Are you suggesting coconuts migrate?

So, instead of 'Girl With a Pearl Earring' we're watching 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail.' Infinitely better, in my opinion. However, finding a way to relate it to the particular time period this class covers is not so easy. One of my favorite scenes, though, is the one in which Sir Bevedere is helping to determine whether or not a woman is a witch. This scene is hilarious. Mostly because the "logical" conclusion they come to is completely ridiculous, but also partly because they are using a somewhat skewed version of the scientific method developed around the time of the Scientific Revolution. They have a general hypothesis - that she's a witch. They make observations, use deductive reasoning, and experiment (weigh her against a duck), to come to the conclusion. The fact that the reasoning behind the reasoning makes some sense makes the situation all the funnier.
This film should be shown in any classes dealing with natural sciences ("It's a simple matter of weight ratio. A five ounce swallow cannot carry a one pound coconut!"), political sciences ("Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not some farcical aquatic ceremony."), or history. I'm just saying.

Candide

This is by far the most humorous, entertaining text we've read so far. The first half was pretty good, but the second half was better. What makes it so funny is that he really seems to poke fun at people indiscriminately - the young, old, rich, poor, religious, slave, and every nationality Candide encounters, except the Eldoradeons. I could cite dozens of things I found funny, but I'll restrain myself to a few. One that cracked me up outright occurred in chapter 23. "Candide was so stunned and so shocked by what he saw, and heard, that he refused even to set foot on English soil, but bargained with the Dutch captain (without caring if this one fleeced him as the other had done, in Surinam)..." I don't know if that particular pun is in the original text or a product of the English translation, but I like it. The first Dutch merchant stole his sheep, "fleeced" him; how can you not laugh at that?
The visit to Signor Pococurante in Venice is also good. The Signor is described as a man of taste, so superior in his own thoughts that he is bored by marvellous works of art around him. He is bored to dead reading Homer, Virgil, Cicero, owns paintings by Raphael but says they are not perfect enough, and do no look like "nature itself" so he ignores them.
After reading a little Rousseau earlier in the week, centering on the "natural state of man," the episode with the cannibals is an obvious jab at those ideas. Eating each other is a natural state, says Cacambo, and the only reason Europeans don't do it is that they have a sufficient alternative food supply.
Candide and the rest of the characters suffer many misfortunes and setbacks; nothing ever seems to go right or as planned. They just can't catch a break. Not even Pangloss, who didn't even receive the courtesy of being properly hung.
On a side note, reflecting on the allegory of the Fall present in chapter 1, the rest of the book seems like a skewed version of the book of Job. Candide encounters many obstacles and disasters, however, unlike Job, he repeatedly renounced optimism only to return to it when the smallest thing went right.

Back and Forth

Tonight, I watched 'The Importance of Being Earnest,' and though it is far from the scope of this class, it made me reflect on something we discussed the other day. Thinking about the rigidity of the social customs of the play compared to time periods after is much like the ebb and flow we talked about, or rather, the great pendulum. It's odd to think about, how we as a civilization seem to go through periods like this, on again off again, full speed or at a crawl, forward progress or near stagnation. Like the swing between the belief in rationality as a supreme virtue and the praising of irrationality. This transition was observed between the era we are currently studying, the Enlightenment, and the following one, the Romantic. It's almost as if people take something so seriously for a while that they can't possibly stand it anymore, so they feel compelled to swing over to the other side. What's even more remarkable is that these transitions involve not just a few human beings, but many, whole societies even. Makes one wonder which side of the pendulum's swing we're on at this moment. Reason seems likely, but so does Irrationality. I suppose there's really no way to accurately analyze our own time, we're far too biased and involved.

Essay on Man

I have to admit, I'm a little confused. The poem starts out saying that man is not the measure of all things, and continues as if he is no more important than any other living thing on the planet. He dismisses the idea that everything in the world was made for us, and says it's more likely we are made for the use of everything else. This I get. But by the end, it sounds like he thinks man is something special. It could be the poem form that's throwing me off, I don't know. The tone just seems different at each end. Maybe it would help to read through it again...

