Johnson: Read the Bard, Not Tom Jones

By Robin Bates | Published: May 3, 2021
Joshua Reynolds, Samuel Johnson

Tuesday

I am so deeply ensconced in revising my book Does Literature Make Us Better People? that I’m having difficulty breaking free to write my regular daily essays. Today, therefore, you get another of the many short chapters from the book. The chapter on Samuel Johnson follows chapters on Plato, Aristotle, Horace, and Sir Philip Sidney. Enjoy yourself while I return back to my chapters on Marx and Freud.

Although middle class readership skyrocketed in 18th century Britain, not all of the new encounters with print were seen as beneficial. As in previous eras, there were concerns about literature leading young people astray. And not only young people. Scholar J. Paul Hunter, my dissertation director, recounts how husbands were unnerved when their wives would disappear for days into Samuel Richardson’s million-word melodrama Clarissa, neglecting household duties and other responsibilities.

Given how we ourselves have been thrown off stride by globalization and social media, we can relate to what the British were undergoing at the time. The country was rapidly changing from a landed to a mercantile society, with power shifting from the gentry to the middle class. International trade and technical innovations were ushering in a new prosperity that was at once exhilarating and disorienting. A need arose for social observers who could guide parents and the public generally through this confusing morass.

Into that vacuum strode Samuel Johnson (1709-84), who was there to (among other things) teach people how to read correctly, what to do with what they read, and what to avoid. As Johnson saw it, Shakespeare was must reading because he shows us the truth of our condition. Comedies of romance, on the other hand, tickle our baser instincts and should be shunned.

The last third of the 18th century is sometimes known as “the Age of Johnson” and it’s not hard to see why.  A man of vast intelligence, Johnson, working virtually alone, created the first comprehensive English dictionary, an achievement that (in the words of biographer Walter Jackson Bate) “easily ranks as one of the greatest single achievements of scholarship.” Johnson was also the author of a magnificent long poem (“The Vanity of Human Wishes”), a dazzling philosophical novel (The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia), a important critical edition of Shakespeare, an in-depth survey of England’s contemporary poets, and two sets of groundbreaking essays (the Rambler essays, published twice a week from 1750-52, and the Idler essays, published weekly from 1758-60).  In addition, he presided over regular gatherings of the leading lights of the day. Meeting with him in coffee houses and over bowls of rum punch to discuss everything from art to science to politics were figures like painter Joshua Reynolds, actor David Garrick, political theorist Edmund Burke, historian Edward Gibbon (The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire), author Oliver Goldsmith (Vicar of Wakefield, She Stoops to Conquer), and James Boswell, whose account of Johnson’s life is one of the world’s great biographies.

According to Bate, Johnson considered himself above all as a moralist. Whether he was a Tory conservative is another matter as Bate says he is more complicated than such a label suggests. Johnson was certainly suspicious of grandiose claims of progress being made by the mercantile classes, not to mention by America’s founding fathers. He was well aware of how humans fall short of their ideals and so was unwilling to jettison time-honored traditions, including class hierarchy and colonial rule. His Shakespearean dedication to capturing the truth about human beings, however, led him to reject facile political bromides from any party. People cannot be reduced to ideological pigeonholes.

Echoing Aristotle, Johnson believes the poet, in contrast to the historian, expresses the universal rather than the particular. As he sees it, no modern poet does this better than Shakespeare. In his “Preface to Shakespeare,” which Bates describes as “one of the landmarks in the history of literary criticism,” Johnson tells us, to operate more effectively in the world, we must read Shakespeare:

Shakespeare is above all writers, at least above all modern writers, the poet of nature; the poet that holds up to his readers a faithful mirror of manners and of life…His persons act and speak by the influence of those general passions and principles by which all minds are agitated, and the whole system of life is continued in motion. In the writings of other poets a character is too often an individual; in those of Shakespeare it is commonly a species.

In Johnson’s formulation, Shakespeare is a rich treasure trove that is to be mined for his salutary insights. Quoting Horace that “the end of poetry is to instruct by pleasing,” Johnson says that Shakespeare’s plays provide “much instruction”:

It is from this wide extension of design that so much instruction is derived. It is this which fills the plays of Shakespeare with practical axioms and domestic wisdom. It was said of Euripides, that every verse was a precept; and it may be said of Shakespeare, that from his works may be collected a system of civil and economical prudence.

Like Aristotle, Johnson thinks that literature’s profound understanding of human nature will provide moral guidance. Or as he says of Shakespeare later in the preface, “From his writings indeed a system of social duty may be selected.”

Drama doesn’t offer up axioms and systems the way that a text of moral philosophy does, however, and Johnson instructs us not to look at individual quotes. The real wisdom comes from what is communicated through the unfolding of the stories and through dialogue:

Yet his real power is not shown in the splendor of particular passages, but by the progress of his fable, and, the tenor of his dialogue; and he that tries to recommend him by select quotations, will succeed like the pedant in Hierocles, who, when he offered his house to sale, carried a brick in his pocket as a specimen.

In other words, don’t quote Polonius’s “to thine own self be true” advice to Laertes if you want to do justice to Shakespeare’s insights. Rather, watch how Polonius and Laertes and Hamlet and others respond to the pressures of the moment and how they talk to others. Johnson could well have Aristotle’s observation in mind—that a tragedian knows how a person will speak or act “according to the law of probability or necessity”— when he writes,

Shakespeare has no heroes; his scenes are occupied only by men, who act and speak as the reader thinks that he should himself have spoken or acted on the same occasion: Even where the agency is supernatural the dialogue is level with life… Shakespeare approximates the remote, and familiarizes the wonderful; the event which he represents will not happen, but if it were possible, its effects would be probably such as he has assigned; and it may be said, that he has not only shown human nature as it acts in real exigencies, but as it would be found in trials, to which it cannot be exposed.

According to Johnson, by reading Shakespeare’s “human sentiments in human language,” a hermit would be able to figure out what is going on in the world and a confessor would be able to predict where the human passions will lead. Figuring out such things will, in turn, allow us to operate more effectively in the world.

Something altogether different happens when one reads a novel like Tom Jones, however,especially if one is a young person. Johnson may sound like Aristotle when discussing Shakespeare, but when it comes to teens reading “comedies of romance” he sounds like Plato worrying that military auxiliaries will be corrupted by Homeric accounts of misbehaving gods and goddesses. These novels, Johnson says, target

the young, the ignorant, and the idle, to whom they serve as lectures of conduct, and introductions into life. They are the entertainment of minds unfurnished with ideas, and therefore easily susceptible of impressions; not fixed by principles, and therefore easily following the current of fancy; not informed by experience, and consequently open to every false suggestion and partial account.

