“The Red and The Black” by Stendhal (translated by Catherine Slater)

Stendhal’s masterpiece is a bildungsroman of a peasant, a poor carpenter’s son, who makes good in Paris, through his smarts, luck, and ambition. “For Julien, making his fortune meant first and foremost getting out of Verrières; he loathed his native town. Everything he saw there froze his imagination…. He imagined with rapture that one day he would be introduced to the pretty women of Paris, and would succeed in drawing himself to their attention by some glorious deed. Why shouldn’t he be adored by one of them, just as Bonaparte, still penniless, had been adored by the dazzling Mme de Beauharnais? For years now, Julien had never let an hour of his life pass without telling himself that Bonaparte, an obscure lieutenant without fortune, had made himself master of the globe with his sword.”

Julien’s first break in life was being plucked out of the sawmill to become a tutor to the children of the mayor of Verrieres. He was soon on intimate terms with the mayor’s pretty wife. “Mme de Rênal had had enough sense to reject as absurd everything she had learnt at the convent, and to forget it pretty rapidly; but she did not replace it with anything, and ended up totally ignorant…. The flattery which had come her way very early on as the heiress to a large fortune, together with a marked bent for fervent religious zeal, had set her upon a completely inward-looking way of life…. After all these years Mme de Rênal was still not accustomed to the ways of these money-driven folk in whose midst she had to live…. Little by little she formed the view that generosity, nobility of soul and humanity only existed in this young abbe. She felt for him all the sympathy and even the admiration which these virtues inspire in someone of good breeding…. In Paris, Julien’s situation with regard to Mme de Rênal would very soon have become more straightforward; but in Paris, love is born of fiction…. Beneath our more sullen skies, a young man without means, who is only ambitious because his delicate sensibility makes him crave some of the pleasures afforded by money, has daily dealings with a woman of thirty, genuinely virtuous, absorbed by her children, and never looking to novels for examples on which to model her conduct. Everything proceeds slowly, everything develops gradually in the provinces; it is all more spontaneous.”

Julien is offered a choice. To stay in the employ of rich benefactors by continuing in the employ of the Catholic Church or to strike out with an established partner in the timber trade. Father Chelan, the priest who first taught the boy Latin, offers this advice, “If you’re thinking of courting men in high office, it’s a sure road to eternal damnation. You’ll be able to make your fortune, but you’ll have to trample on the poor and wretched, flatter the sub-prefect, the mayor—anyone held in esteem—and serve their passions. Such conduct, which is known in society as worldly wisdom, need not for a layman be totally incompatible with salvation; but with our calling, we have to choose; you either make your fortune in this world or the next, there’s no half-way house.” Julien contemplates, “Just think, I’d feebly go and lose seven or eight years of my life! I’d end up being twenty-eight; but at that age Bonaparte had his greatest achievements behind him. By the time I’ve earned a bit of money as a nobody by going from one timber auction to the next and winning favours from a handful of subordinate rogues, who can guarantee that I’ll still have the sacred fire you need to make a name for yourself?” Our narrator adds, “Like Hercules he found himself with a choice—not between vice and virtue, but between the unrelieved mediocrity of guaranteed well-being, and all the heroic dreams of his youth.” The narrator continues, “What made Julien a superior being was precisely what prevented him from savouring the happiness which came his way. Every inch the young girl of sixteen who has delightful colouring, and is foolish enough to put on rouge to go to a ball.”

Eventually, Julien makes his fateful choice about the direction of his life and he even finds a more powerful patron, the Marquis de la Mole, who makes him his private secretary, moving him to Paris. “What presumption I had in Verrières! Julien said to himself; I thought I was living, when all I was doing was preparing myself for life; here I am at last in the world as I shall find it for as long as I play this part, surrounded with real enemies.” 

Class, nobility, and titles, a life even beyond simple wealth, are all themes that recurs throughout Stendhal’s novel. Throughout the plot, as men gain in riches and opportunities they still are held back, they strive to push beyond the bounds of society, and, eventually, they try to obscure their humble beginnings. Nineteenth century France, and Paris in particular, is a milieu where class might not be as rigid as in centuries past, but there are those in society that still strive to put one in their proper place. “This is the tremendous advantage they have over us, said Julien to himself when he was left alone in the garden. The history of their ancestors lifts them above vulgar sentiments, and they aren’t always obliged to be thinking about their livelihood!” At a secret meeting of the high clergy and nobility a Bishop gives voice to the expressions of their class, “Guaranteeing this support is a burden, you’ll tell me; gentlemen, our heads remain on our shoulders at this price. It’s war to the death between freedom of the press and our existence as gentlemen. Become manufacturers or peasants, or take up your guns…. In fifty years time there will only be presidents of republics in Europe, and not a single king. And with those four letters K-I-N-G, gone are priests and gentlemen. All I can see is candidates currying favour with grubby majorities.” Julien’s benefactor, the Marquis de la Mole, himself, could feel the times rapidly changing. “To give in to necessity, to fear the law struck him as an absurd and demeaning thing for a man of his rank. He was paying dearly now for the bewitching dreams he had indulged in for the past ten years about the future of this beloved daughter. Who could have foreseen it? he said to himself. A daughter with such an arrogant character, with such a superior cast of mind, more proud than I am of the name she bears! Whose hand had been requested of me in advance by all the most illustrious nobles in France! You have to throw caution to the winds. This century is destined to cast everything into confusion! We’re heading for chaos.”

