A Response to "Economic Thought in Ancient Greece"

A Response to "Economic Thought in Ancient Greece" by Jesus Huerta de Soto.
Original article at the Mises Institute: http://mises.org/daily/4707

Precis of de Soto's article:

The intellectual odyssey that laid the foundations for Western civilization began in classical Greece. Unfortunately, Greek thinkers failed in their attempt to grasp the essential principles of the spontaneous market order.

This is a fine article and a very good look at the thought which separates 21st century economic thinking from that of the Classical world, the essence of which is the conception of spontaneous market order. Now I must as a Classicist admit I have more affection and respect for the parties in question, even when I [vociferously] disagree.

That said, there are a few points I would like to comment on. My intent is not to "correct" Mr. de Soto, but rather to expand upon various points of his since where Plato and Aristotle go awry, I believe they go awry in interesting and instructive ways. I have not been comprehensive here, but I hope I have provided some context and interesting questions.

N.B. This is a brief first and slightly off-the-cuff reaction to the article. I may add to or otherwise revise it in the near future, but I have posted it so soon toward the end of sharing it with more people by getting it out closer to the publication of the original article. Comments/corrections are still, of course, welcome.


Socrates

Now it is not hard to criticize Socrates and indeed his final self-defense did not endear him to the assembly. Nonetheless, and it seems odd to have to say this, but Socrates deserves some commendation. No matter how sympathetic you are to the charges of "corrupting the youth," the philosophizing and questioning Socrates was advocating were not yet in the air, let alone in the lifeblood of Western Civilization. Socrates was, really for the first time, widely presenting and disseminating it. Today we can pick up philosophy books, take classes, and freely and openly question just about anything. Now I do not only mean that we are free from compulsion or free from repression in the sense that we might be forcefully restrained from questioning. More important is that we know to question in the first place, and I think Socrates deserves a little credit for that.

As Socrates says in his defense, [I paraphrase] You bring me here for corrupting the youth. But who is more criminal: me, or you who pretend to be serious and to care for things which you never cared about at all?

Not all of the Greeks were amused, and in fact this summary from Wikipedia, intentionally or not, captures the hilarity of Aristophanes Clouds (Νεφέλαι):

Faced with legal action for non-payment of debts, Strepsiades, an elderly Athenian, enrolls his son in The Thinkery (the "Phrontisterion") so that he might learn the rhetorical skills necessary to defeat their creditors in court. The son thereby learns cynical disrespect for social mores and contempt for authority and he subsequently beats his father up during a domestic argument, in return for which Strepsiades sets The Thinkery on fire.

Aristophanes' description of the "Thinkery" or "Thinking Shop" (Clouds, 94)

ψυχῶν σοφῶν τοῦτ᾽ ἐστὶ φροντιστήριον.
ἐνταῦθ᾽ ἐνοικοῦσ᾽ ἄνδρες, οἳ τὸν οὐρανὸν
λέγοντες ἀναπείθουσιν ὡς ἔστιν πνιγεύς,
κἄστιν περὶ ἡμᾶς οὗτος, ἡμεῖς δ᾽ ἄνθρακες.
οὗτοι διδάσκουσ᾽, ἀργύριον ἤν τις διδῷ,
λέγοντα νικᾶν καὶ δίκαια κἄδικα.

Translation (Hickey) via Perseus Project:

This is a thinking-shop of wise spirits.
There dwell men who in speaking of the heavens
persuade people that it is an oven,
and that it encompasses us, and that we are the embers.
These men teach, if one give them money,
to conquer in speaking, right or wrong.

Socrates (up), Students (down), amidst studies. [1]

Of course it's all slightly less "funny" and more darkly ironic when you recall they did in fact poison him. Indeed Socrates mentions the unflattering and  false (he says) portrayal in his defense. [2] What was that line about being "remembered as the fools who killed Socrates?" Indeed.

Plato

Now clearly there is a lot in The Republic that. . . well, anyone would disagree with. I should point out Anders Mikkelsen' piece also at the Mises Institute, "The Politics of Plunder in Plato's Republic" [3] which offers the novel and interesting argument that "Plato's Republic is an exposition of the logical consequences of basing civic and personal life on injustice. It condemns political life based on institutionalized injustice — specifically theft and plunder." Let us then confine ourselves here to a few points.

de Soto writes

What is even worse is that Socrates's statolatry was so obsessive that it led him to confuse the positive law derived from the city-state with natural law. He believed people should obey all the positive laws derived from the state, even if they are contra naturam, and thus he laid the philosophical foundations for the legal positivism on which every tyranny to emerge after him in history would rest.

First, I don't know if "confusion" is the proper word. I believe the section in question is from the Crito (The Crito is quite short and the whole dialogue addresses this question.) Second, this is an excellent point I wish de Soto had delved into. Socrates' point seems particularly puzzling since he starts the dialogue by rebuking his old friend Criton for caring what other people think and then goes on to say one should obey unjust laws. I don't think one could argue the dialogue is very paternalistic and statist in tone. Most people would in fact find it off-putting. Socrates, having been convicted, imagines what the state would ask him if he tried to run away: [Translations, W.H.D. Rouse]

Tell me Socrates, what have you in mind to do? In trying to do this, can't you see that you are trying to destroy us, the Laws, and the whole state, as far as yo can do to it? Or do you think it possible that a city can exist and not be overturned, where sentence given has no force but is made null by private persons and destroyed. [Crito, 50b.]

Shortly later, the voice of the laws says, "you must either persuade [your country] or do what she commands; you must bear in quiet anything she bids you to bear" [Crito, 51b] Wow! That's certainly unambiguous and at the moment I can't imagine a more statist line. It reminds me of a quote from Theodore Roosevelt, "No man is above the law and no man is below it; nor do we ask any man's permission when we ask him to obey it. Obedience to the law is demanded as a right; not asked as a favor." Sort of makes you want to aim to misbehave, doesn't it?