The danger, Johnson says, is that young people are eager to learn by imitation (Aristotle), so that when they choose bad models, they will turn out badly.

Johnson makes one distinction that doesn’t hold up: he thinks that young people will be more swayed by realistic than by fantasy fiction, whereas we know that conservative parents today worry equally about their children reading the realism of Judy Blume and the fantasy of J. K. Rowling. Otherwise, however, Johnson’s observations about the imitation process have a point:

But when an adventurer is leveled with the rest of the world, and acts in such scenes of the universal drama, as may be the lot of any other man; young spectators fix their eyes upon him with closer attention, and hope, by observing his behavior and success, to regulate their own practices, when they shall be engaged in the like part.

Given this psychological truth, Johnson says that parents and society’s moral guardians must intervene to protect young people from dangerous content. Citing Horace’s concerns about young people, he writes that “nothing indecent should be suffered to approach their eyes or ears.” Parents must exercise caution in everything that is laid before young people in order “to secure them from unjust prejudices, perverse opinions, and incongruous combinations of images.”

Literature is particularly dangerous because it is so insidious. Johnson fears that dubious fictional characters will “take possession of the memory by a kind of violence, and produce effects almost without the intervention of the will.” Once again, because of fiction’s power, “the best examples only should be exhibited…”

Johnson is not entirely adverse to readers’ minds being so seized—he is different from Plato in this regard—and indeed, like Horace and Sidney, he sees the delight we get from literature as a powerful tool to inculcate virtue. For instance, he describes Richardson’s Clarissa, where one cries for the virtuous heroine when she dies following her escape from her abductor and rapist, as “the first book in the world for the knowledge it displays of the human heart.” The right tools are needed if the right ends are to be achieved, however.

Unfortunately, he believes that the realistic comedies of romance of the time will lead young people astray. When Johnson writes about novels that corrupt, his leading culprit is Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones, a runaway sensation among the young the previous year. That Fielding gives his hard-drinking, hard-loving protagonist a good heart and a noble spirit makes the novel all the more dangerous in Johnson’s eyes:

Many writers, for the sake of following nature, so mingle good and bad qualities in their principal personages, that they are both equally conspicuous; and as we accompany them through their adventures with delight, and are led by degrees to interest ourselves in their favor, we lose the abhorrence of their faults, because they do not hinder our pleasure, or, perhaps, regard them with some kindness, for being united with so much merit.”

In other words, Tom’s good qualities lure us into overlooking his faults. We may lose our abhorrence of drinking and womanizing.

Johnson is not entirely consistent here. What he says about characters like Tom could just as easily be said about Shakespeare’s Prince Hal, whose depiction Johnson praises. Johnson’s inconsistency may lie in fears about how the young people of his day were gripped by novels as they were not by Shakespeare. As always, when the young become engrossed in fictional worlds, their elders become concerned.

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The Embattled Classics

By Robin Bates | Published: May 2, 2021
detail from Jacques Louis David, Leonidas at Thermopylae

Monday

Last week I promised a response to a Princeton historian who supposedly (this according to how I heard him characterized) was attacking Greek and Roman classics as ““instrumental to the invention of ‘whiteness.” While the New York Times article triggered a passionate defense of the classics from University of Chicago classicist Shadi Bartsch, it turns out that Haitian-born Dan-el Padilla Peralta has been saying saying no such thing–at least if, by “instrumental,” the texts are somehow held responsible for whiteness’ invention. True, fascists have used classic texts to promote white supremacy, but that’s another matter.

As Sir Philip Sidney would say, texts can be abused in the same way that a physician can use his knowledge of physic to poison or to cure, that a preacher can use God’s word to breed heresy or raise people up, and that a man can use a sword to kill his father or defend his prince and country.

It so happens that Padilla is a historian rather than a literary scholar so he’s talking more about the “ideal of Rome” and the “ideal of golden age Athens” rather than Virgil and Sophocles. Still, many have enshrined the political ideals no less than the literary works. The New York Times article profiling Padilla provides some examples of how the far right has been misusing history:

Classics had been embraced by the far right, whose members held up the ancient Greeks and Romans as the originators of so-called white culture. Marchers in Charlottesville, Va., carried flags bearing a symbol of the Roman state; online reactionaries adopted classical pseudonyms; the white-supremacist website Stormfront displayed an image of the Parthenon alongside the tagline “Every month is white history month.”

Chicago’s Bartsch offers another example, pointing out the Capitol invasion rioters who

wore Greek helmets and carried flags with the phrase “molon labe” (“come and get our weapons”). This distorted reference to the Spartan stand against the Persians at Thermopylae in 480 B.C. reflects the supremacist belief that the Spartans saved “the white race” from barbarians.

Apparently the only reason that Padilla attracted publicity is because the alt-right wants to add him to their culture war battles. First Mr. Potato Head, then Dr. Seuss, now Cicero. Rightwing publication Breitbart seized on the following instance of an independent historian confronting Padilla at a conference:

She protested it was imperative to stand up for the classics as the political, literary and philosophical foundation of European and American culture: “It’s Western civilization. It matters because it’s the West.” Hadn’t classics given us the concepts of liberty, equality and democracy?

One panelist tried to interject, but Williams pressed on, her voice becoming harsh and staccato as the tide in the room moved against her. “I believe in merit. I don’t look at the color of the author.” She pointed a finger in Padilla’s direction. “You may have got your job because you’re Black,” Williams said, “but I would prefer to think you got your job because of merit.”

To which Padilla replied,

Here’s what I have to say about the vision of classics that you outlined. I want nothing to do with it. I hope the field dies that you’ve outlined, and that it dies as swiftly as possible.

Padilla is talking about a vision of classics that has ignored, among other things, the role that slavery played in the Roman empire, which his own scholarship has now illuminated. That he himself is the descendant of slaves shows why it’s so important to have diversity within the university ranks: people of color often open up perspectives that previous people have downplayed.

Chicago’s Shadi Bartsch is another breath of fresh air. By noting how different historical actors have use The Aeneid and The Odyssey for their own ends (I blog about that here), she shows how they remained relevant. If, in enshrining them, we were to confine them to the dusty shelves of a museum, we would destroy them just as effectively as if we outright banned them. Maybe more so since banned works are more likely to attract attention.

