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The March of Folly

I often wonder where the place is to be found between being entertained, being made to think, and being constrained by academic rigour.  We want to read books about issues that excite us or that confuse us, about topics we want to explore, and often wish to read stimulating contributions without being subjected to the demands of academic precision.  We also like to spend time looking at ideas, even if they turn out to be rather slight, oversimplified, and possibly somewhat misleading.

Of all the fields where this is a problem, history must be at the forefront.  Histories are always exercises in the imagination, as we can never go back to the past, or not yet anyway!  As we read reconstructed accounts of the way things were, we both know they are based on the writer’s views, and often nothing more than that.  At the same time, we can be captured by a writer who appears to make the past ‘live’.  As we read, we know that another writer will come out with another book that will reveal all the shortfalls in the book we’ve just finished.  Revisions and rethinking will continue, and, we are assured, each new work will be better:  more insightful, more accurate.  Where’s the stopping point – no, where’s the starting point?  At which point is this particular contribution one worth considering?

Barbara Tuchman is a case in point.  A 20th Century historian, journalist and writer, born in 1912 (and died in1989), she was known for compelling popular histories, and won the  Pulitzer Prize twice, the first time for the Guns of August, a history of the prelude to and the first month of World War I, and the second for Stilwell and the American Experience in China, a 1971 biography of General Stillwell.  However, for many people it was her broad-brush review of world history, the March of Folly, that they read and enjoyed.

She attended the Walden School on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, and received a Bachelor of Arts degree from Radcliffe College in 1933, having studied history and literature.  Working first as a researcher and journalist, it was following the Second World War, she began basic research for what would ultimately become the 1956 book Bible and Sword: England and Palestine from the Bronze Age to Balfour.  Its publication was the beginning of her commitment to historical research and writing, at a pace which soon saw her turning out a new book at approximately every four years.

She never claimed to be an academic and said that the norms of academic writing would have “stifled any writing capacity.”  She saw herself as having a literary approach to the writing of history, focussed on explanatory narratives rather than concentrating upon discovery and publication of newly discovered archival sources. Tuchman was “not a historian’s historian; she was a layperson’s historian who made the past interesting to millions of readers”.

The book has been described as concerned with ‘one of the most compelling paradoxes of history: the pursuit by governments of policies contrary to their own interests’.  Its four sections cover four major instances of government folly in human history: these are the Trojan’s decision to move a Greek wooden horse into their city; the failure of Popes in the Renaissance to stem the challenges that would lead to the Protestant Reformation; the catastrophic consequences of England’s policies relating to American colonies under King George III; and the United States’ mishandling of the Vietnam War.  This last topic takes up more than half of the book.

As a contribution to history, the book had a mixed reception.  The journal Foreign Affairs described the book as ‘in the Tuchman tradition: readable, entertaining, intelligent. It should lead a wide audience to think usefully about ‘the persistence of error.’  The New York Review of Books saw value in what Tuchman said, noting: “Systems and theories therefore should not be imposed on the past. The facts of the past should be allowed to speak for themselves. Why did history have to teach lessons anyway?  Why can’t history be studied and written and read for its own sake, as the record of human behavior…?”  The Review concluded “History is not a science, it is an art. History needs writers, or artists, who can communicate the past to readers, and that has been Tuchman’s calling.”

However, yet another review, Kirkus Reviews commented, “An exercise in historical interpretation such as this, tracing a single idea through a set of examples, is structured toward [Tuchman’s] weaknesses; and they are only too apparent. Tuchman applies the concept of folly to ‘historical mistakes’ with certain features in common: the policy taken was contrary to self-interest; it was not that of an individual (attributable to the individual’s character), but that of a group; it was not the only policy available; and it was pursued despite forebodings that it was mistaken. The only way to account for such self-destructive policies, in Tuchman’s view, is to label them follies; but that, as she seems unaware, puts them beyond rational explanation.

Similarly, another review criticised the book as having followed “the conventional, not to say threadbare, lines which the liberal media developed in the 1970s: that American involvement in Vietnam was, ab initio, an error which compounded itself  as it increased and was certain to fail all along. [Tuchman] thereby falls into a trap which a historian who seeks to draw lessons from the past should be particularly careful to avoid: to assume that what in the end did happen, had to happen.”  Finally, a review in the New York Times concluded “[A]ny way one approaches The March of Folly, it is unsatisfying, to say the least. Better books have been written about Vietnam, the American Revolution, the Renaissance Popes and the Trojan Horse. … Not only has [Tuchman] confined herself to the shallower wellsprings of history, she has committed the further sin of treating them superficially.”

These contrasting views from 1984 are illuminating, as they reflect the professional preferences and backgrounds of the reviewers.  A more recent commentary, Barbara Tuchman and the Unfinished March of Folly, by Armando Mariante appeared in the Brazilian Centre for International Relations.  The benefit of some distance from the original is revealing.  He comments “Barbara Tuchman died in 1989. Had she lived longer, she would have found no shortage of material for a new edition—a sort of Revisited March of Folly. The themes that haunted her—governments blind to reality, institutions acting against their own interests, and leaders trapped by hubris—have only grown more pronounced in the 21st century. From the invasion of Iraq to the climate crisis, from democratic erosion to reckless confrontations between nuclear powers, the world has continued along the same tragic trajectory she so carefully traced: the deliberate repetition of mistakes in the face of knowledge.”

His theme is clear, as is his perception of Tuchman.  He suggests many of the tragedies of history are not the result of ignorance, but of knowledge ignored or discarded.  Tuchman wasn’t trying to argue about error, but rather something worse, the stubborn persistence in error despite clear and repeated warnings.

