What Went Wrong? – Story of Civilization VI.xvi.viii-VI.xxiii.viii

“If God spare me life, ere many years I will cause the boy that driveth the plow to know more of the Scripture than you do.” With these words, William Tyndale answered a man who disapproved Tyndale’s efforts to translate and print the Bible in English for the first time.

The words capture well the sentiment of the first years of printing. Just like Aldus Manutius in Venice, Tyndale saw in the printing press the beginning of an era when obstacles and impediments to the spread of knowledge were about to disappear. Tyndale assumed that when the press allowed him to create, at fractions of its former cost, vernacular editions of the Bible for every man, woman, and child in England, nothing further would stand in the way of the spread of full knowledge of the Bible.

What went wrong? It’s five hundred years after Tyndale forecast the wisdom of farmhands, and the children of the country – nay, the whole of society – seem as ignorant of the Bible as in Tyndale’s day. A reference, from a clearly biased, but well-referenced source, cites many examples of Biblical illiteracy. For example, “God helps those who helps themselves” is supposed to be the most widely-known Bible verse in America, despite the fact that it is not actually in the Bible.

Perhaps it’s a problem the recognition of which Durant attributes to Roger Bacon: “But what if the progress of physical science gives man more power without improving his purposes?” (IV.xxxvii.vii) This seems to be precisely the problem that modern man faces. The medieval peasant did not know scripture not because he could not read, but because he did not care to. He was content to take his religion in small doses, on weekends, just as are people today. Knowledge is more available than ever before, but man’s desire to know it has not changed.

Still, this seems odd. One would think that the very availability of the cherished wisdom of Plato and Aristotle, Caesar and Marcus Aurelius, even Abelard, Aquinas, and Bacon, would cause their spread. One imagines that one man alone could read the classics, could transmit them to his offspring, and that from that day forward, he and his would have the wisdom of the ancients. And so the love of wisdom, and obedience to its precepts, would spread, ratchet-like, from family to family. For after all, who in their right mind would know wisdom and not use it, and teach it to his sons? (We leave aside as too complicated for present discussion the question of what wisdom is, and leave unquestioned the assumptions that it is desirable and transmissable.)

This reasoning is clearly not true, given the absence of any genuine popular effort to utilize the wisdom of the past, or even to study the Bible. Nonetheless, it is sufficiently convincing that we must require some positive explanation for man’s present behavior. It is not enough to say that what is is “human nature” and leave it at that. What is human nature? What elements of man’s character have brought him to the present pass? Why does the farmhand not wish to quote scripture to his purpose?

The answer, I think, lies in our soma society. Soma is the vaguely-described wonder drug of Huxley’s dystopian Brave New World. The drug induces extremely pleasurable “trips” or “vacations” lasting from hours to weeks, and appears to occupy much of people’s time as the ultimate mode of recreation.

There are many sources of soma in the world today: video games, television, alcohol, marijuana, pornography, literary trash, fast food, and many more. All are pleasurable in virtually limitless amounts, console our sorrows, and cap our joys. Most importantly, all are so cheap as to be easily within the reach of all but the poorest in our society. They deaden our aspiration and inspiration. Once we have achieved a mild modicum of success, we have no reason to strive, having secured access to limitless stores of soma.

What’s more, we have no reason to contemplate. What is the need to ask why, or question the eternal, after a long day’s work, and when soma is just an arm’s reach away? Why do something so hard, and to which we are unaccustomed and ill-equipped, when soma is so familiar and so easy? Soma itself appears to provide the answer. Pleasure is an end.

But perhaps the classics of today are the somas of yesteryear. Did not Vanity Fair or Dickens in their serial releases, arouse the same passion that Lost arouses today? Who can say what the future will remember as our classics? Even the lost vulgar dramas of Plato may have been somaa in their time.

And what goal is more worthy? Beyond soma, there is only the will to power. All of our virtue, all of our striving for excellence, our sexual and social pursuits, and our bold plans for better worlds, all these are only the will to power, the ambition to dominate our fellow man.

