Nephi: Tree of Life

1 Nephi 8-11 includes Lehi's version of the Tree of Life followed by Nephi’s personal vision of same.

For nineteenth century readers, these chapters would have connected to the intense individualism within American thought in the early nineteenth century. 

The nineteenth century is the era of de Tocqueville, who arrived in the United States and observed separation of church and state in action. “Good golly,” he exclaimed (I am summarizing), “when religion is not imposed by the state, people are, what do you know, more religious!”

The American Revolutionary also supplied an ongoing narrative of intense individualism—rebellion against (or exodus from) the corruptness of the Old World. Even Puritan thought, which now strikes modern people as rather dictatorial, was about individual salvation, a single person coming to understand God’s grace through lifelong, intense personal analysis.

It is difficult to entirely capture—we are products of the early C.E. era, after all—the break here from communal sin and suffering that permeates social orders in antiquity. That urge remains, of course, what with Witch Trials and their modern equivalents: one bad apple rots the entire barrel! Twitter or whatever it is called now appears to be the ultimate expression of badgering everyone everywhere into some kind of compliant order.

But even Twitter is the product of individual offerings.

Individualism existed in antiquity and forms the basis of most legends and myths, but the social order—and therefore the social role—of populations was entirely presupposed. Kings were not scribes. Scribes were not peasants. Peasants weren’t anybody. If the king is saved, you are all saved. Might as well get on-board.

The Common Era concept of the individual as agent, who works out an individual salvation, is something that nineteenth-century readers would have entirely comprehended and embraced and that modern folks rather take for granted, even when they criticize the ideology.

Lehi’s Tree of Life rests on the premise of the individual agent. Although the “strait and narrow” path gives rise to images of intolerance and exclusivity, in Lehi’s dream it is a path that each person must walk alone, even if there are others ahead and behind: each of Lehi’s children and even his wife are referenced separately; at one point, he watches them struggle separately. The path is a person’s integrity or personal path in life—choice of profession, artistic endeavor, prophetic calling (see Joseph Smith)—whatever self-definition a person embraces and endures and sacrifices for.

The “great and spacious building”—on the other hand—is the ultimate collective. People get there individually but they stay in the “safe” Borg-like “in-group” that mocks individuals and scorns the difficult pathway that each individual treads.

Consequently, the “great and spacious building” houses detractors, sneerers, people who love labels, mockers, revilers, obnoxious cliques—those who prefer to watch others drown rather than make a life for themselves. (All members of the great and spacious building point in the same direction, as a mob would.)

There are other possible interpretations, of course, including the search for a single path to God’s grace, a search that was dear to the Smith family and many others. Although communal living was all the rage, early nineteenth-century readers still would have perceived such a search in individual terms, one that this group, this community carries out for the sake of each member. (Despite the Donner party haunting American mythology, many pioneers movements were quite successful: successful pioneers moved west within specific groups—religious groups, town groups, family groups.)

And few nineteenth-century readers would have balked at the fruit of the tree being happiness, love, and joy (as opposed to discipline, humiliation, and subjugation). Gotta love those Americans and their life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness mindsets! (Even the Puritans perceived the happiness and beauty of nature as the key to comprehending God’s grace.)

People Don't Change: Invention Doesn't Equal Replication

Murdoch Mysteries brings home a point made in Josephine Tey's Daughter of Time. Although humans tend to compartmentalize history to make it easier to learn, it doesn't unwind that way. Although Thomas More "belongs" to the Tudors, he was in fact approximately 7 when Henry VII was crowned. 

Likewise, Murdoch Mysteries makes clear how many inventors--from Edison and Tesla to the Wrights and Graham Bell overlapped. 

Again and again, usually when Pendrick shows up, the point is made that ideas or technology that we take for granted existed before now. The workability of these creations is often exaggerated but--as with Murdoch's "headset phones"--two points are underscored: 

The invention can't go anywhere without (1) smaller sizes; (2) replicability. 

People have come up with ideas, lots of ideas, before those ideas became commonplace. Probably humans from the earliest times were saying, "Wouldn't it be easier if I could call you with something more than my cupped hands? Hey, how about you invent that?!" 

Human inventiveness doesn't change. The actual available technology and the ability to easily use/handle that technology does. 

Which is the same point that Mike Rowe makes in his TedTalk!  (See minute 16:27: "Innovation without imitation is a complete waste of time.") 

1 Nephi: Scripture Reading from Reformation to Enlightenment

Bible literalism is a relatively late development in the production, collection, and canonization of scriptures. It popped up throughout the Middle Ages (and earlier), of course, but didn't take off until the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

The Reformation

Martin Luther was

quite argumentative.

Luther et al. challenged Rome's authority based on the belief that the scriptures were the only reliable source of God's truth. The matter was instantly made more complicated by not everyone understanding what the scriptures actually said (translations into everyday language were being made but not all translators had the same background in Greek, Hebrew, and Latin). Luther and Calvin believed that scripture was the ultimate authority--and were no more enthused than Catholic authorities at the variety of interpretations. 

The variety of interpretation happened anyway. For instance, some Protestants insisted on literalism regarding Christ's whereabouts ("right hand of God") while some insisted that the reference was only figurative. 