We can think of many examples.  There’s the U.S. invasion of Iraq in 2003 which can be described as a near-perfect reflection of her analysis of the Vietnam War 20 years earlier:   This was another conflict launched under false assumptions, driven by ideology, and resistant to correction even in the face of mounting disaster. Mariante suggests she had noted “the familiar manipulation of intelligence to justify policy, the suppression of dissenting voices, and the elevation of national prestige over prudent restraint.”

He has some other telling examples.  He suggests the COVID-19 pandemic, was a global crisis predicted by scientists, yet when it struck it was met with unpreparedness, denial, and politicisation.  He comments that she would have been “struck by how governments in many countries dismissed expert warnings, undermined public health authorities, and allowed ideology or image to outweigh clear medical guidance”.  He suggests she would have concluded the pandemic response wasn’t the lack of information, but a failure to act on what was already known—an archetypal march of folly, with devastating human cost.  More recently, if she had seen the recent U.S. strike on Iranian nuclear facilities, “she would likely see the familiar pattern of choosing force over diplomacy, ignoring historical context, and underestimating the dangers of escalation.”

Tuchman wasn’t trying to provide a detailed account of what happened back at the historical times she considered.  Rather she saw her account as ‘a ledger of warnings’.   From her perspective, history is not just a chronicle of the past—it is a mirror held up to the present. It is hard not to agree with Mariante, as he reflects on a world where people continue to make avoidable mistakes, that appears to almost deliberately forget what it once knew, and that as a result repeats tragedy of her ‘march of folly’.  If she had been a journalist, then her articles would be considered as offering an almost startling consistency.  Mariante suggests her voice still calls out, “not to admonish, but to remind us that knowledge and power without wisdom is peril. If the march of folly continues today, it is not because we do not know better—we do—but because we choose not to act on what we know. And in that choice, Tuchman might warn us, lies the gravest threat of all”.

I think that was the way in which many people saw her work.  However, others, like Keith Crook, saw Barbara Tuchman as a less than meritorious example of the popular history movement that emerged in the second half of the twentieth century. Crook summarises her model of folly as examining situations defined by actions being taken when there were feasible alternatives ignored in favour of the foolish course of action that was adopted.  However, The March of Folly is concerned with folly that should have been obvious at the time by rational observers, and her criteria included that it must be a group decision made “beyond any one political lifetime”.

Are these criteria met in her four examples?  As far as Crook sees it, possibly not in the eyes of an analytical historian. For that matter, he suggests, neither do many of the dozens of examples of historical folly that are included in her introductory chapter.  However, Crook isn’t offering unrelenting criticism, and balances his concerns about historical accuracy with other observations.  He notes how beautifully Tuchman uses the English language, as well as including very interesting anecdotes about the figures in her narratives. “For example, we learn that the then Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Francis Dashwood, was also a notorious rake who founded the infamous Hellfire Club. Make no mistake, this is a pleasant read for a reader interested in casual history, but is it good history?”

Here is the point:  it is clearly the case that she is wrong in many details, although some errors have only become apparent in the last forty years of continuing scholarship.  He is willing to concede she offers a great deal, but on the American Revolution he concludes “Overall, though this piece is masterfully written, I found it superficial and offering nothing new.”  That observation made me think.  Am I reading Tuchman on the American Revolution because I want a detailed and up-to-date review of the history of this event, or because she is offering a helpful and enlightening overview.  As he concludes: “I contend that Barbara Tuchman is a superb wordsmith but has aged poorly as a historian. By all means, read The March of Folly: From Troy to Vietnam for a masterclass in how to make history appear to come alive, but if one wishes to learn more about the historical follies covered in this book, there are much better options.”

Can I amend that closing comment: there are much better options available today, and Crook offers an interesting and important critique of The March of Folly.  Forty years after it appeared, we know so much more, and we are aware of many misunderstanding s that existed back in the 1980s.  Does that mean we can’t read and enjoy historical studies written back several years ago?

That takes me back to my initial comments.  We do want to read books about issues that excite us or that confuse us, about topics we want to explore, and often we wish to read stimulating contributions on a topic without being subjected to the demands of academic precision.  We also do like to spend time looking at ideas, even if they they turn out to be rather slight, oversimplified, and possibly somewhat misleading.  What we don’t like is to find ourselves embedded in non-fiction to then discover it isn’t non-fiction, it is a form of fiction closer to fantasy.  With so much being written in so many forms and in so many places, the task of judgement is almost impossible.  We read about some interesting research, and have relatively little confidence that this is accurate information, or sales-worthy exaggeration.

This must be especially critical in relation to works about the past.  History is a critical subject.  We can never experience the past.  Apart from physical objects, nothing else remains.  This includes both objects – clothes, swords, buildings and more – but also written records.  We are inclined to think that the written record from the time has to be a source of certainty.  However, we know enough to be confident that the written record of events in the past is as unreliable as the written record is of events today.  We read something happened:  then or now.  The explanation of anything more than physical matters is the result of interpretation, of what is included, what is left out, what is ‘understood’ and what has been ‘interpreted’.  That set of issues is further complicated by the fact that each successive piece of writing about an event is then also influenced by what has been written before, by the interests and prejudices of each succeeding commentator, and what has been learnt over time.