Story of Civilization – IV.xxxix.i – IV.Epilogue

We come at last to The Divine Comedy, with which Durant closes the “age of faith”.  It is a fitting way to end the age of faith because The Divine Comedy in many ways embodies the follies and absurdities of that age.  It is obsessed with the mystic and occult, accepts astrology uncritically, and needless to say, takes as its premise that very greatest of absurd mystic occultisms, the Catholic faith, with all of the “mysteries of faith” that it carries along with it.

Still, The Divine Comedy is a great work of art, marked by a unity and perfection of execution very rare in any age and from the hand of any artist.  The reader, with Dante, is lifted from the bowels of hell to the highest circle of Heaven, and experiences, through the force and vividness of Dante’s writing, the same elevation that the soul itself out to experience from such an ascent.

Typical of Dante’s masterful integration of allegory into his work is his use of Virgil and Beatrice as guides.  Durant summarizes “Virgil, who guides Dante through hell and purgatory, stands for knowledge, reason, wisdom, which can lead us to the portals of happiness; only faith and love (Beatrice) can lead us in.”  The Divine Comedy, then, will be a depressing read for those of us who prefer Virgil to God.

Dante’s aim is the worthiest, perhaps the only worthy purpose of art: he wishes to teach man to be happy.  In his aspiration as well as in form, his work is perfect.  Let us be thankful that in the choice of matter for his work, the use of faith to achieve happiness, he was so very wrong.  He has left the greatest art to be discovered by future generations.

The Prisoner: The General

“The General” is a broad-based satire of modern education. It mocks deconstruction and examines the shortcomings introduced into education by the necessity of educating huge numbers of people.

There is much in “The General” to suggest a desire for a return to a study of the classics and the Great Books.  In several places, “The General” criticizes modern education, represented by the Village’s Speedlearn program, as empty.  “Finding things a bit strange?” the Professor’s wife asks Number Six.  “That is the trouble,” he replies, “I can’t find anything at all.”  When he steals into her house, he enters a tastefully decorated room filled with draped busts.  One is inclined to suspect that they are Greek or Roman, but when Number Six removes the drapery, we are surprised to find that they are busts of the leaders of the Village.  In other words, the leaders of the modern educational movement idolize only themselves, and not the great thinkers of the past.  Finally, the question that Number Six uses to destroy the General (which turns out to be a computer) is simply “Why?”  He asserts that no machine can answer this question, nor any human.  All of these examples point to a thesis that education ought not merely to fill our heads with science and the sterile literature of today’s educated class, but instead to teach us true art, to expose us to things that stir the soul and suggest where we might find meaning.

One scene, in which Number Six inquires of the Professor’s wife why a student is standing on his head (“to gain a new perspective”) reminds us that satire of education is an old art.  Recall a similar scene from Aristophanes’ Clouds.  Strepsiades is examining Socrates’ “Thoughtery of wise souls”:

Strepsiades: …[W]hat are those fellows doing, bent all double?
Disciple: They are sounding the abysses of Tartarus.
Strepsiades: Why do their rumps point toward heaven?
Disciple: They’re being taught astronomy too.

The hollowness of modern education is further examined with “Speedlearning” itself.  Speedlearning’s motto is “100 percent entry, 100 percent pass.”  In just fifteen seconds, Speedlearning enables all of the citizens of the Village learn a complete college course in history, and they can then go about quoting to each other facts about the Boer Wars.  The knowledge turns out to be shallow, though; the citizens know the rote facts, but they attach no meaning to them.  When Number Twelve, a sneaky rebel, asks Number Six, who has just finished the Speedlearning course, “What was the Treaty of Adrianople?” Number Six responds “September, 1829″.  The students of Speedlearning are unable to adapt the facts they have learned to new situations.

