A Theory of Everything

When I was at school, it all seemed so simple.  The physical world, at the smallest level, was made up from atoms.  Atoms were like the solar system, with electrons whizzing around a nucleus, and this was a system just like the world we knew at the macro level, where planets whizzed around the sun.  Now, we knew there were some complications.  Electrons had their orbits, and they could jump from one orbit to another, and it appeared that those jumps were carefully scripted, so they could only go from one defined level to another, as if you were going from one level of a building up to the next.  And, yes, there was another complication, as it turned out that in the nucleus there were two things:  neutrons and protons.  The protons had a positive electromagnetic force, while the electrons travelling around them had a negative force:  the only reason the electrons didn’t hurtle down towards the protons and annihilate each other is because they were travelling in their orbits at speed: just like an aeroplane not falling to earth because it travelled fast enough to ensure it created lift?  Well, not quite like that, but it would do.  Those other items in the nucleus were neutrons, and they were called that because they didn’t have an electric charge.

There was more.  In a way I found exciting at the time, this model of the nature of the physical universe also made sense of lots of chemistry, and from there on to many other things.  Atoms could be linked together to form molecules.  Some molecules were ‘stable’, like oxygen, which in our daily lives compromises two oxygen atoms linked together to form the O₂ molecule (and later I learnt these was another stable form, O₃, ozone, which was the reason you could smell something funny by the tracks of electric trains in the London Underground).  Then we went on to compounds, like hydrochloric acid, which was a combination of hydrogen and chlorine, and this was interesting because it was really in two parts.  Part of the molecule could break away and link up with another substance, and that would lead to other combinations like sodium chloride (the sodium element combined with the chlorine bit from hydrochloride acid.  It was like the parts in a Meccano set!

Of course, it all got complicated, and eventually scientists were taking substances apart and discovering they were made up of very complex combinations of atoms, often several, sometimes even scores and even hundreds of atoms.  However, it all made sense.  However, I think all that was falling apart long before I was at school, although I didn’t know it at the time.  Although it was somewhat beyond my schoolboy science classes, at least until I reached the final years of secondary education.  Somewhat later I was to confront the science of what’s truly fundamental, and the amazing world of theoretical physics.  At that point all my schoolboy knowledge was cast aside, and I learnt that our physical reality is shaped by a bewildering and complex world of particles, fields, together with many laws and rules that nature played by.

Where was all this leading?  I was off on a different path by the time I was well into my university studies (I’d abandoned science for social anthropology), but even back then I was aware and know much more clearly today, our understanding of ‘reality’ remains limited and incomplete.  Despite this the animating hope of many scientists today and throughout history) is that we will be able to formulate a ‘Theory of Everything’, (with that marvellous acronym TOE) where one set of universal equations and one framework will describe literally every aspect of our physical reality.

When most of us think about science, we don’t often think about something very fundamental to the enterprise: what the goal of it all might be.  Clearly reality is a complicated place, and the only tools we have to guide us in understanding the nature of our world rely on what we can observe, measure, and test through experiments.  When we take account of that huge body of observational and experimental knowledge, we have a record of all the phenomena that we know exist. The enterprise of science, then, seeks to make sense of the huge body of empirical data, and then seeks to explain it in as simple and conclusive way as possible, to maximize our predictive power concerning natural phenomena, doing so with as few assumptions which seem absolutely necessary.

As many writers today remind us, we have seen incredible advances in our understanding of the physical world when compared to what we understood when I was at school.  Now it appears we can analyse just about everything we can directly detect and measure, and do so precisely, even exquisitely. The ‘Standard Model’ of elementary particles lists four key influences that underpin our world, the electromagnetic, strong nuclear, and weak nuclear forces along with general relativity and gravity. Then there is the inflationary Big Bang which describes our cosmic origins, when those four key forces first appeared, only to evolve and become independent. It makes for a compelling story.  Unfortunately, current mysteries like dark matter, dark energy, and the baryogenesis puzzle to do with asymmetry together hint that there’s more to the Universe than we currently understand.

The elusive goal that motivates many scientists is the belief tall of these key forces can be brought together into a ‘Theory of Everything’.  However, despite its fascination, some argue that there is not a Theory of Everything out there to be found at all, that the goal is an illusion.

The modern idea of a Theory of Everything goes back more than 100 years, to the early days of general relativity. Einstein was able, starting in 1915, to successfully describe the observed phenomenon of gravitation. The presence, distribution, and motion of matter and energy through spacetime determined the curvature and evolution of that spacetime fabric, and then the curvature of that spacetime fabric determined the future trajectories and fates of every particle that exists within that spacetime. Put simply, general relativity took the idea of special relativity and unified it with the idea of gravitation, creating the powerful framework that many would argue was the most important of Einstein’s astonishing accomplishments.

When I was learning about science at school we were being taught about science prior to Einstein, with some brief references to what he had concluded.  Before his theories there had been a different approach, Maxwell’s classical theory about electromagnetism, with four central principles:

• the speed of light was the ultimate speed limit at which anything could travel,
• particles and interactions could be described in terms of fields and charges,
• electromagnetism vs relativistically invariant, and
• energy and momentum were always conserved.

Maxwell’s (classical) theory put the previously distinct notions of electricity and magnetism together into a unified footing.

Within four years from the publication of Einstein’s theory of general relativity scientists were working to unify this theory with Maxwell’s principles.  However, it turned out that despite some similarities the two theories also exhibited several fundamental differences.     Despite this, it was the first 20th Century attempt at a Theory of Everything.  Einstein’s general relativity was already a four dimensional theory (adding the dimension of time to our familiar three dimensional view of matter in the world), but Maxwell’s electromagnetism required four separate degrees of freedom in addition, meaning that the same four dimensions used in Einstein’s theory would be insufficient to hold general relativity and electromagnetism together in a single, unified framework.

Theoretical physicists weren’t discouraged, and attempted to solve the mismatch by taking a dramatic leap into a fifth dimension, allowing general relativity and electromagnetism to be unified.  Alas, in a way that has become familiar with integrating approaches since then, there were some new inconvenient problems.  The postulated fifth dimension couldn’t impact anything in our four-dimensional spacetime; it must somehow ‘disappear’ from all the equations that impacted the observable physical world.  Moreover, scientists knew the universe didn’t merely conform to Maxwell’s classical electromagnetism, but required more, especially it required a quantum description for electromagnetism (at least), and other limiting postulates.

However, this was merely the beginning of formulating what would turn out to be many proposals that drew on extra dimensions. In one sense this was unproblematic, as in theory there could be more than three spatial dimensions to our Universe so long as those ‘extra’ dimensions were below a certain critical size that experiments had already explored. However, as soon as scientists began to talk about the notion of a Theory of Everything, their suppositions almost always required the addition of new entities — particles, fields, interactions, etc. — whose existence was already either ruled out or highly constrained by observations, measurements, and experiments by known results.  If there is a fifth dimension, it had to be so tiny and its effects so weak that it would not affect the body of data scientists had already collected and which revealed no evidence for its existence.

The quest for a Theory of Everything was to lead to enormous advances in physics during the 20th century, in nuclear physics, quantum physics, and particle physics. The combination of novel experimental results and new theoretical developments has helped us understand what appear to be the full suite of particles that exist in the Universe, what rules they followed in interacting and binding together, and how the forces that governed them behaved.  The result today is the Standard Model of elementary particles, simultaneously simple and contradictorily, full of complexities.

As a schoolboy I learnt about atoms and their building blocks, the trio of protons, neutrons, and electrons. Rather, now the electron is just the lightest of three generations of charged leptons: along with the muon and tau lepton. Then there are their antiparticles, plus a species of neutrino (and antineutrino) that is the corresponding ‘uncharged lepton’ to each of the charged leptons.  Confused?  What’s more, protons and neutrons are no longer considered fundamental particles, but are composite particles composed of quarks and gluons. Guess what:  there are three generations of quarks, with the up-and-down quarks (making up the first generation) having charm-and-strange and then top-and-bottom quarks as their heavier-generation counterparts.  Getting even more confused?  Hang on …Meanwhile, there are eight massless gluons (mediating the strong nuclear force), one massless photon (mediating the electromagnetic force), and three very massive W-and-Z bosons (mediating the weak nuclear force), plus the Higgs boson to complete the Standard Model.  Yes, it does seem confusing, but despite this veritable zoo of particles, every particle-based experiment performed, and every detector set up to observe particles ever concocted has only found evidence of these particles and these particles alone, with the properties given to them by the Standard Model framework.

It’s not surprising to read that many have sought — and are still seeking — the elusive Grand Unified Theory, a theory of everything, one that includes gravity, string theory and additional symmetries, additional dimensions, additional extra particles, or additional unification frameworks. It seems in confronting these ideas there’s an enormous amount of trouble. All of the new ideas necessitate adding further ingredients to our reality: ingredients which can lead to new interactions or decays of the particles we already know about.   However, we already have masses of data on how the known (Standard Model) particles interact and decay (or appear forbidden from interacting or decaying), we have to take extreme care that any attempt toward a Theory of Everything doesn’t conflict with already-existing data, particularly with the data we have from particle physics experiments.

One popular approach is string theory (and positive geometry). Instead of one extra dimension, there are many: at least six and as many as 22 in addition to the four we know about. Instead of relying on such esoteric behaviours as magnetic monopoles, extra Higgs sectors, superheavy bosons admitting proton decay, and left-right symmetric features, they have even more. Instead of space, there’s superspace; there’s supergravity; there’s not just the conventional ‘for every Standard Model particle, there’s a superpartner particle’ version of supersymmetry, leading to suggestions there are four new super symmetries and hundreds of additional new particles.  It seems as though, by adding more and more and more and ingredients, ingredients that aren’t reflected in observations we grow and worsen, the puzzles we’re facing when it comes to the Universe today.

From the outside, and looking at this confusing array of developments, there’s one obvious question that haunts the scientists: do our theoretical ideas line up with reality? When we formulate attempts at a Theory of Everything, it is important to remember the goals of science are working “to maximize our predictive power of nature’s phenomena with as few assumptions, parameters, and variables as are absolutely necessary”  Our current big scientific mysteries compel us to keep seeking truths about the Universe, given many aspects of reality that we cannot yet, fully explain. But relying on loose, superficial analogies and mathematical ingenuity is more than dissatisfying; it’s an approach that loses a fundamental connection with observable, measurable reality.

Unsurprisingly, there are many critics.  Paul Davies, (in Schrödingers’s Cat Flap, The Monthly: December 2026) offers a nice if quixotic comment on this state of affairs:

“In a famous remark, Albert Einstein once asked whether the Moon continues to exist when nobody is looking.  This startling comment stemmed from Einstein’s deep distrust of a branch of physics called quantum mechanics, the mind-bending theory that brilliantly describes the atomic microworld.  Now celebrating its centenary, quantum mechanics is the most successful scientific theory of all time.  It accurately explains the behaviour of matter from subatomic particles to stars, and has given us the laser, the transistor, MRI machines, superconductors, AI and much more.  Although quantum mechanics underpins much of modern technology, the foundations of the theory make no sense, shredding our everyday notions of reality and defying intuition. A century on, scientists remain deeply divided over what to make of it.”

What is this powerful theory that brings such practical benefits yet appears perplexing and paradoxical? In the mid 1920s scientist found the quantum microworld is riddled with uncertainty.  In itself, that is not so troublesome.  We are, after all, familiar with uncertainty in daily life.  Suppose you toss a coin and keep it concealed between your hands:  will it show heads or tails?  It’s fifty-fifty: you can look to find out which.  The fact that you didn’t know before looking which side of the coin faced up doesn’t affect the fact that it must have already been either heads or tails. Your observation merely uncovered a pre-existing reality.  Quantum uncertainty, however, denies that there is a pre-existing reality. Instead, atoms, molecules and subatomic particles don’t actually possess well-defined basic properties, such as position or orientation or speed, in the absence of an actual observation. You can measure, say, the location of an atom and find it to be somewhere. But that doesn’t mean the atom was already there before you looked.  Quantum mechanics says asking where the atom was an instant before inspecting is not only pointless, it’s meaningless.: “there is simply no fact of the matter of where the atom was located – a philosophically startling assertion.

In exploring the world of quantum theory and its applications, Davies ends with more philosophical problems.  “Is there a real world out there after all, even among atoms and molecules? Or is the unobserved microworld suspended in a state of existence limbo? There are a dozen or so rival attempts to make sense of quantum weirdness, ranging from invoking consciousness to adding new physical processes that collapse superpositions spontaneously into a single reality. But the most widespread attempt to make sense of the theory is to treat the alternative realities in a quantum superposition as “really real” parallel worlds. … Outlandish though the multiverse idea may seem, many distinguished physicists buy into it. … So, does the Moon exist when nobody is looking? A many-worlds advocate would answer yes, but with a vengeance: not only does the Moon exist, but there are also countless versions of the Moon, each existing in a separate branch universe amid an infinity of parallel realities. It is a conclusion that would have Einstein spinning in his grave.”

Silk Roads

When I was around seven years old, my friend Andrew told me about his father’s plan.  Back then, more than seventy years ago, his father worked for the Great Western Railway in the UK.  Apparently, one of the perks of his position was that he could have one long instance travel trip per year, in his holiday.  He could go from London to York, or to one of the railways stations in Devon or Cornwall.  Andrew told me that his dad had never taken one of these trips, but was saving them up:  when he retired he was going to travel from Paris to Moscow, and from there go on the Trans-Siberian railway all the way across to Vladivostok.

The trip by rail from Moscow would be 9,289 kms on the ‘Rosslya’ could be completed in some 7-10 days.  First class travel was labelled ‘SV’, private two berth compartments, and the train would offer samovars for hot water, dining cars, and attendants.  However, Andrew’s dad would take longer, stopping at various places along the way.  His itinerary included such exotic paces as Kirov, Omsk, Novosibirsk, Irkutsk, and Belgogorsk, with a side route that could take you to Ulaan Baatar and Beijing.