The Enlightenment

The Enlightenment—a highly varied movement itself—underscored the concept of a rational and reasonable deity. The associated assumptions have impacted everything from church organization to charity work to scripture reading. Many things we take for granted—such as forensics as evidence—are both older than the Enlightenment and were encouraged by the Enlightenment. (Theology, likewise, has always focused on producing a coherent explanation of God and God's acts.)

One of the Enlightenment's ideas was “evidential” religion, the idea that the natural world and rational argument could prove philosophical and, if necessary, religious truths. The idea influenced generations of believers, from literalists using the natural world and the Bible to prove the equivalent of Creationism to near-atheists using the natural world and Bible studies (coming out of Germany) to prove the non-existence of miracles. 

Not everyone was a fan of using the scriptures as proof. But "evidential" religion fit in with the Protestant Reformation's emphasis on going to the scriptures for proof. 

Nineteenth Century

In the nineteenth century, the Bible’s clarity was being challenged by aforementioned scholars. An increasing number of Protestants pointed out that Saint Paul was probably speaking hypothetically or metaphorically or specifically or historically when he spoke about “election.”

There were plenty of people in-between. Many religious believers honestly didn’t want to go in either direction. They didn’t want to discard rationality and evidence from the natural world—but why should that mean getting rid of the unseen, unknowable, and unprovable?

Since an understanding of quantum mechanics hadn’t yet shown up in the sciences, they had a point.

That is, many nineteenth-century religious communities were perfectly capable of rejecting the logical fallacy of either/or (one must either accept that all scriptural events are metaphors or one must accept that they are meant to mean exactly what a current translation argues in a one word=one definition sense without any room for debate or context). 

Nineteenth-century readers were also open to a third possibility: more revelations, more visions, more scriptures, and more to come. 

In 1 Nephi, Nephi defines the brass plates as "spoken by the mouth of all the holy prophets..delivered unto [the prophets] by the Spirit and power of God” rather than spoken by God...delivered as incontestable words. The prior phrase places the translator on the non-literal side of the argument with the addition of a possible compromise.  

God may not change. But that doesn't mean that humans fully understand the mind/nature of God--which, as in the Reformation--opens religion to endless interpretation. 

People Don't Change: History Doesn't Work on a Straight Line

One of the basic truths of life is that "eras" don't come about overnight. 

C.S. Lewis attempted to explain this point when he discussed the medieval age and the Renaissance: nobody woke up one morning and said, "Oh, it's 14_ _ or 15_ _. It must be the Renaissance!" Furthermore, ideas that emerged in the Renaissance originated (and were discussed) generations earlier. For that matter, ideas that held firm during the medieval era continue into the present day, where they are not automatically dismissed as uneducated superstition. 

Interestingly, many current historians agree. But at the time, Lewis was kind of a radical. 

I recently delved into hunter-gatherer culture and found (to my delight but not my astonishment) that the Agricultural Revolution didn't take place one morning in 8000 BCE. In fact, for many years (thousands) , a combination of hunter-gatherer techniques and agriculture took place--in the same way that cities began BEFORE the Fertile Crescent was entirely settled. 

Nothing ever stays in one place.  

And I'm sure that various people over those thousands of years bemoaned changes in approach/technology (that seem all the same to us) and/or touted a change in approach/technology as THE WAY OF THE FUTURE (a change that has since entirely vanished) and/or looked back to a "Golden Age" (that probably never existed) and so on and so forth...

Enos & The Wilderness

Enos & The Wilderness

Heading into the wilderness to gain insight is not merely a product of modern life and Sondheim’s Into the Woods. The ancient world is full of gurus stepping away from agricultural and urban centers to find themselves and effect contact with deity.

However, one major difference exists between then and now. For much of history, that stepping away was a risk, challenge, and sacrifice. The praying petitioner was stripped of day-to-day concerns and self-protection. It is possible that hunter-gatherers included unorthodox members who traveled alone for the fun of traveling alone. It is also possible that such members were considered practically pathological and usually ended up dead.

When Saint Anthony the Great made his way into the “wilderness”—as numerous gurus had done before him—what mattered was the arduous nature of the experience. Nature was not one’s friend. Nature was, quite literally, the thing that would end your life.

Charles G Finney

In All the Trouble in the World, P.J. O’Rourke writes about Petrarch’s hike up Mount Ventoux, “During his brief sojourn upon the Ventoux peak, the poet stood astride the medieval and modern ages—the first European to climb a mountain for the heck of it, and the last to feel like a jerk for doing so.”

Joseph Smith

Acclaims to nature exist in early Western and Eastern literature. In one of my master’s courses, the professor and some students tried to convince the rest of us that nobody was awestruck by the Grand Canyon until Western civilization told them they should be. So much nonsense! (Academic theories, despite the jargon, are often disturbingly self-centered.) Multiple Native American tribes centered their religious ceremonies in the Grand Canyon. They weren’t exactly doing it in the middle of Kansas.

Okay, maybe they did—but my point stands: a remarkable natural occurrence is a remarkable natural occurrence, from waterfalls to the aurora borealis. Observant humans have always commented on nature’s awe-inspiring products—just look at cave paintings.