I think there is much value in this satire.  We live in an amazing age.  The Earth is more populous than ever before, so much so that up to six percent of all people ever born are walking the Earth today.  Literacy and the availability of accumulated written wisdom are both more widespread, and reaching far greater absolute numbers of people, than at all previous points in history.  Despite all this, the student of history knows that the behavior of people today is not substantially different from the behavior of the uneducated masses of forgotten eras.  We are still subject to xenophobia, jingoism, manipulation, greed, and religion.  How can this be, given the nearly free availability of knowledge?  The failure cannot be in anything but the agents we have chosen to disperse that knowledge, educators who have seen fit to mock and destroy the accumulated wisdom of ages.

For those fortunate enough to have studied the classics, some secrets are known.  Plato could not teach us to be wise, but he at least filled us with a desire to be wise.  He could not teach us the truth, but he at least assured us that it existed.  What is the ignorance and denial of modern America but a complete escape from the desire to know, and the belief in absolute truth?  We see in the anti-intellectualism, the anti-scientific movement, and the race for wealth only the simple fact that people have not been taught to strive for goodness and wisdom.

The Prisoner: Dance of the Dead

Note: This is yet another cultural production for which an understanding of Crito is essential.

“Dance of the Dead” concerns what happens when a free individual, unwillingly participating in a coercive society, breaks “the rules”.  Society – and its members – frown on rule-breaking.  In this episode, Number Six discovers a radio on the beach.  Possession of a radio is against the rules, and so the issue goes to trial, and culminates with an angry mob chasing Number Six through the Village headquarters.  The people are not pleased with a man who has been so bold as to shake the foundations of their society by breaking their rules.

The exchange in which Number Six confronts the observer who reported his possession of the radio lays out the major themes:

Observer: I had my duty.
Number Six: To whom?
Observer: To everyone. The rules. “Of the people, by the people, for the people.”
Number Six: Takes on a new meaning.
Observer: You’re a wicked man!
Number Six: Wicked?
Observer: You have no values!
Number Six: Different values.
Observer: You won’t be helped.
Number Six: Destroyed.
Observer: You want to spoil things.
Number Six: I won’t be a goldfish in a bowl.

The Observer is giving Socrates’ answer to Crito.  The Observer, just like Socrates, considers the rules an entity to which she owes higher duty than any person or individual whim.  She considers the breaking of the rules to be an assault on them.

Unfortunately, “Dance of the Dead” does not answer this Socratic argument.  Number Six asserts that his values are different, and that he wishes to preserve his individualism.  Later, when he is literally on trial for possession of the radio, he mocks the shallow, artificial nature of the proceedings.  He questions the legitimacy of the legal forms, particularly the fact that his defense is given by his nemesis, Number Two.  But nowhere does an argument appear for the prerogative of the individual to break rules at will.  Even if the trial is a sham, if the mechanisms of justice are corrupt, does that mean that every rule is subject to the judgment of every individual?  Surely not.

Perhaps the answer that “The Prisoner” seeks to provide is to an earlier stage of the Socratic argument (and an earlier episode).  Yes, an individual in contract with society cannot break the rules, assault the laws, and seek to destroy society at will.  This would be most unjust.  But suppose an individual is not in contract with society.  Socrates assumes this contract; he says it is implicit in an individual’s decision to remain a participant in a society.  But suppose there is no alternative; suppose the citizen is, in fact, a prisoner.  A prisoner by definition does not enter into contract with his guardians; he is held against his will precisely because he will not acknowledge the law of the guardians that he is to be imprisoned.  In this case, perhaps the law, or the rules, are subject to the judgment of the individual.

But are citizens of modern society prisoners or willing participants?  Indeed, the sole alternative to participation, for both Socrates and Number Six, appears to be anarchy.  Number Six’s response to the suggestion of anarchy is “Here, here!”  This is unsatisfactory; anarchy does not solve the problem of how to reconcile the freedom of the individual with his mandatory participation in a society.  The declaration that there is a contradiction between individual freedom and social order is not a serious intellectual position; it is a complaint.  Further exposition is needed.