Well, that was it!  For the next few years, it was my plan too, although I had no ideas at to how to accomplish it.  At the time I learnt about it, the train was far less sophisticated than the current express, but I was convinced I would love it, despite any hardship.  However, what I didn’t realises at the time, it also was the start of a lifelong fascination with travel outside of Europe, and especially in Asia.  Of course, fascination is one thing, and being able to realise it is another, and when, some 30 years later, I began regular visits to North East and South East Asia, my travel was by air, and train journeys forgotten.  All of that was reawakened when I received a copy of a book about the Silk Road, and the exotic civilisations and countries strung out across that route.

 Back in 2002, Frances Wood published The Silk Road, a Folio Society volume.  It was lavishly illustrated, full of fascinating information, and, in some ways, a bit like a pirates’ treasure chest in that it was full of intriguing tidbits.  She begins by telling us that the silk road is “one of the most evocative of names, conjuring visions of camels laden with bales of luxurious brocades and diaphanous silks in all the colours of the rainbow.”  She quotes from James Elroy Flecker’s poem, The Golden Journey to Samarkand:

When those long caravans that cross the plain

With dauntless feet and sound of silver bells

Put forth no more for glory of for gain

Take no more solace from the palm-girt well.

Yes, this is about the distant, exotic world of the East – at least as we imagine it.  It has played a role in history over centuries, from Marco Polo to 18^th Century European explorers.  However, Frances Wood does a good job of keeping our feet on the ground, telling us that Silk Road was “only coined in 1877 by the German explorer and geographer Baron Ferdinand von Richthofen” (no, not the same one Snoopy was constantly engaging in aerial combat!).

Wood’s book is both engaging and frustrating.  She deftly introduces figures, place, events, and people from the many countries and centuries of Silk Road history.  However, each chapter leaves the reader wanting more, often because the accompanying illustrations are rather like postcards capturing moments in the past that deserve a whole book for each era and group that is depicted.  There is more to the story than this, however, because the image of the Silk Road is also concerned with luxury, riches, items distinctive and special, with luxury merchandise and access to what is exotic.  However, she also reminds us that there are many parts of the Silk Road that go through inhospitable terrain, with mountains, deserts, extreme weather, and frequently days with limited access to anything more than very basis food and drink.  Some days in parts of the journey there is the likelihood of bitter winds, and snow and ice, while at other stages the challenges come from heat, aridity, and isolation.  Now train travel is more like a rather special adventure, but not that long before it was risky and uncertain.  Does it mean we now see the Silk Road as rather exciting, even desirable?

Having read Frances Wood’s book, the Silk Road began to occupy a place in my thinking, and for reasons that I can’t quite explain, I began to wonder about making that cross-continental tri, but the other way round, beginning in Japan (well, OK, starting in Japan, next popping up to Vladivostok and then continuing on from there as my real starting point).  To begin in Japan wasn’t entirely without reason, as that would fit in with another of my fantasies, which was to buy my tickets in Tokyo, and commence this travel saga with a visit to the Mitsukoshi store in Nikonbashi, where I’d be able to purchase travel books, luggage, suitable clothing, cameras and binoculars and more!

Why the Mitsukoshi store?  Well, it is one of Japan’s finest retailers.  It is claimed to be the first store of its kind.  It had started trading in 1673 as a kimono store, until 1904 when it changed had change to become Japan’s first department store.  It is simply stunning.  It is huge, with two large lion statues at the main entrance (since 1914), and the ‘Statue of Sincerity’, an 11 metre wooden goddess in the centre of the building. Italian marble walls showing Mesozoic ammonite fossils surround the floors, combines with luxurious fixtures and fittings including high vaulted ceilings and a pipe organ that is played every week!  It appeals to the nostalgic in a country that revers traditions, although I read that just recently, Mitsukoshi advised the public that each of its department stores will abolish the ‘issuance of receipt by handwriting on Sunday, February 1, 2026.’  Plus ca change!

Clearly, travelling the Silk Road has to begin at Mitsukoshi Nihonbashi.  However, after dealing with a change in starting point and direction, the next issue is that we have to address is the fact the Silk Road isn’t what it once might have appeared to be: today, we know it is all about ‘Roads’.  This was made dramatically clear in 2015 when Peter Frankopan published The Silk Roads – and the key point was the ‘s’ at the end of the tile.  Ambitious, exciting, and for many academics frustrating, what Frankopan did was to help readers see there were new ways to look at the history of the past 2,000 years or more.  To put it simply, he wanted his readers to set aside the traditional view of Europeans that our world emerged from the Egyptians, followed by the Greeks, followed by the Romans.  He challenged this ‘Eurocentric’ view and suggests that the centre of the world was to be found further to the east, in the Caucasus, or in Iran, or even in those places often referred to as the “stans”.

The silk roads he describes are a complex series of trade, transport and migration paths along which people, goods, ideas, religions, disease and much else has flowed.   If Richthofen’s term the “silk road” is relatively recent,  Frankopan uses his term to describe a complex set of routes between China and the Mediterranean Sea, many of which which run through several of the world’s most disturbed and dangerous countries.  Christopher Marlowe called Persia/Iran “the middle of the world” back in 1587 but Frankopan goes much further back.  He notes that 2,000 years ago, as he depicts it, Chinese silks were worn by the Carthaginian elite, wealthy Iranians used Provencal pottery, and Indian spices found their way into Afghan and Roman cuisine.

The transfers were always in both directions.  Alexander’s military campaigns led him to the east, and  brought Greek culture to the Indus valley, as a result of which the Buddha was given a recognisably Greek form and Buddhist sculpture became popular. Christianity spread along the silk roads under the Romans. Islam more obviously did so, too. Scientific advances, philosophical ideas and much else was cross-fertilised by exposure across the east and west.

Not everything was beneficial however, and violence was a regular accompaniment for the traveller .  Frankopan documents the rise of the Mongols, who wreaked havoc as they went, and other chapters cover the spread of the Slavs and the rise of the Rus, as well as later sections documenting British and American meddling that had first been evident since the 19th century.  If his focus is on looking east he makes some salutary points.   The spread of the plague from Asia into Europe decimated Europe’s population, but he notes that because there were fewer workers, the price of labour rose, wealth was spread (a little) more evenly and as a consequence the resulting cultural acceleration of the Renaissance was enabled.

The Silk Roads is sub-titled ‘A New History of the World’.  It wasn’t an ideal choice of words.  Rather it might be better thought of a a corrective to most Western histories, offering insights and facts about some of the events taking place in Asia.  However, we are still awaiting an equally compelling history of the world to appear, one that also embraces Africa and Southern America.  Despite this and within its limits, it is an account that, as one reviewer put it, “is full of intriguing insights and some fascinating details.”  Among other comments he offers a salutary and important argument in support of the view that today the centre of global importance is shifting back to the East, as the international focus moving away from the Western-centric view which has been true of the last few centuries.

 Overall, The Silk Roads consists of 25 thematic chapters that set out to reframe one key part of global history by focusing on the region connecting the East and the West (as we term them), specifically Central Asia.  It examines early trade networks, before moving on to chart the spread of major religions, especially early Christianity’s reach and the rise of Islam.  As we move into later centuries, economics and politics become central, with the interaction between major powers, and growing trade across the steppes and into Northern Europe.  However, politics soon dominate, and we read about the Crusades and European dominance, on side side of the region, and Mongol expansions on the other.

Somehow the story becomes darker, with the impact of the great plague and the rise of new wealth, the latter a result of changing trade dynamics, imperial expansion, and shifting power blocs in the late 19th/early 20th century.  Alas, now Frankopan’s account becomes rather more familiar to many of his readers, with World War I, political compromise, genocide, and the ‘miserable’ ideological conflicts of the 20^th Century.

Professional historians have been rather.critical, perhaps unkindly so, as Frankopan was clearly writing for a broad audience.  According to one anthropologist and archaeologist, each chapter’s heading is highly intriguing: almost every one starts with ‘The Road to/of.  He adds that “Frankopan masterfully balances history with literature, so that the book is accessible even to those who are unfamiliar with history.”  Just so, and that’s a real strength.

Some commentators have concluded that the advent of the Silk Road caused countries to seek shared interests, often doing so as a result of exploitation and a lack of collaboration among European countries.  Certainly, in both East and West the rise fascism of reflected a change in the economic balance of power. In charting the shifting economic and political structure of Western countries, and in contrasting this with the Asian experience, Frankopan suggests the evidence can be seen as indicative of the weaknesses of the liberal democracy approach.

As some commentators have pointed out, Frankopan’s work can be seen as centrally concerned with the debate between Eurocentrism and non-Eurocentrism. Challenging Eurocentrism is amongst the biggest challenges in political economy, given so embedded are its assumptions that it is difficult to detach ourselves from the Eurocentric beliefs of western academics and commentators, not least with the dominant narrative of endogenous western development which emerged from the classic Orientalist distinction between the ‘rational’ West and ‘barbaric’ East.  Just as Edward Said’s Orientalism threw many assumptions into question, so by focusing on Persia and its contribution to the history of the world, Frankopan offers a fundamental and worthwhile assault on Eurocentrism through the re-orienting of world history away from a narrative justifying an inevitable Western emergence.

As Frankopan forges ahead with his re-assertion of the importance of Persia, commentators have observed opportunities are missed for his book to live up to its ambitious subtitle – to be ‘a new history of the world’, an oft-attempted and rarely achieved goal. As one reviewer suggested, if he had limited himself to simply detailing the history of the Persian world system – something he does with remarkable zeal, detail and passion – the scale of his ambition would have been met. But by striving for the world yet settling for just a fraction of the Eastern story of it, he has produced an incomplete world history but at least in doing so has made up for just some of the deficiencies in Eurocentrism.

The Silk Roads ends with the history of the modern-day Middle East. From this vantage point it becomes clear that this former heart of the world has become a bridge between, and product of, other powers – particularly the hegemonic West which, often inspired by Eurocentric assumptions, has remained heavily engaged in the region for more than a century. That this engagement has been either the product, or more contentiously the cause, of a troubled recent history for the region is well documented. Daily news reports still testify to the chaos across areas which once belonged to the Silk Roads.

However, Frankopan ends his volume with a surprisingly optimistic vision for the future of the region. ‘What we are witnessing,’ he claims, ‘are the birthing pains of a region that once dominated the intellectual, cultural and economic landscape and which is now re-emerging. We are seeing the signs of the world’s centre of gravity shifting – back to where it lay for millennia.’  It is a strong point, but having digested the latter portion of his 500-plus-page volume, it seems scarcely obvious that the countries which occupy the former Silk Roads will will ever become anything more than a bridge between the two focal points of geopolitical power: the established European and North American West, and the emerging Chinese and Indian East. It is far from clear that the power, patronage and prestige of seventh-century Baghdad are going to be repeated.

If an extremely unlikely situation, if I were to find myself to travelling on the Iron Road (rather than on a Silk Road), what would I see as I progressed from Vladivostok to Moscow?  Perhaps I’d do no more than notice the residues of once great centres, the remains of a focal region.  Or perhaps I would see that the middle, the crossing point between East and West, was beginning to rise again, and realise it is only our Eurocentrism, or our North American perspective, that is likely to ensure we are about to miss another iteration of the Silk Roads and their key role in human affairs.  Geomagnetic poles can reverse, and so can human affairs!

Arcadia

Why do some moments stick in our minds?  Often, they are memorable because they are both exceptional and unanticipated.  For me, one was in early March 1995 when the Melbourne Theatre Company’s production of Arcadia was on at the Playhouse Theatre in Melbourne.  Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia was written in 1993 and premiered at the Royal National Theatre in London on 13 April 1993.  It employs what is known as a diachronic narrative method: it is  an exploration of two stories set in the same country house, one charting the interaction between two modern academics, and the other concerned with the residents back in the early 19th century, including aristocrats, tutors and even the fleeting presence, unseen on stage, of Lord Byron.  In shifting back and forth between 1809 and the 1990s it touches on subjects from landscape gardening to thermodynamics to chaos theory.

The 1809 story focuses on an extraordinarily gifted 13-year-old Thomasina Coverly and her handsome tutor Septimus Hodge.  Stoppard imagines this precocious girl, Thomasina, was beginning to toy around with ideas of the laws of thermodynamics and mathematical theory.  This topic is balanced by the 20th century story, in which a university professor, Bernard Nightingale and author Hannah Jarvis are visiting the elegant estate where Nightingale plans to conduct research on a literary scandal involving the poet Lord Byron, while Jarvis hopes to find out more about the so-called ‘Sidley Hermit’, a figure found in drawings of the house’s gardens.  The themes of the play include the philosophical implications of the second law of thermodynamics, Romantic literature and the English ‘picturesque’ style of garden design.

Kate Herbert’s review in The Melbourne Times, in late Feb 1995 offers a wonderful introduction to what I saw.  “We make of history what suits our politics and philosophy, even an earthly paradise – Arcady.  Tom Stoppard’s play, Arcadia, is impeccably crafted, perfectly structured, intelligent, witty and challenging. I cannot fault script, Simon Phillips production nor any individual performance.  In inimitable Stoppard fashion, Arcadia unravels a superb biographical-historical plot … [which] interweaves an aristocratic family of the late 18th century Romantic period of literature, painting, gardens and classical mathematics with the 20th century’s literary criticism, computer technology and chaos theory.  The result is a mind-bending intersection of worlds charged with sex and conflict.”

Kate Herbert suggests “History always eludes us. It is unscientific, as are natural phenomena and human nature. We cannot quantify it. The unpredictability is the rule, unlike quantum physics and relativity.”  She adds “The play captures the “decline from thinking to feeling” which was the social norm after the Age of Reason. The Romantics created their own chaos as have the Chaos Theorists today. We discover that ‘everything you thought you knew, was wrong’ both in life and in the drama.  The play is moving, passionate, analytical and inspired.”  She was right, a view further enhanced when four years later, during a visit to Winston Salem, North Carolina, I went to another production at Wake Forest University.