“On the Calculation of Volume: Vol. II” by Solvej Balle (translated by Barbara Haveland)

This novel continues the themes of Balle’s previous volume, heavy on pondering the philosophy of time and of self. The conceit of Tara repeating the day of November 18 again and again despite where she wanders in the world continues. “Time passes, but all it does is pour day after day into my world, it goes nowhere, it has no stops or stations, only this endless chain of days…. I feel out of sorts, superfluous, bedraggled, wrong. I am no longer Tara Selter, antiquarian bookseller with an eye for detail and an instinct for collectable works. I am not Tara Selter at work. I am not a buyer for a company by the name of T. & T. Selter. She is no more…. It is the Tara Selter with a future who is gone. It is the Tara Selter with hopes and dreams who has fallen out of the picture, been thrown off the world, run over the edge, been poured out, carried off down the stream of eighteenths of November, lost, evaporated, swept out to sea.”

Time, the lack of change, and the lack of seasons begins to take its toll on her psyche. “Maybe I should just go over to the enemy. Maybe I ought to just live with the world as it is and accept that there will never be an Oktoberfest, that there are no longer any festivals, no Christmas, no New Year, and that I will never again see winter or spring, no Easter, no summer. Only November and November. In any case, I’m not in the mood for festivities.” The quirks of her world confuse her. “The eighteenth of November is a loose world, I know, it is impossible to get a firm grip on it. It contains phones that stop working, empty memory sticks, passwords that have to be keyed in again and again, searches that disappear overnight. Each morning everything is gone and the eighteenth of November wakes up fresh and unused again.” But she survives and makes a new life for herself, the best life she can think to create. “That is how my days are spent. One after another, I wake up and roam around history. I can feel my brain growing. It grows through remembering and it grows through all the things I find. It grows through forgetting, it lets go, it leaves spaces to stand empty and the next day I search for new knowledge to fill the empty spaces.”

“The Victorians and Ancient Greece” by Richard Jenkyns

Jenkyns is an Oxford fellow, well versed in his ancient Greek and Latin originals, but also British literature and history. The book begins with the initiation of Greek revival architecture in the England of the 18th century following the “rediscovery” of Athens from within the Ottoman domain. Ionic, doric, and corinthian columns soon became the vogue. Many Victorians saw clear lines of descent from Greek democracy and liberty to their pinnacle in Albion. John Stuart Mill even suggested, “that battle of Marathon even as an event in English history, is more important than the battle of Hastings.” Oscar Wilde recommended skipping from ancient Athens past the next couple thousand years to Victorian England, “whatever…. is modern…. we owe to the Greeks. Whatever is anachronism is due to medievalism.” And it was primarily Greek tragedy and poetry that captivated the hearts of so many Victorian writers. In fact, poets from Byron to Tennyson to Arnold to Shelley despaired in writing their own epics for perfection had already been reached, to be unmatched, by Homer. Roman history, poetry, and literature were viewed as poor copies of the Greek originals (as Virgil and Cicero would have readily acknowledged). Even the Aeneid was poor copy of the Greek master. Gladstone remarked, “Homer walks in the open day, Virgil by lamplight… from Virgil back to Homer is a greater distance, than from Homer back to life.”

The Victorians were also fond of their dichotomies- the rugged, industrious North contrasting with the languid, pleasant South and the aesthetics of Athens contrasting with the spirituality of Jerusalem. However, Victorians also strained to place the Greek tragic dramatists Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides into their world as pre-Christians, who either espoused proto-Christian morals or at least presaged the way for the Christian epoch. There was many a Victorian vicar who knew his Prometheus Bound, his Oedipus and his Medea, as well as his New Testament. Cardinal Newman went so far as to suggest, “pagan literature, philosophy, and mythology…. were but a preparation for the Gospel. The Greek poets and sages were in a certain sense prophets.” Even in myth, Victorian believers strained for connections. Alford, when thinking of Prometheus, claimed, “this benefactor of human kind…. thus crucified on high- bears he not a dim resemblance to the One other whom we know?” Gladstone compared Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades to the Holy Trinity.