What changes are the ways in which those wonders are addressed. Human beings are social animals. Once one person goes into the wilderness not to be challenged or to die but to be inspired and comforted, everybody is going to start going for the same reasons until the act becomes a custom, and they will use the language (as both writers and translators) that relates to that custom.

The customs of wilderness-as-fear and wilderness-as-inspiration run through the nineteenth century. Jonathan Edwards—despite terrifying a generation of Congregationalists with “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God”—was a big believer in nature’s spiritual influence. A Puritan’s goal was to undergo a personal conversion and/or reckoning. Nature could help that individual comprehend God’s glory and God’s love.

The connection between contemplation and nature would take off with the Transcendentalists. Though he likely would have disapproved of some of their notions, they are Edwards’ philosophical heirs.

Nineteenth-century readers would have related to both purposes: inspiration/comfort—personal challenge/sacrifice--which run concurrently through Nephi and Enos’s experiences: sunk deep into my heart, wrestle, hungered, guilt swept away, pour out, struggling, unshaken, labored. The Wilderness is an unfriendly place where one struggles. The Wilderness is a place where one retreats and prays and learns.

1 Nephi 4-6: The Wilderness

 As with posts about utopias, I am posting excerpts from my Book of Mormon from the Nineteenth Century Viewpoint blog. 

I believe that readers can best understand and appreciate The Book of Mormon by examining it from the perspective of nineteenth-century readers. What questions were they asking? What religious problems concerned them? 

1 Nephi 4-6: The Wilderness

Nineteenth-century readers would have reacted positively to the idea of wilderness as freedom. This perspective is often applied only to white settlers in North America--and Manifest Destiny, articulated in 1845, was used to justify the practice of white settlers steadily moving west. However, lots and lots of people—including escaped ex-slaves—also moved west. Irish immigrants, Blacks, and displaced Native Americans occupied the fringes of society as well as a number of religious groups. 

It helps to realize that those “fringes”--what was labeled “the West”--kept moving. At one point in the 1800s, “the West” was western New York and Ohio. It then became the Mississippi River Valley and then what we now refer to as the Mid-West. (California became a self-described utopia and sophisticated “other” coast fairly early on—though it was also perceived as part of “the West.”) 

The Gold Rush, naturally, contributed to the idea that traveling into the West equaled a new start, but that metaphor impacted North American pioneering as early as the Mayflower (possibly earlier, if one goes back to the Vikings). It links to the Puritan idea of “exodus” from a corrupt society. Methodist preachers--circuit riders--were immensely popular in the nineteenth century while their stable, elite, (well) paid, stationary counterparts on the east coast were perceived as missing the plot. 

Consequently, nineteenth-century readers would likely have reacted positively to Lehi’s decision to move his family away from perceived urban corruption into a potentially dangerous wilderness. And the thread of violence that inhabits these chapters would have made more sense to nineteenth-century readers than it often does to modern readers. The “Wild” West was truly “Wild” in some cases and the attitude “better left alone to take care of themselves” from state and Federal governments (pre-Civil War) was prevalent.  

However, the wilderness was not embraced because it was nice or cute. Though indigenous people and trackers and traders saw the wilderness as an approachable and useful, many North American newcomers--when faced with so much risk--demonstrated a more medieval than Enlightened mindset, namely: 

One goes into the Wilderness and dies heroically (and/or becomes a hermit--see Saint Anthony--and dies sacrificially) or one goes into the Wilderness and fights off all contenders as part of a social order. 

The tensions here between wilderness as freedom and wilderness as anarchy personified--wilderness as necessary refuge and wilderness as wholly threatening and dangerous exile--as well as the tensions between individuality and organized leadership, pacifism and violence--continue through The Book of Mormon. Nineteenth-century readers could relate. 

Historical Disillusionment

Repost from 2005 with edits.

***

"There may have been more than three Wise Men!"

In terms of things to get disillusioned by, history facts have never been high on my list. There is a teaching approach in which instructors "surprise" their students with "what you think you know!" versus "what is really true!" enlightenment. 

When the instructor is part of that process (I learned something so interesting when I was researching...), I don't mind. 

But when the approach is a form of "debunking," it simply makes me tired.

So-called "debunking" frankly seems rather streamlined. The better type of instructor isn't going to say, "Everything you thought you knew is false!" because, well, actually, it might not be. (I've become quite fond of Great Courses lately because the instructors are summarizing others' research as well as their own, and they often try to be objective about what people have believed on a topic over the years.) 

Another problem with the "debunking" approach is an issue that I encountered in books by an author I usually enjoy--the author commented in passing, "He wasn't most people's idea of an Asian man." 

She then proceeded to describe the character in accordance with several Asian characters I've encountered in manga and on Viki.

Likewise, in my master's program, instructors would say things like, "Well, this is most people's image of..." as in, "This is most people's image of the West." 

I can never figure out who these people are. I always thought the West was a big, scary desert that the Mormons irrigated (part of it, anyway). I never assumed that prostitutes had hearts of gold or that mining wasn't incredibly dangerous or that people didn't get disillusioned and heartachy and downright lonely. Along the same lines, I never assumed that the Puritans were one monolithic group of believers or that New Englanders were devoid of racism in the 19th century. But I am given that information as if it will surprise me.