So much for when I saw it – but what as it that made this such an unforgettable experience?  Set in Sidley Park, an English country house in Derbyshire, the action takes place in both 1809/1812 and the present day (1993 in the original production). The activities of two modern scholars and the house’s current residents are juxtaposed with those of the people who lived there in the earlier period.  The play’s set features a large table, used by the characters in both past and present.  Props are not removed when the play switches time period; books, coffee mugs, quill pens, portfolios, and laptop computers appear together, blurring past and present. An ancient but still living tortoise also appears in every scene, perhaps as a symbol of long-suffering endurance and of the continuity of existence.

Arcadia explores the nature of evidence and truth in the context of modern ideas about history, mathematics, and physics. It shows how clues left by the past are interpreted in the present, by both laypeople and scholars. Stoppard has said that his initial inspiration came from reading James Gleick’s 1987 bestseller, Chaos: Making a New Science, “which is about this new kind of mathematics. That sounds fairly daunting if one’s talking about a play. I thought, here is a marvellous metaphor,” (quoted by Paul Delaney in Tom Stoppard in Conversation. UMP 1994. p. 224).

As the Wikipedia entry on the play explains “Besides chaos, the play attends to a wide array of subjects, including thermodynamics, computer algorithms, fractals, population dynamics, determinism (especially in the context of love and death), classics, landscape design, Romanticism vs Classicism, English literature (particularly poetry), Byron, 18^th Century Periodicals, modern academia and even South Pacific Botany.  These are all concrete topics of conversation; their more abstract resonances rise into epistemology, nihilism, and the origins of lust and madness”.  Stoppard was writing for an intellectual audience!

In Arcadia, Stoppard presents his audience with several highly complex but fundamental mathematical and scientific concepts. He also uses these theories and ideas to illuminate relationships among his characters, adding to their poignancy.  Arcadia’s complex themes are presented through a series of dichotomies. Most prominent is chaos versus order. The play’s characters and action embody this, moving from a settled social order, in which relationships arise, toward the final scene, where the social order – and even the separation of the two eras – dissolve in the party’s chaos, relationships collapse, and the characters die or disperse.  Yet within that chaos, order can still be found. As Valentine declares: “In an ocean of ashes, islands of order. Patterns making themselves out of nothing.” Although the play’s world grows increasingly chaotic – with overlapping time periods, increasingly complex ideas, and ever greater variations in social norms and assumptions – connections and order can still be discerned. The characters attempt to find and articulate the order they perceive in their world, even as it is continually overturned.

One of the play’s main thematic concepts is chaos theory. Paul Edwards, in his essay “Science in Hapgood and Arcadia“, notes that “chaos mathematics is about the recovery of information from apparently chaotic and random systems where entropy is high. […] It is ‘asymmetric’ (unlike the equations of classical physics), yet it finds regularities that prove to be the regularities of nature itself. Strikingly, this mathematics can generate patterns of amazing complexity, but it also has the power to generate seemingly natural or organic shapes that defeat Newtonian geometry. The promise, then, (however questionable it is in reality) is that information, and by extension, nature itself, can overcome the tendency to increase in entropy”.  John Fleming, in his book Stoppard’s Theatre: Finding Order amid Chaos, makes a similar observation. “Deterministic chaos”, he writes, “deals with systems of unpredictable determinism. … [T]he uncertainty does not result in pure randomness, but rather in complex patterns. Traditionally, scientists expected dynamic systems to settle into stable, predictable behaviour.” But as systems respond to variations in input, they become more random or chaotic.  “Surprisingly, within these random states, windows of order reappear. […] There is order in chaos – an unpredictable order, but a determined order nonetheless, and not merely random behaviour.”

That centre-stage table with props from both time periods in place throughout the play is a vivid metaphor of the chaos/order dichotomy. As Paul Edwards, professor of English and History of Art at Bath Spa University, suggests:

At the end of the play, the table has accumulated a variety of objects that, if one saw them without having seen the play, would seem completely random and disordered. Entropy is high. But if one has seen the play, one has full information about the objects and the hidden ‘order’ of their arrangement, brought about by the performance itself. Entropy is low; this can be proved by reflecting that tomorrow night’s performance of the play will finish with the table in a virtually identical ‘disorder’ – which therefore cannot really be disorder at all.

Paul Edwards, The Cambridge Companion to Tom Stoppard, CUP, 178–183

A closely related theme in Arcadia is the opposition of Classicism and Romanticism. This appears most clearly in the running arguments between Noakes and Lady Croom about proposed changes to the garden. Their disagreements are about changing from the tidy order of Classic style to the rugged naturalism and Gothic mystery of the Romantic. A parallel dichotomy is expressed by Septimus and Thomasina: He instructs her in the Newtonian vision of the universe, while she keeps posing questions and proposing theories that undercut it. Hannah’s search for the hermit of Sidley Park also comments on this theme. “The whole Romantic sham!” she passionately exclaims to Bernard. “It’s what happened to the Enlightenment, isn’t it? A century of intellectual rigour turned in on itself. A mind in chaos suspected of genius … The decline from thinking to feeling.”

Another major theme is entropy and the irreversibility of time. Thomasina examines this scientifically, remarking that while Newtonian equations work both backwards and forwards, things in reality – like her rice pudding – cannot be “unstirred.” Heat, too, she notes, flows in only one direction (the second law of thermodynamics). This is embodied by the characters, who burn bridges in relationships, burn candles, and burn letters – and in the end, Thomasina herself (like a short-lived candle) burns to death.  Thomasina’s insights are an echo of the poem Darkness by her ‘real life’ contemporary, Lord Byron.  Written in 1816 , which was described as the  ‘The Year Without A Summer’ when atmospheric ash from the eruption of Mount Tambora in the Dutch East Indies fell.  Darkness depicts a world grown dark and cold because the sun has been extinguished.

The play’s end brings all these dichotomous themes together, showing that while things may appear to contradict – Romanticism and Classicism, intuition and logic, thought and feeling – they can exist, paradoxically, in the same time and space. Order is found amid the chaos.  At the same time, scientific and mathematical concepts in Arcadia include the Second Law of Thermodynamics and the concept of entropy.  Entropy is the measure of the randomness or disorder of a system which states that overall, the universe is evolving from order to disorder. At the same time, the second law of thermodynamics states that heat spontaneously flows in only one direction, from hotter to colder. These equations embody the ‘arrow of time’ and the eventual ‘heat death’ of the universe.  Thomasina captures the dark side of science.

In Arcadia, Stoppard uses all these concepts to reveal that “there is an underlying order to seemingly random events.” The characters discuss these topics, while their interactions reflect them. Often these discussions themselves create order and connections beneath the appearance of disunity. For example, both Thomasina’s theories on heat and Valentine’s search for a “signal” in the “noise” of the local grouse population refer to the physicist Joseph Fourier and his development of the Fourier transform, which he first used to analyse the physics of heat transfer but has since found wide application. Though the characters would seem to have little in common, their work relates to the same topic.

There is even more to this intellectual tour de force.  The play’s title was abbreviated from its initial version: Et in Arcadia ego.  Arcadia refers to the pastoral ideal, and the phrase literally translates, “and in Arcadia I am”. The tradition of placing a tomb in a pastoral idyll has a long history, and the phrase appears in Guercino’s painting dated in 1618-1622. Both the image and the motto are commonly linked with the phrase being spoken by Death: “I, too, am in Arcadia”.   In the play, Lady Croom, translates the phrase as “Here I am in Arcadia!” Thomasina drily comments, “Yes Mama, if you would have it so”. Septimus notices this and later, suspecting his pupil will appreciate the motto’s true meaning, offers the translation “Even in Arcadia, there am I”. He is right – “Oh, phooey to Death!” she exclaims.   Although these brief exchanges are the only direct references in the play to its title, they anticipate two main characters’ fates: Thomasina’s early death, and Septimus’s voluntary exile from life.

In a more obvious sense, the title also invokes the ideal of nature as an ordered paradise, while the estate’s landscape steadily evolves into a more irregular form. This provides a recurring image of the different ways in which “true nature” can be understood, and a homely parallel to Thomasina’s theoretical description of the natural world’s structure and entropic decline using mathematics.

Overall, Arcadia draws on several highly complex but fundamental mathematical and scientific concepts.  Having noted that one of the play’s main thematic concepts is chaos theory, Paul Edwards, (in ‘Science in Hapgood and Arcadia’), notes that “chaos mathematics is about the recovery of information from apparently chaotic and random systems where entropy is high. […] It is ‘asymmetric’ (unlike the equations of classical physics), yet it finds regularities that prove to be the regularities of nature itself. Strikingly, this mathematics can generate patterns of amazing complexity, but it also has the power to generate seemingly natural or organic shapes that defeat Newtonian geometry. The promise, then, (however questionable it is in reality) is that information, and by extension, nature itself, can overcome the tendency to increase in entropy”.  What a compelling perspective for a playwright, that there is order in chaos.  If it is an underlying and unpredictable order, there’s order nonetheless, and far from random.

In Arcadia, Stoppard draws on all these ideas as his characters discuss an almost bewildering variety of topics.  He reveals himself as a Levi-Straussian bricoleur.  In The Savage Mind Claude Levi-Strauss used the word bricolage to describe the characteristic patterns of mythological thought, which draw on a variety of things ‘at hand’,  putting objects, ideas and histories together in new ways, using them for purposes that weren’t previously considered.   Like Levi-Strauss analysing mythologies, Stoppard  is a contemporary bricoleur, taking what we know from 19th Century and contemporary science and technology and rethinking ideas, to explore unanticipated possibilities and interactions just as he uses Thomasina’s theories on heat and Valentine’s search for a ‘signal in the noise’ in that imagined analysis of the local grouse population.   Some ideas in the play recall Goethe’s novella Elective Affinities: Thomasina and Septimus have parallels in Goethe’s Ottilie and Eduard  and the historical section of Stoppard’s play is set in 1809, the year of Goethe’s novella.  There is so much more packed into this play, and if you’d like to dive into its riches, go along to a performance.

What more can I say?  Arcadia is a 20th Century intellectual masterpiece and a stunning play.  Vale Stoppard, who died 29 November 2025.  He will be missed; his plays will live on.

Descartes’ Bones

There are many challenges in writing about other people, especially those whose ideas have become important to you, or more widely.  The challenge is simple:  do you talk about the ideas, and leave the author a disembodied voice, or do you address the person, a life lived, a network of relationships, and a history of events and actions?  In recent decades there has been an increasing interest in the person, sometimes to the point that revelations about the personal life and antipathies of a philosopher, historian or scientist can be used to set aside or side-step what they had said in terms of their contribution to understanding.  Russell Shorto came up with an interesting twist on this, using skeleton bones as the linking motif in his story on the history of Descartes and an exploration of his thinking.

Descartes’ Bones is a frustrating yet fascinating book.  In one sense it starts at the end.  Shorto’s account begins in 1650.  Descartes is in bed, dying in Pierre Chanut’s house in Stockholm.  Chanut was the French Ambassador to Sweden.  He was Descartes’ friend, and a worried man as it was he who had invited Descartes to visit.  Worse than that, it wasn’t just a very cold winter, but Descartes had earlier nursed Chanut as he’d been the one experiencing a fever, only for Chanut to recover and Descartes to catch the same illness.  In Descartes’ case it was a fever that was to prove fatal.  Christina, the 23 year old Queen of Sweden, had been a source of the invitation to Descartes to come to Stokholm, and she was to send her personal physician in an attempt to aid his recovery.  The physician failed to impress Descartes; he was dismissed, and the philosopher died shortly after.

However, beginning at the end isn’t always a good idea, and in this case misses out on all the activity – and hilarious issues – that surrounded Descartes as he developed his ideas.  Of course, it was relatively early in his career that he explained the result of his intensive introspection was to conclude ‘I think, therefore I am’ – a phrase which became known as cogito ergo sum and is inextricably bound to every account of his work.  His method of exercising doubt was to define this aspect of his work, which was to focus on reason.  However, while that is the Descartes we know about, Shorto makes it clear there is a lot more to be understood about his work and his approach.

In a sense, the trouble started with his book, Discourse on the Method.  He saw this as an opening salvo in a career that was to provide a basis for education, for understanding, and, most important, to replace the received wisdom of his forbears from Aristotle onwards.  Shorto tells us Descartes wanted to “reorient the way every human being thought”, and that meant influencing the approach of learning across all the disciplines pursued at the university, and in particular at the university in Utrecht.  Somewhat unwilling to jump into controversies himself, he allowed proxies to argue his approach.  Early on, this was Regius, the professor of medicine at that university, but they didn’t always agree.  Regius was happy to follow the work of Harvey on such matters as the circulation of blood in the body:  Descartes, beginning a career of arguing with all and sundry, believed the heart wasn’t a pump, as Harvey proposed, but a furnace, heating the blood which caused it to circulate.

However, the core of his approach was doubt, an approach that was almost designed to ensure that he was in conflict with most other people in the university.  They saw him as selling his approach through his own personal magnetism,  “encouraging his followers to forget what they had learnt from the ancient master”.  He was accused of emptying students minds so he could fill them with his own approach.  It was an approach to win friends!

Russell Shorto does go back to the beginning, especially the emergence of Descartes’ thinking.  He also goes well past his life, and we spend much of the book following a detective trail, seeking to find what had happened to his skeleton, and even where his skull ended up once it followed a different route from the rest of his bones.  In fact, Descartes is a small player in this book, which uses the wanderings of his skeleton as a framework to explore the emerging intellectual revolution that was to sweep through Europe.  OK, not sweep, but slowly and often controversially begin to change the intellectual path for academics, thinkers and even religious practitioners in the west.  Above all it is an amusing book, told as a story intended to be funny.  It is an enjoyable read.