Novels of the period were often interspersed with ancient Greek in their original alphabet. It was a mark of sophistication, but also a common way to denote good breeding in a character. One of George Eliot’s characters declares, “No man is held worthy of the name of scholar who has merely the …. derivative literature of the Latins;…. the Romans themselves…. frankly replenished their urns at the fountainhead.” Victorians were also fond of Greek sculpture, in no small part because of their nakedness. They found in them something safely erotic, but also simple and childlike. S. C. Hall suggested that “French nudes looked as if they had taken their clothes off, Greek ones as if they had never thought of clothes.” But it was Homer and Plato who towered above the rest in the Victorian imagination. On the Albert Memorial it is Homer, not Shakespeare, who is given pride of place. Mathew Arnold claimed, “Homer has not Shakespeare’s variations: Homer always composes as Shakespeare composes at his best.” From radicals like Shaw to Whigs like Macauley to arch-Tories like Carlyle the verdict was the same.

Until the Victorians, Aristotle had commanded the high ground in Oxbridge philosophy. He was clearheaded and rational. However, the Romantics did much to tilt the scales towards Plato and along with him Socrates. When an Italian peasant asked Symonds, “who was Socrates?” He replied, “he was the Jesus Christ of Greece.” Arch-Anglican Thomas Arnold did his best to place Plato in the pantheon of the prophets, “not the wildest extravagance of atheistic wickedness in modern times can go further than the sophists of Greece went…. whatever audacity can dare…. to make the words “good” and “evil” change their meaning, has already been tried in the days of Plato, and by his eloquence…. and faith unshaken, has been put to shame.” Even the agnostic John Stuart Mill suggested, “Christ did not argue about virtue, but commanded it; Plato, when he argues about it, argues for the most part inconclusively, but he resembles Christ in the love which he inspires for it, and in the stern resolution never to swerve from it.” It is not so much Plato’s conclusions, but his method that appealed to questioning Victorians such as Mill. “I have ever felt that the title of Platonist belongs by far better right to those who have been nourished in, and have endeavored to practice Plato’s mode of investigation, than to those distinguished only by the adoption of certain dogmatical conclusions.” Victorians, even as their empire grew abroad to resemble Rome, sought at home to emulate the liberty, democracy, and love of literature and learning they so admired in ancient Greece. 

“The Therapy of Desire” by Martha Nussbaum

Nussbaum compares and contrasts the three schools of Hellenistic philosophy, Epicureanism, Skepticism, and Stoicism, with each other and also with Aristotelian and Platonic philosophies. The “therapy” referred to in the book title is an acknowledgement that all three schools viewed the role of philosophy as helping in the everyday life of the person/patient. As the doctor helps to heal the body, so would philosophy help to heal the mind. “They saw the philosopher as a compassionate physician whose arts could heal many pervasive types of human suffering. They practiced philosophy not as a detached intellectual technique dedicated to the display of cleverness but as an immersed and worldly art of grappling with human misery… For all three, philosophy is above all the art of human life… Philosophy is an activity that secures the flourishing [eudaimon] life by arguments and reasonings.” Therefore, philosophy must be achievable and practical for every man, unlike for Aristotle and Plato who viewed it as only the purview of an elite. 

Epicurus believed that “the central cause of human misery is the disturbance produced by the seemingly “boundless” demands of desire, which will not let us have any rest or stable satisfaction.” Life is insatiable. But the one true end for life is pleasure. As Diogenes Laertius recounts Epicurus saying, “as proof for the fact that pleasure is the end, he points to the fact that animals, as soon as they are born, are well contented with pleasure and fight against pain, naturally and apart from discourse. For we flee pain by our very own natural feelings.” Epicurus makes the point that feelings precede any kind of logical reasoning. Cicero reports, “so [Epicurus] denies that there is need for argument [ratione] or dialectical reasoning [disputatione] to show that pleasure is to be pursued and pain avoided. He thinks these things are perceived by the senses [sentire], the way we perceive that fire is hot, that snow is white, that honey is sweet. None of these things needs to be supported by fancy arguments.” The senses are the only things reliable and all error comes from (false) beliefs. As such, Epicurus denies the reliability in the mores and institutions of culture and society. The only truth is in one’s own body. Reason is not an end, but it can be a means. “A tutored use of reason can help the adult to avoid these pains.” The societal ends that he most stresses to avoid are a hope for immortality, money, fame, and luxuries, because these are truly insatiable desires. “Frugal meals deliver a pleasure that is equal to that of an expensive diet, when once all the pain of need is removed; and bread and water give the very summit of pleasure, when a needy person takes them in.” On death he states, “the correct recognition that death is nothing to us makes the mortality of life enjoyable, not by adding on an infinite time, but by removing the longing for immortality.” Elsewhere he flirts with reincarnation describing the cycle of life, “there is need of matter, so that future generations may grow. They too, having lived out their lives, will follow you. Generations before this perished just like you, and will perish again. Thus one thing will never stop arising from another. Life is nobody’s private property, but is everyone’s to use.” The Epicureans were atomists, they believed every bit of matter could be reduced to atoms at heart and therefore nothing was created or destroyed, but just transformed. Epicurus was also the first western philosopher to deal with the unconscious- that the real desires and problems in life often reside below the surface and deep within the mind. The Roman Epicurean poet Lucretius also suggested being leery of love. ““They believe that a wise man will not fall in love,” Diogenes tells us, “Nor do they believe that love is something sent by the gods.” Epicurus’ definition of eros was, apparently, “An intense desire for intercourse, accompanied by agony and distraction.”” However, later Lucretius tempers this view. He states that, despite the risks of passion, a life worth living is a life shared by another. “Attachment to marriage and the family leads Lucretius to defend as valuable a way of life that does not seem to be the one best suited for individual ataraxia [freedom from distress and worry], since it includes many risks and possibilities for loss and grief.” The Epicurean belief in the gods is complicated. They were certainly opposed to organized religion. “Religious belief is bad, Lucretius persistently argues, because it is superstitious and irrational, built upon false and groundless beliefs about the gods and the soul. It is also bad because it makes people dependent on priests, rather than on their own judgement.” Epicureans looked upon both anger and gratitude as equally bad flipsides to the same coin. They believed in self-sufficiency and both were expressions of outward emotion. “The wise man, the Letter to Herodotus informs us, will avoid being in any condition of weakness or need toward his fellow humans.”