I like to learn about stuff, but in order to learn I don't feel it is first necessary to believe (1) there is a monolithic version of history out there that my current instructors will replace with ANOTHER monolithic version; (2) that I'm making all kinds of erroneous assumptions about stuff all the time about everything. 

Both points assume that education's purpose is not to expand but to override. 

Take the initial quote. I grew up with the classic Christmas story.About the time I hit teenagehood, I encountered, "There could have been more than three Wise Men!" statement with a kind of wink, wink, nudge, nudge implication: We have insight! Aren't people doofusi for not knowing what we know?

My reaction was, Sure, yeah, whatever, neat. Maybe growing up in the home that I did, I got used to hearing history discussed from multiple angles. As it is, the idea that there is more to a story, that a story and reality may not match up completely never surprised me. Not because I think people are big, fat liars. Just...Why would I get upset? History is confusing and complicated with lots of stuff happening at the same time; people's memories are bad enough with what happened last week, let alone what happened 1000 years ago. 

Subsequently, I've never faulted teachers for giving me the simplistic version of an event. Whenever I do any kind of research, I go to the kid's section first and read the "simple" version anyway. Got to have something to build on! I can understand people being a bit more upset that they got the "Caucasian-only" version, but since I'm Caucasian, again I've just figured: got to start somewhere! 

But then, it never occurred to me that I should believe everything I was told. Even in high school. It never occurred to me that there wasn't more to come. 

Behind the arguments against the simplistic version seems to be the idea that the simplistic version will KEEP another version from people. But in a country with libraries in nearly every town, not trying to expand one's knowledge is a choice, no matter who is speaking and no matter their ideology, especially since, sometimes, shutting down the "wrong" version results not in the "right" version but in...nothing.  

Better Walt Disney's fairy tales than no fairy tales. 

People Don't Change: Mesopotamian Sons

Cultures change. Technology changes. Understanding changes. 

Human nature truly doesn't change.  

Professor Amanda H. Podany of Great Course's Ancient Mesopotamia: Life in the Cradle of Civilization describes a kingly father and his letters to his sons. His sons were sub-kings since Mesopotamian dynasties were comprised of cities. Sometimes, kings ruled over multiple cities. Sometimes, they were subject to other kings. 

What is hilarious is not just the king's desire to dole out advice--doling out advice definitely seems to be part of the human condition and quite specific to certain personality types. Podany even says that the father "tended to micro-manage his son's administrations." 

What is more hilarious is that the father-king acts like all fathers in history despite the differing context. When one of his sons wants to build more idols, the father-king points out that more idols means more religious ceremonies which require more sacrifices of oxen and sheep except "you keep telling me you don't have enough oxen and sheep!"

Translation: Where are you going to get the money? From me?  

 The father-king also complains that the son can't make his own decisions: "Is there no beard on your chin?"

And he compares his sons to each other. So the older son tells the younger, "Write to me before you write to Dad." 

Human nature is a constant.  

People Don't Change: The Proliferation of Financial Records

Ancient Egypt was hugely popular in the nineteenth century--and still is. Professor Amanda Podany in her Great Courses CD and DVD on Ancient Mesopotamia comments that people are often confused by her focus: Mesopotamia rather than Egypt, even though Ancient Mesopotamia is the older culture. 

Ancient Egypt, in all truth, is somewhat misleading about what the ancient world was like. Those pyramids! They don't just loom over the landscape, they loom in importance over the history and the lives of Ancient Egyptians. (By the time  Hatshepsut comes along, the pyramids were to the Egyptians of that time period what the medieval era is to us. To Ramses, the pyramids were ancient.) Yes, the pyramids were huge work projects, employing a great many people, and yes, they reveal beliefs about the afterlife... 

But Ancient Mesopotamia reveals what truly pushed human civilization forward from Day 1. The majority of cuneiform tablets from the area are about...

Accounts! 

I can confirm this reality. Reviewing my parents' paperwork, the largest file (just as large if not larger than the letters and journals and stored children's artwork) is...

BILLS! Account agreements. Banking forms. The file would be even larger if some of the documents hadn't be shredded.  

Archaeologists love this stuff, by the way. 1,000 years from now, archaeologists and anthropologists will try figure out our lives--how we lived, where, on what--from tax documents. Which doesn't mean the more imaginative, family-oriented, individual, belief and art-type stuff doesn't exist: imagine trying to figure out everything about United States culture or history from those ubiquitous newsprint circulars that show up in our mailboxes every weekend. Archaeologists and anthropologists could figure out quite a lot from those circulars! But what they figured out would only scratch the surface. And they wouldn't be able to guess that I throw out most of mine--I don't even use them to line the cage of my non-existent hamster. 

What survives the MOST is, itself, up for interpretation. 

Valentine's Day & Commercialism Yadda Yadda Yadda

Last Man Standing has a very funny episode in which Mike--who never gives gifts or cards on Valentine's Day because he thinks the whole thing is a sham--surprises Vanessa by giving her a Valentine's Day gift. 

Blue Bloods has an episode where the single members of the family get together on Valentine's Day for a dinner, after Nikki realizes she went too far trying to set up her mother with her mother's boss.