Hamlet

I liked this play, I really did. Almost as much as Macbeth. I still can't decide whether Hamlet seems genuinely crazy or if it is an act. Reading it, he seems more conniving. But watching it on film, he seems truly insane. That could be the particular performance, though. Someday I'd like to see it as a play as well as on film. Anyway, by the fourth act I knew where the story was going. Everyone was going to die. The poisoned cup, the backup plan, was just too much. Things were bound to go south from then on. And lo and behold, all the main characters, except Horatio, were killed by their plotting and crimes. It just goes to show that poison, like faking your own death, is always a bad idea.

That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die

In this essay, Montaigne makes his case on why people should not fear or try to avoid death. Many of his examples, I admit, make sense. Near the end, when he is speaking as Nature, he says, "A thousand men, a thousand animals, a thousand other creatures, die at the same moment that you die." This reminded me of a novel I read recently for a literature class, The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Death is a strong theme in that book as well, considering it is set in a post-apocalyptic world where everything is either dead or dying. In one point, the man and the boy come across an old man, Ely, with which they share some food. The man and Ely are talking about being the last man on the earth. The man says, " How would you know if you were the last man on earth?" Ely replies, " I dont guess you would know it. You'd just be it." "Nobody would know it." "It wouldnt make any difference. When you die its the same as if everybody else did too." (p. 170) In a way, the characters of the novel have embraced Montaigne's ideas. Though only because there is little hope left in living; those that have not died or committed suicide wish they were no longer alive. Anyway, that passage of the essay made me immediately think of the one in the novel. And they make a lot of sense. As far as you're concerned, when you die, nothing else continues to exist; for you, everything has died with you.
(p.s. Please ignore the lack of apostrophes in the McCarthy quote. That's just the way he wrote it.)

Twelfth Night, or, What You Will

This weekend I saw 'Twelfth Night,' as put on by the Casper College Theatre department. What does this have to do with class? Well, it was set in the Renaissance. Plus it was hilarious. I haven't really had many opportunities to read or watch any Shakespeare, and seeing that makes me look forward to the upcoming section on the Catholic Counter-Reformation, in which I believe we are reading 'Hamlet.' In that particular play, the one I saw, I did notice a few things that allude to Shakespeare's participation in or support of the Counter-Reformation. For example, there was one rather amusing part in which Viola, Sir Andrew, the Uncle whose name escapes me and Maria are talking, well, conniving really. They discuss one of Olivia's ministers, who is a Puritan; each time, upon saying the word "Puritan," they all spit on the floor, showing their obvious distaste for such reformed religions.

More and Mirandola

'On the religions of the Utopians,' in Book 2 reminded me rather forcibly of 'On the Dignity of Man,' by Pico della Mirandola. More begins this last section of the Book with a description of the different religions of Utopia; some being the worship of fire, some the moon, planets, prominent men, and so on, as well as the worship of the supreme Being or Deity. 'Being' is a common way to refer to a god or God, but it made me think specifically of Mirandola's treatment of Plato's concept of the One. Raphael, in the story, says, "They differ in this, that one thinks the God whom he worships is this supreme Being, and another thinks that his idol is that God; but they all agree in one principle, that whoever is this supreme Being, He is also that great Essence to whose glory and majesty all honours are ascribed by the consent of all nations." And that explains the connection I made. Mirandola was eccentric in that he collected and studied a variety of religious texts, not only Christian but Muslim and Jewish, including the qabbalah. He equated these differing concepts of God with the One, as if all the differences between religions were merely trifles for all are worshipping the same Being. The same apparently is believed in Utopia, where the founder of the country, "seemed to doubt whether those different forms of religion might not all come from God, who might inspire men in a different manner, and be pleased with this variety."

Predestination?