I sometimes go back to reading one of my older history books – Trevelyan on British History.  The story he tells is engaging, and paints a picture of how the Uk evolved from tribal enclaves through to a single unified (OK, almost unified) state.  It’s a compelling, fascinating account.  Today I am aware that much of it is incorrect in details, sometimes the result of misunderstandings, sometimes the result of relying on evidence that has since been overthrown, re-examined and re-interpreted.  I suppose this doesn’t concern me too much.  First of all, I believe that change is always taking place, and that the past isn’t just different but ‘a foreign country’.  Second, I am interested in the motives of writers, and know that putting pen to paper is a matter of what story you want to tell.

Does this concern me?  Not really, as I am well aware that I should read history books and articles and be clear in my own mind what it is I am considering.  If this is meant to be a ‘true account’ of what took place, I immediately read with caution.  If I am told these are the facts of what took place back then, I am equally cautious.  If the writer declares the account is intended to offer a picture of what took place at some point in time, based on what many agree was likely, I am reassured:  it’s a work in progress, and the author is being duly cautious.  If the writer is making it clear that this is a ‘story’, a faction if you like, offering a perspective on what might have happened, then I am intrigued to see what evidence is offered to support this version of the story of the past, but I am equally concerned to bear in mind that a good story doesn’t mean it is an accurate story.

My own view is that we need a current Barbara Tuchman, another articulate contemporary critic who will help us discern some of the latest examples of those ‘most compelling paradoxes of history: the pursuit by governments of policies contrary to their own interests’.  I am interested in how we view past actions, and what those accounts tell us about our views of human nature, of political and social systems and of so much more.  My personal interest is in viewing the past as providing insights into how the world we are living in today might have developed.  What I need from the books I read is to be encouraged to think, and to expand my understanding.  As I consider The March of Folly, I am hoping to be encouraged to think, but not to be persuaded this is some kind of final truth.  Perhaps I should ask, who should I be reading today who meets that need?

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!

Inevitability

There is a popular strategy in looking back at past events to wonder ‘if only …’.  It’s tricky.  Any speculation about what could have been done is academic, but past events do shape the future.  Were the resulting outcomes inevitable?  Looking at alternatives may be worthwhile, as we might confront similar situations today, and thereby benefit from what we have learnt.

One example that has been on my mind is the decision to split British India in 1947, thereby creating the current nations of India and Pakistan (and a little later Bangladesh as well).  The process was described as the ‘Partition’ of India, and inthe process of allocating people to  the provinces between the two new countries many people were displaced, and two provinces, Bengal and Punjab, were actually split. As a result of the partition somewhere between 12 and 20 million people had to move, doing so based on religious lines.  The result was a refugee crisis, the inevitable consequence of the mass migration and population transfers that took place between the newly constituted countries.  Equally inevitably, there was trouble.  The process led to large-scale violence, and estimates of loss of life range from at least several hundred thousand up to possibly as many as two million people killed.

The events in 1947 had been preceded by a long history of tensions between Muslims and Hindus.  However, the outbreak of World War II in 1939 enhanced existing tensions when Lord Linlithgow, Viceroy of India, declared war on India’s behalf, and doing so without consulting Indian leaders.  This dramatically increased some of the underlying tensions in the country.  On one side Congress provincial ministries to resigned in protest.   On the other, the Muslim League held “Deliverance Day” (deliverance from Congress dominance) and supported Britain in the war effort.   The League’s action was followed in March 1940, at its annual three-day session in Lahore, when the leader of the All-India Muslim League observed that Muslims and Hindus were ‘irreconcilably opposed monolithic religious communities’ and as such, no settlement could be imposed without outraging one side or the other.

Perhaps seeking to defuse the situation, in August 1940, Linlithgow proposed that India be granted self-governing (dominion) status after the war. To allay Muslim fears of Hindu domination, the ‘August Offer’ was accompanied by the promise that a future constitution would consider the views of minorities.  Unsurprisingly neither Congress nor the Muslim League were satisfied with the offer, and both rejected it.   However, in March 1942, after the fall of Singapore and with the Americans supporting independence for India, Prime Minister Winson Churchill offered dominion status to India at the end of the war in return for the Congress’s support for the war effort.   Not wishing to lose the support of the Muslim League the offer included a clause stating that no part of the British Indian Empire would be forced to join the post-war dominion.  Both the League and the Congress party rejected this offer too.

In August 1942, Congress launched the Quit India Resolution, asking for major constitutional changes.  The British saw this act as the most serious threat to their rule since in nearly 100 years.  Alarmed, they immediately jailed the Congress leaders where they to remain until August 1945.  This left the Muslim League free for the next three years to spread its message.  Their leader admitted, “The war which nobody welcomed proved to be a blessing in disguise.”  The British accepted the League was the key representative of Muslim India

After the Second World War, change was in the air.  Labour won the 1945 General Election, and decided to end British rule in India.  In early 1947 Britain announced its intention of transferring power no later than June 1948, and issued their Cabinet Mission Plan.  This proposed preserving a united India which the British and Congress desired, while concurrently securing the League’s demand for a Pakistan.  The scheme was a federal arrangement consisting of three groups of provinces. Two of these would consist of small predominantly Muslim provinces, while the third would be made up of the large remaining Hindu region. The provinces would be autonomous, but the centre would retain control over defence, foreign affairs, and communications. Though the proposals did not include a truly independent Pakistan, the Muslim League accepted the proposals, but Congress leaders believed it would leave the centre weak, and rejected the suggested provincial groupings .