Roman Polanski and the French

This time the cheese-eating surrender monkeys have gone too far.  In contemplating the recent detainment of Roman Polanski, the man who had sex with a thirteen-year-old girl, the New York Times cites the opinion of a former French cultural minister, Jack Lang:

“…for Europeans the development showed that the American system of justice had run amok.   ‘Sometimes, the American justice system shows an excess of formalism… like an infernal machine that advances inexorably and blindly.’”

In essence, Lang’s point is an argument that individuality should trump the laws.  Because Roman Polanski is a great artist, the venial sin of having sex with a minor ought to be forgiven.  After all, it’s been a long time, and it’s just a little law that was broken.  He’s paid his dues and then some, right?  The characterization of the American justice system as “running amok” (the Times’s, not Lang’s) and “an infernal machine” “inexorably and blindly” advancing seem intended to communicate the idea that the American justice system is behaving in an out of control way, and being destructive rather than creative.

This idea is exactly correct, if you consider that art and civility are being destroyed by that nasty business of the detention – much more nasty than coercive sex with minors.  It is not correct, however, if you consider that the American justice system is not so much “running amok” as doing exactly what its creators intended for it to do, which is to administer justice, blindly and dispassionately.  The justice system was intended to create justice, not to preserve corrupt artists.  It was intended to be blind!

Nonetheless, Lang and the Times seem to believe that at some point, the justice system should just stop if the art community and the good people of France tell it to do so.  Because it does not, it is “running amok”.  They seem to believe that it is the duty of prosecutors to wink and condone the sins of the great, rather than being so formal, and to weigh the balance of a person’s accomplishments before prosecuting his crimes.

The point is a good one if you believe that the rich, the powerful, and the talented should be above the law.  It suffers, though, if you believe that laws exist precisely to enforce a certain level of equality and decency that are apt to be discarded by those rich and powerful.  To the Times, I say “For shame!”  Recall the story of Charondas, dictator of Catana: in order to prevent the intimidation of the public by displays of force, he ordered that no citizen should be permitted to wear arms in public assembly, on pain of death.  One day, after suppressing a band of brigands who had been causing terror in the city, he rushed to an assembly on the subject, forgetting to disarm.  A citizen reproached him for breaking his own law, to which he responded, “I will rather confirm it.”  So saying, he drew his sword and slew himself.

Charondas, unlike Roman Polanski, acknowledged the supreme value of laws over the judgment of individuals, which is so often blinded by a moment’s vicissitude or the perspective of inflamed passions.  One might even argue that Charondas saw that, even if it appeared unjust that he himself should be punished for a law that he had not intended to break, the greater justice was that it be forcefully illustrated to all of the citizens that the law must always be obeyed.

Charondas had the humility of Socrates, another Greek who had great respect for the law: the story of “Crito” lays out Socrates’ reasons for accepting the capital punishment at the hands of his people despite the apparent injustice of the sentence.  Wikipedia summarizes the arguments with more clarity than I could possibly preserve.

Charondas and Socrates had the humility to put the laws over themselves even when the stakes were their own lives.  Polanski had the arrogance to put his own enjoyment above the laws for far lower stakes.  I will hope that the laws punish not just his original misdeed, but the damage his arrogance – or cowardice – has done to the idea of blind and equal justice across the board.

A footnote: the Times has recently come under fire (summarized here) for inadequate coverage of the Acorn scandal.  Its excuse then was that it was incompetent.  What’s the excuse this time?  How does a supposedly illustrious journalistic enterprise excuse this piece of wandering, rhapsodic crap?  Is this bag of bigoted anecdotes journalism?  Are you kidding me?

Against Torture

In my writings on the right to bear arms, I’ve been hard on some of the writers at salon.com, so I thought I’d note that some actual thought is going on over there also.  Glenn Greenwald, here, provides an extremely good dissection of what was apparently a horrendous piece of journalism by the Washington Post.  The first half of Greenwald’s article is a frustrating argument against the contention of the Post article itself, that torture provided good information.  This part was frustrating to read, because it misses the obvious point that whatever information it provided, the torture was both illegal and immoral.  Fortunately, Greenwald eventually gets to this (more) important point in the second half, and provides us with some catharsis.

