Rest in Peace, Dr. Pelikan

Jaroslav Pelikan died Saturday of lung cancer. He wrote what is certainly the best history of Christian doctrine published in the last hundred years. He gives one reason (among others) why he wrote it:

For those who believe that you don't need tradition because you have the Bible, the Christian Tradition has sought to say, "You are not entitled to the beliefs you cherish about such things as the Holy Trinity without a sense of what you owe to those who worked this out for you." To circumvent Saint Athanasius on the assumption that if you put me alone in a room with the New Testament, I will come up with the doctrine of the Trinity, is naive. So for these readers I have tried to provide a degree of historical sophistication, which is, I believe, compatible with an affirmation of the central doctrines of Christian faith.

A devout Lutheran for much of his life, he was received into the Orthodox Church in America in 1998. May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

New Book on Tolkien and the OED

Details are here. It looks quite good.

A while ago, I searched the online OED for illustrations of word usage drawn from Tolkien. There were about 150, which for someone who isn't Shakespeare is quite a good number. And hobbit is in the OED.

He also has his own adjectives: Tolkienian and Tolkienesque.

I still maintain the best book yet written on Tolkien (though I haven't yet read the one mentioned above) is by Tom Shippey (J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century).

By the way, for those who don't know (for a long time I didn't): OED stands for Oxford English Dictionary. If you want to buy my friendship, a good start would be with a copy of the OED. Of course, if you look up friendship in the OED, the first example is from Beowulf.

In Which I Answer a Pressing Question

(If you haven't read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and don't want the story ruined, don't read on.)

The Leaky Cauldron has a list of questions left to be answered in the seventh book. One of them is "How does one destroy a Horcrux, anyway?"

I'd have thought that one was obvious: Stab it with a basilisk fang.

You Know It's Not Going to Be a Good Neil Young Album . . .

. . . when reviewers preface their comments with "While this is not as bad as Landing on Water . . . ."

In Which I Am Amazed by the Success of the Detroit Tigers

They're only a half game out of first place. The pessimist in me predicts they will fall below .500 by the end of the season. (By the way, Thorgerson, in case you missed it, the Tigers clobbered the Twins a while back.)

UPDATE: Of course, the day after I post this, the Tigers get spanked by the Angels, 7-2.

In Which I Pose a Fairly Easy Question from Alcuin, the Monk

Alcuin was head teacher in the palace school of Charlemagne at Aachen. Here is one of the questions in his Propositiones ad acuendos iuvenes:

An ox plows all day long. How many tracks does he leave in the last furrow?

For the answer, click "Read More."

Answer: None. The plow removes them all.

(HT: Percival Blakney Academy)

In Which I Help You Understand Why Gas Prices Are So High

Read this short piece by Lynne Kiesling of the fine economics blog "Knowledge Problem."

Doing Bad vs. Being Bad

From Aristotle (Nicomachean Ethics, 1151a6-11 [trans. Joe Sachs]):

It is clear then that unrestraint is not vice . . . since the one [dissipation] is by choice and the other [unrestraint] is contrary to choice; however, they are alike as far as actions are concerned, as with the words of Demodocus to the Milesians, "It's not that Milesians are stupid, just that they will do the sort of things that stupid people do"; and while unrestrained people are not unjust, they will do injustice.

The Frothier Side of Life

Still on just my third brew, I think this will be the first truly enjoyable to drink (I'm just being honest).

The recipe: Thorgersen's Nut Brown Ale
Inspired by Byron Burch, Brewing Quality Beers, 2nd ed., 1992

6 lbs. Light Liquid Barley Malt Extract, Extra Malty
9 oz. Carmel 20 Barley
4.5 oz. Chocolate Barley
(Crush and cook barley)
1/4 t salt
2 oz. Malto Dexterin
2 oz. Nugget bittering hops (cook 1 oz. 60 minutes, 1 oz. 30 minutes)
1 oz. Willamette aromatic hops (cook 8 minutes)
English Ale Liquid Yeast

The picture is after a little more than a day of fermenting, and is a much better head than I've ever got before. The batch should make around 50 bottles, and at about 30-35 dollars for ingredients, this figures to be quite the hobby. If everything turns out I'm going to try a fruit ale next (ahem, for the Mrs.).

It (Sort of) Makes Sense When You Think about It

Biola University, a conservative evangelical university in southern California, is giving its Phillip E. Johnson Award for Liberty and Truth to Antony Flew, one of the staunchest defenders of atheism in the past century. Of course, Flew is no longer an atheist.

I recall some people mocking Biola last year for giving the Phillip E. Johnson award to (who else?) Phillip E. Johnson. I wonder if those people will mock this year. Seriously. Would they claim that Biola is just giving the award to Flew because he converted from atheism (in part because of things like intelligent design -- read the interview in which he discusses this)? Would Biola have given the award to Flew even if he were still an atheist?