However, while amusing, there are times Shorto’s account can be frustrating, as we hop back and forth in time.  It is somewhat odd to find, 154 pages in, that we are, in Shorto’s words, “back to the beginning”.  There is Descartes dying in Sweden and creating something of a problem.  It’s not just that he is far from home, as he was a Frenchman who had lived much of his life in Holland, but he was a Catholic and Sweden was Protestant.  Given his religious character, he is buried in a ‘forlorn’ cemetery, some distance away from Stockholm.  Eventually, sixteen years later, the deteriorating skeleton is disinterred, and the remains put into a two and one half feet copper coffin, ready for it to be transported to France.  This is where we learn that the French Ambassador is given permission “to take, as a personal relic, a bone of the right index finger”!

This is just one part of a very tangled story.  His skeleton got to France, but his skull didn’t make it.  Instead, the captain of the guard watching over the coffin before it was sent south decides on his own initiative that “Sweden should not ‘lose completely the remains of such a famous person’”.  The guardsman, Isaak Planström, kept the skull as “a rare relic of a philosophical saint” for the rest of his life.  However, a merchant, Olof Bång, later collected some property from the estate of a man who had died and owed him money, and one of the items was the skull.  In due course Bång’s son, Jonas Olofsson, was showing the skull to a local headmaster, Swen Hof.  The story has it, perhaps accurately, that Bång wanted to find an appropriate set of words to accompany the skull, which Hof provided, and which Bång wrote on the skull.  There on the skull, with the text in Latin, is a poem ‘celebrating Descartes’ genius and mourning the scattering of his remains.

What did this inscription say?

In Latin –

Parvula Cartesii fuit haec calvaria magni,
exuvias reliquas gallica busta tegunt;
sed laus ingenii too diffunditur orbe,
mistaque coelicolis mens pia semper ovat.

In English –

This small skull once belonged to the great Cartesius,
The rest of his remains are hidden far away in the
land of France;
But all around the circle of the globe his genius
is praised,
And his spirit still rejoices in the sphere of heaven.

Just in case you think that was all, Descartes’ skull has several other pieces of writing on it, most of which are now quite impossible to read.  It sems that once you’ve written something, others follow.  Certainly, that was evidently the case when I was young and in a London park you came across a tree where someone had carved something along the lines of:

PF loves PC

From the moment one such testimony to everlasting love was cut into a tree’s bark, others would follow, despite the fact that the collective effort for memorialise relationships could lead to the tree dying.  At least Descartes’ skull had the attribute of already being dead …  and perhaps that is similar to those people who spray paint their mutual love on walls?

There is much more to Shorto’s story than the adventures of a disembodied skull.  He reveals that Descartes was far from being a shrinking violet.  “He may have shied away from face-to-face confrontation, but his arrogance was rather spectacular, and when crossed he had a deeply malicious streak”.  We read that he considered Fermat’s mathematical endeavours as ‘shit’, and a colleague of his as writing ‘toilet paper’.  Not every comment was scatological, of course, and when writing about Pascal, he suggested that the only vacuum (the subject of the argument they were having) was a vacuum in Pascal’s skull!

He also makes it clear that Descartes had considerable belief in his own excellence, and Shorto remarks that he believed:

“The body was a machine; therefore it simply needs to be understood in all its parts in order for it to work properly.  In this regard, death was tantamount to a malfunction; locate and correct the errors and you solve the problem of death.  Descartes became convinced he would crack the body’s code and extend the human life span as much as a thousand years.  At one point in his career he was certain enough of his progress that he felt he would do it soon, provided, he wrote – and he seems to have missed the joke – that he was not prevented ‘by the brevity of life’”.

However, we also read that this ‘vainglorious’, self-centred and isolated man had one sign of a rather different perspective on family, when he fathered a daughter born out of wedlock.  That child was to be the love of his life, even though he kept the facts of her birth hidden., travelling with the mother, Helena, as his servant, and his daughter Francine as his ‘niece’. However, Francine came down with scarlet fever and died when she was five years old.

There is some evidence that this loss had a lasting effect on Descartes and his work, pushing him to take on physiology and anatomy.  This was to prove important.  Descartes had insisted that the physical and the mental were two distinct substances:  that left him with explaining how they interacted.  The puzzle was clear:  if your body needed food, how did the stomach’s need get transmitted to your mind, and then lead to other actions (walking to get something from a cupboard, for example).  It was his continuing dissections that gave him an answer.

Together with others Descartes noticed there was a small ‘nut shaped structure in the centre of the brain’, the pineal gland, and decided that this was the place where the physical and the mental came together:

“the principal seat of the soul, and the place in which our thoughts are formed.  The reason I believe this is that I cannot find any part of the brain, except this, which is not double … moreover it is situated in the most suitable place for this purpose, in the middle of all the [brain’s] concavities; and it is supported and surrounded by the little branches of the carotid arteries, which bring spirits into the brain.”

Overall, Descartes’s Bones is an enjoyable read rather than an academic review.  However, there are a couple of points that do deserve emphasis.  As a man who has been described as a wimp and a menace Descartes influence on philosophy has been considerable.  First and obviously among these, Descartes’ concept of the brain and how it was the focus of  separation between the soul and the physical body created what has proven to be an enduring ‘mind-body’ problem, which is still debated today, especially in contemporary in discussions about artificial intelligence, consciousness, and the nature of self.

In referring to its contemporary relevance, this analysis isn’t just a matter of philosophical speculation about the nature of the human mind.  His ideas still influence how we think about everything from health and well-being to personal responsibility and social dynamics.  Often referred to as ‘dualism’, his views stimulate argument and there are continuing attempts and even philosophical justifications to challenging Descartes’ divide.  Indeed, considerable contemporary research is devoted to moving beyond dualism, and to emphasizing that the mind and body are inextricably linked.  Many advocate a more integrated approach, not just as a matter of speculation, but as a basis for developing approaches into such areas as treatment for a variety of mental conditions and illnesses.  While Descartes might have lost his head through events subsequent to his death, his thinking is still alive.

Russell Shorto really is a frustrating writer as he hops between Descartes’ time, the years soon after, and then onto decades and even centuries later.  However, there is a purpose in his approach, as it encourages a focus on issues, rather than following a linear timescale and thereby having to keep several themes together.  That would be a complicated balancing act.

Instead, what he achieves is three fold.  He makes Descartes live, and instead of appearing as a dry yet brilliant philosopher, we begin to learn about the real person.  This is a dilemma, of course, as what is written should stand alone, separately from whether the author is a puritan or a drunkard.  Well, perhaps that is too idealistic a view, but the reality of the author has to be appreciated in a measured way, and not allow it to overwhelm insights and conclusions, even if they might be viewed with suitable caution.

Second, he brings home Descartes impact in a way that academic analyses often fail to achieve.  We get glimpses, albeit rather partially, that illustrate Descartes wasn’t a dry analyst, and that he spent much of his life worrying and hoping.  The worrying was evidence of his recognition that elements of what he had to say needed constant re-examination, and that nuances could sometimes get in the way of clarity.  At the same time, he was a man of curious passions and ambitions, and Shorto illustrates many of these limitations.

Third, the greatest strength of Descartes Bones is that it sets the scene – both for Descartes lifetime, and for the eras that followed – for a time in which ideas, bones, and even a skull wandered around Europe.  This isn’t philosophy, nor is it narrowly written history.  It is more an account of some of the odd figures that played a role in Descartes life and the ideas and controversies they contributed.  It’s a worthwhile book to read, and a good way to make you think about this curious thinker, offering an explanation as to why he is often seen as a wimp and a menace.  He did claim more than was justified, for certain, and he did back away from taking some of his arguments to their logical end, but he was a key thinker in a time of revolutionary ideas.

Hagia Sophia

Seeing a great building is a fascinating experience.  By a great building, in this case I mean one that is historic (there is quite a different commentary to be made about seeing a new but equally extraordinary construction, like one of the new Guggenheim museums).  To be clear, there are two reasons to consider a building as ‘great’:  first there are those considered so because of their history, the events in which they have played a part, the people with whom they’ve been associated; and second, those that are great in their own right, architecturally compelling and internally rich in such ways as to be striking, imposing, or simply intriguing.  Quite often the attraction of historic great buildings lies in the stories in which they played a part, the past events in which they were implicated, or even those which were based at home, a resting place or a meeting place, places that mattered in the conduct of human affairs.

This building, the Hagia Sophia, has been important for centuries, as a religious centre, as a landmark, and as a meeting place. The photograph shows it in 2025, with one of its minarets under repair.  If it’s only seen from the outside, the building offers only a limited sense of its amazing interior, and the history that interior reveals.  To the casual external observer, it is big, somewhat squat, with some evidence of its complicated past.  Briefly, from around 360 AD through to 1453 AD (with a few minor interruptions), it was a major Eastern Orthodox church, the greatest in Christendom, with a dome that was unequalled until Brunelleschi’s in Florence in the 15^th Century. One of the Hagia Sophia’s interruptions was between 1204 and 1261 when for a short time it became a Roman Catholic church.  Following that, from 1453 to 1934, it was a Sunni Moslem mosque.  Then, in 1935 it was deconsecrated and became a museum, a major attraction for visitors to Istanbul.  In 2020 it reverted back to being a Sunni mosque once more, but this time one that is still allowing tourists to visit.

For those who might be hoping for a kind of striking beauty, outside it appears to be rather big but not especially graceful.  One of the minarets was under refurbishment in 2025 which was somewhat disconcerting to those who want their travel photographic images to mirror some kind of unrealistic form of perfection.  The reality of repair got in the way!  There are gardens around the building, nicely tended, but unremarkable.  More to the point, the few trees tin the gardens gave rather little shade, in a location that is often hot, and sometimes unrelentingly so.  It is only on entering that you realise the true beauty is inside.

What you see was built by Justinian 1 between 532 and 537 AD and was formerly called the Temple of God’s Holy Wisdom.  It was the world’s largest cathedral for nearly a thousand years, and was considered as the quintessential example of Eastern Orthodox church design.  In various iterations it was to remain a religious centre until 1931, when it was closed to the public, only to re-open in 1935 as a museum.  In 2020, it was reclassified back as a mosque, a controversial decision which remains widely debated.  As a major tourist attraction, visitors today can freely enter the first floor of the building, but the ground floor is restricted to worshippers and their invitees.

It is impossible to briefly describe the many features of the Hagia Sophia.  It is regarded as one of the greatest surviving examples of Byzantine architecture.  It used masonry in its construction, but it is the decorations inside that have ensured its fame.  The interior is decorated with mosaics, marble pillars, paintings, and other items of great artistic value. As it was being constructed in the Sixth Century AD, Justinian achieved his vision by his determination to oversee the completion of what was to be the greatest cathedral ever built up to that time.  The basilica was simultaneously the culminating architectural achievement of late antiquity together with being recognised as a masterpiece of Byzantine architectural style. Its influence, both physically and liturgically, has been widespread and enduring .

Of particular interest is the complex structure of the vast interior. The central nave is covered by a huge dome, which rises to 55.6 metres (182 ft 5 in) above floor level and rests on an arcade of 40 arched windows. Not perfect, however, as repairs to its structure have left the dome somewhat elliptical, with the diameter varying between 31.24 and 30.86 metres (102 ft 6 in and 101 ft 3 in).   At the western entrance and along the eastern liturgical side, there are arched openings extended by half domes of identical diameter to the central dome, built up to create an overall vast oblong interior crowned by the central dome with its uninterrupted span of 76.2 metres (250 ft).

The overall design is clearly geometric and is said to be based on mathematical formulae from Heron of Alexandria, which avoided the use of irrational numbers for its construction.  Research suggests the architects used Hero’s proposed values for constructing the vaults. The measurements were calculated using a side-and-diagonal number progression, which results in squares defined by the numbers 12 and 17, with 12 defining the side of the square and 17 its diagonal, numbers which had been used as standard values as early as cuneiform Babylonian texts.  Each of the four sides of the great square at the centre is approximately 31 metres long, previously thought to be the equivalent of 100 Byzantine feet. However recent research has determined the side of the central square of Hagia Sophia is not 100 Byzantine feet but instead 99 feet. This measurement is not only rational, but it is also embedded in a system of number progression (70/99) used in the applied mathematics of antiquity.

Over the centuries, there have been restorations and enhancements.  One remarkable moment was in 1453 when 21 year old Mehmet II decided not to obliterate all the mosque’s Christian mosaics when he conquered Constantinople:  he was not there simply to destroy.  Another and more recent phase was the 19th-century restoration ordered by Sultan Abdulmejid I, which was completed between 1847 and 1849 by eight hundred workers supervised by the Swiss-Italian architect brothers, Gaspare and Guiseppi Fossati.  Given concerns about stability and evident slippage, the brothers consolidated the dome with a restraining iron chain.  At the same time they strengthened the vaults, straightened the columns, and revised the decoration of the exterior and the interior of the building.   Upper gallery mosaics were exposed and cleaned, but many were re-covered ‘for protection against further damage’.

Restoration did more than preserve.  Eight new gigantic circular-framed discs were hung from the cornices on each of the four piers on either side of the apse and the west doors, designed by Kazasker Mustafa Izzet Efendi, and emblazoning the names of Muhammad, Allah, the first four caliphs and the two grandsons of Muhammad.  They are simply stunning.

Given continuing deterioration and problems, the need for restoration continued, aggravated  by decisions like those during in the Second World War when the minarets of the mosque housed machine guns!  Sadly, today the condition of the structure continues to deteriorate, and it was included in the 1996 and 1998 Watch Lists of the World Monuments Fund.  The building’s copper roof had cracked, causing water to leak down over the fragile frescoes and mosaics. Moisture entered from below, increasing the humidity level within the mosque.  Work has been undertaken to repair of the cracked roof, and preserve the dome’s interior.  Despite all the care that has been shown, major problems remain.  Most experts have concluded the dome will collapse soon, a tragic outcome signaling the end of this remarkable building. Thrilling to see, the Hagia Sophia is close to the end of its life, unless amazing and unlikely efforts are made to save it:  indeed some suspect it might collapse before 2040.