Yet it would be dishonest to end the discussion here, as the voice of the laws goes on to make the case that Socrates, before he committed this crime, was a free resident of the city. That is, he could have left. Instead, he stayed and chose to be subject to the laws. This is in fact the third of the laws' three arguments, that the criminal does wrong against the state in three ways, 1) because the state is his parents, 2) because the state is his nurturer, and 3) because he was there voluntarily. Speaking of remaining in the city voluntarily, Socrates could have proposed banishment as his punishment. How does this affect his relationship to the laws and state? The situation is now more complicated: if Socrates liked Sparta so much and was free to leave, why didn't he? I don't find de Soto's encapsulation of Socrates' choice very enlightening, and not just because it is unflattering to the philosopher. It would seem worthwhile, though, to take all of Socrates' claims at face value; I think doing so would provide more interesting venues of explanation even if one disagrees.

It seems a perverse situation, perhaps it is just to follow unjust laws but unjust to carry out unjust laws? Is is not just to carry out any law, then? Clearly Socrates thought his situation was just here, and he was also concerned with justice (see the opening two books of the Republic, Republic (588b-592b,  (608c-end.)) I am not presently at liberty to discuss the sections in question as well as the remainder of the Apology, but my point is that it is more profitable to approach the apparent problem with Socrates' ideas by reducing them to the principles which generated them and not simply saying, "he said x which was wrong, y which was bad, et cetera.) Lastly regarding Plato, there is one seemingly very liberal quote I cannot verify or place:

Good people do not need laws to tell them to act responsibly, while bad people will find a way around the laws.

I'm not at all sure where this quote comes from, whether it is from the main canon of Plato or if it was found as a quotation in another author. It would seem to reflect the Hamiltonian notion that the need for government (for Hamilton a particular type of government [4]) was needed because of man's nature, or at least the "bad" inclinations of some." We might broadly say that "the only need for government is because of criminals." That sounds paradoxical since if there is no law there is no illegality, though we are presumably discussing natural law here. Similarly, Plato says education would reduce the need for laws. (Then again, he would only educate the guardians. Aristotle finds understandable fault with this in Politics I.vi. 1264a.)

Anyway, perhaps this question was better posed by Aristotle,

"The law has the power to command obedience only by habit, so that a readiness to change laws quickly enfeebles them." So when does one change them then? "Do not change the laws lightly; what you gain may be outweighed by what you lose in obedience." [Politics, II.vii. 1269a]

Clearly to us there is some perhaps unpleasant deference to the state. Again, the state seems to exist for its own sake.Yet we must remember a principle which runs throughout all of Aristotle, that "the whole precedes the part." Thus the state which evolves from the community which evolves from the family is just as legitimate as the family and the pairing of man and woman, which is natural and just (according to Aristotle) because it is of necessity.


We might say that both Aristotle and Socrates seem to say order is more important than liberty, but to say so we would have to consider their definitions of liberty. No one is pro chaos, even if he is against a coercive monopoly of law. As de Soto's phrase spontaneous market order suggests, faith in markets is neither faith in chaos or disorder nor love of disorder, but rather faith in spontaneously arising order. As de Soto quite properly says, the grasping of the spontaneity is truly the issue in discussing "ancient economics."


Prejudices Against Usury

de Soto understandably finds fault with some of the philosopher's positions on usury and money-making. Like Tibor Machan in his article from a few weeks ago [5], I think also and generally finds the philosophers just do not enough value the necessity of making a living.

Aristotle says, "Men want to increase their money without limit because they are intent upon living only, not living well." [Politics, I.ix. 1258a] Yet we must recall the Aristotelian principle that "that which is done for its own sake," that which is an end itself is more valuable. One does not work because he loves working, though he may love what he does, but because it is necessary to support himself. Yet if he plays a musical instrument or studies or takes up a hobby, those things are ends in themselves, done for no other purpose. [Nichomachean Ethics, I.i. 1094a]

Wealth is thus of value, but one must not understand things only in terms of their monetary value. [Rhetoric, II.xiii. 1389b.] One could of course translate that into an axiom more obviously "economic" but Aristotle's point is rather obvious.

Wealth-getting is a natural part of managing a household. Yet some people "turn every quality or art into a means of getting wealth; this they conceive to be the end, and to the promotion of the end they think all things must contribute. [Politics I.ix. 1258a]

Aristotle's censure of usury seems to me to be sensible even if you do not share it. Money, to Aristotle, was simply a stand in for work. You converted your work into coin so you could more easily trade it. Without money you could only barter; if you needed eggs but only had wine to trade, and the man with the eggs didn't want your wine, then you couldn't get eggs. Usury, in contrast, generates more money without adding any new product. There is more coin but the coin is, in this thinking, detached; it does not represent anything. The Greek word for interest, τόκος (tokos) is the same as the word for offspring, meaning that the money is born from money. Yet the disconnection from something of apparent and obvious value makes earning money via usury seem like a cheat.

In Politics, I.ix. 1258b Aristotle says such "wealth-getting" concerns are not "unworthy of philosophy" but rather they are illiberal. For various discussions of Aristotle and "liberality" see Recommended Reading below.



Aristotle on Property


On the one hand Aristotle does say common property would destroy liberality, and (humorously) that, "man will not simply become everyone's friend if property is made common." Certain evils, Aristotle says too, arise from man's nature, like perjury and breaking contracts (See Shuchman in Recommended Reading below.) Aristotle says property should be private, "How immeasurably greater is the pleasure when a man feels a thing to be his own" [Politics, II.v. 1263a.] but that its use should be common. See Swanson in Recommended Reading.