After the Cabinet Mission broke down, in July 1946 the Muslim League stated it was “preparing to launch a struggle” and that they had a plan.  If the Muslims were not granted a separate Pakistan then they would launch ‘direct action’. When asked to be specific, their leader Jinnah explained: “Go to the Congress and ask them their plans. When they take you into their confidence I will take you into mine. Why do you expect me alone to sit with folded hands? I also am going to make trouble.”.  He announced that 16 August 1946 was to be Direct Action Day, and warned Congress, “We do not want war. If you want war we accept your offer unhesitatingly. We will either have a divided India or a destroyed India.”.

On that morning, armed Muslim gangs gathered in Calcutta to hear the League’s Chief Minister of Bengal, who, in the words of historian Yasmin Khan, “if he did not explicitly incite violence certainly gave the crowd the impression that they could act with impunity, that neither the police nor the military would be called out and that the ministry would turn a blind eye to any action they unleashed in the city.” The same evening in Calcutta, Hindus were attacked by returning Muslim celebrants, an event later called the ‘Great Calcutta Killing of August 1946.’  The next day, Hindus struck back, and the violence continued for three days during which some 4,000 people died.  The violence wasn’t confined to the public sphere, but homes were entered and destroyed, women and children were attacked.  Although the Government of India and the Congress were shaken by the events, a Congress-led interim government was installed, with Jawaharlal Nehru as the ‘united’ India’s prime minister.

The communal violence spread.  UK Prime Minister Attlee appointed Mountbatten as India’s last Viceroy, giving him the task to oversee British India’s independence by 30 June 1948, with instructions to avoid partition and to preserve a united India, but with an adaptable authority to ensure a British withdrawal with minimal setbacks.  Mountbatten hoped to revive the Cabinet Mission scheme for a federal arrangement for India, but the tense situation led him to conclude that partition had become necessary for a quick transfer of power.

When Lord Mountbatten formally proposed an Indian Independence Plan on 3 June 1947, Congress’s leader Patel gave his approval and lobbied Nehru and the other Congress leaders to accept the proposal.  Knowing Gandhi’s deep concerns over partition, Patel advised him on  the perceived practical unworkability of any Congress-League coalition,  which seemed likely to lead to a further rise in violence, and even the threat of civil war. At the All-India Congress Committee meeting called to vote on the proposal, Patel said:

“I fully appreciate the fears of our brothers from [the Muslim-majority areas]. Nobody likes the division of India, and my heart is heavy. But the choice is between one division and many divisions. We must face facts. We cannot give way to emotionalism and sentimentality. The Working Committee has not acted out of fear. But I am afraid of one thing, that all our toil and hard work of these many years might go waste or prove unfruitful. My nine months in office have completely disillusioned me regarding the supposed merits of the Cabinet Mission Plan. … Freedom is coming. We have 75 to 80 percent of India, which we can make strong with our genius. The League can develop the rest of the country.” 

Menon, V. P. Transfer of Power in India. p. 385.

In June 1947, the nationalist leaders agreed to a partition of the country, despite it being in stark opposition to Gandhi’s views. The predominantly Hindu and Sikh areas were assigned to the new India and predominantly Muslim areas to the new nation of Pakistan, including a division of the Muslim-majority provinces of Punjab and Bengal into two parts.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, the communal violence that followed the publication of the line of partition, the Radcliffe Line, was horrific.   At a press conference on 3 June 1947, Lord Mountbatten announced the date of independence – 14 August 1947 – and also outlined the details of the actual division of British India between the two new dominions in what became known as the ‘Mountbatten Plan’ or the ‘3 June Plan’.  This included the provision that Sikhs, Hindus and Muslims in the Punjab and Bengal legislative assemblies would meet and vote for partition. If a simple majority of either group wanted partition, these provinces would be divided.  The separate independence of Bengal was ruled out.

Indian political leaders accepted the Plan on 2 June.  The outcome was politically adroit.  The Muslim League’s demands for a separate country were conceded.  Congress’s position on unity was also acknowledged, while making Pakistan as small as possible.  One leader, Abul Kalam Azad, expressed concern over the likelihood of violent riots, but Mountbatten replied:

At least on this question I shall give you complete assurance. I shall see to it that there is no bloodshed and riot. I am a soldier and not a civilian. Once the partition is accepted in principle, I shall issue orders to see that there are no communal disturbances anywhere in the country. If there should be the slightest agitation, I shall adopt the sternest measures to nip the trouble in the bud.

On 18 July 1947, the British Parliament passed the India Independence Act that finalised the arrangements for partition.  The Government of India Act 1935 was adapted to provide a legal framework for the new dominions.  In the event, dividing both Punjab and Bengal, the two provinces with slim Muslim majorities caused tremendous problems, as the demographic distribution of Hindus and Muslims was complex and ‘messy’.  The new borders ran through the middle of villages, towns, fields, and more.  Further, when Pakistan was created, East and West Pakistan were separated by about 1,000 miles (some 1,600 km).  The commission also effectively sliced the large Sikh population in Punjab in half.  As a result, nearly the entirety of the Sikh community ultimately fled to areas that would become part of India.

Mountbatten administered the independence oath to Jinnah on the 14th, before leaving for India where the oath was scheduled on the midnight of the 15th.   On 14 August 1947, the new Dominion of Pakistan came into being with Muhammad Ali Jinnah sworn in as its first Governor-General in Karachi.  The following day, 15 August 1947, India, now the Dominion of India, became an independent country, with official ceremonies taking place in New Delhi, and with Jawaharlal Nehru appointed Prime Minister. Mountbatten remained in New Delhi for 10 months, serving as the first governor-general of an independent India until June 1948.  Gandhi remained in Bengal to work with the new refugees from the partitioned subcontinent.