Aigai

We were in the second half of our cruise, travelling down the eastern coast of Greece, when the ship stopped at Thessaloniki.  As on other days, there were various land tours we could select, but at this stage in our cruise there was only one choice, to go to Vergina, on an excursion described as In the Footsteps of Alexander the Great.  To be going to Vergina might seem rather odd:  it  is a relatively new town, established in 1922 in the aftermath of the Treaty of Lausanne, an agreement that had officially resolved the conflict that had initially arisen between the Ottoman Empire, and various European countries including Greece.  The treaty delimited the boundaries of Greece, Bulgaria and Turkey, and, among other provisions included the agreement that all the islands, islets and other territories in the Aegean Sea (Eastern Mediterranean in the original text) beyond three miles from the Turkish shores were ceded to Greece, (with some minor exceptions).

If Vergina is a recent establishment, it is best known as the site of ancient Aigai  the first capital of Macedon.  Back in 336 BC Philip II was assassinated in Aigai’s theatre and his son, Alexander the Great, was proclaimed king. While the resting place of Alexander the Great is unknown, researchers uncovered three tombs at Vergina in 1977, in a location that was part of what had been Aigai.

This was to be an extraordinary visit, and even the first stage of the visit was memorable!  The coach trip from Thessaloniki stopped in Vergina, and we had a fairly long walk to a park area, in which all we could see was an open grassy area, and around it several trees, and small modern building, and some slightly raised areas.  Our tour guide went off, and we tried to find shade from a very hot sun.  When were we going to go to the site of the tombs?  The tour guide returned and led us over to an almost invisible entrance that took us inside that slightly raised area:  the tombs had been uncovered by archaeologists and then re-covered once they had been studied.  Just inside, we stopped, to get accustomed to the darkened interior.

This gave us the opportunity to learn about Aigai.  The area where it was built was formerly  covered by a series of  villages, which together formed an important population centre by 1,000 BC.  In the 7th century BC, the Macedonian expansion in the region subdued local populations, establishing the dynasty at Aigai.  Archaeologic research has shown  Aigai developed as an organized collection of villages, a group of aristocratic tribes,  and it never became a large city.  From Aigai the Macedonians spread to the central part of Macedonia.  In the first half of the 5th century BC Aigai became the capital of Macedonia, characterised by court luxury supported by merchants coming from all over the ancient world bringing  valuable goods including perfume, carved ornaments and jewellery.

At the beginning of the 4th century BC, the Macedonian capital was moved northeast to Pella, but Aigai retained its role as the sacred city of the Macedonian kingdom, the site of a royal palace and royal tombs.  However, by the 3^rd Century BC Alexander’s heirs were involved in bitter struggles.  The city never recovered, and visiting mercenaries plundered many of the tombs.  Collapse continued, the Romans overthrew the Macedonian kingdom in 168 BC, and withing the next six hundred years the city disappeared, first by human means and later a landslide destroyed what had been remained or had been rebuilt.  Aigai disappeared.

In the middle of the 19^th Century, archaeologists had become interested in the burial mounds around Vergina, some believing the long-lost site of Aigai was in the vicinity. Excavations began in 1861 but had to be abandoned because of the risk of malaria.  In 1937, the University of Thessaloniki resumed the excavations, by the 1950s and 1960s much of royal capital had been uncovered.  One Greek archaeologist  was convinced that a hill called the Great Tumulus covered the tombs of the Macedonian kings, and in 1977, a dig at the site revealed four buried tombs, two of which had never been disturbed.  It was concluded these were the tombs of Philip II, father of Alexander the Great, and Alexander IV, his son.  Further research in 1987 revealed a burial cluster of  queens, including Queen Euridice (mother of Alexander II, and Grandmother of Alexander the Great).

All this does little to prepare visitors for the treasures that have been found.  The museum of the tumulus of Philip II was built over the tombs,  leaving them in situ and showing the site as it was before the archaeological excavations.  Inside there are four tombs.  The two most important (tombs II and III) had not been ransacked and contained the main treasures of the museum.  The larger room in Tomb II included a marble chest, and in it was a closed coffin (larnax) made of 24-carat gold and weighing 11 kilograms (24 lb). together with a golden wreath of 313 oak leaves and 68 acorns, weighing 717 grams (25.3 oz), the golden grave crown of Philip II.   This room also included the richly carved burial bed on which Philip II was laid, several exquisite silver utensils for the funeral feast, along with such items as gold-adorned suits of armour and weapons.  All are now on display for visitors.

In the antechamber was another chest with another golden coffin containing the bones of a woman wrapped in a golden-purple cloth with a golden diadem decorated with flowers and enamel, indicating a queen,  possibly Philip II’s Thracian wife, Meda, who by tradition sacrificed herself at the funeral.

In 1978 Tomb III was discovered, also near the tomb of Philip, which is thought to belong Alexander IV of Macedon, son of Alexander the Great.  Like Tomb II, but smaller and also undisturbed, the main room contained a cremated body, in a silver funerary urn a golden oak wreath.

As with Tomb II, inside exquisite silver utensils and weaponry indicating royal status were still in place.  A narrow frieze with a chariot race by a great painter decorated the walls of the tomb. The remains of a wooden mortuary couch adorned with gold and ivory is regarded as notable for its exquisite representation of Dionysos with a flute-player and a satyr.

Finally, the tomb has one other remarkable and moderately well-preserved feature.  This is an astonishing mural, dated from around 350 BC.  It depicts the Abduction of Persephone by Hades,  the God of the Underworld, with a silent Demeter and the three unprejudiced Fates present at the event, accompanied by Hermes, the Guide of Souls, leading the way, and a scared nymph witnessing the horrifying event.   Regarded as a unique example of ancient painting, it is believed to be the work of the famous artist Nicomachus of Thebes.  It is also considered to be one of the few surviving depictions of the ancient mystic views of afterlife.  The image below shows part of the painting

The challenge with visiting a site like this is there are so many extraordinary visual images – and they make my words rather superfluous.  Sadly, next to Tombs II and III is another, the remains thought to be those of Philip II, but tomb robbers stole all of Tomb IV’s  contents.

How had these tombs been preserved?  The tumulus was constructed at the beginning of the third century BC by Antigonos Gonatas, perhaps over smaller individual tumuli to protect the royal tombs from further pillaging after marauding Galati had looted and destroyed the cemetery. The hill material contained many earlier funeral stele.  Could Gonatas have imagined that some 2,200 years later his actions had ensured we were able to enter the tumulus and, despite tomb robbers destroying some of the original material, much of the original structure and contents remained, a remarkable testimony to a key historical era.

Six Great Ideas

I wonder if anyone reads Mortimer Adler today.  For a while he was an influential and also popular philosopher, often referred to as the Fat Man.  That name referred to The Fat Men’s Great Books Group, an informal discussion circle in Chicago in the 1940s, co-founded by Mortimer Adler and Robert Hutchins, the President of the  University of Chicago. The name came from its participants, who were wealthy and influential Chicago businessmen and executives and who were led by Adler and Hutchins to experience the ‘Great Books’ method of discussing classic texts, believing it would bring intellectual rigour and insight to the business elite and potentially bridge societal divides.  The group was formed in 1943 after a prominent businessman, Wilbur Munnecke, had developed concern about the communication difficulties he observed among bright executives.  The approach was seen as a way to unite academic thinkers and businessmen using the wisdom of classic literature, in part to temper the excesses of capitalism and at the same time to guide societal decisions.

Who was Mortimer Jerome Adler?  Born in New York City in 1902, the child of Jewish immigrants from Germany, he dropped out of school at age 14 to become copy boy for the New York Sun.  He soon returned to school, and went on to study at Columbia University, eventually completing a  doctorate in psychology.  However, a key moment in his life was in 1930 when Robert Hutchins, the newly appointed president of the University of Chicago, ensured he was hired as a professor in the philosophy of law, despite resistance from staff from within the university’s Department of Philosophy. Learning about the Great Books seminar inspired Chicago businessman Walter Paepcke to establish The Aspen Institute, and it was there Adler began to teach philosophy to business executives .  With Hutchins he went on to set up the Great Books of the Western World program, in 54 volumes in 1952  A second edition was published in 1990, in 60 volumes.

The decision to include a book in the series required meeting three criteria:  the book had to be relevant to contemporary matters; it had to be rewarding to re-read repeatedly; and it had to contribute to ‘the great conversation about  great ideas’.  The books weren’t chosen on the basis of ethnic and cultural inclusiveness.  Historical influence was seen as sufficient to be added.  Nor was it a requirement that the editors agreed with the authors’ views.  The books were published under the auspices of the Great Books Foundation.  In 1952, Adler founded and served as director of the Institute for Philosophical Research.  He also served on the Board of Editors of the Encyclopedia Britannica, and succeeded Hutchins as its chairman from 1974.

If what was done back then was seen as a key stage in the awareness of key literature from the past, enthusiasm for an  approach where ‘Great Books’ were identified and promoted has declined ever since the first edition appeared.  Today it is easy to make fun of the idea of ‘great books’:  many of those selected are now seen as the embodiment of various evils, from sexism to cultural hegemony, from conservatism to oppression.  However, rather than indulge in criticism of the great books endeavour, there is still value in going back to read books published in earlier decades or centuries.  How were the various titles chosen?  Rather than trying to assess the complete range of publications, a good introduction to Adler’s approach can be undertaken by looking at his 1981 book, Six Great Ideas, (published by Collier Books, a Macmillan imprint).

In Six Great Ideas, Adler examines what he proposes as six foundational concepts, ones he saw as having shaped the pursuit of truth and meaning: these topics are Truth, Goodness, Beauty, Liberty, Equality, and Justice.   Adler invites his readers to join him on ‘a reflective journey’, one where he intends to challenge their understanding of  the principles that govern lives and society.  He  argues  that these ideas form ‘the bedrock of human civilization, guiding our moral compass, our understanding of the world, our appreciation of art and culture, and our endeavours in creating fair and equitable societies’.  He claims these ideas are deeply embedded in everyday life, and he argues they have continuing and enduring relevance.  They are essential tools for navigating the complexities of contemporary life.

He explains his approach is to reveal, in straightforward language, the philosophical basis for these key terms, attempting to take these complex and important ideas and make them accessible to an intelligent (rather than an academic) reader.  The book begins by putting the six foundational concepts he wanted to examine into two groups.  Perhaps surprisingly, the first group comprises Truth, Goodness, Beauty, and the other three, Liberty, Equality, and Justice are left until later in his book.  Today all six might be regarded as controversial, but it might have been easier to begin with truth, liberty and equality.

Adler begins by exploring the concept of truth, explaining how he sees this as the concept that is the cornerstone in the quest for knowledge, shaping the ways in which humans engage with the world. He suggests the pursuit of truth is not merely an intellectual exercise but is a fundamental element of human existence, critical to enquiry, discovery, and the advancement of knowledge.  He also explains that the meaning of truth has changed over time, contrasting the views of the ancient Greeks who, he explains, viewed truth as an alignment with an eternal, unchanging reality, to modern thinkers who consider it in the context of scientific inquiry and empirical evidence.

For Adler, the relationship between truth and knowledge is central. Knowledge is seen as a pursuit of truth, seeking to understand and explain the nature of our world, and as the engine of progress.  Indeed, he explains that truth is a pivotal concept, one that serves as the foundation upon which all knowledge is built.  This is achieved through ‘correspondence’, which he defines as the alignment between thought and reality.  In other words when a statement or belief accurately reflects the state of affairs in the external world, it is deemed true. This  takes us back to knowledge, which is, by definition, justified true belief.  For Adler this is critical:  it is not enough for beliefs to be justified or logical; they must also be true. The pursuit of knowledge, therefore, invariably entails the pursuit of truth not as a philosophical exercise but as a practical necessity.  A society that values Truth is one where individuals can rely on shared understandings and accurate information.

Are there challenges in attaining the truth?  Adler observes that human perception, cognitive biases, and limited knowledge all serve as obstacles.  To overcome them, he argues there has to be a rigorous and continuous process of inquiry, critical thinking, and verification.  He asserts that the persistent search for truth is central to our understanding of ourselves and the world around us.  That view might have seemed clear and simple in 1981, but it rested on an assumption that we all see the world in the same way.  More than forty years later, it is clear that we don’t,  and what is true for one group is not necessarily true to another.  His view that  there are unarguable truths is an assumption hard to sustain in our fractured times.

The difficulties of claiming certainty in relation to truth become all the more evident when Adler turned to his second key idea, goodness.  For Adler goodness is a fundamental principle guiding ethical behaviour, the link to morality.   This leads him to address some  key questions: What constitutes a morally good action? What differentiates good from bad, or moral from immoral actions?   Without meaning to do so, he has started to make us confront some tricky – even controversial – issues.  Some of what he proposes is not particularly controversial:  moral actions are those that align with ethical principles and the concepts of right and wrong, often considering the well-being and rights of others. Immoral actions, conversely, are those that violate ethical standards and typically result in harm or injustice.

However, from there he goes on to argue that goodness extends beyond personal issues to being a criterion for evaluating institutions and communities.  If a society is to flourish, it must nurture and uphold goodness, and with this in mind he takes us into a much broader territory where goodness is linked to the need to promote justice, compassion, altruism, fairness and into creating systems that allow individuals to lead morally fulfilling lives.  Adler is no fool, and he emphasises the challenges in consistently pursuing goodness.  We are often faced with ethical dilemmas that require balancing competing interests and values.  He suggests the pursuit of goodness demands critical reflection, empathy, and a commitment to ethical principles, even when it is inconvenient or challenging.

Now we have reached a key point:  he observes that principles can’t be absolute, as each includes demands that can be contradictory.  As a result there is a need to find ways to balance or accommodate conflicting requirements.  If his intention had been to offer some ‘tools to navigate the complexities of modern life’, it seems he isn’t providing a map as much as outlining possible paths and likely alternatives.  Adler acknowledges this and offers some (conflicting) ideas for the reader to consider.   For example, he refers to Mill’s utilitarian approach which advocates pursuing the greatest good for the greatest number.  In contrast he points out that Kantian ethics require adherence to duty and universal moral laws.  It’s hard to follow a map when the guidance is inconsistent!