Regarding land and property, I think it is difficult for us in the 21st century with all of our technology to appreciate what seemed plausible in the past. Aristotle and Plato both thought there was an ideal size for a city. Jefferson writing in 1816 describing his system of wards and republicanism wrote:

Were I to assign to [republicanism] a precise and definite idea, I would say, purely and imply, it means a government by its citizens in mass, acting directly and personally, according to rules established by the majority; and that every other government is more or less republican, in proportion as it has in its composition more  or less of this ingredient of the direct action of its citizens. Such a government is evidently restrained to very narrow limits of space and population. I doubt if it would be practicable beyond the extent of a New England township. The first shade from this pure element, which, like that of pure vital air, cannot sustain life of itself, would be where the powers of the government, being divided, should be exercised each by representatives chosen either pro hac vice, or for such short terms as should render secure the duty of expressing the will of their constituents. This I should consider as the nearest approach to a pure republic, which is practicable on a large scale of country or population. [6]

Conclusion

I hope I have pointed out some things of interest, built on some of de Soto's statements, and elucidated some of his quotations.

If I may make one point, though, it would be that the aims of Plato and Aristotle's states were not liberty. The greatest good for the state, for them, was predicated on the greatest good for man. The ideal state is what it is because of what the ideal man is. A liberal state does not pretend that it has a template for the ideal man or citizen, though clearly there is behavior incompatible with liberal-democratic-republican-capitalist society. As Plato says in Republic VIII 561-562, you will find many various "constitutions" to which you will be tempted in a democratic state. Risky indeed, but it beats "being ruled."

Similarly, though, we may ask: Is it legitimate to criticize these authors for making economic mistakes when they were not, properly speaking, considering economics? (i.e. The distinct discipline we know as Economics)



Notionally I appreciate this point but I wonder if the premise would permit fruitful inquiry: because Plato et al didn’t realize they weren’t writing about “economics” we can’t criticize them for being wrong about economics. It would seem not to if one considers economics an objective science. It would appear to be more productive  to take the statements of the philosophers in question in context because these “mistakes” of theirs were made for particular reasons, i.e. not having conceptions of “economics” and a spontaneous order, being consistent with principles stated elsewhere in their work, and working toward a different end. On the one hand we don’t want to pigeon-hole them into later conceptions, on the other we somehow must if we consider there to be a larger set of “true”/objective categories.

In addition to being more constructive and elucidating, perhaps such a discussion about “the why” of their “mistakes” would have tempered the tone of Prof. de Soto’s article and made certain people not bristle so much, particularly those inclined toward philosophizing. We must consider that Plato and Aristotle hold philosophizing itself in high esteem. For them, choosing to spend your free time reflecting on philosophy is a great good.


Overall, I think it is less useful to say, "Socrates, Plato, Aristotle et al" missed x, y, and z" or that "they were wrong about a, b, c et cetera" than to say, "Why wouldn't this have occurred to them?" and "Why did they think this was necessary?" For an important reason probably, and maybe a good one. How can we accomplish that goal by a different means?

–

[1] Plato attempts to reverse this caricature of Socrates (and philosophers) in Republic VII.529b-529c
[2] Plato. Apology of Socrates, 19c.
[3] Mikkelsen, Anders. The Politics of Plunder in Plato's Republic. http://mises.org/daily/4201
[4] Rosano, Michael J. Liberty, Nobility, Philanthropy, and Power in Alexander Hamilton's Conception of Human Nature. American Journal of Political Science, Vol. 47, No. 1 (Jan., 2003), pp. 61-74
[5] Machan, Tibor R. A Problem with Aristotle's Ethical Essentialism. http://mises.org/daily/4458
[6] Letter to John Taylor. Monticello, May 28, 1816, M.E., XV, 19. in Koch, Adrienne. The Philosophy of Thomas Jefferson. Columbia University Press, New York. 1957. p. 164

Recommended Reading

Long, Roderick T. Aristotle's Conception of Freedom. The Review of Metaphysics, Vol. 49, No. 4 (Jun., 1996), pp. 775-802


McGrade, A. S. Aristotle's Place in the History of Natural Rights. The Review of Metaphysics, Vol. 49, No. 4 (Jun., 1996), pp. 803-829


Mayhew, Robert. Aristotle on Property. The Review of Metaphysics.

Shuchman, Philip. Aristotle's Conception of Contract.  Journal of the History of Ideas, Vol. 23, No. 2 (Apr. - Jun., 1962), pp. 257-264


Swanson, Judith A. Aristotle on Liberality: Its Relation to Justice and Its Public and Private Practice. Polity, Vol. 27, No. 1 (Autumn, 1994), pp. 3-23

Younkins, Edward W. Aristotle, Human Flourishing, and the Limited State. http://www.quebecoislibre.org/031122-11.htm

Trevor Stephenson Compares Tunings

Trevor Stephenson, musician, teacher, and keyboard/keyboard performance practice specialist, discusses tunings.


See also:

• Sheet music to Mendelssohn's Venetianisches Gondellied (discussed in the video below) [Petrucci Music Library]
• Stephenson playing the adagio of Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor, Op. 27 on a traditional 18th-century replica fortepiano made by Norman Sheppard. [YouTube]
• Stephenson's site http://www.trevorstephenson.com/ for some of his discussions of period instruments and performance practice.

 Trevor Stephenson Compares Tunings

Book Stories

A few weeks ago I ordered a book online, not a very unusual happenstance. (The book was Whittaker's two-volume set on Bach's cantatas, if you're curious.) Now your humble blogger is in the habit of embossing his books with a little seal, "From the library of. . ." A particular impetus, I admit, and we will return to it later. Now for the first time, and let me say I've bought and embossed quite a few books, I found it had been embossed by its previous owner. In fact it had been embossed with a nearly identical seal. Of course the first thing I thought was, "Wow, this fellow must really have liked his books." I do not know what suggested my next course of action, though, which was to search for his name on the internet. Why did I think this fellow would show up in a query? Much to my surprise I did find him, and he was a well known teacher, musician, and great music lover from San Francisco. He had recently passed away and I had, as I discovered, bought some of his books from a local organization to which they had been donated. I had come to own this man's books on Bach. Permit me another short story.