Both good episodes--but I confess, I don't get it. I've never seen Valentine's Day as some kind of unfair, evil holiday that is trying to make single people feel bad. I don't see it as all-important. But I don't see it as something set up to make me feel personally lacking. (And it is an excuse to buy chocolate.) 

I also don't get upset about the commercial aspect since I don't believe in "pure" holidays anyway. The moment the printing press made cards replicable and reasonably cheap and more than 2 people started sending them, entrepreneurs said, "Oh, hey, that could make us money!"

Shoot, the moment Caveperson 1 gave Caveperson 2 a pebble, someone started marketing pebbles. 

We are all Ferengi at heart.

Of course, I never saw Mother's Day as a con either, and I object in a vague general kind of way to people turning it into Women's Day. If a culture is truly diverse, it can handle all the holidays and festivals, invented and inherited, that people throw out there. 

In 1897, Catherine Mossday sent a Valentine's card. It wasn't merely a card sent on Valentine's--it directly evokes the day or season. It held the following message:

“Mr Brown, As I have repeatedly requested you to come I think you must have some reason for not complying with my request, but as I have something particular to say to you I could wish you make it all agreeable to come on Sunday next without fail and in doing you will oblige your well wisher.”

Maybe people would complain less about the holiday if Hallmark tried those sentiments! 

Historical Fiction and the Tipping Point of Belief

In the novel Robots of Dawn by Isaac Asimov, Asimov's detective Elijah Bailey has to investigate a murder on the planet, Aurora. On his way to Aurora, Elijah reads books of Aurorian history/sociology, etc. However, when he arrives, he discovers that the books didn't prepare him for basic, everyday stuff, such as public bathrooms being unisex. This basic, everyday stuff never occurred to the historians/sociologists because it's the kind of stuff they take for granted.

This is the fundamental difference between historical fiction and fiction written in a historical period. No matter how hard we try, we can never really capture the same feel or attitudes of writers like Austen, Dickens, and Walter Scott because we aren't products of their time periods, and we don't know what to take for granted.

When PBS was running its House series, stuff-for-granted was an ongoing issue. Interestingly enough, the best of the series (1940s and Manor House) insisted that the participants follow certain rules. The participants weren't just stuck in a time period and expected to enjoy/endure it. They had to agree to comply with appropriate social protocols (the servants had to behave as and do the work of servants; the WWII family had to endure air-raids and suffer food privations).

I think writers of historical fiction can capture the tone and feel of a time period's mindset. I think they can even give us insights into that mindset. I also think it can never be a perfect fit. While writing Mr. B Speaks! (a tribute to Pamela), I entertained the possibility that my hero would make a dismissive statement about politicians (whom he doesn't care for) by referring to Wilberforce and "those yapping members" who won't shut up about slavery.

I couldn't do it, partly because actually my hero wouldn't care about slavery one way or the other (none of his money is invested in the West Indies), partly because his wife would likely support Wilberforce, but also because from a modern 21st century point of view, such an attitude makes him an awful human being. I could argue that as a product of his culture, the hero would have perceived Wilberforce and his supporters (whom I admire) as simply one cause/voice/idea amongst many, but that knowledge doesn't leap the empathy gap.

Black Adder was brave enough to tackle this idea. In Black Adder the Third, when Baldrick runs for Parliament, this conversation ensues between a fellow politician and a (real) television journalist:

Ivor Biggun: We're for the compulsory serving of asparagus at breakfast, free corsets for the under-5s and the abolition of slavery.
Vincent Hanna, His Own Great Great Great Grandfather: I'm sure many moderate people would respect your stand on asparagus, but what about all this extremist nonsense about abolishing slavery?
Ivor Biggun: Oh, that! We just put that in for a joke! See you next year!

Still, historical fiction can never completely mesh with the mindset of a historical time period, no matter how brave the writer.

Which doesn't mean it shouldn't try.

I think every reader has a tipping point, a point where the non-historical mindset becomes too much--the story isn't history anymore; it's just modernism dressed up in historical clothes. The tipping point is different for everyone. I am quite ready to accept non-accuracies in books when the writers don't pretend they are doing anything else but having fun. I despise non-accuracies where the good characters are good ONLY because they reflect modern ways of thinking.

So I quite like Ellis Peters' Cadfael series because although Cadfael is a trifle progressive for his time period, Peters never fails to bring him back to a core reality. And she only allows him to be progressive over issues that were raised in that time period. And, as a monk, he is a true believer. (Peters knew how to write 1960's "all spiritual beliefs are relative" stuff; she didn't do it with Cadfael because it wouldn't have been accurate, and she was a reputable historian.)

In comparison, I get mighty tired of books where women become suffragettes/pro-women's rights/pro-contemporary-progressive-issues without having to suffer any of the actual consequences of the time period and/or without understanding their choices from within the mindset of the time period. (That type of characterization can be done; it's just very difficult.) I couldn't stand The Red Tent because the women were so hopelessly modern and the men so hopelessly not. Geez, people, if you're going to play this game, play it fair.

On the other hand, Amelia Peabody in Elizabeth Peters' Egypt series is a good example of a "modern" woman who, at least in the first few books (I haven't read more), doesn't stray too far from opinions, comprehension, and issues that women grappled with in the late nineteenth century (the nineteenth century produced some very interesting and independent women!).