Perhaps a better way to read this book is to recognise that Adler’s intention was to make us think, and for us to recognise that there are ‘no easy answers’.  Rather than seeking clear guidance from philosophers, our expectation should be that philosophical enquiry reveals territory to be examined, pointing out pitfalls, possibilities and uncertainties.  What Adler does is to present us with ideas.  Our challenge is to grapple with those ideas, to see what we can identify and confirm, and to make clear what isn’t going to be answered by logic alone.

If Adler’s intention was to encourage us to become amateur philosophers, and to think about the ideas and issues we confront, it was a strange choice to offer ‘beauty’ as the third great idea.  Many would agree here the difficulties are evident:  there is a lot of good sense to suggest ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’,  a phrase with a long history in its various forms, certainly from John Lyly and Shakespeare in the 16^th Century through to David Hume commenting “Beauty in things exists merely in the mind which contemplates them ((in 1742).  Incidentally, the wording about the eye of the beholder comes from Margaret Wolfe Hungerford in her novel Molly Bawn in 1878.  This long history is persuasive.

In fact, Adler quickly slips away from attempting to ‘explain’ the concept of beauty but rather identifies it as an attribute that pleases the senses while also elevating the human spirit.  Is he right?  Does aesthetic experience not only provide pleasure but also “enriches our lives, allowing us to transcend ordinary experiences, and transform mundane reality”. Adler argues that in moments of shared aesthetic experience, people can find common ground, regardless of their cultural background.  He suggests beauty plays a key role in elevating human thought, fostering connection, and driving creative expression.  Really?

What this book from more than 40 years ago does is offer a stark reminder on how much has changed.  In many ways, what Adler has to say is far from controversial.  This becomes very clear later in the book when he turns to the second group of principles.  In the Bookey summary we read Adler argues: “The principles of Liberty and Equality stand as cornerstones in the foundation of human rights.  Liberty, as Adler asserts, is an essential element of human existence, signifying the freedom of individuals to think,  speak, and act according to their own values and decisions without undue interference.  This principle is deeply rooted in the philosophical traditions of Western thought, resonating through the works of thinkers like John Locke, who emphasized natural rights, and John Stuart Mill, who championed individual freedom as crucial for personal development and societal progress.  Adler proposes that liberty fosters creativity, innovation, and personal growth, enabling individuals to pursue their paths and contribute uniquely to society.  However, he admits it can’t exist in a vacuum; it must be tempered given the encroachment on other freedoms.

For him, this is where the principle of Equality comes in.  Equality, he suggests, demands that all individuals be treated with the same respect, dignity, and moral consideration.”  Fair enough, but we are about to reach compromise territory.  Adler warns us that despite their intention to elevate human dignity and social fairness, Liberty and Equality can sometimes be at odds. For instance, he notes, the unfettered exercise of liberty by one individual or group may infringe upon the rights or freedoms of another, as seen in scenarios where economic liberties contribute to systemic inequalities. Likewise, efforts to enforce equality, such as through redistributive policies or affirmative action, can be perceived as limitations on individual freedom and meritocracy.  Well, yes., and so?

We learn that it is possible to navigate these conflicts by encouraging a balance whereby both principles can coexist harmoniously. He advocates for a societal framework that maximizes individual freedoms while simultaneously safeguarding and promoting equal opportunities for all its members.  He notes this balance is not easily achieved, “requiring continual dialogue, ethical consideration, and legal frameworks that adapt to evolving social needs and challenges.  In real-world applications, the balance between Liberty and Equality is manifest in democratic governance, where laws and policies aim to protect individual rights while promoting social welfare. The U.S. Constitution, with its amendments and provisions, exemplifies this delicate equilibrium, striving to uphold freedoms of speech, religion, and assembly, while guaranteeing equal protection under the law”.  Do you remember that simplistic, hopeful and long-lost view of the world?

When it comes to Justice, Adler highlights the contributions of John Rawls.  Rawls’ theory of “justice as fairness” proposes two key. principles: the principle of equal basic liberties for all individuals and the difference principle, which maintains that social and economic inequalities should be arranged to benefit the least advantaged members of society. Rawls’ ideas, like Adlers, now seem so unrealistic.  Were we more innocent back then?

Adler wanted his readers to recognise the profound impact that living in accordance with Truth, Goodness, Beauty, Liberty, Equality, and Justice can have — on ourselves, our relationships, and on the broader society.  Rather than accepting his framework for the future, in contemporary society we are more likely to see those six ideas as forming a complicated straitjacket.  Each constrains and is constrained by the others, and whatever direction we pursue, we soon bump up against major contradictions and confusions.  Despite this, Adler deserves the last word:  even if his six ideas can no longer be considered “essential tools for navigating the complexities of contemporary life” they remind us of ideas we mustn’t forget.

The Culture of Hope

As I see it, destiny was determined to make Frederick Turner of interest.  Born in England on 19 November 1943, one day less than a year before me, he soon proved himself to be a wanderer, living in Africa before he went to university (Oxford, not Cambridge!).  He then became a US citizen, and from 1985 was at the University of Texas (after positions at the University of Bath in the UK, and UC Santa Barbara in California).  He is presently Founders Professor of Arts and Humanities at the University of Texas at Dallas.  More to the point, he is a prolific writer, poet and critic.  Among many others, his books include Shakespeare and the Nature of Time; Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet; Natural Classicism: Essays on Literature and Science;  Rebirth of Value: Meditations on Beauty, Ecology, Religion and Education;  Beauty: The Value of Values; The Culture of Hope: A New Birth of the Classical Spirit; Shakespeare’s Twenty-first Century Economics: The Morality of Love and Money; On the Field of Life, on the Battlefield of Truth, and  Natural Religion.

There’s much more.  He contributes essays, poetry, reviews, and translations to many periodicals, including Harper’s Magazine, Smithsonian Magazine, The Wilson Quarterly, Poetry, Reason, Forbes ASAP, Society, The Journal of Social and Evolutionary Systems, The American Arts Quarterly, Pivot, New Literary History, Oral Tradition, First Things,  The Southern Review, The Yale Review, The Missouri Review, The Ontario Review, The National Review, The Partisan Review, Shenandoah, The Stanford Literary Review, American Enterprise, Lapham’s Quarterly, and , believe it or not, many more.   His work has been translated and published in Albanian, French, German, Japanese, Hungarian, Italian, Macedonian, Rumanian, Russian, Spanish, Turkish, Vietnamese, and other languages.

He’s a polymath.  He was first known for his Shakespeare criticism and for his scholarship in the field of English Renaissance philosophy.  More recently he has written on Renaissance science and art, Shakespearean theatre and performance, Christopher Marlowe, and explored several Shakespeare plays.  He is a founder of the literary-critical school known as Natural Classicism.  Another emphasis has been on the relationship between science and technology on one hand, and the arts and humanities on the other.  As a result he has been involved in groundbreaking studies of the neurobiology of aesthetics, the ritual and performative roots of the arts, and the humanistic implications of evolution, ecology, recombinant DNA technology, space travel, artificial intelligence, brain science, and chaos theory.  He has been awarded numerous prizes.   Did I say he’s a polymath?

His book The Future of Hope: A New Birth of the Classical Spirit assessed the chances for a revival of our cultural energies at the turn of the millennium, based on what was seen as the remarkable new developments in scientific cosmology and technology. It is this book, published in 1995, that is the starting point of these comments.  He made his intentions in writing his book clear:  “When one seeks for radical equality, and a total pruning of the tree of authority, one gets an Oliver Cromwell, a Napoleon, a Hitler, a Lenin, or a Stalin  instead. In recent times, the egalitarian commune movement has given birth to such monstrosities as Charlie Manson and Jimmy Jones.  Any of us who were involved in radical consciousness-raising groups in the sixties, seventies, and eighties can remember the oppressive atmosphere of thought control and authority, the way in which some unacknowledged leader emerged supported by a little coterie of moral enforcers and yes-men, and bullying of the weak or independent.”  He’s not frightened to make his views clear.  He has often been controversial.  He’s the ideal person for my last blog in this current series.

Thirty years ago, Turner proposed a radical agenda in The Culture of Hope, with its telling subtitle – A New Birth of the Classical Spirit.  Why did I read it?  Because he commented “This book is for those who have been shaken out of themselves by art, who have felt a piece of Mozart’s Magic Flute reach out and grab them by the heart, who have seen the grave look on Flora’s face as she steps out of Botticelli’s Primavera the way gods always do, lit by a light too powerful to be quite shown: for those who have heard a line of Shakespeare so that it rang and rang again in their ears – ‘Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul/Of the wide world dreaming of things to come.”  I felt I had to read it!

To continue to quote, but now from the book release:

“Turner recycles some material from earlier university press books for this, his grand synthesis that promises to overcome the stalemate in the culture wars. Proponent of a “third way” or “centrist” position, Turner (Arts and Humanities/Univ. of Texas, Dallas) rehearses the standard complaints about our culture in crisis. Unlike traditional conservatives, though, he ventures a prescription that goes beyond nostalgia for faith and values. A sober critic of the so-called avant-garde, Turner posits a “radical centre”—“a return to classical forms, genres and techniques in the arts” that is grounded in the latest research in anthropology and science. Turner fancies his “reconstructive postmodernism” a new paradigm on the intellectual horizon, and it’s hard to imagine anyone familiar with all the disciplines he brings together in this fascinating, if exhausting, book. A cogent critic of anti-foundationalist thought (be it feminist, Marxist, or linguistic), Turner reaffirms the need for hierarchy in the arts, for logic over force, and for beauty over relativism. His multiculturalism is truly pan-cultural, discovering the transcendent in all cultures. Turner’s idea of a “natural classicism” is remarkably transparent—he locates classical forms in nature itself. Some of his other ideas are a bit obscure, and his tendency toward unrelieved abstraction will turn off sympathetic readers. Turner’s immediate cure for cultural malaise is nothing less than a four-page manifesto that is certain to provoke debate, and his discussion of biology is sure to be used against him, despite his distinctly un-“bell curvish” ideas. Turner’s fictional “fable for the future”—a brave new world that resembles the utopian cyberspace of the Tofflers—flirts with kookiness. A superb critic of trendy feminist and multicultural ideas, Turner deserves a hearing in the ongoing debate: He’s Apollo to Camille Paglia’s Dionysus.”

So what is this Third Way?  A number of contributors to Philosophy Now in October 2019 suggested answers, and a few were published.  The topic was  “How to negotiate a path between capitalist & socialist excesses?   There were many similarities between the views expressed, of which these are just a selection.

Steve Foulger, from London, observed “In political philosophy a ‘Third Way’ is usually taken to mean a position that rejects the extreme views to be found at either end of the left/right spectrum. It is commonly seen as occupying a middle ground, rejecting radicalism. Its proponents often say it offers the best of both worlds, whilst detractors see it, unsurprisingly, as the worst of both.”  …. I believe Third Way proposals should reject the (monist) idea that there is one all-embracing solution to the problems of society, and instead accept value pluralism as its guiding principle. Values are vitally important to people, but they can be contradictory and indeed incommensurable. … my Third Way would involve a radical extension of democratic control into a largely devolved society.”

Similarly, at least to some extent, Jonathan Tipton, from Preston, Lancashire, suggested “In the last twenty five years, the ‘Third Way’ has denoted a distinct political ideology that argues in favour of the free-market, entrepreneurship, and against the nationalisation of industries, whilst still endorsing radical policies of social justice. It is commonly seen as a compromise between right-wing neoliberalism and leftist social democracy.” …

Tipton goes on to observe, “Arguably John Rawls offers the closest thing to a theoretical basis for Third Way values. In his influential book A Theory of Justice (1971), he put forward a thought-experiment, the ‘Original Position’. Imagine, he said, that a society’s values were to be decided by rational individuals behind ‘a veil of ignorance’ which would prevent them knowing anything about what their own place in that society would be, even of their own social status, gender, ethnicity, etc. Rawls thought that concern for their future wellbeing would impel them to create a society that was free-market but with a strong sense of social justice. It would therefore outwardly resemble a society modelled upon the Third Way. Social inequalities such as great wealth would be permitted if and only if they also benefited the least well off, through high taxes, or more employment”.  Appealing to a Rawls fan!…

Another contributor, Ian Rizzo, Zabbar, from Malta, commented:  “If only we could ditch the left-right-centre-populist ideological splits and focus on a Third Way based on reasonable rethinking and strong ethical, humanistic beliefs. …  A Third Way would recognise that the right balance ought to be maintained between markets, the state and the community. Risk should be appropriately rewarded, since the economy needs to be sustained with creativity and self-sufficiency; but not to the detriment of rewarding hard work. … . A Third Way would insist that the key to our wealth and happiness lies in measures to truly improve quality of life for all…  Such an objective can be reached if the Third Way is based on a philosophy where every human being is treated with equal dignity and respect. Tolerance of a diversity of views should go hand in hand with J.S. Mill’s ‘Harm Principle’ (people’s freedom should only be limited to prevent them doing harm to others).”

For Frank S Robinson of Albany, New York, there is a path for a ‘Third Way’ between rapacious capitalism and coercive communism.  “The answer is Enlightenment humanism. This philosophy celebrates the flourishing of individuals, recognizing that the only thing that can ultimately matter is the feelings of beings capable of feeling.  An important part of human flourishing is finding meaning. Most of us want to do that as freely as possible. This doesn’t mean disconnecting from society. Indeed, being embedded in social structures is part of how we flourish and find meaning. So we want a balance between freedom to do our own thing and the societal ties enabling us to relate to others. … Experience and rationality point to a society ruled by laws protecting us from harms by others – including capitalists – while otherwise leaving us as free as possible: free to pursue economic advantage, which makes society richer; and free to pursue happiness in our individual ways.”