The Skeptics felt that “the disease is not one of false belief; belief itself is the illness- belief as a commitment, a source of concern, care, and vulnerability.” Sextus Empericus defines his own Skepticism as “an ability to set up an opposition of appearances and thoughts, in any way at all, an ability from which we come, through the equal force of the opposing statements and states of affairs, first into suspension, and after that into freedom from disturbance.” The goal is to, no matter the belief, set up oppositions among impressions and beliefs. “The Skeptic does not express objections to natural and necessary bodily pain. What, after all, is the point of having objections to something that we cannot help?… Pain is part of nature; the real disease is the setting oneself up against nature, the theorizing about pain that sooner or later compounds pain.” The Skeptic does not try to change his life, but come to terms with it. “The Skeptic gives up all commitments that take him beyond the way life actually goes; he has no theory that makes him fight the ordinary.” It is better to act without any fixed beliefs. Humans should “go on using their faculties. The world strikes them now this way, now that; they are influenced by their desires, their cognitive activities, even their memories. But they do not bother inquiring into truth or sorting things out.” Skeptics criticized the other philosophies, “to say that one should avoid this as base, but incline to this as nobler, is the way of men who are not undoing disturbance, but are simply changing its position… so that the philosopher’s discourse creates a new disease in place of the old one… not freeing the pupil from pursuit, but only shifting her over to a different pursuit.” It is change without a cure. Life, for Skeptics, is all subjective. “For, strictly speaking, he can have neither a committed view as to what eudaimonia [human flourishing] is, nor a committed causal belief as to what does or does not secure it… Skeptical argument opposes only that which has been asserted and believed- and the Skeptic tells us that he asserts nothing.” The Skeptic’s life is unnatural and he knows it. “Pyrrho talks of “altogether divesting ourselves of the human being”; Sextus describes the Skeptic as a eunuch with respect to rational desires. This is revealing talk: for it concedes, perhaps, that even if what we have left is a part of our natural constitution, what we have cut off or purged away is also a part of what it is to be naturally human.” The traits Skeptics admire are calmness, gentleness, tolerance, and non-conformity.

Stoics believe in individual reason above all else. Reason has not only instrumental, but intrinsic worth. For Seneca the whole point of philosophy is “that you should make yourself better every day.” This is not easy because, as Epictetus relates, the starting point of philosophy is “our awareness of weakness and incapacity in respect of the most important things.” It is, nonetheless, a worthwhile endeavor because, Seneca again, “no one can live happily, or even tolerably, without the study of wisdom.” As such, philosophy is the domain of every man and woman, no matter their birth. “The guiding principle of Stoicism is respect for humanity wherever it is found.” All the evil in the world is due to false beliefs and mistaken impressions, not original sin. Therefore, it is the intent not the action that truly matters. “To become a fully virtuous act, an action must be done as the wise person would do it, with the thoughts and feelings appropriate to virtue… For, like Epicureanism, Stoicism views the soul as a spacious and deep place, a place with many lofty aspirations but also many secrets, a place of both effort and evasion. Much that goes on in it escapes the notice not only of the world at large, not only, even, of the teacher, but also of the person himself… The self must acknowledge itself; only this brings peace and freedom. But this requires assiduous daily litigation, in a darkened room, as the soul, in the absence of external light, turns its vision on itself.” The Stoics consider philosophy by thinking and then by doing it. It is fine to read books and quote others, but unless you are actually practicing philosophy in your daily life you are not making it your own. Seneca declaimed, “I have not sold myself as a slave to anybody; I bear no master’s name. I have much confidence in the judgement of great men, but I claim something for my own judgement also.” Stoicism is fundamentally inward looking. Stoics, too, feel that the wise man must be completely self-sufficient. The only thing important in life is virtue and that is completely unaffected by external contingencies. Wealth and honor, but also courage, justice, and equanimity are worthless in and of themselves. But virtue is not static: it is an internal striving and straining. Where Stoics really differ from the Epicureans is the passions. Stoics wish to remove all passion from life completely. Seneca writes, “it is often asked whether it is better to have moderate passions or none. Our people drive out the passions altogether; the Peripatetics [Aristotelians] moderate them.” Stoics seek to maintain a passive stance towards the outside world to remain unaffected by any external whims. Again, Seneca affirms, “he retreats into himself and lives with himself. [His highest good] seeks no equipment from outside. It is cultivated at home, and is entirely developed from within him. He begins to be the subject of fortune, the minute he looks for some part of himself outdoors.” Life is a continual struggle for this mastery of internal virtue. Seneca explains, “evils that are continuous and prolific require slow patient resistance- not in order that they should cease, but in order that they should fail to conquer.” But there is no excuse for not living a life of virtue. A life which is not lived everyday for the philosophical ideal is not a life worth living. Controversially, Seneca extolls the benefits of suicide as opposed to a compromised life, “do you see that precipice? That way you can descend to liberty. Do you see that sea, that river, that well? Liberty sits there in the depths. Do you see that tree, stunted, blighted, barren? Liberty hangs from its branches. Do you see your throat, your gullet, your heart? They are escape routes from slavery. Are the exits I show you too difficult, requiring too much courage and strength? Do you ask what is the straight road to liberty? Any vein in your body.” Seneca practiced what he preached. After he was implicated in a plot to assassinate his pupil Nero, he slit his own wrists rather than beg for forgiveness.