Upon receiving another book, "Bach's Orchestra" by C. S. Terry, I found not an embossed seal but a book plate. Neatly glued inside the front cover it read, "Ex libris. . ." with the author's name beautifully calligraphed below. A picture of a globe and an 18th century ship added to the plate's distinguished mien. Then I realized the book plate bore the name of the fellow I had ordered the book from. How curious: would someone in the habit of signing and pasting plates into his books willingly part with one? Perhaps some misfortune or tribulation brought this book to me. I don't suppose I'll find out.

Now those are not the only books of mine with histories unknown to me: some were inscribed as gifts, others were simply quite well-read. They all have stories, though, and frankly even the books which I am the first owner of have stories. Many were gifts, some I had to get for school, many I found by chance rummaging through a book store, some were loaned out and came back a little too. . . well-read. I don't write in my books but I do make little custom indexes for myself, on index cards of all things, and leave them in the book. Quite a few of my books are littered with slips of paper I keep on certain pages I reference often: a favorite story from Herodotus, a particularly poignant ode of Horace, or a bite from Mencken. Which came from the Argossy Book Shop, which from Strand, which from Barnes and Noble. . . the collection is quite a motley assortment. I'm rather sure I remember where I got each one, for the time being. Even the ones, the many, I have ordered online have a special place. One might think them odd out, having arrived at my library seemingly ex nihilo, but the unboxing is a bit of a welcoming ceremony.

Perhaps I've gone too far, waxed animistic, anthropomorphized these bundles of paper. Probably. I'm not quite that attached to them and when I get a new one it's not quite the ritual you might think. (It does get embossed, of course.) My point is that the above stories demonstrate a few reasons why some of us find books pleasurable simply as books. Amidst all of the hubbub and despair over the death of books it does not seem anyone really pinned down why we like them, though despite its faults Nathan Schneider's essay "In Defense of the Memory Theater" [1] danced around the issues.

As I think my above anecdotes suggest, people like stories. We like things with history, hence perhaps the common fondness for antiques. This feature Schneider touched on, that we have our own histories and the books are part of them, reminding us of times, places, events, and people. We like them both as reminder and record, and along with that history we like a sense of continuity. Bacon wrote, "Books are ships which pass through the vast seas of time" and it seems to me we like knowing that a book has been some where, that we are with it now, and that it will go somewhere else in the future. That sense goes a surprisingly long way toward legitimizing reading and buying a book. We like to think the book is important enough to read and that others should too, and that it is important enough to buy: who wouldn't want to read this? Hence also the impossibility for many to throw away a book. Indulge me another story:

In high school our venerable institution was remodeling the library and had decided to throw away many books. The librarian, a most refined and scholarly fellow, refused the task. Of course some dip stepped in to do the dirty and out those books went, though many in the hands of myself and a few friends. One friend, a good one and an outstanding student, beat me to the library the day the music books went but kindly offered me a choosing from his pile. Such is how I got my copy of The Harvard Dictionary of Music, though it would be years until I made good use of it.

Schneider was apt to recall the great loss of the burning of the Royal Library at Alexandra [2], but I think of the loss of a different library. From the Virginia Gazette of February 1770:

We hear from Albermarle that about a fortnight ago the house of Thomas Jefferson, Esq., in that county, was burnt to the ground, together with all his furniture, books, papers, &c., by which the Gentleman sustains a very great loss. He was from home when the Accident occurred. [3]

Of course Jefferson also depended on his books for his legal career, but he expressed the more important loss shortly thereafter, i.e that one's personal writings and "The letters of a person, especially of one whose business has been chiefly transacted by letters, form the only fully and genuine article of his life." [4] As much as we regret the losses of great works, the lacunae in Aristotle and the missing works of Sophocles and Bach, we feel more acutely the loss of what we personally write and what we assemble from nothing and then curate.

Such brings us to the second feature of books and the one which I think is least likely to be brought up: that we like to own books. They are our property. Whether we bought them, making them things we exchanged our life, our finite time, for, or whether they are gifts, items people sacrificed their time to give us and items people thought enough about us and our character to select for us, the books represent extensions of our person. Our books are about what we think is important. They are the stories that touch us most, the ideas that inspire, what fascinates, confuses, and draws us.

We don't mind personalizing them in various ways, dog-earing the corners and adding notes. Even our reading habits mark the books in different ways. Some people bend the cover back, some break the spine, some wrinkle the corners, some scrupulously try to keep them in good condition. How many of our possessions do we actually put our name on? Yet we readily add our name to our books, even adding book plates, or embossing our names into them. How surprisingly strong is that feeling of constraint when reading a library book? Aristotle was quite right to say, "How immeasurably greater is the pleasure when a man feels a thing to be his own." [Politics, II.v. 1263a.] They reflect our character, our values, why shouldn't we want them? For the same reasons we take no small pleasure in being surrounded by our books for that reason.

We of course surround ourselves with books for their aesthetic pleasure too. Some people like the look of a series on the shelf, like the old Britannica "Great Books" series or the Easton Press editions. Others enjoy having each book be its own quirky self, differently printed and illustrated. I'm quite fond of the Folio Society's editions, with their beautifully illustrated covers, sometimes subtle (the figs on Graves' I, Claudius) and sometimes grand (their editions of Shelley and The Arabian Nights.) Some like the deckled edge, others the smooth cut. (Actually, does anyone actually like the deckled edge?) Some series are curiously irregular, take the Cambridge Greek and Latin series, the so-called "green and yellow" or "green and greens." The coloring is intended to be uniform but there are quite a few variations on green and yellow. They're also all different heights, thus the series looks odd on the shelf. At any rate the Loeb and Oxford editions make for a pleasing continuity on a shelf. Now who hasn't fought with oversize books and, far worse, books just slightly too large to fit on the shelf? We go through considerable effort sorting, arranging, and cleaning our books. (Some people with particularly good taste accent them with busts and other sundry items.)