The other day in class, when we covered the Protestant Reformation, we talked a little about the idea of predestination. How people, long before being born, are already set in life; what they are going to do and where they're going to end up. This doesn't quite make sense to me. Perhaps I'm a bit biased, I was raised to believe in free will. But it seems to me that predestination would eradicate the concept of sin, and thus morality. Sin is pretty much the choice to go against the teachings and laws of God. But if people had no choice, they couldn't technically sin. God's will is good and moral, and so a murderer would not be a sinner, or immoral, because he/she simply was doing as God had planned. And who would call God's plan immoral?
Besides, the whole concept seems like a rather fatalistic way of looking at things. You do what you do, but know it doesn't matter because you really have no control over your fate. Kind of bleak.

Praise of Folly

In the first forty pages, I was interested in Erasmus/Folly's use of many references to classical Greek and Roman mythology. It wasn't what I had expected, but it was amusing. At this point, Folly is declaring that no one or nothing is possible without her. Nothing good, no pleasure, does not have its roots in folly, and she makes the point that even to 'make a child,' she must be present. Sometimes it is difficult to tell if a given section is meant to be serious or a joke, but I suppose that's the whole point, right?

The Prince, pt. 2

In the last chapter, Machiavelli seemed to switch rather rapidly from a calm observance of what princes should and should not do to a plea to the Medici family. He ends the book with an urge to the family to learn from and apply all he has written, and use this information and methods to retake Italy from the "barbarians." The switch was rather abrupt, and now I see how some individuals think that 'The Prince' was written in an attempt to get his old job back.

The Prince

So far, up through chapter thirteen, this text has read like an instruction manual. Which is, of course, it was meant to - if you belong to that particular camp, anyway. However, there was a certain part at the beginning of chapter seven that I found amusing. When Machiavelli is discussing the different ways in which princes come to power, he sets those that rule due to ability over those who are simply fortunate in gaining their position. He says that those of ability are more likely to keep their principality under control, and that the fortunate ones, especially those that inherit power from the ability and toil of their fathers, are generally less capable because they did not personally lay any type of foundation. This made me laugh, considering he dedicated this book to Lorenzo de Medici, whose family ruled practically in this way. Perhaps they were not officially or technically princes, but the power they gained and then held was still handed down in such a manner that Machiavelli believed lead to less successful leaders.
In chapter eight, at the end, he first discusses the use of cruelty. His ideas on this are interesting, and, overlooking what "cruelty" may entail, make a measure of sense. Princes adopt the Band-Aid method; just hurry up and get it over with all at once, like ripping off a bandage. And by not continuously being cruel, the wounds of the initial force can heal up. They won't fester into resentment, but the people will remember what the prince is capable of. The prince may then be able to use the "it-was-for-your-own-good," argument afterward. Not a method I would recommend, but I can't deny Machiavelli does have a point.

Renaissance Art

The lecture on 14th century Italian art was very interesting, especially the works by Botticelli. I thought it was very interesting that he would put himself in one of his own paintings, and that it says a lot about him. Some would call it arrogance, perhaps. Compared to other artists, though, its not so bad. It reminded me of another Renaissance painting, one that convinced many people of the artist's vanity. It is a self-portrait by Albrecht Durer. Of course, he did quite a few of these, many of which portray him as rather wealthy. In this particular painting, however, he paints himself to look somewhat like Christ. His clothing and hair are similar to many renderings of Christ, and his hands are posed near his chest, in a gesture that looks as though he is about to reach out and bless someone or something. Whether or not he actually intended to portray himself as Jesus, I don't know, but it's obvious he, like Botticelli, had, well, you know.

On the Ascent of Mount Ventoux

This piece really resonated with me. I especially liked the reference it made to the 'Inferno', in which one must go down to go up. I've seen other people on that sort of journey. Where they, like Petrarch, had to take a long, winding, easy path (down into sin and vice) before they were able to lift themselves up, so to speak, to the top of the mountain. Almost as if they needed to hit the bottom to get some sense knocked into them. They, like Petrarch, after continuing on that path for some time, realized they were not going the way they had intended, and tried again and again to correct their course. I also, as one who has experienced the transcendent self-contemplation induced by mountains and nature's beauty, thought it was interesting that not only did Petrarch have to go down to go up, but that he had to go up literally in order to go up spiritually. He went down into himself to go up, while at the same time going up to go up. That's not confusing at all, is it?