Epicureanism and Stoicism, particularly, share some features not present in Aristotelian philosophy- preeminent among them that existing desires, intuitions, and preferences are socially formed, but they might not be ideal or reliable to the good life. The Skeptics “see a remarkable fact: that the philosophical pursuit of truth, praised by the Platonist tradition as the most stable and risk-free life of all, is actually not so free from danger- for it makes our good depend on the way reality is outside ourselves, and on the ability of a finite mind to grasp that reality.” All three Hellenistic schools held in common, however, that the student of philosophy was like a medical patient- in need of a cure. Their philosophies were therapeutic and practical- intended to teach a man how to live a better life.

“Ants Among Elephants” by Sujatha Gidla

This is a quasi-biography of K.G. Satyamurthy, the renowned poet and Communist organizer from Andhra, India, written by his niece. The family are dalits or untouchables. As such, this book also serves as a window into the lives of untouchables and the caste system in general in post-colonial India. One sees how untouchables are still discriminated against both in the rural villages and the modern cities. One out of every six Indians is born an untouchable. Gidla’s family was well-educated, not unusual for untouchables, many of whom converted to Christianity during the colonial period and, therefore, were taught in missionary schools. Despite being practicing Christians, untouchables never can escape their caste, which is considered a social institution as opposed to a religious one. They are forced to live outside the village proper or segregated in urban ghettos, must kowtow to any caste Hindu of whom they cross paths, must eat from separate bowls, and drink from separate wells. Even untouchables with money or doctorates do not escape these indignities. Often those most brutal to untouchables were not the highest caste Brahmins, but those from the lowest castes, such as ditch diggers and barbers. Even within the untouchables there are subcastes such as the “malas’, who were servants, and the “madigas” who hauled away dead animal carcasses to make leather goods. Perhaps the vilest tradition was “vetti”, where every untouchable family had to give up its first born son, as soon as he learned to walk and talk, to the “dora”, the local landlord, as his household slave. This was not an ancient tradition, but was instituted, with British acquiescence, in the late 19th century. Untouchables generally despised Indian leaders such as Gandhi and Nehru, who supported the traditions of the caste system. Their hero was Ambedkar, a fellow untouchable, who fought for equal rights both socially and politically. Under this oppressive background, the Communist Party grew. Its first slogan was, “land to the tiller!” K.G. Satyamurthy, known as Satyam, joined the Party while studying at A.C. College. He was also enamored by the traditional poems in his native Telugu langauage, as well as contemporary poets such as Sri Sri. His motto from college was “write like Sri Sri. Fight like Lenin. A pen and a gun.” Satyam would end up organizing students in universities across his state, as well as railway workers, dung collectors, and field laborers over the years. Eventually, he was forced underground, hiding in the forests, not able to see his own wife, children, or the rest of his family for many decades. Before his marriage, he had warned his wife that his life’s work might require this fate. As Satyam put it, “only revolution is truth. Everything else may come or go.”

“Friedrich Holderlin’s Life, Poetry, and Madness” by Wilhelm Waiblinger (translated by Will Stone)

Holderlin was one of the greatest German poets of the late 18th and early 19th century. He studied Lutheran theology in a seminary along with Hegel and Schelling, before writing the epistolary novel “Hyperion” as well as his major odes. He sustained himself with various jobs from being a tutor to the German nobility to being appointed court librarian for a German prince. However, the last thirty-six years of his life he spent raving mad, in the care of a kindly carpenter, Ernst Zimmer, in his hometown of Tubingen. His family refused all contact with him and he spent most of his days locked up in the carpenter’s tower, part of the old city’s fortifications. This short book is a memoir of Waiblinger’s effort to meet with Holderlin from the years 1822-1826. Waiblinger was a young Romantic poet, with anti-establishment tendencies, who was to die of syphilis in Rome, before his memoir was published. According to Stone, for Waiblinger, as well as other Romantics, “Holderlin was a lesson, a terrifying example of the physical and mental health potentiality of imaginative thought unrestrained.”