It's no wonder people wax nostalgic, grow despondent, furious even, at the thought of books disappearing and being replaced by digital devices. Who would give up printed books, with all their shapes, textures, printings, bindings, translations, editions, even smells? (Pleasing, some smells, don't you think?) They're quite literally bound up with what's important to us, and I doubt they're going anywhere.

One of my motley shelves.

click to enlarge

–

[1] Schneider, Nathan. In Defense of the Memory Theater. Open Letters Monthly. July 2010. http://www.openlettersmonthly.com/in-defense-of-the-memory-theater/
[2] An appropriate loss to regret, the loss of 40,000 scrolls, though the library seems to have endured several losses until its final destruction. See http://www.crystalinks.com/libraryofalexandria.html and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Library_of_Alexandria
[3]  Malone, Dumas. Jefferson the Virginian. Little, Brown and Company. Boston. 1948. p. 125-126 {For the excerpt from the Virgina Gazette see Purdie & Dixon: http://research.history.org/DigitalLibrary/VirginiaGazette/VGImagePopup.cfm?ID=2682&Res=HI}
[4] The Account Book of Thomas Jefferson. 1770, c. June 1.

Mozartian Eucatastrophe

"I coined the word 'eucatastrophe': the sudden happy turn in a story which pierces you with a joy that brings tears (which I argued it is the highest function of fairy-stories to produce). And I was there led to the view that it produces its peculiar effect because it is a sudden glimpse of Truth, your whole nature chained in material cause and effect, the chain of death, feels a sudden relief as if a major limb out of joint had suddenly snapped back. It perceives – if the story has literary 'truth' on the second plane (....) – that this is indeed how things really do work in the Great World for which our nature is made."

---J.R.R. Tolkein 'Letter 89'*

 The final allegro assai may be as fizzing as the overture which inaugurated his folle journée, but the true climax is the andante that precedes it, as the Count twice begs forgiveness (the second phrase intensifying the first), the Countess grants it in six bars of noble magnanimity, completing the melody he began, and the whole company takes it up in words that are banal - "Ah tutti contenti saremo cosi" ("Then let us all be happy") - but in music that is on the heights.

Mozart's reconciliations are real. They invoke the good in human nature. His vision embraces the pain and cruelty as well as the compassion - the darkness and the light; but it is the light that prevails.

 --- David Cairns Mozart and His Operas, p. 131-132

*see further, On Fairy-Stories

Karl Richter Plays Bach

Toccata e Fuga in D minor, BWV.565

 Toccata e Fuga in G minor, BWV.915

Movie Review: Firefly & Serenity

Firefly
(Television Series: 14 Episodes) 2003.

Take my love, take my land, take me where I cannot stand
I don't care, I'm still free. You can't take the Sky from me.

I'm not sure who could have predicted the success of Firefly and the rabid fan base which grew around the show. Certainly not the television executives who in 2003 canceled it after only 14 episodes, episodes  which they had already decided to air out of order. More perplexing to me, though, is the appeal of the show to fans. Do not mistake me, this is a fine show, but its appeal is particular, I think. A brief comparison to the Star Trek franchise may elucidate. First, there is not really much science involved. There is a lot of technology, but it is in the background. There is no technobabble, there are no crystals to rotate and there is no polarity to reverse. There is not a lot of the science, ostensibly part of the appeal to fans of science fiction. Second, the galaxy of Firefly is not the galaxy of the Enterprise. In Star Trek, the Federation is a big happy family, and that's really not too much of an exaggeration. The explanation for how Earth joins the United Federation of Planets is that World War III breaks out, in the aftermath aliens visit Earth, and everyone is so bound together by the experience that they create a world government and cure disease and poverty. That's the actual explanation (and I haven't left any details out, either!) Sounds like another infamous popular delusion.

The run-down of the galaxy of Firefly:

Here's how it is: The Earth got used up. So we moved out and terraformed a whole new galaxy of Earths. Some, rich and flush with the new technologies, some not so much. The central planets, thems formed the Alliance, waged war to bring everyone under their rule. A few idiots tried to fight it: among them, myself.

There is its, in the words of Malcolm "Mal" Reynolds, captain of firefly-class transport ship Serenity. The Alliance is not a vast benevolent organization. They decided, apparently without universal consent, to bring other people under their rule, and those other people dissented. I like the way the writers worded that, "under their rule." One often hears the sentiment instead expressed as, "under their rules," as if to say, "we just wanted them to follow our rules." Isn't it really the same thing, particularly if those folk don't very much care for your rules?

It's hard to say very much about the galaxy of Firefly, there being only 14 episodes and all. The core worlds are clean and pretty and safe, but controlled. In one episode, Reynolds' first officer and partner from the war, Zoe, won't step foot on an Alliance world. They can keep their parks, museums, and iridescent pools, and along with all that their Feds and cameras and rules.  Speaking of rules, the rules aboard Serenity are pretty tough too, though, and the Captain makes them. There are no votes, but you're free to leave whenever you like.

I like the title of the show too, Firefly. Sure it's the type of ship, but Serenity is the theme of the show, a fact best illustrated in the episode Out of Gas. Serenity is damaged and adrift and Reynolds is alone on board. Injured, he recalls how the ship and crew came together. He could have bought a bigger, fancier, better ship, one the dealer said "would have been with him his whole life." Instead he opted for beaten up old Serenity. Why? Because it called to him, somehow. He felt at home in it. He was free to choose it and, while it was imperfect, would cause him a lot of headaches, and needed constant maintenance and care, he wanted it. He could have bought the fancier ship and been secure.