Anyway, history and literature are not served when people either demonize or worship them. Scholars like Padilla and Barsch, with their balanced approaches, are more likely to save the field of classics than destroy it. The real enemy, however, may be, not fascist appropriation, but budget cuts, which is leftwing scholar Cornel West’s lament in another Washington Post article.

His target is Howard University dissolving its classics department on the grounds of “educational prioritization.” Writing in collaboration with Jeremy Tate, West observes,

Academia’s continual campaign to disregard or neglect the classic is a sign of spiritual decay, moral decline and a deep intellectual narrowness running amok in American culture. Those who commit this terrible act treat Western civilization as either irrelevant and not worthy of prioritization or as harmful and worthy only of condemnation.

West gives two dramatic examples of how classics served the cause of freedom:

Upon learning to read while enslaved, Frederick Douglass began his great journey of emancipation, as such journeys always begin, in the mind. Defying unjust laws, he read in secret, empowered by the wisdom of contemporaries and classics alike to think as a free man. Douglass risked mockery, abuse, beating and even death to study the likes of Socrates, Cato and Cicero.Long after Douglass’s encounters with these ancient thinkers, the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. would be similarly galvanized by his reading in the classics as a young seminarian — he mentions Socrates three times in his 1963 “Letter From Birmingham Jail.”

As an aside, I can report that in 1981 I taught an Introduction to World Literature course at King’s alma mater, Morehouse College, and so feel indirectly connected with his use of Plato. I don’t know if that course is still required of all students but hope that it is. But back to West and Tate, who write,

The Western canon is, more than anything, a conversation among great thinkers over generations that grows richer the more we add our own voices and the excellence of voices from Africa, Asia, Latin America and everywhere else in the world. We should never cancel voices in this conversation, whether that voice is Homer or students at Howard University. For this is no ordinary discussion.

And further on:

The removal of the classics is a sign that we, as a culture, have embraced from the youngest age utilitarian schooling at the expense of soul-forming education. To end this spiritual catastrophe, we must restore true education, mobilizing all of the intellectual and moral resources we can to create human beings of courage, vision and civic virtue.

The authors conclude,

Engaging with the classics and with our civilizational heritage is the means to finding our true voice. It is how we become our full selves, spiritually free and morally great.

Amen!

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Do Not Stand by My Grave and Cry

By Robin Bates | Published: May 1, 2021
William-Adolphe Bouguereau, The Holy Women at the Tomb

Spiritual Sunday

I wrote Friday about the anniversary of my eldest son’s death but there’s something else I want to say during this Easter season. In his last year, Justin became a charismatic Christian. He died the Sunday after Easter after having attended, in the space of 24 hours, three services at three different churches, including the Episcopal church he grew up in. Then, just before leaping into the St. River’s River from Church Point–a place where he had gone swimming as a child so it should have been safe, only that day there was a rogue current—he kissed the cross that stands there. Reports tells us that he was bubbling over with joy, as though filled with the holy spirit, so flinging himself into the water had a baptismal dimension to it. What it all means beyond that, I do not know.

I find consolation in the Clare Harner Lyon poem “Immortality, which I am encountering for the first time. It reminds me of the Percy Shelley passage from Adonais that we put on Justin’s gravestone:

He is made one with Nature: there is heard      
His voice in all her music, from the moan
Of thunder, to the song of night’s sweet bird;
He is a presence to be felt and known
In darkness and in light, from herb and stone…

Here’s Lyon’s poem:

Immortality

   Do not stand
      By my grave, and weep.
   I am not there,
      I do not sleep—
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.
   Do not stand
      By my grave, and cry—
   I am not there,
      I did not die.

Julia and I remembered Justin by rowing out on the lake by our home and scattering flowers. We also spent some time in one of the coves, reading Mary Oliver poems amidst the yellow irises. We were visited by a deep peace.

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My Son’s Death and Two Tree Poems

By Robin Bates | Published: April 29, 2021
Yew at St Georges Church, Crowhurst

Friday

Today is the 21st anniversary of the death of my oldest son, who drowned in the St. Mary’s River in a freak accident. My wife Julia points out that Justin, who was 21 at the time, has now been out of our lives for the same amount of time that he was in them.

The memories have dulled over time although, from time to time, certain memories will pierce the haze like brilliant shafts of light. I think of how, after he was born, a line from Sartre’s The Flies came to me. “I’m still too—too light. I must take a burden on my shoulders,” Orestes tells Electra. And further on:

I have done my deed, Electra, and that deed was good. I shall bear it on my shoulders as a carrier at a ferry carries the traveler to the farther bank. And when I have brought it to the farther bank I shall take stock of it. The heavier it is to carry, the better pleased I shall be; for that burden is my freedom. Only yesterday I walked the earth haphazard; thousands of roads I tramped that brought me nowhere, for they were other men’s roads. Yes, I tried them all; the haulers’ tracks along the riverside, the mule-paths in the mountains, and the broad, flagged highways of the charioteers. But none of these was mine. Today I have one path only, and heaven knows where it leads. But it is my path. . . .

And finally:

We were too light, Electra; now our feet sink into the soil, like chariot-wheels in turf. So come with me; we will tread heavily on our way, bowed beneath our precious load.

To be sure, the “precious load” that I had in mind was not that of Orestes. In some ways, I could not have chosen a more inappropriate play since the burden Orestes and Electra have taken on is the guilt of having killed their mother Clytemnestra (for having killed their father Agamemnon). Still, Sartre’s existential point applies. In this play about human freedom, Orestes talks about how truly free individuals take on responsibility, not run away from it. Julia and I deciding to have Justin, whom I often bore on my shoulders, meant that we could no longer walk the earth haphazard.

Of course, if we hadn’t had Justin, we would never have suffered the agony of losing him. The memories of sitting on an embankment of the St. Mary’s River as divers looked for his body—telling myself that it wasn’t him while knowing in my heart that it was—is branded on my mind as though it were yesterday. I vividly recall identifying his body and singing to him a lullaby that I had often sung to him as a child. (“Baby’s boat’s a silver moon…”) And waking up at 2 am later that night staring directly into an abyss of horror.