I mean seriously… torture is illegal… if you condone torture, you condone breaking the law, whenever, in your judgment, it’s okay to do so.  I mean, that’s basically the argument that the fascist talking heads are making: they think, that in their judgment, the ends justified the means, no matter how illegal and immoral the means were, so the rest of us can just shut the hell up.  Ergo, if any minority anywhere thinks any depraved, criminal act would benefit the majority of the nation, they should undertake it.  I heartily recommend Crito to any ignorant buffoon who doesn’t understand the idea that laws come before men.

Edit: I’ve been doing some thinking and it occurred to me that there is one aspect of this analysis that Greenwald overlooked.  The Post might not be writing this piece out of any desire to appear conservative or to support Dick Cheney… their true motive may be related to the fiction now vigorously pursued in our national dialogue that a “fair and balanced” debate will present two sides to every issue, no matter how factually incorrect or outrageous one of those sides will be.  In other words, the Post may be going out of its way to present a perspective on torture that appears to “balance” its generally “liberal” tilt, despite the fact that it understands – or at least believes – the piece to have little merit.  Gaaaaah.

Story of Civilization – I.2.XIX.i – I.2.XX.iv

Chapter XIX was a tortuous rehashing of the Vedanta religion/philosophy, which I have already excoriated.

Chapter XX is turning out a bit more interesting; Durant has provided a brief summary of India’s two most important historical pieces of literature: the Mahabharata and the Ramayana.  He compares them to the Iliad and the Odyssey, respectively, and the comparison is at least superficially just.  The former is a tale of wars, the later of a personal crusade; both are epic poems cobbled together over the years by many authors.

I suspect both works are worthy of further study, although the Mahabharata is seven times longer than the Iliad and the Odyssey combined.  At the least, both works contain extensive philosophical interpretations that would permit the reader to judge firsthand India’s contributions to the realm of philosophy.

Review – Henry IV Parts 1 and 2 and Henry V

It is not for me to judge the work of the Bard; furthermore, it is not for me to supplant him… this review is for those who have read Henry IV and Henry V and are looking for further thoughts. If you have not, cease wasting your time and do something productive!

-Here we find the source of “Discretion is the better part of valor.” Falstaff, the original arrant knave if ever there was one, after having mocked the idea of honor as consisting of mere air, plays dead to avoid fighting the dangerous Earl of Douglas. He then congratulates himself on his wisdom, saying “The better part of valour is discretion” (V.iv.118-9). The next time we find some pompous ass quoting this adage, we can remind himself that the valorous Harry became king of England, while discrete Falstaff was a corrupt drunkard eventually banished from Harry’s presence.

-Shakespeare is quite the handy royal apologist. Consider the bare facts as the common man would have seen them: Henry IV fought hard to put together a kingdom, while his son Harry Monmouth spent his days in idleness and moral dissipation. Meanwhile, Harry Hotspur fought valorously for England. Eventually, Hotspur, wronged by the king, turned on him; Monmouth, in a stroke of luck, defeated him in combat, and later went on to become a surprisingly decent king. Shakespeare succeeds in painting all of this as a plot, started at a very young age by Monmouth to become the best king ever… “So, when this loose behavior I throw off, / And pay the debt I never promised, / By how much better than my word I am / By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes.” (I.ii.78-81). Leaving aside the disingenuousness of such a scheme, this is surely the most incredible – literally speaking – explanation of the storyline seen by common perception that can be imagined. But Shakespeare does not stop here; the entire play seems to be an exercise in portraying Monmouth as tortured by the responsibility of preparing for the throne, while depicting Hotspur as a grasping fool… valorous, yes, but spending much of his time bickering with his allies and playing at dividing up territory… we see little in him of the maturity required to rule a nation.