Likewise, he could have joined the Alliance. He could have been safe and secure and provided for on the central planets, but he wouldn't have been free. And that's what Serenity represents: freedom. He left the Alliance for the black, their word for space. They can take their land and security, he'll take freedom, and thus from the title song:

Take me out to the black, tell them I ain't comin' back.
Burn the land and boil the sea, you can't take the sky from me.

When Serenity breaks down in space, though, because one little part broke, and when the crew has to abandon the ship, and when Serenity gets boarded by salvagers who try to kill Mal and steal the ship, when the captain lies there bleeding, alone, and running out of air, he remembers how he got there, and we see the price of freedom, the great risk.

Indeed the outer planets are rough places. Deals go bad, violence ensues. Some people are nuts and some places have crazy rules. Some people end up not free anyway, enserfed to a local autocrat. It's no coincidence the show has a prevalent Wild West theme running throughout. What becomes clear throughout these 14 episodes, though, and what I presume would have been developed throughout multiple seasons, was what did create order. What did create order were the rules you agreed to, usually just the price and terms for a job: the law of voluntary trade. What counted most perhaps was reputation and in a pair of episodes we see a stark contrast. A sadistic torturing crime lord hires the crew of Serenity for a job. The crimelord, Niska, is very concerned about his reputation and wants to be known as a monster to be feared. In contrast, when pulling off the job, Mal realizes the job is to steal medical supplies from colonists out in the middle of nowhere. The higher up feds, when they learn of the heist, don't care. They don't care about local matters and aren't going to go chasing after "Band-Aids." After a change of hear Mal brings the supplies back and, meeting the local sheriff he has just hoodwinked, they have the following exchange.


SHERIFF
You were truthful back in town. These are tough times. When a man can get a job, he might not look to close at what that job is. When a man learns all the details of a situation like ours, then he has a choice.


MAL
I don't believe he does.

In the end it was not the evil Niska who wanted to be thought of as evil bbut contracted out his crime or the evil Alliance who wanted to be thought of as good but chose to take the resources and not provide the promised protection, it was not them, their force, and their false pretenses of  creeds which determined the outcome of events, but of men like Mal who freely did what they thought was right. You can have all of the formal laws and promises you want, but its what you or an institution does and don't do that determines character. Mal doesn't "want to be thought" of: he doesn't stiff Niska and he was planning on leaving the medicine for the sheriff to find. He just wand to make things right and go on his merry way. He plays by his rules, sure, but here we see also a deference to natural laws.

Freedom is a messy business. Such a situation probably would never have happened on a core world, but neither would have taking a walk without being under surveillance and a lot of other things too.
But the alternative, in the words of Captain Mal Reynolds, is "government: a body of people. Usually, notably, ungoverned." The alternative to freedom is government, an institution which limits freedom to create freedom. Probably wouldn't make sense to people like Mal and Zoe, who said "I'm not so afraid of losing something that I'm not going to try and have it."

Serenity
Directed and written by Joss Whedon. 2005.

[Spoilers within!]



What I left out of my discussion of Firefly was the story of the Tams, a brother, Simon, and his younger sister River. Their story was a subplot along the series but never came to the forefront and never got fully developed until Serenity. River, a teenage prodigy, was sent to an academy on one of the core worlds.  What happened to her there? Simon wasn't sure but he knew it wasn't good. A brilliant doctor, he nonetheless threw his fortune and career away to break River out. The two became fugitives relentlessly pursued by the Alliance, but sought and found refuge on Serenity.

Now Serenity has all of the sass and charm of Firefly, but since this is the conclusion of the story of the Alliance, the war against them, and the Tams, Serenity is less anarcho-captialistic Wild West and more anti-statist, anti-authoritarian slug-out. So yes, it's great too.

What Serenity has that Firefly lacked was a great villain. Here he is a ruthless Alliance Agent, but he's drawn not vaguely but in particularly statist mold. The Agent admits his methods are evil, freely calling himself a monster. He kills lesser Alliance officers and any known associates of Mel's crew. "If the enemy goes to ground leave no ground to go to" he says. Yet, crucially, he doesn't know his ultimate objective. He doesn't know what the Tams did. All he does is follow his orders, which are to retrieve the Tams at all cost. He's a monster but a bureaucratized one, granted authority from on high, from someone but who knows just who? He has absolute power with no accountability. Do you think anyone in the Alliance knows about these agents? Do you think anyone ever voted for them, "Hey lets create this class of trained assassins and let them do whatever they want! I second!. . .") Doubtful.

The Agent is a believer in his cause, and he does not worry about the means of achieving it. When going to confront the Agent, Shepherd Book tells Mel, "You have to believe in something" in order to beat this man. Indeed, Mel has to believe in freedom as much as the Agent believes in the Alliance.

At last though, we find out why the Alliance wants River Tam. You see, River has been acting odd, odd because at the alliance "academy" they did experiments on her to make her a telepath and assassin. (The biggest bit of science fiction in the series and movie.) While they damaged her brain, thus the odd behavior, they did make her partially telepathic. Yet they were foolish enough to let high ranking officials in the room with her, and River learned their secret.

The Alliance called for colonists to settle a distant planet, Miranda. Once terraformed and running, they engaged in a little social engineering, piping a gaseous drug into the air processors. The drug, "Pax" was designed to weed out aggression and make everyone peaceful. It worked, making everyone so peaceful and passive they just stopped trying, working, and breathing. They just stopped doing everything, and died. The drug had the opposite effect on some, though, who reacted with extreme aggression. They became known as Reavers, barbarous and vicious men who eventually took over a portion of space and began raiding other vessels. No one had known where the Reavers came from, just that they appeared and started pillaging. Now we learn they were created by the Alliance experiment.