Today being Arbor Day (the last Friday in April), two tree poems come to mind that I can link with the anniversary. One is from Tennyson’s In Memoriam, a poem that obsessed me for two or three months after Justin died. Every day when I came home from the college where I taught, I would randomly open it and lose myself in Tennyson’s sorrowing for Arthur Hallam. Early in the poem, Tennyson identifies with an ancient Yew tree in the graveyard where Hallam lies buried, stuck in sorrow as life goes on around him. “Not for thee the glow, the bloom,” Tennyson writes, finding it impossible to imagine himself ever happy again. Instead, he just watches detached as, around him, flowers bloom, lambs get born, and the sun’s clock “beats out the little lives of men.” The summer suns will not penetrate the gloom that has marked this tree for a thousand years.

Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
   That name the under-lying dead,
   Thy fibres net the dreamless head,
Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.

The seasons bring the flower again,
   And bring the firstling to the flock;
   And in the dusk of thee, the clock
Beats out the little lives of men.

O, not for thee the glow, the bloom,
   Who changest not in any gale,
   Nor branding summer suns avail
To touch thy thousand years of gloom:

And gazing on thee, sullen tree,
   Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,
   I seem to fail from out my blood
And grow incorporate into thee.

Yes, I felt something like this for much of the year after Justin died, sullen and stubbornly hanging on and feeling distanced from the flowering season that was upon us.

A very different tree poem captures where I am now, however. In “The Sycamore,” Wendell Berry describes a tree that, while it has been wounded many times, has as a result “risen to a strange perfection/ in the warp and bending of its long growth”:

It has gathered all accidents into its purpose.
It has become the intention and radiance of its dark fate.
It is a fact, sublime, mystical and unassailable.

Like Tennyson, Berry identifies with his tree, but in this case he accepts the nails that have been driven into him (alert: Christ image), the hack and whittles, the lightning burns, the illness that will one day kill him. Rather than feeling removed from life and death, he sees them shaping him.

Langston Hughes, looking back at the tormented history of African Americans, once wrote, “My soul has grown deep like the rivers.” Berry is saying something similar.

The Sycamore

In the place that is my own place, whose earth
I am shaped in and must bear, there is an old tree growing,
a great sycamore that is a wondrous healer of itself.
Fences have been tied to it, nails driven into it,
hacks and whittles cut in it, the lightning has burned it.
There is no year it has flourished in
that has not harmed it. There is a hollow in it
that is its death, though its living brims whitely
at the lip of the darkness and flows outward.
Over all its scars has come the seamless white
of the bark. It bears the gnarls of its history
healed over. It has risen to a strange perfection
in the warp and bending of its long growth.
It has gathered all accidents into its purpose.
It has become the intention and radiance of its dark fate.
It is a fact, sublime, mystical and unassailable.
In all the country there is no other like it.
I recognize in it a principle, an indwelling
the same as itself, and greater, that I would be ruled by.
I see that it stands in its place and feeds upon it,
and is fed upon, and is native, and maker.

I was not wrong when, in the week after Justin was born, I voiced the feeling that I had been too light before. Because I sank deep into his life, however, I experienced unbearable pain when he died. For a while, I felt like Tennyson’s yew tree, old before my time and cut off from the rest of creation. Now, 21 years later, I can see that all the joys and all the sorrows have been gathered together into some mysterious purpose. Like the sycamore, I see that I stand in this life, that I feed upon it, and that this life feeds upon me. This is the indwelling principle that I would be ruled by.

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Saving the Classics from Ideologues

By Robin Bates | Published: April 28, 2021
Henry Gibbs, Aeneas and his Family Fleeing Burning Troy (1654)

Thursday

Some political-cultural fights never go away, it seems, and we may be seeing a return to battles fought in the early 1990s. Apparently Princeton professor Dan-el Padilla Peralta has attacked Greek and Roman classics as “instrumental to the invention of ‘whiteness,” generating a passionate defense of these works from University of Chicago classicist Shadi Bartsch.

I’ll have to return to Peralta’s New York Times piece in a future post since, at present, I don’t have a subscription to the paper and will need to visit the library. But because Bartsch’s article appears in the Washington Post, to which I do have a subscription, it is the subject of today’s essay.

First, however, a note on my own entry into the fray. If I maintain a blog entitled Better Living through Beowulf: How Great Literature Can Change Your Life, it is largely because I agree with Bartsch that the classics should not be surrendered to the right. Conservatives attempted to appropriate them for their own ideological ends when Lyn Cheney and William Bennet ran the National Endowment for the Arts and National Endowment for the Humanities in the Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush years. That may have been when the phrase “dead white men” took root, either as an epithet or a flag to rally around. At the time I fought a double battle, both against leftwing purists who wanted to excise older authors from the curriculum (although honestly, there weren’t that many of such people) and conservatives who wanted to turn the classics into a shrine where one blindly worships. I didn’t realize that there are some today who want to revisit those battles.

Bartsch believes a battle cry has sounded, however, and responds with “Why I Won’t Surrender the Classics to the Far Right.” First she complains how the alt-right misinterprets the past for its own purposes:

The alt-right has no compunction about appropriating antiquity for its own ends — as can be seen images from the Jan. 6 Capitol invasion, as some rioters wore Greek helmets and carried flags with the phrase “molon labe” (“come and get our weapons”). This distorted reference to the Spartan stand against the Persians at Thermopylae in 480 B.C. reflects the supremacist belief that the Spartans saved “the white race” from barbarians.

Bartshch acknowledges that, yes, many classical texts “have been used to justify and support ideologies and actions we condemn today, from defending slavery to suggesting women are lesser creatures than men.” She even challenges herself with the question, “Wouldn’t it be better for us to use texts without tainted legacies and not risk seeming to condone the stories’ content or the history of how the texts were used?” Then she trots forth her defense:

That approach ignores a basic fact: Times change, and so does the way we read. In antiquity, Virgil’s “The Aeneid,” an epic poem written in 19 B.C. about the foundation of Rome, was understood as praise of the emperor Augustus. In the Middle Ages, readers took it to be an allegory of the life of the Christian everyman. In the 20th century, Italian fascist leader Benito Mussolini put it to use as a foundational text for the third Roman Empire. During the Vietnam War, the poem was interpreted by antiwar readers as a manifesto against imperialism and warmongering.