-More on Monmouth: Shakespeare really is the the handy royal apologist: Harry Monmouth does not show his grief at his father’s illness not because he is not sad, but because there is no point in putting on what other people would view as a pretense. He cavorts around with his father’s crown not because he eagerly anticipates his own ascent to the throne, but because he truly, mistakenly believed his father to be dead, and wanted to “try with the crown as one would try an opponent.” My ass. “Accusing it, I put it on my head, / To try with it, as with an enemy / That had before my face murder’d my father, / The quarrel of a true inheritor.” IV.v.173-6.

-Through Shakespeare’s excellent writing, we conclude seeing Worchester as the ultimate villain… egging on Hotspur, lying to him as necessary, etc. This last is an essential part of Shakespeare’s case that Worchester is evil. But is he? Seeing no powerful argument here for the rights of Henry IV to the throne, we are inclined to accept, in the absence of any other story, Hotspur’s family’s story of how Henry IV ascended to the throne. And so ultimately, is this not merely a case of might makes right?

-Henry V… Shakespeare’s greatest hero? The entire war that is the central conflict of Harry V is waged on an imaginary pretense. We see clearly in the first act that the war is merely an attempt by the Archbishop of Canterbury to distract attention from a motion in parliament to seize the lands and possessions of the Church for the government. In the first scene he alludes to this law and mentions that to persuade Harry not to do it he will give him a huge sum of money. In the second scene, he unfolds Harry’s claim to the throne of France. He is by FAR the most forceful advocate of the war; indeed, almost its only advocate, aside from some peripheral comments from Exeter and Westmoreland. When Harry responds with worries on Scotland’s aggressiveness, Canterbury brushes them aside and replies that Harry should only take a quarter of his military to England… almost as if he wants Harry to fail… aren’t Harry’s inadequate numbers a major problem later at Agincourt?

Oh the arrogance of this apologism!  The scene where Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey are arrested is reminiscent of Jesus and Judas… wonderment is expressed that mere money could corrupt these three, much like it is said that Judas handed over Jesus for as base a motive as 30 pieces of silver. Henry calls it an inadequate motive, especially for Scroop. He further emphasizes that for his own person, he exacts no revenge, but for the safety of the kingdom, much as Judas’s offence was not against Jesus, but against the whole moral order of the world. And finally, like Judas, the traitors consider themselves unfit to live, and bemoan their crimes while dismissing their capital end. Perhaps the comparison is not so much arrogance… Judas and Brutus are the prototypical traitors, and I suppose it could be expected that they would be the first sources of comparison for anyone discussing treason.

-Finally, a recurring theme in this series of plays is the burden of monarchy.  Consider Henry V IV.i.116-170 and Henry IV, Part 2 III.i.6-32.

Story of Civilization – I.1.IX.iv – I.1.X.iv

This will be a post in two parts: first Babylon, and then Assyria.

Durant is unimpressed with Babylon.  The chapter on Babylonian civilization flew by me almost before I had set into my mind that the civilization existed, and I cannot help but think that Durant’s contempt has informed my own.  Consider, for example, his opening statement on the arts: “That a keen esthetic sense, if not a profound creative spirit, survived to some degree the Babylonian absorption in commercial life, epicurean recreation, and compensatory piety, may be seen in the chance relics of the minor arts” (italics mine).  We can hardly expect that the outcome of a chapter opening like that will be awe.

And yet, in a way, it is, for despite the gloss on other components of Babylonian civilization, Durant devotes appropriate attention to what I think is not just the greatest creation of Babylon, but perhaps one of the greatest creations of all of antiquity: the epic of Gilgamesh.  The epic of Gilgamesh is perhaps one of the oldest full narratives in history, and it is profound.

In fact, I would flag it here as recommended further reading: the Epic of Gilgamesh.