After the conspiracy is unmasked, Mal shares his plan and a little more:

Now I'm asking more of you than I have before, maybe all. As sure as I know anything, I know this: they will try again. Maybe on another world, maybe on this very ground swept clean. A year from now, ten, they'll swing back to the belief that they can make people better. And I do not hold to that. So no more running. I aim to misbehave.

No social engineering, no tinkering, no tweaking.  

Serenity opens with a flashback. River remembers a day at school where she was taught how the alliance brought peace and order to the galaxy, but were resisted by the ungrateful and uncivilized folks on the outer planets. "Why were the independents even fighting us? Why wouldn't they want to be more civilized?" One student asks. Another says, "I hear they're cannibals." The teacher then asks, that with all the dangers of the galaxy, and "with so many social and medical advancements we can bring to the Independents, why would they fight so hard against us?" River, then still a child, albeit a prodigy, says,

We meddle. People don't like to be meddled with. We tell them what to do, what to think. Don't run, don't walk. We're in their homes and in their heads and we haven't the right. We're meddlesome. 

The teacher replies, "River, we're not telling people what to think, we're just trying to show them how." Sure, only "how" as long as the "what" ends up being the same. Anyway, that was before they cut up River's brain and programmed her to be a mind-reading assassin.

The climax is a great space battle in which Mal lures the Reavers and the Alliance into battle and he notes with great satisfaction, "The chickens come home to roost."

–

Some might find the anarchic theme of Firefly romantic, that it's a pipe dream of a world without government and force. I don't think it's so romantic, in fact the galaxy depicted is a mess, and as I said above, some people end up not free anyhow. Yet as imperiled as Mal and the crew of Serenity often are, they follow only the rules they will and they're all on Serenity by choice. That "love" is the key, Mal says, though we might express it more specific terms. It's what keeps the motley group together, what keeps the beat up ship in the air, and what makes Serenity a home, and the crew a family.

There's no place I can be, since I've found Serenity.
You can't take the Sky from me.

 Captain Mal Reynolds and crew,

anarcho-capitalists?

P.S. The theme to Firefly, written by creator Joss Whedon, is a rare instance of a song perfectly embodying the show, and I think lends credence to my anarchic interpretation.

A Paen to Contraltos

In my last post, I highlighted the work of Kerstin Thorborg, a Swedish contralto. Today, I'd like to highlight the work of a contemporary contralto, Virginia Warnken. As far as I know, Ms. Warnken is relatively unknown, but since first hearing her voice, I have been captivated by it.

Contraltos are the rarest of voices: but, for me, possessed of a loveliness and gravity and grace quite unlike any of the other vocal ranges. Their rarity serves naturally to increase their value. Do listen to Ms. Warnken and wonder at her art: her confidence in her lower register, her evenness of tone, and her depth of feeling.

Mostly Mozart Festival, 2010

I just finished reading Jay Nordlinger's New York Chronicle review of the 2010 Mostly Mozart Festival in the  September issue of The New Criterion. Regretfully I cannot share any of my own opinions of this year's festival as I did not attend any of its concerts. My reasons for abstaining are not new but are quite simple: there is not enough Mozart and the concerts are not sensibly programmed.

As an exercise I have taken the liberty of assembling a few concerts which I believe do not share those defects. I have attempted to pay attention to practical matters of length and instrumentation.

Each grouping has a particular theme, so to speak: the evolution of the string quartet, a contrast of  harmonic practices, song and lyricism, counterpoint and liturgical style and evolution, influences on Beethoven, evolution of the concerto, and so forth.

Now I certainly do not expect these programs to be deliberately performed at the festival any time soon, but perhaps the complementarity of the pieces in each group will be to your edification and listening pleasure. Feel free to make your own suggestions in the comments!

1) 
Joseph Haydn
String Quartet Op. 33, No. 2 in E-flat

Mozart
String Quartet in G major, KV.387
String Quartet in D minor, KV.421
String Quartet in E-Flat major, KV.428

2) 
Joseph Haydn
Symphony No. 84 in E-flat

Mozart
Overture to La Clemenza di Tito, KV.620
Symphony No. 35 in D major, KV.385
Symphony No. 36 in C major, KV.425

3) 
Mozart 
Overture to Le nozze di Figaro, KV.492
Arias from Figaro: Porgi amor & E susanna non vien!. . . Dove sono
Rondo in D major
Piano Concerto No. 18 in B-flat, KV.456
Piano Concerto No. 23 in A major, KV.488

4)
Mozart 
Misericordias Domini, Offertory in D minor, KV.222/205a
Kyrie in D minor, KV.341
Adagio and Fugue in C minor, KV.546
Requiem in D minor, KV.626

5) 
Mozart
Piano Concerto No. 27 in B-flat, KV.595
String Quintet in E-flat, KV.614
String Quintet in D, KV.593
Clarinet Quintet in A, KV.581

6)
Mozart
Sinfonia Concertante in E-flat, KV.364/320d
Serenade No. 10 in B-flat, KV.361/370a

7) 
Mozart
String Quartet in A major, KV.464

Ludwig van Beethoven
String Quartet No. 5 (Op.18) in A major
String Quartet No. 15 (Op.132) in A minor

8)
C. P. E.  Bach 
Concerto in F minor

J. C. Bach
Concerto in A

Mozart
Piano Concerto in E-flat, KV.271
Piano Concerto in D minor, KV.466

Wagnerian Singing: Another Unscientific Comparison

By chance this morning, I came across a recording of Kerstin Thorborg (1896-1970), a Swedish contralto, singing Erda's warning to Wotan, "Weiche, Wotan, weiche."

The quality of her tone left me immediately impressed and awestruck. This, I thought, is how Wagner is to be sung. And we are fortunate, indeed, that we have recordings from the likes of Thorborg. To compare, here's a recording from Christa Ludwig, by any account, a fine mezzo, singing the same role.

