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?