The borders of the new countries were not published until August 17, two days after the end of British rule. This set the stage for an immediate escalation of communal violence in areas around the new borders. Many ordinary people did not understand what partition meant until they were in the middle of it, sometimes literally. If a border village was roughly evenly divided between Hindus and Muslims, one community could argue that the village rightly belonged to India or Pakistan by driving out or killing members of the other community.

The result was mass migration between the two newly formed states in the months immediately following the partition. There was little realisation that population transfers would be necessary because of the partitioning. Religious minorities were expected to stay put in the states there they were still residing. An exception was made for Punjab, where transfer was organized because of the communal violence affecting the province,  but this did not apply to any other provinces.  The population of undivided India in 1947 was about 390 million. Following the partition, there were perhaps 330 million people in India, 30 million in West Pakistan, and 30 million people in East Pakistan (present-day Bangladesh). Once the boundaries were established, about 14.5 million people crossed the borders into what they hoped was the relative safety of a religious majority. The 1951 Census of Pakistan identified the number of displaced persons in Pakistan at 7,226,600, presumably all Muslims who had entered Pakistan from India; the 1951 Census of India counted 7,295,870 displaced persons, apparently all Hindus and Sikhs who had moved to India from Pakistan after partition.

During partition, the idea of a full population exchange was a contentious issue that led to differing opinions among Indian leaders.  Some supported the idea of a complete population exchange between India and Pakistan. This meant that all the 42 million Muslims in India would move to Pakistan, while all the 19 million Hindus, Sikhs and other minorities West and East Pakistan would migrate to India. Its rationale was based on the idea of ensuring lasting communal peace by eliminating the possibility of future inter-religious conflicts and reducing the risk of large-scale violence.  It suggested that such a population exchange, though harsh, was a practical solution to the communal problems that had led to Partition:  it was believed that the lingering presence of hostile minorities could lead to future instability.

These concerns were rejected, both by Nehru and Ghandi, and a full population exchange did not occur.  When a partial migration took place, the 14.5 million people who crossed borders did so amidst horrific violence, while millions remained where they had lived.  This was to have profound and continuing repercussions.  India retained a Muslim population, which was to grow to become a significant minority, while Pakistan’s Hindu and Sikh populations dwindled drastically over the decades due to migration and persecution.  The absence of a full exchange almost certainly contributed to enduring communal tensions and periodic conflicts over the  years.  We will never know if a full exchange might have prevented these issues.

The scale of population movements was huge.  As soon as the new borders were announced, roughly 15m Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs left (fled?) from their homes on one side of the newly demarcated borders to what they thought would be “shelter” on the other. Some people were able to take trains or buses from one country to another, but most were forced to flee on foot, joining refugee columns that stretched for miles. These columns were the target of frequent ambushes,  as were the trains that carried refugees across the new borders. In the course of that exodus, perhaps as many as 2 million  people were slaughtered in communal massacres (though the lack of any meaningful documentation has left open a wide range of estimates). Sikhs, settled astride Punjab’s new division, suffered the highest proportion of casualties.  While the worst of the violence took place during the first six weeks of partition, the consequences of those weeks have played out over the decades.

Given this the obvious question is:  Was there a better way to create an indepedent India?

St Martin’s Cathedral Utrecht

Major cities across Europe become packed in the summer months.  It’s not just Paris, Rome and Berlin:  a day in Vienna, Bucharest or Prague is going to be equally overwhelming, and today the tide of tourists is sweeping through Split, Dubrovnik and Valletta.  Packed cities have to respond to the needs of their visitors, and so the roads in the centre of these cities are lined with shops selling souvenirs, food (tea rooms and cafes offering snacks), and cheap summer clothing alongside the usual range of international fashion stores.  Municipalities are trying to work out how to manage the influx, which often runs for six, eight or even ten months.  Cars may be banned, tourist buses have to go to special areas, and public transport is limited in most inner city areas.  In the centre holidaymakers can be found sitting at a streetside coffee shop while another member of the family braves the flood to go shopping.

So it was in Utrecht in the summer of 2025, as this formerly quiet city in the Netherlands now receives hundreds, no thousands, of enthusiastic visitors.  After a coffee and pastry at the Winkel van Sinkel and continuing to battle through the streets, they can see a church tower behind some of the shops.  It is the 112-metre-high (367 ft) Dom Tower, the hallmark of the city.  Navigating the narrow streets, you eventually arrive at the Domplein, where you realise the church tower is quite separate from the Domkerk, the gothic cathedral!

Well, perhaps we’ll leave that a sight for a moment ‘over there’ and return to the Winkel van Sinkel.  Anton Sinkel was born in 1785, and in 1806 he established a store selling fabrics and textiles.  He was a pioneer in  retail business with his haberdashery store which dealt in clothing fabrics, stockings, hats, and more .  His ambition is described in the popular song “In de Winkel van Sinkel is van alles te koop” (In the Winkel van Sinkel, everything is for sale)”. However, the store became famous because of four caryatids that supported the building’s façade colloquially known as the ‘British harlots’, as “Due to their visible décolleté, these figures were believed to be a potential threat to the moral values of the citizenry.” Today they are seen as less offensive, but according to legend, “only at midnight, the caryatids swiftly and inconspicuously fly across the canal to the opposite side and back again.”