While some conservatives today might read The Aeneid as “a celebration of the West’s hegemonic history”—after all, Aeneas, “claiming to be on a divine mission, attacks the native peoples of Italy and wins, eventually leading to the growth of the Roman Empire”—Bartsh points out the poem has other dimensions as well:

When I read “The Aeneid,” I don’t see an endorsement of colonization. I find in it what I am primed to find as a politically liberal Westerner in the 21st century. I find problems with its “heroic” protagonist and his search for a homeland: Aeneas causes carnage in his “divine” quest to become king; he even sacrifices people alive. I read the poem as a warning about the power of propaganda to veil the abuse of power.

Bartsch gives one other instance of a classic episode that can be reinterpreted. In The Iliad Thersites, “the ungliest man below Ilion,” is beaten for insulting Agamemnon:  Bartsch observes:

Mostly, he echoes what the heroic Achilles has said earlier (Agamemnon keeps all the good stuff for himself). But Odysseus beats Thersites with a scepter until he collapses. The ruling class has asserted its place.

 “Or has it?” Bartsch then asks:

A century ago, readers of The Iliad would comment that Odysseus gave the troublemaker just what he deserved. Today, I’d ask: Why does Homer include this voice of blame within the epic at all? What does it mean that the scepter bestowing the right to speak is used as a weapon to silence? What are the social implications of equating ugliness with low social status?

Bartsch then turns to Brazilian educator Paulo Freire, whose in Pedagogy of the Oppressed (1968) argues that

marginalized peoples should reinterpret the same texts that their oppressors use and transform them in their own service. Disconnecting the classics from elite education is entirely possible today: These texts are available in translation to basically anyone with access to the Internet or a library.

While I heartily endorse Bartsch’s defense of the classics, I am a little troubled that she doesn’t explain why they have leant themselves to such a wide range of interpretations. She makes it sound as though anyone can pick up The Aeneid and see anything that he or she wants to see—as though literature is no more than a Rorschach test.

I would have liked her to add that the classics have withstood the test of time because they offer a breathtaking vision of what it means to be human. Homer and Virgil capture us in our full complexity. That’s why it’s possible to read The Iliad as both a pro-war and as an anti-war work: at the same time that it conveys warrior ideals, it also shows (to quote Wilfred Owen in “Strange Meeting”) “the pity of war, the pity war distilled.” Achilles is both a glorious hero and, when in the grip of vengeful rage, a monster. (Owen’s “when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels” may allude to Achilles.) The same is true of Odysseus when he slaughters the suitors and the handmaids.

Our greatest writers, regardless of their demographic make-up, give us such rich pictures of ourselves that they never march comfortably under anyone’s ideological flag. They can never be reduced to a political slogan. The best we can do is listen to them carefully and let them teach us about life.

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Greek Tragedy & the Fragility of Goodness

By Robin Bates | Published: April 27, 2021

Wednesday

As I revise my forthcoming book on Does Literature Make Us Better People?, I have been working my way through Martha Nussbaum’s The Fragility of Goodness: Luck and Ethics in Greek Tragedy and Philosophy. Nussbaum is my favorite contemporary philosopher, in large part because of the respect she accords literature, and I have a chapter devoted to her in my book. She is one who takes direct issue with Plato’s contention (in The Republic) that poetry and philosophy must inevitably quarrel.

Nussbaum sides with Aristotle against Plato because of the way Aristotle relies on Greek tragedy to understand how to live in the world. As she put it,

Aristotle has a high regard for tragedy. Both in the Poetics itself and in the Politics discussion of the education of young citizens, he gives it a place of honor, attributing to it both motivational and cognitive value….[H]is rejection of the Platonic external “god’s eye” standpoint leads him to turn, for moral improvement, not to representations of divine non-limited beings, but to stories of good human activity.

Aristotle, Nussbaum believes, thinks that “a detailed account of a complex particular case will have more of ethical truth in it than a general formula.” Therefore “the concrete and complex stories that are the material of tragic drama” are vital in helping us understand human beings.

By viewing Aristotle’s Poetics as a direct answer to Plato’s attack on poetry (even though Aristotle never mentions Plato in it), Nussbaum provides me new insight into Aristotle’s project. For instance, I now understand why it’s important the Aristotle regards plot as more important in tragedy than character.

For Plato, character is primary. The most important thing is for a person to be good, and being good involves attaining “rational self-sufficiency.” To a good person, external circumstance shouldn’t matter. He or she will rise above external pressures, just as Socrates rose above his execution, calmly drinking the hemlock while philosophizing with his students. Most Greek tragedy, on the other hand, focuses on how people buckle, even when they are good. This is what Plato objects to:

Plato informs us in no uncertain terms that the poets “speak wrongly about human beings in matters of the greatest importance” when they show the lives of good and just people being seriously affected by adverse circumstances.”

In Plato’s ideal society, Nussbaum points out, “[p]oets are to be forbidden to tell this sort of story and commanded to tell the opposite.” Or as Socrates puts it, “We must remain firm in our conviction that hymns to the gods and praises of famous men are the only poetry which ought to be admitted into our State.”

Nussbaum continues,

The great tragic plots explore the gap between our goodness and our good living, between what we are (our character, intentions, aspirations, values) and how humanly well we manage to live. They show us reversals happening to good characters but not divine or invulnerable people, exploring the many ways in which being of a certain good human character falls short of sufficiency.

If, like Plato, you are only interested in a person’s goodness, then “you will not want to give [tragedy] a place of honor in a scheme of public instruction.” However, “Aristotle’s belief that the gap is both real and important illuminates his anti-Platonic claim that tragic action is important and a source of genuine learning.”

Nussbaum concludes her book with a deep dive into Euripides’s tragedy Hecuba, where her Plato-Aristotle contrast is dramatically played out.

In the play, the former wife of Priam is now Agamemnon’s slave. Prior to Troy’s overthrow, Hecuba entrusts her young son Polydorus to King Plymestor of Thrace, but after Troy loses the war, Plymestor pockets Polydorus’s treasure and throws the child into the sea. Hecuba learns of this through a dream where Polydorus speaks to her. Also, his body washes up on the shore. To add to Hecuba’s woes, her daughter Polyxena is to be sacrificed to provide Achilles with a bride in the underworld.