In Which I Wonder if Rowling Alludes to Socrates

In Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Rowling introduces the character of Luna Lovegood. Luna is loony but proves to be a good friend to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Her father publishes a newspaper called The Quibbler, which ends up playing an important role in the story: It is the vehicle by which an important truth is made known. However, it is maligned throughout the novel for its reputation for printing pointless conspiracy theories and other nonsense; in short, for quibbling instead of employing words for more serious matters, like the oh-so-serious Daily Prophet. (OED's first definition of "quibble" is "to pun, to play on words.")

In Aristophanes' play Frogs, we find the following description of Socrates:

So it is refined not by Socrates
to sit and chatter
casting aside the pursuits of the Muses
and neglecting what's most important
in the art of tragedy.
But to spend time idly
in pompous words
and frivolous word-scraping
is the act of a man going crazy.
(trans. Dillon)

Here we have the perfect description of a quibbler. (Klein, in his commentary on the Meno, actually refers to Socrates in the Aristophanes passage as a quibbler.) Aristophanes -- who was at least not bosom buddies with Socrates -- describes Socrates as engaging in idle chatter. But if we take Plato's word, Socrates was not interested in chatter but in seeking the truth. Of course, it is easy to see how Socrates, who was always talking (discussing), could be mistaken for a word-scraper, or, in general, how one who seeks (even dispenses) the truth by conversing with others could be mistaken for a quibbler.

(I hope I need not remind my readers that Rowling has a degree in classics.)

In Which I Guess that All the Harry Potter Novels So Far Lead Up to This Speech by Dumbledore about Voldemort

". . . he was in such a hurry to mutilate his own soul, he never paused to understand the incomparable power of a soul that is untarnished and whole" (Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, p. 511).

Rowling's genius has now exposed millions of people all over the world to this beautiful idea.

It's Like They're Animals

Our cats. I woke up this morning to find that one of them (Rosemary, I'm looking in your direction) had vomitted all over a placemat on the table. I left it just in case the culprit wanted to have it later for a snack. Sometimes they do, and it saves me having to clean up.

"I for one am all for scraping ancient barrels"

On the publication of the 500th volume in the Loeb Classical Library, A.N. Wilson has thoughts on the significance of Greek and Latin today.

HT: Michael Gilleland

In Which I Complain about the Froufrou Naming of Colors

So I bought this jacket for my wife for her birthday. According to Amazon.com, the color of the coat I ordered is called "persimmon," and in the color sample "persimmon" looks quite red, does it not?



When I received the jacket today, I discovered that persimmon is actually orange. Now I have no idea if persimmons are orange, and I really could care less. But it would have been much clearer if the Weatherproof jacket company had actually named the color of the coat "orange."

In Which I Attempt to Sum Up the Row Over Intelligent Design

Aristotle says, "The causes responsible for things seem to be nature, necessity, and chance, and also intelligence . . . ." (NE, 1112a30ish).

The Darwinist says, "The first three causes Aristotle lists are the only legitimate causes."

The Designist says, "Let us also admit the last cause Aristotle lists."

An Interpretation of King Lear, Act 1, Scene 1

The play opens with three people: Kent, Gloucester, and Edmund. At first I was puzzled about why Edmund is there. Kent and Gloucester, being part of the king's council, I could handle. But why Edmund, the villain? Here is my attempt at explaining Edmund's presence.

Shakespeare represents with these three a whole soul: reason, spirit, and appetite. Kent, being the king's advisor, is reason. Gloucester, the king's loyal friend, is spirit. Edmund, greedy for power, is appetite.

Kent's first words are "I thought . . ." Thinking is exactly what reason does.

In the Platonic tradition, the spirited element of the soul mediates reason and appetite. In the opening scene, Gloucester introduces Kent to Edmund.

Lear enters then and, in his madness, which is already upon him, tears apart this whole soul: he sends Gloucester to attend to the dukes of France and Burgundy. (Edmund, though not addressed by the king, leaves with Gloucester.) I say that Lear is already mad, or at least (lit.) unreasonable, because there is no good reason to disrupt a whole, well-ordered soul. A whole soul (or city) is a beautiful and good thing, and there can be no good reason (or no reason at all) to tear it apart. But Lear does tear it apart; I conclude that Lear is not governed by reason even from the very beginning of the play.

Tragedy ensues. What else would one expect to follow in the wake of such a mindless disruption?

After Lear has made the tragic decision to banish Cordelia, each of the three parts of this original triad proceed thusly. (1) Kent tries to dissuade the king from his course of action. But Lear will not listen to reason, and reason separated from spirit and appetite can affect no change. (2) Gloucester, eager to assist the king, overplays his hand since he is not guided by reason. (3) Edmund, unbridled from reason and spirit, dwells on and pursues his base passion for power.