Returning to the cathedral, the best way to see it is from the air, a balloon flight out of the reach of most of us.  However, the proportions become clear, a massive spire towering above much of the city, separated by a small park area, and the other side of the open space the remains of the rest of the church, a major building in its own right, but its height diminished by that spire:

So much for what you see.  The story of St Martin’s is fascinating in its own right.  Wikipedia reveals the first chapel was founded around 630 AD by Frankish clergy, but it was destroyed during an attack shortly after, and its site remains unknown.  It was the beginning of a cycle of rebuilding and destruction.  A second chapel devoted to Saint Martin was built close to the site of the current building soon after, but was destroyed by the Normans during a raid on Utrecht in the 9th century .  It was rebuilt by Bishop Bladeric in the 10th century, by which time St Martin’s had become the principal church of Utrecht, the site of the see of a bishop.

The life of the cathedral remained challenging.  The church was repeatedly destroyed by fires and then rebuilt.  Then Bishop Adalbold built a Romanesque style church, which was  consecrated in 1023, only to be  partially destroyed in the fire of 1253 which ravaged much of Utrecht.  Undaunted, another bishop, Henry van Vianen, began building the next cathedral in 1254. but the  construction of the Gothic style cathedral was to continue into the 16th century.  The work was in stages: the Dom Tower was started in 1321 and finished in 1382.  By 1515 financial difficulties prevented completion of the building, and in 1566, the Iconoclast Fury swept across the region, a movement based on the Calvinist doctrine, which asserted statues in a house of God were idolatrous images which must be destroyed. As a result, many of the ornaments on both the exterior and interior of Utrecht’s cathedral were destroyed.

In 1580 the Utrecht city government decided to delegate some of its controls over the Diocese of Utrecht to local Calvinists, and now it became a centre for Protestant services.  However, the building’s saga continued, and in  1672-3, during the upheavals of the Franco-Dutch War, Catholic Masses recommenced – for two years!  After the French retreat, the unfinished nave collapsed on 1 August 1674 during a massive tornado. From that time on, much of the building fell into further neglect.  Despite significant renovations in the early twentieth century, much was left incomplete and the nave was never rebuilt.

Images and history are important, but both can only offer a partial insight to a place.  However, as the saying goes, ‘you have to be there’.  Visually, there are two very different perspectives on St Martin’s today.  For the visitor to Utrecht standing outside the cathedral area , the only visible perspective from a short distance away is of the tower as it rises above the surrounding buildings.  It soars above the shops and other buildings in the town centre, but you are well aware you are only seeing the upper part of the construction.

Moreover, although you can see it from a distance away, it is hard to reach.  As you get closer, passing the Winkel van Sinkel, it seems to be one of those illusions where the tower retreats behind buildings and never appears to become any closer.  There are some streets that take a straighter line, but for the visitor walking alongside the Oudergracht, which takes a couple of 90° around the area, any direct line of sight at ground level is impossible.

The second perspective is from the Domplein itself.  Once you are there, there are buildings close by to the West and North.  The best perspective is from the South, but even then the tower seems to reach up so high you can’t really encompass what it is like.  It’s an impressive sight, as is the cathedral building and other offices and meeting rooms across the way, but close by the tower rises above any normal sight line.  It is a little frustrating.  In many other cities the authorities, or possibly the church itself, would be able to keep quite a large area clear.  In Utrecht, the height of the tower combined with closeness of the retail area, and some offices, means that a real appreciation of the height is impossible. That balloon flight mentioned earlier would be ideal.

A completely different way of seeing the cathedral is from the inside.  On entering you’re shocked as it appears almost empty.  Just two stained glass windows to grab your attention, and the internal decoration is simple to the point of being austere.  There’s an altar in the Choir, with a beautiful screen and carving behind.  Overall the church has a simple beauty, but it is found in its simplicity, the very opposite of so many cathedrals in other places.

However, then you turn around and see the organ.  The case and pipes are set on one of the side walls, with the keyboards and pedal board below.  Built by Jonothan Batz, the instrument dates from 1831, although it incorporates parts of an earlier organ, built by Pieter Janszoon de Swart between 1569-1571.  It is said to precisely conform to the type of instrument that was being built in the Netherlands throughout the 19th century.  Some research revealed that a “church architect, Tieleman Franciscus Suys, from Brussels, designed the case and ornaments, as well as constructing a small building at the back of the church to house the nine wedge-shaped bellows. The case is in a kind of neo-classical style, although in size and proportion  (the length of many of the front pipes are far longer than what is required for the pitch needed ), not strictly functional.”

Wikipedia advises that the organ had  been superbly designed internally “so that every pipe and each division, with all of its parts can be easily accessed for maintenance and tuning, which was very favourably commented on by probably the greatest organ builder of the 19th century, Aristide Cavaille’-Coll (1811-1899), about the spacious internal layout during a visit he made here in November 1844.”  There were many changes over the years.  Eventually the organ finally “underwent an extensive restoration between 1972-73 by the Van Vulpen company, which replaced all the stops that had been removed over the last 107 years, and a new modern wind supply with internal regulators was built within the main case, because there was nowhere outside to house a bellows chamber based on the space as originally constructed.”

The organ today is said to be widely acclaimed for its “mild tone and expressive tremulants which makes the instrument far more suitable for the late romantic or modern periods of composition, rather than for the strict Baroque counterpoint or fugal music of Buxtehude and Bach.“  It was wonderful to see.  Alas, I don’t know if it was wonderful to hear, as there was no-one playing on the organ, or even practicing when we were there.  Despite this it was a gem in a rather surprising building.

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.

Caravaggio

Why do we become especially focussed on some artists or, to be more precise, on some works of art?  There is often no obvious logic:  for me the disparate and idiosyncratic range goes from Bach’s Goldberg variations and Beethoven’s last string quartets on to Alice in Wonderland and Wind in the Willows. and finally ending with people like Edward Hopper and Hokusai.  There are several more I could list, of course, from Mozart and Shostakovich through to Rembrandt, Rubens and Renoir, Philip Pullman and so it goes on.