Back to books I get tired of: those which simply transfer modern arguments to historical settings. I gave up on one author over dialog supposedly taking place in approximately 100 C.E.; the exchange sounded like that between between a modern-day "free thinker" and modern-day fundamentalist. (The author also had the characters use and refer to the Christian Cross as if it meant the same thing to them as it does to us in the same way after 2000 years of Christian iconography. Um, no.)

On the other hand, I quite like Deanna Raybourn's Lady Julia series. She may take a few liberties, but the attitudes are consistent and don't take sudden leaps into implausibility. I feel the same way about C.S. Harris' Sebastian St. Cyr mysteries.

In any case, the "oh, that doesn't work!" wince is different for everyone. It may depend on what history you have read; it may just depend on what feels right at the gut level. But it's there. As long as there is historical fiction (may it continue forever), the tipping point of belief/disbelief won't ever go away.

Liking Versus Criticism or, Updated Title, Stop Caring What Other People Think About Art

I advocate people stop 

enjoying art based on ratings.

Try stuff out! 

I have reached "N" on A-Z List 8 (Books to Movies), which selections are drawn from A-Z List 2. On A-Z List 2, I mention that I have never gotten into Andre Norton, which I regret since there are so many books by Norton out there. 

The issue here dovetails with another series of posts: books I like even though nobody else does. Books I don't like even though they are popular or critically acclaimed.

Norton is an excellent example of the ultimate failure of literary criticism: liking has little to do with what the supposed-people-in-charge say. 

Far too many times, critics insist, "If I don't like something personally, it must be because it is no good." Reasoning from the personal to the general is a survival mechanism. It is also unreliable.

Yet we humans remain perfect little Victorians, insisting that today, right now, in us, is the objective best of times and worst of times; in the latter case, we become subject, as Eugene states, to "the near-universal idea, especially beloved on the academic left, that there existed a point in [the past] when All Was Good"

The fascinating mural from Criminal Minds contains

overlapping elements of a single person's life.

One Summer by Bill Bryson captures the reality: dig into history at any one point in time--1927, 1803, 321 BCE--and thousand of events begin to crowd themselves onto the stage of one's brain. Prohibition, Babe Ruth, Mount Rushmore, Herbert Hoover, Mississippi Floods, President Coleridge, Lindbergh, Al Capone. Murder cases. Political rallies. Political backstabbing. Boxers. Random people sitting on flagpoles. Model A Fords. Eventually, there's too much. Even Bill Bryson can't handle it all.

Humans (not just historians) smooth it all out, highlight the important stuff, slide names into biographies, and move on. How else could we cope with life's complications? (It is unfortunate that the result of this necessary leveling is a belief that "life really was like that.")

Back to literary criticism:

Likewise, although a case can be made for a book being "good" or "bad" (and I am advocate of making the case)--the unreliable habits of readers indicate how little that literary criticism matters in people's personal lives. On Amazon, beloved popular series almost all have 4/5 stars. And on IMDB, over time, everything eventually rates a "B" (with a few outliers on either side), no matter how popular (or personally beloved).

One of my favorite books growing up.

The book has 27 other fans on Amazon.

It was out of print for many years.

There are plenty of books that I love that other people happen to love too. There are also plenty of books that I love without any expectation that they will be beloved by anyone else. Along the same lines, Andre Norton isn't my cup of tea but is for plenty of other people. Good for her!

As far as literary enjoyment is concerned, "taste" rather than "good/bad" seems to determine not what lasts (gets streamlined) but what matters in everyday life. In one of his tomes, Stephen Pinker argues that evolutionary psychology (examining the rise and fall of civilizations from a macro point of view) explains the world overall and would appear to wipe out the need for free will. But he argues (I am paraphrasing), Isn't it better for us in our day to day lives to behave as if free-will exists?

I would add--because, after all, that's what going to happen anyway. 

In the day-to-day, people make choices--career choices, marriage choices, housing choices, pet choices, reading choices, viewing choices--that belong to them alone. Hence everything--from literature to civilizations--remains messy. The macros only appears after enough time has passed: the rough edges get smoothed out, and the important events (or books) rise to the surface.

But thinking that we know the macro while we are living in the micro--that's where the little Victorian in all of us insists on taking a nosedive into the void.

Better to make the best choices you can, live by the moral code you've selected, and read what you want. The macro will take care of itself. 

More about Ancient Greece: Gary Corby

Gary Corby wrote a series of books based in Athens in the brief period I refer to in a prior post: about 50 years of Athenian democracy.

I read through them all with great delight, only to be disappointed that the last was written in 2017 and no other book was forthcoming. 

Corby might be planning another. But he also may have decided to end with Death on Delos, which in fact hints at the beginnings of the end: in history, Athens decided to protect itself--and focus on building an empire--by removing the "treasury" for all the Greek city states from Delos to Athens. 

Athens kept the Persians at bay until the Spartans got fed up with Athens and used Persian funding to attack that city state, leading eventually to...Alexander the Great, actually. But not democracy. 