Polyxena seems to live up to Plato’s ideal, refusing to fall on her knees before the Greeks but heroically accepting her death. As she puts it,

Odysseus, I see thee hiding thy right hand beneath thy robe and turning away thy face, that I may not touch thy beard. Take heart; thou art safe from the suppliant’s god in my case, for I will follow thee, alike because I must and because it is my wish to die; for were I loth, a coward should I show myself, a woman faint of heart…The name [of slave] makes me long for death, so strange it sounds; and then maybe my lot might give me to some savage master, one that would buy me for money,–me the sister of Hector and many another chief,–who would make me knead him bread within his halls, or sweep his house or set me working at the loom, leading a life of misery; while some slave, bought I know not whence, will taint my maiden charms, once deemed worthy of royalty. No, never! Here I close my eyes upon the light, free as yet, and dedicate myself to Hades. Lead me hence, Odysseus, and do thy worst, for I see naught within my reach to make me hope or expect with any confidence that I am ever again to be happy…

And then to her mother:

Mother mine! seek not to hinder me by word or deed, but join in my wish for death ere I meet with shameful treatment undeserved. For whoso is not used to taste of sorrow’s cup, though he bears it, yet it galls him when he puts his neck within the yoke; far happier would he be dead than alive, for life of honor reft is toil and trouble.

 Her death, which occurs offstage, is also heroic. As a messenger reports,

And she, hearing her captors’ words took her robe and tore it open from the shoulder to the waist, displaying a breast and bosom fair as a statue’s; then sinking on her knee, one word she spake more piteous than all the rest, “Young prince, if ’tis my breast thou’dst strike, lo! here it is, strike home! or if at my neck thy sword thou’lt aim, behold! that neck is bared.”

So far, Plato’s ideas have predominated and even Hecuba seems reconciled, saying, “[Y]et hath the story of thy noble death taken from the keenness of my grief.” 

The play isn’t over, however. When Hecuba learns that Thracian king Polymestor is visiting, she plots revenge. Pretending not to know that he has killed her son, she lures him and his two young sons to a tent under the pretense of telling him where more Trojan treasure can be found. There she kills the sons and stabs out Polymestor’s eyes. In other words, this good woman becomes a monster. As Nussbaum notes, “Mother-love, formerly the central prop of this woman’s thought and character, has been transformed in the change to revenge…Revenge takes over the entire world of value, making its end the one end.”

Nussbaum notes that many see the play lacking unity and falling into two separate parts. (The Wikipedia entry thinks this as well.) It is unified if one sees it in the light of the Plato-Aristotle dispute, however, with the first half going to Plato, the second to Aristotle, with Aristotle getting the last world. Platonic purity is possible only for the young:

Polydorus dies too young, before he has had a chance to become and to act well. Hecuba dies too old, in the grip of revenge. Only Polyxena, through good luck, finds a time between nurture and disillusionment and dies a noble character. In the tragedies of Euripides it frequently seems that the good die young. This, however, is not the result of special divine malevolence. It is because if they had not died young they would in all likelihood not have remained good. To live on is to make contact in some way at some time with the possibility of betrayal….[T]he encounter with betrayal brings a risk of defilement: the risk of ceasing to look at the world with the child’s free and generous looks; of ceasing, in the Euripidean way, to be good.

Plato, Nussbaum says, wants to cut off the risks of ceasing to be good with his rational self-sufficiency. Nussbaum counters, “Inside the Aristotelian or tragic conceptions, [such risks] cannot be closed off.” We can only truly love, only truly be fully human, if we acknowledge the world’s instability. What both Aristotle and Greek tragedy show us, Nussbaum writes, is that

there is in fact a loss in value whenever the risks involved in specifically human virtue are closed off. There is a beauty in the willingness to love someone in the face of love’s instability and worldliness that is absent from a completely trustworthy love. There is a certain valuable quality in social virtue that is lost when social virtue is removed from the domain of uncontrolled happenings….And in general each salient Aristotelian virtue seems inseparable from a risk of harm. There is no courage without the risk of death or of serious damage…no true commitment to justice that exempts its own privileges from scrutiny. This willingness to embrace something that is in the world and subject to its risks is, in fact, the virtue of the Euripidean child, whose love is directed at the world itself, including its dangers. The generous looks of such a child go straight to the world with love and openness; they do not focus upon the safe and the eternal, or demand these as conditions of their love. It is this quality of loving affirmation that both Euripides and Aristotle…, wish, in their different ways, to hold before us as an adult way of being excellent.

While we may long for “another simpler or purer world,” Nussbaum concludes, “the Aristotelian argument, which continues and refines the insights of tragedy, reminds us that we do not achieve purity or simplicity without a loss in richness and fullness of life.” Goodness is fragile but that means we must commit ourselves to it all the more.

I am far from having done justice to Nussbaum’s ideas but, as a literature professor and literature lover, there’s one thing above all that I carry away from her book: her penetrating insights arise, not just from intellectually engaging with a genius like Aristotle, but by plunging into the richness of great literature. For her, poetry and philosophy do not quarrel with but rather sustain each other.

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Poetry Must Delight AND Instruct

By Robin Bates | Published: April 26, 2021
Horace

Tuesday

As I am in the throes of revising my book Does Literature Make Us Better People?, I’m sharing one of the chapters today rather than spending the time to write a blog post. The book has a series of short chapters on how thinkers over the ages have addressed the question. Enjoy.

Quintus Horatius Flaccus (65-8 BCE), author of the most important theoretical work about poetry to emerge from the Roman empire, lived an eventful early life. The son of a freedman, he fought with Brutus and Cassius against Mark Antony and Augustus as a young man, saw his family farm confiscated, and then later reconciled with Augustus after the latter became Caesar. Eventually Horace was rewarded for his odes and satires, many of which would become poetic models for centuries afterwards. Harry Eyres, who in Horace and Me: Life Lessons from an Ancient Poet explains how the poet is an indispensable guide for the Slow Movement, says that Horace remarkably managed to “carve out a space for lyric poetry in a pragmatic, increasingly instrumental and money-driven society.”

To the question of whether literature makes us better people, it is clearly the intent of Horace’s poetry to do so. Many of his poems are concerned with how to live a good life—he’s the author of “carpé diem” or “seize the moment”—and he often counsels taking “a middle way.” The value of his Ars Poetica (The Art of Poetry) for our purposes is that he directly addresses how poetry contributes to this endeavor. This 476-line poem, which for 1500 was regarded as an indispensable guide for practicing poets, recommends maintaining a balance between poetic delight and poetic utility.