Gilgamesh is the first epic that deals with the most fundamental questions that keep every man awake at night: what happens to us when we die? Is there any way to avoid death?  Gilgamesh represents not merely a hero, but mankind itself.  He conquers his fellow man – the native, wild impulses of mankind.  He conquers Humbaba, the wild beast of the forest.  He learns friendship and love, the best of man’s virtues.  He watches his friends die, and undertakes a quest to understand the meaning of life.  Siduri, a tavern-keeper by the seashore, tells him the answer in simple words, giving him a piece of wisdom that, four millenia later, man cannot fully understand:

“Remember always, might king, / that gods decreed the fates of all / many years ago. They alone are let / to be eternal, while we frail humans die / as you yourself must someday do. / What is best for us to do / is now to sing and dance. / Relish warm food and cool drinks. / Cherish children to whom your love gives life. / Bathe easily in sweet, refreshing waters. / Play joyfully with your chosen wife.” / “It is the will of the gods for you to smile / on simple pleasure in the leisure time of your short days. “

Gilgamesh is undissuaded by Siduri’s advice and travels across the sea to meet Utnapishtim, the only man to escape mortality.  Utnapishtim gives the gift of immortality to Gilgamesh, but on his way back to civilization, a snake steals it…

So old are the beginnings of the tales of creation that haunt our collective mind to this day.  It is ironic that we have kept the parts about theft and flood, but lost the great wisdom of Siduri.

Time presses me.  About Assyria, I will say only this: as Durant describes it, Assyria was a brutal, militant companion civilization of Babylonia.  To get an idea of the brutality, consider this quote, from Durant:

“The severed head of the Elamite king was brought to Ashurbanipal as he feasted with his queen in the palace garden; he had the head raised on a pole in the midst of his guests, and the royal revel went on; later the head was fixed over the gate of Nineveh, and slowly rotted away.  The Elamite general, Dananu, was flayed alive, and then was bled like a lamb; his brother had his throat cut, and his body divided into pieces, which were distributed over the country as souvenirs.”

There are tales of mass slaughter of opposing armies and even civilians, even after they had surrendered.  It is only in the context of such history that the stories of the Old Testament can make sense.

Blogging Through the Story of Civilization

It is with some trepidation that I write this post, for I am about to announce the undertaking of a task that may be far beyond my resources to complete.  Will Durant spent his lifetime writing “The Story of Civilization”, and I intend to read the whole thing.  The series is eleven massive volumes long, covering our race’s history from before the dawn of civilization up until the age of Napolean.

I intend not merely to read the entire Story of Civilization, but to react to it here, in the public eye, every day.  With luck, I will spend at least  an hour or two, six days a week, reading, and at least some very small amount of time posting my reaction to that day’s reading.

I expect my reactions to be varied: reactions to Durant and his ideas, reactions to the fascinating anecdotes and characters he portrays from history, reactions to the lessons they teach us… reactions to it all.  Moreover, for the student of history, I intend to note any areas where Durant is obviously wrong (outdated) or where further study is clearly needed.  For the bibliophile, I intend to note two particular varieties of further reading: as above, places where further study is warranted, with, if possible, promising modern works that may fill in detail that Durant could not access, and as a second variety of further reading, particular classics from the various civilizations that Durant notes that themselves may be worthy of consideration or study.

History is the study of the actions of our fellow men; in learning about them, we learn about ourselves and our contemporaries.  We acquire a great sense of humility, learning, as Ecclesiastes teaches us, that there is nothing new under the Sun.  We learn the origins of the ideas of today, and in so doing, understand them better.  We hope to see how tiny fluctuations over short times fit into greater patterns; then, if we can discern such a fluctuation happening in the modern day, we may hope also to discern what greater pattern it may fit into.  Hell, I don’t know what we’ll learn from history.  We’ll learn that after we’re done.

In the posts that follow, I will vastly expand the constellation of tags that I use to categorize posts, as if I write a post every day, I will have a great many posts explicitly relating to Durant’s writing, and therefore, requiring sorting particular to his interests and foci.

So long as this format is applicable, I will denote the parts of a book I have read on a particular day as follows. Volume.Book.Chapter.Subchapter.Section… I will try to always finish a complete section.

I beg any readers interested in the history of civilization or Durant’s work in particular to comment; I suspect you will be few, but you are not alone, and perhaps a little dialogue will ameliorate the dusty nature of these tomes.