Finally, Mark Bennett, Newmarket, ON asks if there is still a basis to strive for a Third Way. “Democracy is now under the influence of consumerism. … We channel our citizenship toward consumerism, giving tacit assent to our government to undergo a process of zoning. As Alain Badiou … reminds us that “1% of the global population possess 46% of the available resources while 50% of the global population possess nothing.  There seems to be no solution other than democracy. So for a Third Way, democracy must undergo an evolution in which we address both environmental and human needs. It must replace the effects of hegemony with a globalized citizenship. Jürgen Habermas writes, “politics must globalize too, in order to rein in the economy. It means expanding politics beyond the nation state”.

Can we have hope?

The Third Way has been defined as: “different and distinct from liberal capitalism with its unswerving belief in the merits of the free market and democratic socialism with its demand management and obsession with the state. The Third Way is in favour of growth, enterprise, entrepreneurship, and wealth creation but it is also in favour of greater social justice and it sees the state playing a major role in bringing this about.”  So as  Anthony Giddens of the LSE has noted: the Third Way rejects the so-called neo liberalism philosophy.  Indeed, the Third Way has been advocated by its proponents as a ‘radical-centrist’ approach, an alternative to both capitalism and what it regards as the traditional forms of socialism.

The more I have read about it, the Third Way has become harder to summarise, partly due to its flexible nature, putting ends before means, and prioritising achieving social justice rather than focusing on the methods by which it could be achieved.  One way to summarise the Third Way is to say it’s about ‘rights with responsibilities’, pairing the right to education with the responsibility to put effort towards achieving good grades.  On economics, a great deal of the emphasis is placed on tax revenue, and the means by which it is generated. The Third Way argues that growth is the best way to raise tax revenue, and that growth can be achieved through a free market economy, fiscal discipline and a ‘healthy human capital stock’.

The Third Way has been advocated by proponents as competitive socialism.  Anthony Giddens has been a prominent proponent of the Third Way, and has suggested it is a modernisation of socialism, achieved through the social democracy movement.  However, he argues that traditional socialist ideology, resting on the direct involvement of the state in economic management and planning, is flawed.  He has argued that justification for the idea of the managed economy barely exists any longer.  In defining the Third Way Blair once wrote: “The Third Way stands for a modernised social democracy, passionate in its commitment to social justice”, and he added: “The Third Way stands for a modernised social democracy, passionate in its commitment to social justice and the goals of the centre-left. … But it is a third way because it moves decisively beyond an Old Left preoccupied by state control, high taxation and producer interests; and a New Right treating public investment, and often the very notions of ‘society’ and collective endeavour, as evils to be undone.”

While it sounds encouraging, The Third Way has been criticized as being a vague ideology with no specific commitments:  “The Third Way is no more than a crude attempt to create a bogus coalition between the haves and the haves not:  bogus because it entices the haves by assuring them that the economy will be sound and their interests will not be threatened, while promising the have-nots a world free from poverty and injustice. Based on opportunism, it has no ideological commitment at all.”

All this takes us back to Frederick Turner.  With an undeniable religious underpinning, he argues that a culture of hope has to draw on such matters as the preservation of the richness and variety of life, and suggests we have to replace ‘environmentally unsound technologies with the more efficient, elegant and benign ones that the new science is making possible”.  He is an unashamed ecologist, but above all he seeks “a new aesthetic philosophy, critique, and theology, as humanistic as it is naturalistic, embodied in an art in which all these studies can be guided.”  Is this the voice we heard up to the end of the previous century?  Have we lost the confidence he exhibits?  At the end of this series of blogs, I fear our world has become more hierarchical, more exploitative and less humanistic.  I hope I am wrong.

DD83 – The Soul: A History of the Human Mind

Paul Ham’s 2024 book, The Soul, is described as a deep dive into history to find its driving force.  It is a text we have been exploring in our Philosopher’s Cafe series, a U3A course in Canberra.  My initial plan was to write a blog about the book but Ham, a journalist, has done an excellent job in his Introduction, so I realised I could use his words!  The next two and half pages are his overview:

“This is a history of the soul, or what we now call the mind, the mysterious inner voice that wills us to think and act and is unique to each of us.

For centuries your soul was believed to be your disembodied spirit, destined for Heaven or Hell after the death of the body. Today our minds are understood as the product of our brains, the factory of our thoughts and beliefs and willpower.

And yet, the strange, subjective nature of our minds continues to bewilder neuroscientists and frustrate institutional religions. What differentiates our minds? Why is my truth, your lies? Why is my good, your evil? What is the source of those beliefs? And why do people seek to impose their beliefs on others, often lovingly, sometimes violently?

Sapiens’ cerebral history began with the creation of the gods by Stone Age men. It may end with the attempt to replicate human consciousnesses in our own age. In the intervening 300,000 years, our brains have made a series of extraordinary evolutionary leaps, from the dimmest tremors of self-consciousness in prehistoric hominins to the self-willed intelligence of modern humans, rendering us capable of the most vicious cruelty and the gentlest acts of compassion.

How our souls or psyches arrived at where they are today is an astonishing journey of self-discovery. En route we shall explore the first signs of self-awareness in prehistoric humans; the earliest Egyptian conceptions of consciousness and immortality; the Hindu and Buddhist ideas of karma and rebirth; the ancient Chinese and Greek theories of self; the origins of the Jewish belief in their ‘chosenness’; the rise of the Christian spirit that broke the Roman Empire; the unification of the Arabs under Muhammad, which drove the early Islamic conquests; the hope of salvation that animated the crusading Christians; the fractured beliefs of the Reformation; the missionary spirit that harvested souls for Western empires; the Biblical justification of enslavement; the ‘rational’ soul/mind of the Enlightenment and revolutionary eras; the return of ‘theocrats’ and ‘theocracy’ (which the media miscast as the ‘Far Right’); and the liberation of the souls and minds of women, so long enchained in the world of men. We will also enter the dark night of the soul under totalitarian rule, contemplate the harrowing of the modern mind, and glimpse the synthetic consciousness of artificial intelligence. Along the way, we’ll explore how the changing interpretations of our souls/minds have willed the greatest events in the history of humankind.

Nobody has attempted such a journey before. The German philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel’s Philosophy of Mind and The Phenomenology of Spirit chronicled the liberation of consciousness, but his works were not histories as we understand them.

The closest comparison is the French philosopher Nicolas de Condorcet’s Sketch for a Historical Picture of the Progress of the Human Mind, written in 1794 while he was hiding from the Terror. His ‘bible of progress’ is a masterpiece of wishful thinking that knowledge would lead us to the Promised Land of reason and social justice, rid of zealotry and superstition.

Alas, in relegating religion to science, Condorcet gravely underestimated the persistence of faith and belief as the drivers of human thought and action. Like Condorcet, self-described ‘realists’ in our time think of human beings as ‘rational actors’ who behave according to reason. Like Condorcet, ‘realists’ underestimate the power of faith, belief and ‘unreason’ over the human mind and the course of history.

Beliefs are the engines of human history. That is a core idea animating this book. And the source of those beliefs is the mind, or what for millennia we called the soul.

*

Almost everyone thinks they have one, but nobody knows what it is. Modern notions of ‘the soul’ are so prolific, so protean, no wonder people struggle to explain it. Jobs, relationships, people can be ‘soul-destroying’. Most people seem to think they will find a ‘soulmate’. Leaders long to be identified as the ‘soul of the nation’.

In this sea of confusion stands a rock: the great religions have always claimed to know precisely what your soul is, and where it is going after your body dies: to Heaven or Hell. For the sake of the ‘salvation’ of their souls, countless religious believers have waged war, conquered worlds and forcibly converted ‘heathens’ to their belief systems. For people of faith, the ‘soul’ was and forever will be the trembling spirit of the inner being, judged after we die to be saved or damned.

Every society has had a word for it – anima, atman, jiva, ba, ka, hun, po, nefesh, ruach, psyche, shade, logos, breath, ruh, nafs, thetan, roohu, holy ghost, spirit, quiddity, to name a few. In modern times we have spoken of the self, consciousness, ego and superego, mind, essence, animus, identity, core, conscience, vim, verve, centre, ‘I’, ‘me’. All terms strive to express the strange entity through which a person lives, feels, thinks and wills.

Is the soul/mind a substance? A passenger trapped in your body? Slave or master? The tug of conscience? The source of love and hatred? What distinguished the ancient Aztec, Inca and Aboriginal ideas of the soul/mind from those of their conquerors? What distinguishes the Hindu and Buddhist ideas of the soul/mind from the Christian, Muslim and Jewish ones? Who or what decided whether your soul would be ‘saved’ or sent to Hell? Why is the Faustian contract – the idea of selling your soul to the Devil – so resonant in the secular West, not least among atheists? Why has the ‘religious soul’ survived neuroscientific advances that should have extinguished it?

In seeking to answer those and many more questions, The Soul explores the emergence, recognition, salvation, institutionalisation, decay and destruction of this unfathomable vehicle of human consciousness, the spiritual clay that both Plato and Saint Augustine, pagan and Christian, understood as immortal, corruptible, faithful, deceitful, capable of free will, able to choose between right and wrong, the very substance of what it means to be human – the whisper of the eternal ‘I’ of the human mind.

*

The idea at the core of The Soul is that belief is the engine of human history, regardless of whether the thing you believe in – a god, a messiah, a promised land, a prophecy, a political utopia – exists or will ever exist.

The events that shape and drive history – e.g. the way societies form and are structured, the conflicts between competing societies (and within them), the art and the ideas they produce – have been propelled by beliefs of the mind, and that this is true across all human societies everywhere, and always. Countless people have lived their lives believing in and fighting for the fulfilment of an open-ended prophecy that promised a religious or political utopia.

For this reason, The Soul anchors the ‘self’ not in questions like ‘who am I’ and ‘why am I here’ (which are impossible to answer), but in belief: In what do I believe? Why do I believe it? From whom or what did I get those beliefs? If I’m sitting on the shoulders of giants, who are they? Who contains ‘me’? What am I prepared to do to defend or enforce my beliefs?

The Soul will show that our beliefs are the ‘first movers’ of historical events. Systems of belief have relentlessly shaped the human story. To understand how, we need to return to their origins, to the genesis of belief. We need to understand how those beliefs – religious, political and ideological – took hold of the human soul/mind and enchained, liberated, inspired and tyrannised our lives.

It matters little whether the gods or ideas or ideologies in which people believed, and still believe, were fact or fiction, truths or fantasies. What matters is that enough people believed in them. And the force of mass belief, exploited by charismatic leaders, fomented the greatest upheavals in human history: war, conquest, enslavement, revolution, liberation, conversion, sublimation, illumination. All were consequences of the power of belief.

Together we’ll see how the soul/mind has been interpreted through time – how it has been animated, reincarnated, immortalised, loved, chosen, harvested, conquered, saved, sublimed, inflamed, illuminated, unchained, exterminated, fragmented and hacked. We’ll visit the caverns of the unconscious and the airy heights of the superego. We’ll probe the ganglions of guilt and the fronds of co-dependent hatred.

For most of my life as a writer, I’ve written about conflict. I’ve studied the experiences of traumatised servicemen and women and their families. I’ve listened to civilian victims of atrocities and the survivors of holocausts. I’ve heard the whisper of the unknown soldier, the cry of the child in time, the scream of massacred innocents. And I’ve seen people at their most compassionate and self-sacrificial, ordinary men and women enacting the most beautiful expression of love ever written: ‘Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.’ Those experiences have taught me something about human nature in extremis without which I could not have written this book.

Writing The Soul has changed my life; reading it may change yours.”

As we have been working through this book, I can say it is challenging, ambitious, and often quite entertaining.  Perhaps the key word is ambitious, as he attempts to provide a survey of the world’s intellectual and spiritual history.  It is unusual in that it addresses civilisations from the past, and also looks at major developments in thinking in the East as well as the West.  At the same time, and perhaps unsurprisingly, it isn’t a ‘neutral’ account.

As the latter part of the book reveals, Ham is basically a humanist, offering a materialistic vision of change and development. As he makes clear,  the critical questions he asks are concerned with seeking to understand why significant historical events took place, not just in terms of the immediate predisposing actions of the time, but rather how major historical shifts are the consequence of beliefs:  ‘Beliefs are the fuel of history. They lead to all the strange and perplexing happenings that keep historians in business.’  Ham also talks about beliefs as being more than mere fuel but as being  “the engine room” of history, making it clear that this is how he sees  ‘the soul’ or ‘the mind’.  Beliefs are the critical ideas about our nature that have emerged, developed and driven change over the centuries.

Inevitably, in trying to cover so much, Ham often leads us into contentious territory and sometimes you can’t help thinking he feels obliged to shape events to suit his view of the dynamics of change.  His perspective can also be frustrating.  His view that it is existing ideas being put into action that creates change is one that can often be supported, but I suspect there are just as many other cases where historical events has been the source of ideas rather than the other way around.  One reviewer offered a nice contrast between these perspectives:

“Consider that unpleasant Genoese, Christopher Columbus, whose ambitious and greedy character Ham gives a better press than some others. Columbus called the people on the far side of the Atlantic “Indians” because he thought he had arrived in Asia and no experience was going to change the idea that had set like stone in his head.  Conversely, however, the empirical experiences Charles Darwin had as a traveller caused him to think again, almost against his will, about the origin of species. It was, if anything, an inconvenience to him that his personal history brought him new ideas. Ham notes wryly that Darwin would have been mortified to see the way his ideas were exploited both by Marxists and Nazis. This did not make his ideas wrong”  (from ‘A deep dive into history to find its driving force’, Michael McGirr, Sydney Morning Herald, August 2, 2024)

McGirr’s response is intriguing.  I often read a book because I want to see how a specific perspective can illuminate an issue;  on the other hand I am very doubtful that we can ever achieve a full understanding of any phenomenon, (a concern that is even more relevant when we try to look backwards).  It is possibly more ‘realistic to see change and ideas as in a mutually intertwined relationship’.  However, that doesn’t mean we should ignore the writer who pushes one perspective harder than others and even asks for more.  Rather, McGirr suggests we should relish what we learn from seeing events from a less familiar perspective.