The tension between delight and usefulness never goes away, with some people worrying that literature is spoiled when it is yoked to a serious agenda and others worrying that literature is frivolous when it is not. We’ve noted that, for Plato, the divide is so great that poets must be banished altogether from his republic, but Horace contends that we don’t have to choose. While he acknowledges that there are some poets who “wish either to profit or to delight,” the best poets “deliver at once both the pleasures and the necessaries of life.”

Horace sets up as, as opposites in the profit-delight tension, “the tribes of the senior” on the one hand and “the exalted knights” on the other. The first—call them grumpy old men—frown on anything that is not edifying whereas the latter—high spirited young men—“disregard poems which are austere”—by which he probably means preachy and moralistic. Earlier in the poem he talks about what happens with such young men as soon as they shake free of their guardians:

The beardless youth, his guardian being at length discharged, joys in horses, and dogs, and the verdure of the sunny Campus Martius; pliable as wax to the bent of vice, rough to advisers, a slow provider of useful things, prodigal of his money, high-spirited, and amorous, and hasty in deserting the objects of his passion.

If you want to get through to such minds, Horace says, set aside long-winded advice and “superfluous instructions.” This is not to say, however, that the poet should abandon education altogether. Entertain your audience but in a way that sticks close to truth. The poet “who joins the instructive with the agreeable,” Horace declares, “carries off every vote.”

Later theorists will second Horace’s advice. In his Defense of Poesie (c. 1580), poet Sir Philip Sidney says that those who “despise the austere admonitions of the philosopher, and feel not the inward reason they stand upon” may nevertheless “be content to be delighted” by poetry. Therefore, the poet can use beauty to lure them into goodness, “ere themselves be aware, as if they took a medicine of cherries.” In his Battle of the Books (1704), meanwhile, satirist Jonathan Swift characterizes Horace’s dual property of literature as “sweetness and light” and conveys the idea through the symbol of the bee, who makes both honey and wax (used for candles).

Even after asserting that delightful poetry can be used for practical ends, however, Horace still imagines (probably correctly) that, despite his arguments, skeptics still exist who will be “ashamed of the lyric muse, and Apollo the god of song.” He therefore leaves his delicate balancing act and brings out his big guns, piling up one poetic accomplishment upon another.

The legendary poet Orpheus, he says, “deterred the savage race of men from slaughters and inhuman diet”—Orpheus supposedly taught cannibals how to subsist on fruit—and tamed tigers and “furious lions.” Amphion, another figure from Greek mythology, built the walls of Thebes with his music (“was said to give the stones motion with the sound of his lyre”).

Other poets taught people civic responsibility; created a sense of the sacred; regulated sexual behavior (“prohibit[ed] a promiscuous commerce between the sexes”); taught civilization how to conduct marriages; designed cities; and established laws. Homer and the Spartan poet Tyrtaeus, meanwhile, “animated the manly mind to martial achievements with their verses.” Nor should we forget that oracles deliver their pronouncements in poetry and that poetry can be used as a guide to life and a way to praise princes. Oh, and one final thing: think of the delight we take in attending a play at the end of a long day of tedious work. Case closed.

Whether Horace actually believes that the strains of a lyre can shift stones, his encomium to poetry points to the power he senses in it. He knows that he himself is moved and then marshals a host of examples to prove that poetry works on others as well. He will not be the last to trumpet poetry’s practical accomplishments in response to accusations of frivolity—we’re about to see Philip Sidney take up his cause and run with it—but he was the first theorist to expressly argue that literature could be simultaneously serious and delightful, at once a practical tool and a joy unto itself.

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A Partial Defense of Plato’s Poet Ban

By Robin Bates | Published: April 25, 2021
Plato and Athena, goddess of wisdom

Monday

Delving into Plato’s suspicion of poetry for my book project (Does Literature Make Us Better People?) recently has me thinking of the conspiracy theories that are driving rightwing crazies. Liberals like me gaze astonished as QAnon believers talk about cannibalistic, pedophile Democrats stealing the election, but Plato long ago warned about the power of stories to circumvent rational thought and undermine good governance. Current political developments prompt me to at least revisit—if not to accept—Plato’s proposal that poets be banished from his ideal republic.

Before delving into the philosopher, however, here’s what Haruki Murakami says about conspiracy believers in 1Q84, a novel that explore alternative realities and a disturbing religious cult. (The title echoes George Orwell’s 1984.) A wealthy dowager who runs a home for battered women, speaking about how this cult rapes little girls, makes an observation that explains the relative success of QAnon, Trump, and others of their ilk:

People have been repeating the same kinds of fraud throughout the world since the beginning of time, using the same old tricks, and still these despicable fakes continue to thrive. That is because most people believe not so much in truth as in things they wish were the truth. Their eyes may be wide open, but they don’t see a thing. Tricking them is as easy as twisting a baby’s arm.

Trickery is all the more powerful when cast as a story. Jonathan Gottshall, in his book The Story Telling Animal: How Stories Makes Us Human, talks about how the ready availability of stories is creating social havoc:

There’s an analogy to be made between our craving for story and our craving for food. A tendency to overeat served our ancestors well when food shortages were a predictable part of life. But now that we modern desk jockeys are awash in cheap grease and corn syrup, overeating is more likely to fatten us up and kill us young. Likewise, it could be that an intense greed for story was healthy for our ancestors but has some harmful consequences in a world where books, MP3 players, TVs, and iPhones make story omnipresent—and where we have, in romance novels and television shows such as Jersey Shore, something like the story equivalent of deep-fried Twinkies.

Gottschall concludes

I think the literary scholar Brian Boyd is right to wonder if overconsuming in a world awash with junk story could lead to something like a “mental diabetes epidemic.”

This isn’t a totally modern phenomenon. Cervantes’s famous protagonist, of course, gets lost in a world of stories and finds himself unable to distinguish between fact and fiction. Jane Austen in Northanger Abbey warns about her heroine Catherine Morland losing perspective from her immersion in Ann Radcliffe’s gothic thrillers. While Catherine doesn’t take a gun and go searching for a Hillary Clinton child trafficking ring in the basement of a local pizza establishment, her hold on reality has become tenuous. Fortunately for her, she has reality-grounded Henry Tilney to set her right.

But what if, not only Radcliffe novels, but Facebook posts, radio shock jocks, and Fox News were all shouting the same nonsense. Are we confident that Catherine would not conclude, at some point, that she should engage in a Regency-period equivalent of storming the U.S. Capitol?