However, one among these is Caravaggio.  I was forcibly reminded of the impact of his work when we visited St John’s Co-cathedral in Malta recently, and saw that extraordinary painting, The Beheading of St John the Baptist.  It is one among several quite astonishing Caravaggio paintings, many of which are violent, and several extraordinarily compelling, but to see this work of art up close is to be reminded what an exceptional painting it is.

Why exceptional?  Perhaps I should start with the artist.   Caravaggio, whose name was Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, was born in Milan, and moved to Rome when he was in his twenties.  He rapidly achieved considerable renown as an artist, but this was balanced against his reputation as a violent and short-tempered man.  Frequently involved in vicious fights, he was often in trouble with the authorities.  Then, in 1606, after killing a man in a brawl, he faced a death sentence for murder, and he fled to  Naples. There he sought to rebuild his reputation, and work from that period was to result in him being recognised as one of the most prominent Italian painters of his generation.  However, his temper was never under control.  After spending time in Malta and Sicily, he returned to Naples, where he was involved in yet another terrible fight.  He survived, escaped, but soon after died in 1610, on his way from Naples to Rome, at that time in hope getting forgiveness for past sins.  The cause of his death remains controversial:  it was claimed he died of a fever, but some have suggested he was murdered or even died of lead poisoning.

Looking at the ‘Beheading’ canvas in terms of  its demonstration of technical skills by a painter, art historians have commented on two features of this painting: the realistic observation of the human state, both physical and emotional, and the dramatic use of lighting, a form of chiaroscuro often referred to tenebrism. Bringing these characteristics together, the result was that he would paint his subjects highlighted against a dark setting by shafts of light.  However, elements of his paintings were very dark in another sense, with scenes often focussed on violent struggles, torture, and death, highlighted against shadowy backgrounds.

His working approach was distinctive.  He frequently used live models, generally dispensed with drawings, but instead painted historical  or allegorical scenes directly on to the canvas.  His innovative approach was key to inspiring what was to become known as the Baroque style, using contrast, movement, vivid detail, deep colours, and even elements of surprise to achieve a sense of awe.  The style evolved and dominated for a time, but eventually and inevitable fashions changed, and Caravaggio fell out of favour. It was in the 20th century that renewed interest in his work suddenly catapulted him to fame, to the point one art historian remarked: “What begins in the work of Caravaggio is, quite simply, modern painting” (André Berne-Joffroy in Gilles Lambert’s book Caravaggio, Taschen, 2000).

As his work developed, he produced some quite literally amazing paintings.  Among earlier and well-known examples are The Fortune Teller, showing a boy having his palm read by a Romani girl, who is stealthily removing his ring as she strokes his hand; and The Cardsharps, in which a naïve but well-off youth falls victim to card cheats (both 1594).  Despite the quality of these masterworks, it is probably his paintings on religious themes that so clearly demonstrated his ability to combine realism with spirituality. Just as an example, one among the many outstanding images he produced was the Penitent Magdalene (1597), painting Mary at the moment when she has turned from her life as a courtesan and sits weeping on the floor, her jewels scattered around her.  Another, offering an explicit and demanding example of his often violent, realistic and yet compelling style is Judith Beheading Holofernes (1598).

Among so many others at this stage in his life, it’s The Incredulity of Saint Thomas that is considered by many to be one of his most famous paintings, completed around 1601–1602.  It shows the episode known as ‘Doubting Thomas’.  The image achieves its intent by using a demonstrative gesture, as the doubting apostle puts his finger into Christ’s side wound, the latter guiding his hand. Thomas the unbeliever is depicted like a peasant, dressed in a robe torn at the shoulder and with dirt under his fingernails. The picture is presented in such a way that any observer is directly involved in the event, but also feels its intensity.

Teju Cole, in an essay in the New York Times in 23 September 2020 offers a superb introduction to Caravaggio’s work in his essay ‘In Dark Times, I Sought Out the Turmoil of Caravaggio’s Paintings’.  He tells us how the works the artist completed near the end of his life changed his understanding of both beauty and suffering. At one point he writes about visiting Naples, and wandering in the crowded “Spanish Quarter,” where Caravaggio lived and where he found the combination of high culture and low life that so appealed to him. “The streets of the quarter were narrow, the buildings tall; many walls were decorated with graffiti. It was easy to imagine it as a place where life had been boisterous and cheerful for a long time, a place of concealment and informality — just the thing for a man on the run.”

He went on to the Museo di Capodimonte, to see Caravaggio’s The Flagellation of Christ. “Christ stands at the column, life-size, and around him are three assailants, two of whom pull at him and the third of whom crouches, preparing a whip. As so often with Caravaggio, there is the story that is depicted, but beyond it, and often overwhelming it, is an intensification of mood accomplished through his use of unnatural shadow, simplified background and a limited colour palette. It is an image of brutal injustice, an image that makes us want to demand an answer to the obvious question, why should anyone be tortured.”

To return to The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist, it is described as a very large oil painting by Caravaggio, measuring 3.7 m by 5.2 m, and is located in the Oratory of St John’s Co-Cathedral, in Valetta, Malta.  It is generally considered one of the greatest works of art.  According to Andrea Pomella in ‘Caravaggio: An Artist through Images’ (2005), it is not just widely considered to be Caravaggio’s masterpiece, but as well it is “one of the most important works in Western painting”.  Jonathan Jones  described it as one of the ten greatest works of art of all time: “Death and human cruelty are laid bare by this masterpiece, as its scale and shadow daunt and possess the mind.” (Jones, on ‘The 10 Greatest works of art ever’, The Guardian, 21 March 2014).