Sadly, we know accounts of history have many elements, and ideas are only one small part.  There are drivers that come from science and its application (and its mistaken application!).  There are those that come from politics, and the desire for power, balanced against the realities of economics, technology and more.  Part of the value of taking a philosophical perspective (which is what The Philosophers Cafe aspires to do) is that we can test the basis of a particular perspective, assess arguments and conclusions, attempt to seek for those key and critical factors that drive change but are hidden below the surface of everyday thinking.

In a discussion at U3A on The Soul, looking at the early pre-Christian chapters we considered the image of crossing a river using stepping stones, a process that has two obvious elements. The first of these is deciding which stone to stand on, especially as those near the bank can be just as unstable as those further into the water. However, there is another aspect to this, one to do with perspective: it is easy to fall into the water if you are looking ahead to the bank on the other side of the river while failing to concentrate on each immediate next step.

Reading The Soul is a bit like this.  It is easy to focus on issues in some important chapters without recognising the characteristics of the time in question. It is also tempting to formulate observations and concerns that are relevant to where the book ends (in the contemporary world) rather than at each stage in the timeline Ham follows. History does havemany drivers and included in the ideas that help us make sense of the past, some arise in response to questions raised by those living and breathing at the time.  If Ham wants us to accept The Soul “persuasively demonstrates that the beliefs of the soul/mind are the engines of human history”  he may be asking too much.  But he does make clear beliefs are clearly important.

DD81 – The Wreck of Western Culture

Do I want to be thought of as a ‘grumpy old man’?  Well, I am old, and I can be grumpy.  However, it is an epithet that implies recalcitrance, stuck in the past, and unable to see what is changing and the importance of rethinking past preconceptions.  I should also confess that I remember being impressed by The Wreck of Western Culture when I first read it, back in the early 2000s.  It was sweeping, bold, uncompromising, and articulate.  Twenty years later a defence of the ‘Western tradition’ seems rather quaint, and to many people rather seriously out of touch.  However, I suggest it does deserve another visit.

The author, John Carroll, was a professor of sociology when the book appeared.  The first edition was published in 1993, bit it was updated in 2004 with a subtitle added.  The key to John Carroll’s book is in that subtitle: Humanism Revisited.  According to John Carroll, Western culture has been dead on its feet for more than a century. “By 1900,” he commented, “it is all over.” By “it”, Carroll means a culture free from what he considers to be the devastating blight of humanism.  The humanist dilemma had been summed up succinctly by George Orwell in 1945: “As long as supernatural beliefs persist, men can be exploited by cunning priests and oligarchs, and the technical progress which is a prerequisite of a just society cannot be achieved. On the other hand, when men stop worshipping God they promptly start worshipping Man, with disastrous results.”  Predicated on the view that Western high culture is in a declining if not nihilistic mode, Carroll’s Humanism traces this decline to an epistemic tyranny of reason and its subjection of all other forms of knowing and understanding what is meant by ‘being’.

A review in The Age back in 2004, on ‘assessing Western culture’s wreck’ suggested The Wreck of Western Culture is concerned with the second part of the problem outlined by Orwell. A long time dying, Western culture was poisoned during the Reformation and Renaissance, which gave rise to self-regarding art and philosophy. The so-called Enlightenment was especially damaging, says Carroll: “The deification of reason leaves much human nature in the dark. The Enlightenment was in fact rather narrow-minded, naive about human motivation, about society and politics, always in danger of barricading itself inside an arid and abstract intellectualism.”  He suggests Western culture was finished off by the combined influence of Marx, Darwin and Freud, in whose name human lives were reduced to a set of economic, biological and psychoanalytical factors. In short, ours is a culture obsessed by what is claimed to be the nature of the skull beneath the skin.  Carroll castigates Freud for misconceiving the Oedipus complex; it is the antecedent Hamlet complex, he contends, that is the more precise agent of Western cultural ruination.

At one time, John Carroll was one of Australia’s most stimulating thinkers, and together with another thinker of the time, Michel Foucault from far away Europe, he saw a crucial antecedent and warning for the onset of humanism in Velasquez’s Las Meninas(1656).  In his analysis, the painting apparently subverts not only the social order in its depiction of the Spanish royal family, but by putting the viewer at the painting’s centre, calls into question the practice of art itself. For Carroll, Velasquez is “the most subtly brilliant harbinger of Western resentment”.  However, the approach used by Carroll and Foucault is very different – and indeed ideologically they are antithetical – but they do share an underlying anti-humanism. Carroll acknowledges the advances in the West towards unprecedented levels of physical health and material wellbeing, but mourns the diminution of words such as ‘sacred’, ‘noble’ and ‘honour’.   As others have noted, these aren’t terms normally associated with Foucault, who I guess Carroll would consider a nihilist.

In Carroll’s view, in seeking to remake themselves in their own (imperfect) image, the people of the West have lost their soul. The Wreck of Western Culture thus belongs to a negative strand within the Western intellectual tradition. Since the dawn of the Western history of thought, the idea of progress has been accompanied by the idea of decline. Carroll’s guiding light through much of his story is Friedrich Nietzsche, and indeed his style evinces a taste for the apocalyptic and the sublime that is not too distant from the turbulent genius of the German master.

It is Nietzsche who asked: “What then is truth? A movable host of metaphors, metonymies, and; anthropomorphisms: in short, a sum of human relations which have been poetically and rhetorically intensified, transferred, and embellished, and which, after long usage, seem to a people to be fixed, canonical, and binding. Truths are illusions which we have forgotten are illusions- they are metaphors that have become worn out and have been drained of sensuous force, coins which have lost their embossing and are now considered as metal and no longer as coins.”

He continues, “We still do not yet know where the drive for truth comes from. For so far we have heard only of the duty which society imposes in order to exist: to be truthful means to employ the usual metaphors. Thus, to express it morally, this is the duty to lie according to a fixed convention, to lie with the herd and in a manner binding upon everyone. Now man of course forgets that this is the way things stand for him. Thus he lies in the manner indicated, unconsciously and in accordance with habits which are centuries’ old; and precisely by means of this unconsciousness and forgetfulness he arrives at his sense of truth. From the sense that one is obliged to designate one thing as “red,” another as “cold,” and a third as “mute,” there arises a moral impulse in regard to truth. The venerability, reliability, and utility of truth is something which a person demonstrates for himself from the contrast with the liar, whom no one trusts and everyone excludes.”

Nietzsche remains a devastating critic, and John Carroll picks of many of his points (if not his essentially subjective view of the world).  Displaying a dazzling eclecticism, Carroll shares with Nietzsche the ability to range across the width and breadth of the cultural landscape .  In the Wreck of Western Culture he makes good use of  artists’ contributions as much as that coming from philosophers and theologians.  There are many examples.  Thus the French Baroque painter Nicolas Poussin can be compared with the Hollywood director John Ford;  one chapter in the book convincingly treats a clutch of Ford’s John Wayne westerns as an epic example of modern myth-making.  Carroll makes it clear what art he thinks is worthy of attention: “High culture has its own hierarchy, with a few supreme masterpieces at the top. This study concentrates on those masterpieces.” He suggests that in the relatively zombie-like state today, thinkers and artists are generating relatively little worthwhile.  After all, it is relatively easy (and cheap?) to suggest modern art is pretty much summed up by Duchamp’s urinal, and Carroll moves on from such an easy target to savage Picasso as a “misogynistic psychopath who made women weep in real life, as well as on the canvas.”

Today there is a vast industry concerned with ‘explaining’ art.  Historians show us how imagery became more faithful to what was being seen, through the increasing understanding of perspective, sight lines, reference points and so much more.  Others explain what the artist was trying to achieve, how the work related to a commission, a place where it was to be displayed, how it was informed by beliefs, values and hopes.  I can still recall my giddy excitement as I read an analysis of The Ambassadors, by Hans Holbein the Younger, in John Carroll’s The Wreck of Western Culture.  He used that painting to explore what he argued we have lost through the gradual erosion of the spiritual by the scientific.  John Carroll might have been a little didactic (actually, quite a lot), but he did make me think.  I had the same experience reading  Michel Foucault’s exploration of Velázquez’ Las Meninas in his book The Order of Things.  Intellectually fascinating.

His approach was not universally liked at the time and has lost even more support in recent years.  However, in 2005 Michael Jensen wrote a review for the Sydney Anglicans journal.  He observed, “John Carroll, professor of sociology at La Trobe University, Melbourne, is not afraid of big ideas. His 2004 book The Wreck of Western Culture, a substantial reworking of a 1993 effort, is a passionate, daring and sustained attack on the bloodlines of what we call “the West.”   He calls his book “a spiritual history of the West.”   He writes with a refreshing polemical zeal and with none of the hedging and over-qualifying so characteristic of academic prose.

His  claim is that “humanism” by which he means the intellectual and cultural movement originating in the Renaissance “has had its deficiencies exposed in the latter-day collapse of western culture. Most particularly, the humanist belief in the supremacy of the human free will as an alternative to obedience to God has been revealed as self-defeating not least by the devastating symbolism of the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. The strategy Carroll employs for demonstrating his thesis is a selectively genealogical one. In a deliberate snub of postmodern orthodoxy, he examines some of the finest works of high culture in the humanist half-millennium: Hamlet, Holbein’s The Ambassadors, Rembrandt and Poussin, Mozart and Kant, Kierkegaard and Nietzsche, the novels of Henry James and the films of John Ford. It is an idiosyncratic choice and an unorthodox method, which Carroll justifies because these exceptional masterpieces have “tapped the deepest truths of their time” (p.9). His interaction with these works is stimulating and masterful and makes The Wreck of Western Culture a pleasure to read”, and his comments are thought provoking, at the least.

Jensen continues: “Crucial to the history Carroll traces is the famous sixteenth century debate over the freedom of the human will between the doyen of European humanism, Erasmus of Rotterdam and the German reformer Martin Luther. Carroll bravely reads Luther as more anti-humanist than anti-Roman Catholic. The irenic Erasmus was a reasonable man. If there is no human free will”, he argues, “why should the wicked reform? But Luther’s teaching of justification by faith alone meant a complete rejection of this reliance on human will and reason. For Luther, the human being is a slave to sin and sentenced to death; and must come, empty-handed, to the cross of the crucified Christ. Mere morality was a hopeless absurdity. The heart of the Protestant reformation, rooted in the writings of Paul, is an acknowledgement of the helplessness of the human as a result of sin and death and a need for absolute dependence on God. Humanism, with its alternative diagnosis of the basic goodness of human beings and their freedom to be moral, leads inevitably to the rejection of God. There are some mealy-mouthed versions of Christianity that espouse this kind of thinking, even today: but the calamities of history must be held up against them as evidence. Man has proved a very poor god; ultimately death still undoes him.”

Jensen considers Luther’s insight is as crucial today as it ever was. What Protestant – in other words, Biblical – Christianity offers is a radically different diagnosis of the human condition. The humanist vision has been played out in full and now offers no comfort to the human soul. Carroll offers his work as a contribution to the funeral of humanism, with a warning for us not to give it another run.

But what does he offer as an alternative?  Jensen suggests Carroll wants the West to start again, to reach back into the past and recapture that right “enthusiasm for man and his works that the Renaissance attempted to enshrine”. He means by this a simple delight in place of the infatuation with the human that has bought us so badly undone. Carroll writes: “The culture of the West will not be renewed until the moment it kills Luther’s monster [i.e. death], and once again achieves a death of death”. For Carroll, it is in the art of Poussin that a particular alternative is indicated. Though the Frenchman Poussin was a Roman Catholic, Carroll claims that in his pictures he was able to represent Luther’s great ideas. He, too, sees “darkness where the light of neither law nor reason shines” (p.70). He, too, sees the necessity for life and hope to come from outside sources and to be recognised as gifts. Yet he differs from Luther, writes Carroll, in that he appeals to a radically different divinity  ‘the sacred breath moving through the mythos’”.

At this point Jensen suggests Carroll loses him somewhat, and “a bit of precise writing on his part might have helped. Suffice to say that he reads the great works of culture as reflective of ‘the body of timeless, archetypal narratives that carry the eternal truths: the big stories on which every culture is founded, ones that are then told and retold to each coming generation’. It is in this mode that he considers theology, art, literature and philosophy: they are the things that a culture needs to survive, what Carroll has called in a previous book our ‘dreaming’”.

An exciting feature of Carroll’s work was his determination to take theology seriously and to read Luther and Calvin as major thinkers in the history of the West (which indeed they are). However, Carroll hangs back from a thoroughgoing endorsement of them, or from charting a clear alternative course for the Western individual. But that is not his intention: this book is ground-clearing rather than ground-breaking. Further, I would have been fascinated to see Western culture compared with Eastern or Islamic cultures. Are these less “wrecked” than ours? Admittedly, Carroll does briefly consider the clash of civilisations through the lens of the 9/11 conflict.

In any event, I read Carroll’s work and The Wreck of Western Cultura as Jensen did: “a full-blown challenge to the decadent culture we inhabit, a culture trying ever harder to assert a basic human goodness but everywhere having to deal with the destructive consequences of our will-to-power”.  Now it is twenty years later, and I have to reconsider my enthusiasm.  Certainly, humanism is in trouble, but not so much as the challenge from Christianity.  Now we seem to have become excessively materialistic and selfish, social cohesion falling apart as modern media allows us to find others like ourselves and any desire to find common ground diminished.

Indeed, today we can see the West is falling apart, and new thinking is coming from very different sources.  The values of family, social cohesion and a unified society are promoted by countries like China, but just as we begin to get excited about these ideas, we witness the high levels of compliance and control being exercised in the Peoples Republic.  Just as we can see evidence of the ‘wreck’ of western culture on the shoals of dominant capitalism, so Eastern countries are heading into trouble, trying to bludgeon acceptance rather than finding common ground.  This year I have been facilitating a discussion group for U3A, first on Truth and now on Belief.  Reviewing the past has been fun, but contemplating the mess we are in today is disheartening.  If humanism is failing, it seems the only alternative is to live in virtual isolation, sustained by entertaining technologies?  Not a good approach?  Can you offer any alternatives?