Waiblinger begins his memoir by recounting what was known of Holderlin’s youth. “This soul then was composed of an infinite delicateness, noble, fine, deep of feeling but all too sensitive, with an audacious and daring imagination…. constructing a world in which the most bitter sufferings were perceived as the necessary creative element of inwardness.” By the time Holderlin reached seminary, he was still suffering bouts of melancholy, along with producing first drafts of what would become some of his greatest works of poetry. “He would sometimes retire for weeks on end and converse only with his mandolin…. his sufferings exacerbated by a love too delicate and sentimental, by his zeal and impetuous cravings for fame and honour, the loathing of his circumstances, the aversion to his course of study.” Throughout his life, “it was nature itself which he most worshipped and adored.” After two doomed love affairs, Holderlin was already teetering on insanity. “He took on a translation of Sophocles, which proved a curious blend of the wondrous and the deranged.”

Soon, Holderlin had been committed to an asylum, where he spent two years, only let out under the care of the carpenter Zimmer, who was a fan of his poetry. When, in 1822, Waiblinger was to first meet Holderlin he was already thoroughly insane. Waiblinger rented rooms in Tubingen and venturing to introduce himself to his hero, went “to the room of Herr Librarian—for this is how Holderlin prefers to be addressed…. The visitor now finds himself addressed as ‘Your Majesty’, ‘Your Holiness’ and ‘Merciful Father’.” Holderlin talked to himself incessantly, repeated the same simple tunes on his piano for days on end, babbled incoherently, and invented new words and languages. Waiblinger recounts, “I gave him paper to write on. Then he would sit at his desk and produce a few lines, metrically rhymed. Admittedly they were senseless, particularly the last ones, but at least they were consistent in their rhyming form…. His head is still brimming with a host of sublime metaphysical notions, indeed even original poetic expressions, but can only communicate them in the most obscure and fantastical manner. He lacks the capacity to retain his vaporous imaginings.” Zimmer summed up Holderlin’s existence, “It was too much inside him that caused his mind to give way.” Towards the end of his days, Holderlin, himself, wrote, “Now for the first time I understand humankind, because I dwell far from it and in solitude.”

“On the Calculation of Volume: Vol. I” by Solvej Balle (translated by Barbara Haveland)

This is the first novel in a seven volume collection by Balle. The conceit, in a nutshell, is simple, “He is waiting for me. My name is Tara Selter. I am sitting in the back room overlooking the garden and a woodpile. It is the eighteenth of November. Every night when I lie down to sleep in the bed in the guest room it is the eighteenth of November and every morning, when I wake up, it is the eighteenth of November. I no longer expect to wake up to the nineteenth of November and I no longer remember the seventeenth of November as if it were yesterday.”

Tara’s husband, Thomas, is not living through whatever it is that she is. “We were living in two different times. That was all. Two times that had flooded their banks. At a place where rivers meet and converge, a kind of temporal Mesopotamia where the Euphrates and the Tigris are merely two different names for water. We were doing fine in Mesopotamia.” But, inevitably, the day(s) start to wear on Selter’s psyche. “76 days was too many. The distance was too great. I stood in the kitchen with the notebook in my hand and knew that too many days had come between us…. I couldn’t carry on with our repetitions. The fog had lifted, the landscape stretched out clear and sharp before me and we were not waking to the same day.” Still, life, for both husband and wife, moves along, of sorts. “The distance is shortest at night. When Thomas is asleep there is only the ceiling between us, a thin line between two forms of time. I sit in a room that holds the world open and keeps the distance between us as short as possible. He calls the ceiling the floor. I call the floor the ceiling. But these are just words, not a distance but a line that keeps us connected.”

“The Viennese Students of Civilization: The Meaning and Context of Austrian Economics Reconsidered” by Erwin Dekker

Dekker correctly emphasizes that Austrian Economics is better thought of as the study of the social sciences more broadly: the study of human action and, specifically, the study of human interaction and exchange with one another- praxeology and catallactics. There were various "circles" who met regularly during the fin de siecle and inter-war eras in the many cafes of Vienna. They would argue, drink, and even sing songs, but most often they debated about the bigger questions of what made civilization tick- culture, history, institutions, and traditions. The stars of what became labeled the "Austrian School" tradition were Menger, Bohm-Bawerk, Mises, Hayek, and Schumpeter. While differing in economics widely, what largely connected them was their methodological individualism, their radical subjectivity, and their use of marginal analysis in evaluating the economy. While maintaining that economics was a value-free (social)-science, they exposited that markets were the best means of conveying dispersed information widely, through the price system. Markets contained both civilizing and restraining urges by creating a space for the communal interaction of goods and ideas. The lasting contribution of the students from Vienna was to approach economics with humility, that knowledge is too immense, too dispersed, and too diverse to be accumulated by any one man, and thus it is best for the economist to think of himself as a constant learner of partial knowledge and fragments of ideas, rather than a scientist, teacher, or technocrat. Furthermore, economics cannot be studied without studying “the stuff in between”: language, law, tradition, and history- the things that make up a culture and create a civilization.