Saint John was the patron saint of the Knights of Malta and of the cathedral.  Caravaggio received a commission to paint this canvas for the church’s new oratory. Completed in 1608, it turned out to be his largest work, and the only one he signed, perhaps prophetically in his own blood, blood depicted as flowing onto the pavement from the saint’s neck.  Gruesome, terrifying even, but despite this The Grand Master of Malta was delighted, and it is recorded that he presented Caravaggio with a gold chain, two slaves, and various other rewards; the picture’s frame bears his coat of arms.

In his essay, Teju Cole offers a compelling account of his visit to Malta.  As he entered to room to see The Beheading of St. John the Baptist, he comments  “The effect is of having walked in on something horrible, something you wish to unsee.  The seven people depicted in the painting feel like real people in a real space, dwarfed by the dark background. The lighting, the monumental scale … the height at which the picture is hung and the distribution of dark and light all add to the impression that what you are seeing is an actual event: the two prisoners watching the execution; the servant girl with the gold plate; the old woman; the man directing the killing; the executioner reaching for the knife with which to finish the job; and St. John himself, prostrate on the floor, his neck spurting blood.”

A website devoted to his work describes the painting in detail:  “The structure recalls the monumental murals that Caravaggio must have studied in Rome. The building is Caravaggio’s most detailed architectural setting, and the only one that records an existing structure, the entrance and adjacent window in the main facade of the Grand Master’s Palace (now the Armory) in La Valletta.  The composition is classically simple, a large shallow space with a cluster of figures on the left balanced by a wall and a window on the right.  The dramatic impact of the composition almost obliterates its effectiveness as an abstract construction. It is a silent painting, intimate despite its great scale. The focus is first on the pointing index finger of the business-like warden, who forms the single vertical axis in the figure group, directing the operation. Only secondarily can Saint John’s body be found. It is over-life size, and the only horizontal figure. From the centre of the warden’s finger, the action fans out – to the executioner’s left hand, holding Saint John’s partially severed head in place like a butcher in an abattoir while he reaches with his right for his dagger to finish the process off neatly; to the platter, held low by Salome in anticipation of receiving the head; to the old woman. She is horrified, the only character responding sympathetically to the execution. Incredibly, she covers her ears rather than her eyes; are the sounds – those of the actual decapitation – worse than the sight?   Finally, we must allow – or force – ourselves to look past the deadly line of the glittering blade at the pathos of Saint John’s painfully bound body. A moment before he was a seeing, hearing, feeling, thinking human being like the others; now he is reduced to a mere fleshly carcass.”

Researching the painting, I discovered the existence of The Caravaggio Research Centre, ‘a project by the Factum Foundation, established in 2010 to provide academic and enthusiast access to three high-fidelity facsimiles of paintings by the renowned Baroque artist Caravaggio’.  The Foundation’s primary goal is to create high-resolution, accurate digital documentation of cultural heritage sites and artworks around the world. This documentation is intended to serve as a record for posterity and to enable the production of indistinguishable facsimiles, especially in cases where the original has been damaged, destroyed, lost, looted or where it is inaccessible to the wider public.  It does wonderful work.  However, facts are one thing, but does the Foundation or any of the many other commentaries explain the impact of the painting, or the extraordinary and ultimately tragic life of Caravaggio on the viewer?

The painting was completed in 1608.  Yet, by late August, he slipped from fame to being arrested and imprisoned, almost certainly  likely the result of yet another brawl, this time with an aristocratic knight, during which the door of a house was battered down and the knight seriously wounded. The result was simple:  Caravaggio was imprisoned by the Knights in Valetta.  However, he managed to escape. By December, he had been expelled from the Order “as a foul and rotten member”, a formal phrase used to banish people in all such cases.

He was in trouble.  Contemporary reports depict a man whose behaviour was becoming increasingly bizarre, which included sleeping fully armed and in his clothes; ripping up a painting at a slight word of criticism; and mocking local painters.   After only nine months in Sicily, Caravaggio returned to Naples in the late summer of 1609.  The news from Rome encouraged Caravaggio, and in the summer of 1610, he took a boat north to receive a pardon.  While facts are uncertain, it seems he died of fever on his way from Naples to Rome.

Over the years, The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist had become badly damaged. though it did receive some restoration in the 1950s prior to going on exhibition in Rome in 1955-6, a key step in rebuilding Caravaggio’s reputation.  From March 1997 to March 1999, the painting underwent restoration in the Opificio delle Pietre Dure and Restoration Laboratories of Florence.  The state of the painting to be seen today represents a stunning recovery.  Following this work, in the summer of 2023 the windows in the oratory of the decollato were permanently shuttered and blocked off natural light in 2023.  Good or bad, it was a decision causing a public outcry amongst art historians, scholars and Maltese citizens.

The painting is really well presented at St Johns, done in such a way you cannot avoid its power, its horror, and its spiritual significance.  To visit the Cathedral and be able to see it restored to the state Caravaggio had intended is a memorable opportunity.  Can it be moved for exhibition in other countries?  I suspect that is unlikely.

I’m not competent to comment on whether or not it should be considered one of ‘the ten greatest works of art ever’.  What I can say is that it is an image that I can’t and don’t want to  shake off.  It is often said that great art should unsettle us:  for all his limits, mistakes and stupidities as a man, to my mind the artist Caravaggio achieved that end, absolutely.

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.