Which brings us back to Plato. It has long been a mystery why this most poetic of philosophers should have such a deep suspicion of poetry. The Elizabethan poet Sir Philip Sidney, finding poetry under attack by a Plato-citing Puritan, writes in his Defense of Poesie,

[M]y burthen is great, that Plato’s name is laid upon me, whom, I must confess, of all philosophers I have ever esteemed most worthy of reverence; and with good reason, since of all philosophers he is the most poetical.

Sidney goes on to say that, if Plato “will defile the fountain out of which his flowing streams have proceeded,” then he must be examined closely, which is what I’ve been doing for the past few weeks.

My conclusion is this: If Plato wants to banish poets from his republic, it’s because of his passion for poetry, not the opposite. Anything that has this much power over him, he figures, must be handled the way one handles a wild lion. Perhaps he can manage things okay, but can other people?

Plato’s love for poetry, especially Homer, is particularly evident in the final book of The Republic, Plato’s extended reflection on the elements needed for a perfect society. After declaring that  “all poetical imitations are ruinous to the understanding of the hearers,” Plato follows up,

[A]lthough I have always from my earliest youth had an awe and love of Homer, which even now makes the words falter on my lips, for he is the great captain and teacher of the whole of that charming tragic company; but a man is not to be reverenced more than the truth, and therefore I will speak out.

Plato explains that, while people in other professions know their specialties first-hand, “poetical imitations”—or fictional representations—are second hand. We go to a statesman, not Homer, to lead our country, and we go to a general, not Homer, to conduct a battle. Plato here is like those parents who insist that their college-age children major in something practical rather than (shudder!) the arts.

Yet for all the ways that he denigrates Homer and the great tragedians (Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides), Plato keeps referring to their power. For instance, there’s this:

The best of us, as I conceive, when we listen to a passage of Homer, or one of the tragedians, in which he represents some pitiful hero who is drawling out his sorrows in a long oration, or weeping, and smiting his breast—the best of us, you know, delight in giving way to sympathy, and are in raptures at the excellence of the poet who stirs our feelings most.

Plato contrasts two possible responses to this: the manly rational response (good) and the womanly emotional response (bad). Real men, he essentially says, don’t cry. Oh, and they also philosophize:

But when any sorrow of our own happens to us, then you may observe that we pride ourselves on the opposite quality—we would fain be quiet and patient; this is the manly part, and the other which delighted us in the recitation is now deemed to be the part of a woman.

We come to realize that what Plato most fears is passion. If we haven’t sufficiently trained our “reason,” we will give way to “weeping and lamentation”:

If you consider, I said, that when in misfortune we feel a natural hunger and desire to relieve our sorrow by weeping and lamentation, and that this feeling which is kept under control in our own calamities is satisfied and delighted by the poets;—the better nature in each of us, not having been sufficiently trained by reason or habit, allows the sympathetic element to break loose because the sorrow is another’s; and the spectator fancies that there can be no disgrace to himself in praising and pitying anyone who comes telling him what a good man he is, and making a fuss about his troubles; he thinks that the pleasure is a gain, and why should he be supercilious and lose this and the poem too? …And so the feeling of sorrow which has gathered strength at the sight of the misfortunes of others is with difficulty repressed in our own.

If you allow poets to guide you, Plato warns, you will let “pleasure and pain,” not “law and the reason of mankind” rule your lives:

[W]e are ready to acknowledge that Homer is the greatest of poets and first of tragedy writers; but we must remain firm in our conviction that hymns to the gods and praises of famous men are the only poetry which ought to be admitted into our State. For if you go beyond this and allow the honeyed muse to enter, either in epic or lyric verse, not law and the reason of mankind, which by common consent have ever been deemed best, but pleasure and pain will be the rulers in our State.

Watch out for that honeyed muse!

Socrates refers then to the “ancient quarrel between philosophy and poetry,” which is essentially a quarrel between reason and emotion. But since (as Plato sees it) philosophical reason is the way to truth, then poets must be banished—not in spite of our love for them but because of our love for them. We must cut them out of our lives the way we give up a cherished lover who is not good for us:

If her defence fails, then, my dear friend, like other persons who are enamoured of something, but put a restraint upon themselves when they think their desires are opposed to their interests, so too must we after the manner of lovers give her up, though not without a struggle.

Finally, to clinch his argument, Socrates puts love of poetry in the same category as love of money and power:

[W]ill anyone be profited if under the influence of honor or money or power, aye, or under the excitement of poetry, he neglect justice and virtue? [my emphasis]

Recall that his discussion began with what we can now call the honeyed call of conspiracy theories. Where I—and for that matter Aristotle—diverge from Plato is calling for Reason and Passion, not Reason or Passion. In my view, the greatest literature (including Homer and the great tragedians) gives us full scope to exercise both our rational and our emotional side.

But I appreciate Plato’s warning because there is plenty of stories out there that invite us to set aside critical thinking and immerse ourselves in an emotional bath. Plato responds to literature at such a gut level that he is more aware of the dangers than those who feel less deeply. Thus we literature lovers must take him seriously, even as we voice our disagreements.

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A Young Black Servant Intently Listening

By Robin Bates | Published: April 24, 2021
Velázquez, The Servant Girl at Emmaus

Spiritual Sunday

I just stumbled on this lovely Denise Levertov poem about the Emmaus dinner, inspired by a Diego Velazquez. Sometimes entitled The Kitchen Servant, sometimes The Servant Girl at Emmaus, it is striking because it focuses, on the waiting maid rather than Jesus and the disciples, whom one can see in the background. Often our way into sacred stories is through incidental characters, who are easier to relate to.

I’ve posted in the past about Levertov’s magnificent poem about Doubting Thomas. This witness has no doubts.

The Servant Girl at Emmaus
(A Painting by Velázquez)

She listens, listens, holding
her breath. Surely that voice
is his—the one
who had looked at her, once, across the crowd,
as no one ever had looked?
Had seen her? Had spoken as if to her?

Surely those hands were his,
taking the platter of bread from hers just now?
Hands he’d laid on the dying and made them well?

Surely that face—?

The man they’d crucified for sedition and blasphemy.
The man whose body disappeared from its tomb.
The man it was rumored now some women had seen this morning, alive?

Those who had brought this stranger home to their table
don’t recognize yet with whom they sit.
But she in the kitchen, absently touching
           the winejug she’s to take in,
a young Black servant intently listening,

swings round and sees
the light around him
and is sure.

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