Thus, Edmund's presence is explained by the necessity of appetite in the city/soul. Appetite is not bad; but appetite following its desires leads to ruin. Perhaps Kent and Gloucester together could have saved Edmund. Consider Gloucester's urging Kent to remember Edmund as Gloucester's honorable friend and Kent's statement to Edmund that "I must love you, and sue to know you better." Kent however is prevented from taking Edmund under his wing, and so Edmund is not tamed, as he might have been. Apart from Kent and Gloucester, Edmund ruins both Gloucester and himself. (Reason seems to survive.)

Last thought (for now): It is true that Lear's division of his kingdom among his three (or two) daughters is the obvious source from which the rest of the play flows. But his disruption of the Kent-Gloucester-Edmund tripartite city/soul allows the second division (the division of his kingdom) to proceed. I suggest that if Gloucester and Edmund had been present, they (with Kent) could have functioned as a well-ordered unit to prevent (or at least soften) the disasters brought on by Lear's decision.

In Which I Wonder Who Approved This Cover Art

In Which Manolo Sees That Agathon Was Wrong

Manolo says, ". . . the designers of the Project Runway, they are not the handsome peoples. This it is not the handicap in the world of fashion, as it is also true that many of the famous fashion designers, they too are ugly. The Manolo, he theorizes that this it is because the ugly they are naturally drawn to the beauty."

Plato in his Symposium (201a-c, trans. Benardete) creates the following dialogue between Socrates and the playwright Agathon:

"And if this is so, Eros would be nothing else than love of beauty, but not of ugliness?" He [Agathon] agreed.

"Hasn't it been agreed that that of which one is in need and does not have one loves?"

"Yes," he said.

"So Eros is in need of and does not have beauty."

"Of necessity," he said.

"What about this? That which is in need of beauty and in no way possesses beauty, do you say that it is beautiful?"

"Certainly not."

"Do you still agree then that Eros is beautiful, if this is so?"

And Agathon said, "It's probable, Socrates, that I knew nothing of what I had said."

"And yet spoke you beautifully, Agathon," he said.

So the fashion designers of which Manolo speaks are in the same boat as the god Eros: they are both in love with beautiful things because they themselves are ugly.

Meno 70c-72a

Here's a longish passage from my translation of the Meno. It begins in the middle of a speech by Socrates.

But here, friend Meno, it has turned out the opposite. It’s as though there has been some drought of wisdom, and it’s possible [71a] for wisdom to have gone from these places to yours. At any rate, if you wish to ask someone here about this, there is no one who will not laugh and say, “Stranger, it’s possible I seem to you to be someone blessed -- at any rate, to know whether virtue is taught or what manner it comes to be -- but I stand very much in need of knowing whether virtue is taught or not taught, and am not as one who happens at all to know what virtue is.”

[b] So I, Meno, am even one such as this; I am poor with my fellow citizens about this matter, and I find great fault with myself thus, not knowing about virtue at all. But if I do not know what a thing is, how do I know what sort of thing it really* is? Or does it seem to you to to be like this: if anyone does not learn to know at all who Meno is, this one’s to know whether [Meno] is beautiful or rich or even well-born, or the opposite of these? Does it seem to you to be thus?

Meno: Not to me. But you, Socrates, do you truly [c] not know what virtue is, and is this what we’re to report about you back home?

Socrates: Not only this, comrade, but also that I have not met another who it seems to me did know.

Meno: What then? Did you not meet Gorgias when he was here?

Socrates: I did indeed.

Meno: Then he seemed not to you to know?

Socrates: I am not entirely mindful,** Meno, so I am not able to say in present circumstances how it seemed to me then. But it’s equally possible he does know, and that you know what he spoke; so remind [d] me how he spoke. And if you wish say yourself, for doubtless it seems to you however [it seemed] to him.

Meno: To me, yes indeed.

Socrates: Therefore, let’s be done with him, since he is not here, but you yourself, by the gods, Meno, what do you declare virtue to be? Speak and do not be grudging so that I will have fabricated a most fortunate lie if you and Gorgias, as ones who know, were to bring it to light, though I’ve stated I never yet have met with one who knows.

[e] Meno: But it’s not difficult, Socrates, to say. First then, if you wish, the virtue of a man, it’s easy; this is the virtue of a man: to be competent to manage the city, managing to do good to friends and harm to enemies, and himself taking care not to suffer any such thing. But if you wish the virtue of a woman, it’s not difficult to go through: she must economize the household, both preserving what is in the home and listening to the man. And there is also virtue of a child, both female and male, and of the old man, if you wish, of the free, or if you wish, [72a] of the slave. And there are very many other virtues, so that there is no impasse to speaking about what virtue is. For according to each of the practices and stages of life there is a virtue for each work of each of us. And I suppose it’s like this, Socrates, for badness, too.

Notes:
* Including “really” because of the force of “an . . . ge . . .” Or perhaps it should read, “how do I really know what sort of thing it is”?
** Chosen instead of the usual “I’m rather forgetful” or some such to bring out the continuing ambiguity of “entirely,” “at all,” etc. (cf. to parapon at 71b3 and 71b5). I.e., does Socrates not remember at all, or does he just not remember all of it?