that, as far as the latter conclusion is concerned, ability is only of relative concern. A sonnet of Shakespeare and a lyric of our dear friend are on equal footing. Whether the Bard, by his immaculate verse, sings a mere semblance of the beauty of his beloved or our friend, in his childish folly, bellows but a poor reflection of his own fair maiden, it does not matter. The only condition is that each worked his song with all the resources he could offer, only to reach that invariable conclusion to which I have already alluded. The lover will be humbled, and by this tribute so too should be the beloved. For she, I suspect, should sense that our young man has bled his heart into his work, producing something beautiful as a reflection of her. To see reflected back from the artwork the immense adoration of our young man, she ought not help but to feel humbled that someone thinks so highly of her, for if she is nearly as excellent as our young man thinks, she will not place herself on such a pedestal, even if she could. Each, therefore, will be in humble adoration of the other, thanks to the poetry of courtship.
Is work of higher quality better? For the above purposes, I am honestly inclined to think that the question, outside of extraordinary circumstances, highly irrelevant. Where the question of artistic quality enters into relevance is the ability of our young man to enjoy his own work and perhaps for others to appreciate the art. It is better, I think, to have representations that can be enjoyed without necessarily any knowledge that they refer to anyone. To love a Shakespearean sonnet does not require that you know anything about its subject. What an honor it must be, though, to be the subject of a much beloved work of art. How much greater would our young man's tribute be if it turned out to be a great work of art? The question of quality is most relevant for our young man's striving with all his being to do something great, but even if he did, he and his lady would still face certain happy humility.
The question of the third party, those who might enjoy a work of art, eschews the position of an interesting possibility, as seen in the latter case, and assumes a position of prominence when it comes to making art reflecting God and the things of God. True, Handel could have kept the Messiah all to himself as his own little worshipful exercise, but why? It reduces the capacity of the artistic process to honor the Living God. The creation and enjoyment of virtually any sort of art (real art, that is) can be directed thus, but for the sake of illustration, let us suppose that I am working on an oratorio on the story of Gideon (I am not, though it would be awesome), the likes of which the world has never seen. The creative work itself makes the first half of the artistic process. The release of the completed work makes the second. The former allows for individual worship through artistic creation, and the second allows that same worship to expand into the community.
To conclude, I think it is only right to return to the music and poetry of courtship. Some of the finest examples of both music and poetry were written to this end. A look at the life of G. K. Chesterton, from whom I borrowed most of the ideas in the above article, shows that he well understood the importance of such poetry. He has left us some fine examples to be followed, as has the Bard, as has Petrarch, as have more than I can count. There are even some among the works of Poe. John Keats is a unique case, as he composed his while he died of tuberculosis, in lieu of being able to actually form a romance. Landing once again upon that word, Romance, I think it is best to leave the conclusion to Chesterton. This is really his argument, anyway, if he wants it. Romance, says Chesterton in the first chapter of Orthodoxy, is Christianity's answer to the double spiritual need for the familiar and the unfamiliar. It is adventure and homeland at once. It is a paradox, but it is true.
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