“The Moment and Late Writings” by Soren Kierkegaard (translated by Howard V. Hong & Edna H. Hong)

This is basically Kierkegaard just bashing the established Lutheran state church of Denmark for a few hundred pages. The impetus for this harangue is a eulogy for Bishop Mynster by his successor, Bishop Martensen. Specifically, at issue is the classifying Mynster as a Christian truth-witness. Kierkegaard begins, “In the New Testament, Christ calls the apostles and followers witnesses, requires of them that they shall witness for him. Let us now see what is to be understood by that. They are men who in renunciation of everything, in poverty, in lowliness, then, ready for any suffering, are to go out into a world that with all its might and main expresses the contrast to what it is to be a Christian. This is what Christ calls witnessing, being a witness…. Now I ask, is there the slightest similarity between these pastors, deans, and bishops and what Christ calls witnesses?… They may be called teachers, public officials, professors, councilors—in short, anything one wishes, but not truth-witnesses…. If the clergy understand their interests, they will not hesitate to ask the bishop to discontinue this language usage, which, to put it mildly, makes the whole profession ludicrous.”

Kierkegaard is offended that, in Christendom, there reside so many people that are Christians in name only, rather than in true belief. He strictly blames the pastors, as a profession, for this state of affairs. “Nothing is more dangerous for true Christianity, nothing is more against its nature, than getting people light-mindedly to assume the name “Christians,” to teach them to have a low opinion of being a Christian, as if it were something that is so very easy. And “the pastor” has a pecuniary interest in having it rest there, so that by assuming the name “Christians” people do not come to know what Christianity in truth is…. Christ and the New Testament understand something very specific by having faith; to have faith is to venture out as decisively as possible for a human being, breaking with everything, with what a human being naturally loves, breaking, in order to save his life, with that in which he naturally has his life. But to those who have faith, to them is also promised assistance against all dangers…. But in “Christendom” we play at having faith, play at being Christians. As far removed as possible from any break with what the natural human being loves, we remain at home in the living room, in the routines of finiteness—and then we go and blather to each other.”

Kierkegaard earnestly wants to convert Christendom to the true Christianity of the New Testament. To the citizen of Denmark who is struggling to balance the demands of this world and the next, he urges, “Eternally he will not regret heeding my words, but it is quite possible that he could regret it temporally. He himself is then to consider whether it is the eternal he wants or the temporal. I, who am called Either/Or, cannot serve anyone with: both-and.” Kierkegaard concludes, “All religion in which there is any truth, certainly Christianity, aims at a person’s total transformation and wants, through renunciation and self-denial, to wrest away from him all that, precisely that, to which he immediately clings, in which he immediately has his life…. To become a Christian in the New Testament sense is designed to work the individual loose (as the dentist speaks of working the gum loose) from the context to which he clings in immediate passion, and which clings in immediate passion to him…. This kind of Christianity was never to the human being’s liking.”

“Metapolitics: From Wagner and the German Romantics to Hitler” by Peter Viereck

Viereck  wrote the first edition of this book in 1941, when a Nazi victory in the Second World War seemed more than possible, if not likely. In the book, he traces the ideas of the German Romantics through Richard Wagner to Hitler and the Nazi Party. Wagner and his Bayreuth Circle coined the term “metapolitik.” It blended Wagnerian mysticism with political, economic, and national philosophy. Viereck states, “I shall use “metapolitics” to mean the semi-political ideology resulting from the intertwining of four distinct strands. These four are romanticism;…. the “science” of racism; a vague economic socialism, protesting sometimes demagogically and sometimes sincerely against capitalist materialism; and the alleged supernatural and unconscious forces of Volk collectivity.” Viereck claims that the German man has always had two souls beating under one breast. He contrasts these two impulses in the German psyche—western civilization rooted in the Mediterranean cultures of Athens and Jerusalem and the uniquely Teutonic Kultur. He quotes historian H.W. Steed, “the Germans understand by Kultur an intimate union between themselves and the natural forces of the Universe, whose actions they alone are capable of apprehending.” Viereck expands, “The assertion that “Germany can never be understood” by other races means that the magic word “Kultur” can never be pinned down. It is understood only by blood, by the subconscious. It is inexpressible in words. It is expressible only in feeling, the heroic feeling of German blood…. [It is] a deliberate revolt not only against reason but against all moral and political restraints, a revolt against humanity, against universals, against internationalism on behalf of the Volk and mother nature.”