Despite the improvement in recording technology, it's clear that Thorborg's singing is on a different plane than Ludwig's. Giving precise reasons why I think this is so would depend on my having a better knowledge of vocal technique than I do. But there may be an important question behind these off-the-cuff comparisons: why is it almost the universal consensus that Wagnerian singing has declined so swiftly since the early and mid-20th century? I offer no answers, only a blow upon a bruise: two more comparisons to drive home the difference.

First, Kirsten Flagstad (1895-1962) sings Isolde's Liebestod:

And Deborah Voigt here sings the same (I was unable to acquire a recording-quality video: it is a live performance.):

Finally, Set Svanholm (1904-1964) sings the Preisleid:

And Ben Heppner sings the same:

I intend no slander on Ludwig, Voigt, or Heppner. All of them are (and in the retired Ludwig's case, were) very fine singers, perhaps the finest we can expect for the present. But I suspect many more such adverse comparisons could be made: I entirely neglected the roles of Siegfried, Wotan, Hans Sachs, Lohengrin, and Parsifal. But I know of no one who seriously contends that there has not been a lamentable decline: the greatness seems to have gone out of Wagnerian singing. Despite our extraordinary recording technology, we seem to have arrived on the scene too late: the decline outran our technological advance. Perhaps it's only a passing thing, but we should at any rate be grateful for the recording jewels we do possess: the happenstance encounters with greatness that grace a beautiful Labor Day.

A Dangerous Fascination

Updated: Please see below.

I feel remiss for not mentioning in our recent discussion of Santayana's Three Philosophical Poets: Lucretius, Dante, Goethe two points of intersection with the dramas of Richard Wagner. Here will will look at the first point of comparison, regarding Dante and his treatment of the lovers Paolo and Francesca. Santayana writes,

Love itself dreams of more than mere possession; to conceive happiness, it must conceive a life to be shared in a varied world, full of events and activities, which shall be new and ideal bonds between the lovers. But unlawful love here cannot pass out into this public fulfillment. It is condemned to be mere possession–possession in the dark, without an environment, without a future. It is love among the ruins. And it is precisely this that is the torment of Paolo and Francesca–love among the ruins of themselves and all else they might have had to give to one another. Abandon yourself, Dante would say to us,–abandon yourself altogether to a love that is nothing but love, and you are in hell already. Only an inspired poet could be so subtle a moralist. Only a sound moralist could be so tragic a poet.

Canto V, 127

Noi leggiavamo un giorno per diletto
  di Lancialotto come amor lo strinse;
  soli eravamo e sanza alcun sospetto.

Per piu` fiate li occhi ci sospinse
  quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso;
  ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse.

Quando leggemmo il disiato riso
  esser basciato da cotanto amante,
  questi, che mai da me non fia diviso,

la bocca mi bascio` tutto tremante.
  Galeotto fu 'l libro e chi lo scrisse:
  quel giorno piu` non vi leggemmo avante.

Translation: Allen Mandelbaum

One day, to pass the time away, we read
  of Lancelot–how love had overcome him.
 We were alone, and we suspected nothing.

And time and time again that reading led
  out eyes to meet, and made our faces pale,
  and yet one point alone, defeated us.

When we had read how the desired smile
  was kissed by one who was so true a lover,
  this one, who never shall be parted from me,

while all his body trembled, kissed my mouth.
  A Gallehault indeed, that book and he
  who wrote it, too; that day we read no more."

The tale is of course a familiar one, as Dante himself tells us earlier in Canto V:

Vedi Paris, Tristano; e piu` di mille
ombre mostrommi e nominommi a dito,
ch'amor di nostra vita dipartille.


"See Paris, Tristan. . ."–and he pointed out
  and named to me more than a thousand shades
  departed from our life because of love.

But the comparison here is rather more specific:

Tristan und Isolde: Act II

Isolde! Geliebte!... Tristan! Geliebter!

Jon Vickers & Birgit Nilsson

BEIDE
Himmelhöchstes
Weltentrücken!

ISOLDE
Mein! Tristan mein!

TRISTAN
Mein! Isolde mein!

BEIDE
Mein und dein!
Ewig, ewig ein! 

The scene for all of its beauty is rather overwhelming and as such a little uncomfortable. The lovers are so seized, so heedless of time, everything. . . and we too grow transfixed by the scene which grows more and more detached and ethereal as the motives of transport and love weave together. Somewhat frighteningly effective, I think, which led Nietzsche to say how it exercises "such a dangerous fascination, such a spine-tingling and blissful (süssen) infinity." [1] (emphasis mine)


Indeed. "Why cannot these lovers shroud themselves forever in the sweet twilight of night and death that should indissolubly unite their souls and their destinies?!". . . Dante was filled with such pity he fainted after Francesca told her tale.

 René Kollo and Johanna Meier. 1991.

–

Update: I did not intend to suggest Wagner shared Dante's view of the lovers' situations, merely that  we might me inclined to compare them. Indeed one might find something quite different in Wagner, for example:

"The redemption through love that Wagner dramatizes in his mature operas is not an escape into another world in which the sufferings of this one are finally compensated. It is rather a demonstration of the value of this world by showing that something else is valued more. The sacred moment, in which death is scorned for the sake of love, casts its light back over the entire life that had led to it." –"Death-Devoted Heart: Sex and the Sacred in Wagner's Tristan and Isolde" by Roger Scruton. 2004.

See also:

Death Drive: Eros and Thanatos in Wagner's "Tristan und Isolde"
Linda Hutcheon & Michael Hutcheon
Cambridge Opera Journal, Vol. 11, No. 3. (Nov., 1999), pp. 267-293.

–

[1] Ecce Homo. Warum ich so klug, 6. http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/7202/pg7202.html