Corby may have decided that watching a fairly impressive experiment fail was a little too sad. His protagonist, Nicoloas, is the older brother of the (very irritating) youthful Socrates. Nicoloas is married to a strong and intelligent priestess, Diotima. They do marry. The series ends when Diotima gives birth. 

To continue the series would likely see Nicoloas go off to war. He would likely die long before his younger brother, who died several decades later at age 70ish. 

Socrates and his execution by poison is part of the failing state. My basic view of true pluralism is, "If you can't handle your blowhards, you ain't working." Athenian democracy had stopped working.  

Introduces one of my favorite villains!

I recommend Corby's series. What I like is that his main characters, Nicoloas and Diotima. are quite appealing and entirely in favor of Athenian culture. They are pro-democracy but they are pro the democracy they know. So they have slaves. And everyone mostly accepts that a father determines what happens to everybody in a family. Nicoloas and Diotima's families hover on the edge of what we would call the lower middle class and don't have many resources to fall back on. 

In fact, much of the lifestyle that Nicoloas and Diotima take for granted would appall us moderns. But Corby manages to make it "modern" (Athens was more democratic than its neighbors and, therefore, more like what we understand) and historical at the same time. The protagonists are self-aware, yet also part of the world in which they reside. They take some things for granted, such as the need for a patron and for land to pull themselves up economically. They question other things, such as different forms of governance. They are appalled by other cultures since they see themselves as special and unique, and they are frankly right in some cases.  

Writing historical fiction isn't easy. Corby succeeds!

Current-Day Literalism: The Accusation of Antinomianism Never Dies

On Papers, I write about certain tendencies in our culture that, these days, arise often from the left. I stress, however, that I've encountered many of these trends in my relatively conservative church. That is, the right bears responsibility.

Those trends include the following:

 

1. Doomsdaying: the end of times is nigh, right now, right around the corner!

 

2. Body versus spirit: the body is sinful and disgusting and utterly malleable (it can be hacked up) while the spirit--the true "I"--is noble and free and sinless.

 

3. Conflation of "know" and "believe" so that debatable claims become entirely undebatable.

 

4. Lack of context, not only for historical events but for current statements--hence Coleman Hughes's difficulty in explaining the not difficult concept of "reasonable doubt" to offended pundits.

 

5. Utopia as the immediate end goal: WE will get you into heaven (or what constitutes heaven).

 

I am adding a sixth:

 

6. Literalism.

 

The bravest woman in the universe, J.K. Rowling praised the book Lolita at one point for being a well-written masterpiece. I don't care for the book myself but lots of people enjoy books I don't care for. However, in the world of "I'm not safe until others conform," apparently a bunch of "youths" have gotten all freaked out. How dare she!

 

Kat Rosenfield from The Free Press describes these youths as "utterly confounded not just by the difference between depiction and endorsement but by the expression of any thought that contains two or more moving parts."

Rosenfield's quote reminded me of a fantastic quote from Andrew Doyle's The New Puritans:

 

Good criticism, on the other hand, is able to balance the subjectivity of personal temperament with the objectivity of professional experience. To put it another way, a critic who is offended is unlikely to offer much in the way of insight. According to Vyvyan Holland, Oscar Wilde's second son, his father's novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890), was universally condemned by critics on the basis that it was 'prurient, immoral, vicious, coarse, and crude'. When the novel was republished, Wilde added a preface as a form of rebuttal, which should be required reading for all critics today. In it, he explains that vice and virtue are simply 'materials' for artists, reminding us that the depiction of immorality is not necessarily an endorsement of such behavior. Even if it were, why should it matter? 'There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book,' Wilde proclaims. 'Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.' (my emphasis)

 

The inability to separate "that book states that/that person states that" from "how horrible is that book/person!" has a long history that likely goes back to the beginnings of speech, maybe earlier. In my research on religious concepts in early American history, I have encountered the term "antinomian" again and again and again. Although there were actual Antinomians, the terms was generally used as an attack word (rather like "fascist" these days and making that point does not mean I favor fascism). "Antinomian" was used against theologians/religious groups that apparently had a flexible morality.

 

What is so fascinating is that term had almost nothing to do with how God actually might operate.

 

So if some Calvinists argued for unconditional election, the response was "but you're letting sinners off the hook--they will carry out numerous degenerate and bad acts because they are already saved. Antinomians!" 

 

And if the Methodists argued for universal salvation, the response was "but if everyone is saved, what kind of community are you promoting? What will you end up accepting? Thin end of the wedge! Antinomians!" 

 

If one responded, "We are talking about God. Can't God save people however God wants?" the response (post-Enlightenment) would be "but God is reasonable!" 

 

And if one responded, "Why does God have to be reasonable? I mean, yes, I like the idea, but who are you to tell God what to be?" the response would be...

"Antinomian!" 

 

That is, the human condition seems to entail entire groups of people who perceive any statement not in terms of its topic, its arguments, its context, its ability to generate ideas and lead to contemplation but as a moral argument that indicates not only the future morality of the human race but the actual morality of the person who dared say it.

 

It's very hard to talk about just-stuff with people these days.

What About Religion?

 

As I mention in the longer post, I have encountered the above listed positions/behaviors at church--though, in fairness, the church of my childhood was LESS PRONE to 6. Debate without an automatic moral indictment was not unusual.