This concept of Kultur, previously expressed only in poems and literature, had its militant roots in the German resistance to the invasion of Napoleon. During the War of Liberation, Father Jahn stressed the unconscious role of the Volk throughout the shaping of history. Jahn coined the term “folkdom” (Volkstum), “that which the Volk has in common, its inner existence, its movement, its ability to propagate. Because of it, there courses through all the veins of a Volk a folkic thinking and feeling, loving and hating, intuition and faith.” Wagner later coined the word Wahn, which was also incorporated into the Nazi vocabulary. Viereck states, “By Wahn, a key-word of Wagner, too ambiguous for safe translation, he means something between pragmatic myth and glorious madness. This Wahn is produced by the supernatural “spirit of the race.””

Hitler incorporated Wagner’s metapolitics, whole-hog, into the Nazi regime. “The diabolically clever combination of appeals with which Hitler won the masses consists of the very same appeals which compose Wagner’s metapolitics. These are: Pan-German nationalism; vague promises of economic socialism (the “true” anti-Marxist brand); fanatic anti-Semitism, both economic and racist; revolt against legalism; revolt against reason, especially against “alien” intellectualism; the Fuhrer principle; yearning for the organic Volk state without class distinctions; hatred of free speech and parliamentary democracy and of the international bankers supposed to control democracy; misty nordic primitivism of the Siegfried and Nibelungen sagas.” Wagner was the bridge between the Second Reich of Bismarck and the Third Reich of Hitler. However, it was only the Third Reich that fully expressed Wagnerian philosophy. “Wagner is far closer in spirit to the Nazi Third Reich of steeled romanticism than to the Prussian Second Reich of orderly bureaucracy. The latter exalted the state, whereas Wagner and Hitler exalt the Volk. The state to romantics represents lifeless form; it is static legality. The Volk represents living content; it dynamically overlaps and smashes state lines…. Americans tend toward the serious error of identifying the Second with the Third Reich. This overlooks the whole revolutionary, expansive, romantic side of nazism. The plebeian Hitler throws out not only the Junker spirit of class distinctions but also the admirable non-political civil service and non-political Reichswehr autonomy so typical of the Kaiser’s bureaucratic state.” Hitler, himself, exclaimed, “We as Aryans can only picture the state as the living organism of a nationality.”

Hitler’s court philosopher was Alfred Rosenberg. Viereck states, “Rosenberg’s philosophy stands or falls on this basic assumption: God created man not as an individual nor mankind as a whole, but individual races of men. These are the building blocks of history, the only lasting units…. A nation is the political expression of the race…. No two races have the same soul. Therefore no two races can understand each other; no two speak the same moral, aesthetic, or intellectual language…. Nazism is the revolt against conditioning by environment.” For Rosenberg, the nation is beyond good and evil. It lives only for itself, its own expansion, its own domination, and its own glory. It is ever becoming and never being. “Rejecting alike government by parliament or by kaiser (monarch), Rosenberg demands the Volk-king, the hero-dictator risen from the ranks, whom Jahn and Wagner prophesied…. The gist of the Fuhrer myth is that the Fuhrer is (incarnates) the Volk.” Rosenberg, himself, states, “We want to see in a German king a person like ourselves.”

Viereck states that Nazi ideology fed on the sympathies of the mass-man to flourish. “Nazi appeals could never work in an uneducated country. They are effective only where the masses are educated but not well enough, and not educated into individuals but into that lowest common denominator, the mass man…. Mass man is he who is laudably well educated in ideas of sweeping social change but deplorably well educated in critical discrimination between them, laudably well educated in the mass organization of vast material power but deplorably educated in the needed moral restraints of power…. An over-mechanized and over-specialized industrial society is spawning mass men, instead of responsible, self-disciplined individuals rooted in the universal moral values…. The rich are as susceptible to mass-man mentality as the poor.”

Viereck next gets a bit carried away with himself and takes on the entire regrettable sweep of German history. “If only the Teutons of heroic Hermann the Cheruscan had lost to the Romans the battle of Teutoburg Forest, if only they had become part of the great Mediterranean civitas . . . if only Germany had passed through a real eighteenth century, the mental discipline of the Latin-French tradition, that unpretentious clarity, that fastidiously classical humanism, that well-balanced scepticism, that laughing rationalism!”

Viereck, in winding down, turns back to the specifics of the present German case. “Prussianism by itself…. failed completely to attract the masses under the German Republic. Prussianism, meaning efficient state bureaucracy and aristocratic militarism, is prosaic and uninspiring to the masses. It lacks the emotional glamour of German romanticism. Nazism, unaristocratic and national-bolshevist to the root, the culmination of a hundred years of Romantic Volk movements, is not Prussianism except in spurious externals. Nazism, as Hans Kohn once brilliantly put it, is the strange new child of a marriage between romanticism and Prussianism…. The Nazi revolt against western civilization is romanticism transferred from the middle classes to the masses, welded to a sort of national bolshevism, saturated through and through in that mass-man revolt which is sweeping all mechanized industrial society.”