 

By the time I hit my 20s, however, I was encountering "if you said that, you must be implying that you are morally like this" alongside arguments praising relativistic emotion-laden reactions to scripture. It was all very ironic (in fairness, the Calvinists had the same difficulty resolving the tension between "proper" trained responses and idiosyncratic responses). At one point, a Sunday School teacher tutted my mother not for the content of her statement but for making it in the first place (and yes, he had a label ready).

 

As in the longer post, I address why religions have some justification for the behaviors I've listed. Regarding literalism and accusations of antinomianism, religion is to a degree focused on moral codes. My entirely personal view is that the purpose of a religion is to aid humans in getting closer to god/gods/God. The purpose of religion, in other words, is NOT to get people into heaven (and yes, one can believe in heaven and still believe that heaven is God's territory, not the territory of mortal institutions). 

 

But history is filled with many thoughtful theologians who would question my position (and theologians who would agree with me). In the nineteenth century in America especially (post-1776), religion as the training ground for citizens of a relatively free society was something of a given. Whether or not it worked--since plenty of people went on believing whatever they wanted--is debatable. But preparing people to be well-behaved social creatures was perceived as one of religion's purposes.

 

Unfortunately for religion (and current-day conversations), within that mindset, theology often becomes not what God is/does but what God OUGHT to be/do:

 

God (utopia, the "right side of history," righteousness) in our pocket.

 

I'm not a fan of that mindset. 

My point here, however, is that both the right and left (all human beings really) need to take responsibility for the tendency to equate "you pointed that out" with "that means you are morally degenerate" and desist in order for conversations to actual be about things themselves.

You know, in order for conversations to be actually interesting. 

 

Battle Truths Throughout History

I watched a number of documentaries about battles this winter, and a few "truths" became clear. 

If one wants to win a battle...

Flexibility is more important than numbers. Technology also helps.

 

A number of battles, such as the Greeks versus the Persians, have resulted in the supposedly obvious winner crushing itself with its larger numbers. (The same happened at Agincourt.) Too many ships/troops/horses can actually create a self-imposed blockade: no way out. 

 

The ability to alter plans continually also helps, such as Drake and Howard continually changing tactics towards the Spanish Armada. 

 

RADAR helped tremendously with the Battle of Britain or Channel War though Dan and Peter Snow point out that HOW the information about planes was handled and distributed was just as important. Flexibility again.

 

Putting the most experienced commanders in charge is more important than their status. 

 

The point here may seem obvious. But the Spanish Armada was led by a good commander on land up against a good commander on land and a totally experienced maverick commander (Drake) on sea. Sidenote: The hopelessly stupid Charge of the Light Brigade was led by a not-good commander who was only there due to status. He survived. Almost all his men died. 

 

If your army is not disciplined, do not go out onto an open field to fight an army that is. 

The history of the Roman Republic and Empire was lots and lots of people figuring out this point too late. Boudicca did a great deal of damage and destroyed about three cities before encountering the Roman army in a final battle. And the Celts didn't stand a chance. The disciplined-at-all-costs Roman army didn't mind taking the defensive, if that meant they had the advantage. They could wait out anyone.

 

Interestingly enough, the most evenly matched face-to-face battle I learned about this past winter was the Battle of Hastings, Saxons against Normans, 1066. Both commanders were intelligent, experienced, tough, willing to fight with their troops, and both were invested in tight smart maneuvers. King Harold Godwinson lost, in part, because, well, he died--but also because his troops broke formation towards the end of the day. But the battle was an even match for most of that day.

Supplies and weapons matter. 

 

Beware going too far into enemy territory. The South learned this truth at Gettysburg. Likewise, the Jacobites at Culloden lacked food supplies and had to hunt up food before the battle. 

 

True, Drake and Howard sent burning ships into the Spanish Armada. However, despite way too many Hollywood movies falling back on fire at sea, they didn't send in the burning ships right away because burning a bunch of your ships is...burning a bunch of your ships. Not a smart thing to do if it can't actually accomplish anything. What it accomplished here was a great deal: the Spanish Armada suffered NOT because any of its ships burned but because the formation scattered to prevent catching fire. The attack was almost entirely psychological. 

 

Regarding supplies, the Spanish Armada was broken in the channel. It was entirely decimated during its return home due in part to lack of food and fresh water on the ships. 

 

Likewise, fuel made all the difference to the German bombers in the Battle of Britain.

 

Weather plays a role. 

 

The role that weather has played with the channel may seem obvious: when William was able to cross; winds in favor of the English against the Spanish Armada. Weather has impacted other battles. The mud at Agincourt after heavy rains, for instance, slowed down the French cavalry.

 

Finally, lack of patience plays a huge role.

 

The desire for a dramatic win is a death knell. Harold's decision to immediately move south with exhausted soldiers to face off against William was likely a mistake. Hitler's decision to go after London rather than RAF airfields was thankfully a mistake. Eric Cline tells the story of a Crusader who chased after the enemy because the first time, when he didn't, he got accused of cowardice. The first time was a stalemate. The second, his soldiers got slaughtered. 

 

And so on. Prince Charles retook Scotland with little difficulty. If he had stayed there, what would have been the difference?