Alan Jacobs's Blog, page 20

Auden’s allusions and my errors

So I’ve done three Auden Critical Editions now, and each time I have experienced much joy in the labor … but also some frustration afterwards when discovering things I missed. It’s not surprising, of course! Auden was staggeringly widely-read and had an exceptionally adhesive mind: almost anything that entered into it was retained and later put to use. The sheer allusiveness is overwhelming. I can’t think of a better example than my recent post on Saturn and Mimas — only by pure accident did I discover the origin of a strange passage in The Age of Anxiety, one that could easily have remained inexplicable forever. And of course I didn’t discover it in time to put it in the book.  

There are many ways to be wrong, some of them more excusable than others. I missed another reference in The Age of Anxiety simply because I am not British, which worries me, because there’s nothing I can do about being a non-Brit. 

But I’m furious with myself that I missed the reference to Pausanias in “Winds” — the first of the “Bucolics,” the sequence with which The Shield of Achilles begins — that Adam Roberts caught. And I’m annoyed that there’s no way to go back and insert it!  

And here’s another one from that same volume, just shared with me by my friend Tim Larsen. The long lyric “Ode to Gaea” concludes with this image: “That tideless bay where children / Play bishop on a golden shore.” As Tim reminded me — I perhaps should say told me, because the story is so vague in my mind that I barely remember the outlines — this is a reference to a famous event in the early life of St. Athanasius: 

Once when Bishop Alexander was celebrating the day of Peter Martyr in Alexandria, he was waiting in a place by the sea after the ceremonies were over for his clergy to gather for a banquet.

There he saw from a distance some boys on the seashore playing a game in which, as they often do, they were mimicking a bishop and the things customarily done in church. Now when he had gazed intently for a while at the boys, he saw that they were performing some of the more secret and sacramental things. He was disturbed and immediately ordered the clergy to be called to him and showed them what he was watching from a distance. Then he commanded them to go and get all the boys and bring them to him.

When they arrived, he asked them what game they were playing and what they had done and how. At first they were afraid, as is usual at that age, and refused, but then they disclosed in due order what they had done, admitting that some catechumens had been baptized by them at the hand of Athanasius, who had played the part of bishop in their childish game. Then he carefully inquired of those who were said to have been baptized what they had been asked and what they had answered, and the same of him who had put the questions, and when he saw that everything was according to the manner of our religion, he conferred with a council of clerics and then ruled, so it is reported, that those on whom water had been poured after the questions had been asked and answered correctly need not repeat the baptism, but those things should be completed which are customarily done by priests.

As for Athanasius and those who had played the part of presbyters and ministers in the game, he called together their parents, and having put them under oath, handed them over to be reared for the church. 

So Rufinus of Aquileia in his church history. As Fred Sanders explains in this post, drawing on the work of Marcia Colish, this story would in the Middle Ages become the key text for some intense debates about what makes for a valid baptism. 

I just wish I had been able to put a note to this effect in my edition. Sigh. 

writing for money

A while back I wrote a post about my financial history as a writer, situations in which I have made money, situations in which I haven’t made money, etc. Phil Christman does his version of that post here, and adds a taxonomy of writers based largely (though not wholly) on the results they get from shakin’ their money-maker. It’s a great post and an example of why Phil’s work is worthy of your support.

At one point he writes: 

When I look at what I do on this newsletter, and then compare it to the amount of worthwhile writing that someone like Alan Jacobs or Adam Roberts gives away for free, I feel like I’m opting to be part of a decivilizing trend by charging people money for what is basically focused blogging.

I have some comments. 

First, there is no one like Adam Roberts. Not remotely. So I’m going to factor him out of this discussion, while strongly recommending his blog, for instance this terrific recent post. But you can support that blog financially if you want. 

The same is true for me, because I have a Buy Me a Coffee page. You can pay for what I write on this blog if you want, and God will surely bless you if you do, but you don’t have to. IIRC, I have suggested to Adam that he’d be a good candidate for Substack, but I don’t know why he hasn’t done it. 

As for me, I haven’t gone to Substack for three reasons: 

I am an enthusiast and advocate for the open web — see that tag at the bottom of this post — and want to write here if I can possibly manage it. By any reasonable standard I am well paid. I am a “Distinguished Professor” with an endowed chair, and while my salary wouldn’t go a long way in Cambridge MA or Brooklyn or Palo Alto, it goes pretty far in Waco, Texas. I can afford to make my online writing free. What I do, in contrast to Phil’s work on his Substack, is unfocused blogging, and I would feel bad charging directly for it. 

So I’m sticking it out here on the open web. But Phil deserves to get paid for his writing, and it’s not “decivilizing” of him to say so. If the publishing industry were properly functioning Phil would be making a decent living from writing essays and reviews, the way Elizabeth Hardwick and Dwight Macdonald did back in the day. 

However, I will — when I get out of the Slough of Despond I am in — be changing how I write here. The big thing I have learned from emails I’ve received in response to this post is: Even people who really like my writing miss a lot of what I do here. Especially the series I write — like the one on the City of God, the one on Babylon, the one on Thomas Mann’s Joseph and His Brothers — get very few readers who track them from beginning to end. 

Now, I like writing the series, because they enable me to take my time in thinking through a topic. But if people aren’t reading them, what’s the point? So when I have time to write here again, I’m going to write fewer but longer posts — I won’t post something until I have achieved a complete arc of thought, or nearly so. 

So stay tuned. 

Saturn and Mimas

Adam Roberts’s recent post on images of Saturn gave me a flashback — a sudden return to a moment fifteen years ago when I was working on a critical edition of Auden’s long poem The Age of Anxiety. One passage especially puzzled me:

For athwart our thinking the threat looms,
Huge and awful as the hump of Saturn
Over modest Mimas.

Well, take a look at this painting by Chelsey Bonestell, titled “Saturn as Seen from Mimas”:

I think I have found my solution. Bonestell’s painting appeared in the May 29, 1944 issue of Life magazine; Auden began writing The Age of Anxiety a month or so later. Surely Bonestell’s painting remained fixed in his mind. I can’t imagine what else could account for so strange a passage.

administrivia

I haven’t been writing here much lately. I’ve been busy with teaching, of course, but that I’m used to. No, I have been absent from the blog because of an avalanche of administrivia — forms to fill out, mandatory Zoom meetings, online “trainings.” 

There are trainings about Title IX. There are trainings about racism. There are trainings about mental health and mental illness. I have to read and sign forms relating to students who need “accommodation” for various struggles. (As I have previously noted, about these matters my own knowledge is neither solicited nor welcomed.) I have to sit through a 90-minute Zoom meeting on how to book travel. “The purpose of this short class is to help all Baylor’s faculty and staff understand their rights, responsibilities, and necessary actions with both the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) and the Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA).” “This is your second reminder that your OAI Disclosure Profile is awaiting an update. You are required to complete this update to confirm that you have disclosed a complete and accurate list of your outside activities and interests as dictated by institutional policy. Follow the link included in this email to log in and complete a Disclosure Profile update.” “As part of the Business Transformation Initiative, Business Offices have been established within each division. To ensure continuous improvement in the services provided, feedback is needed from individuals who regularly interact with Financial Administrators and Financial Managers in their respective Business Offices.” “The Committee on Committees has identified appointments for the 2024-2025 academic year, and your appointments are listed below. Thank you for your willingness to serve on University Committees.” I must serve on a Working Group meant to articulate an approach to technology that’s consistent with Baylor’s new Strategic Plan. 

This is a partial list. Obligations of this kind increase every year, and the only general goal I can discern is the gradual transformation of an academic position into a bullshit job. But whatever the purpose, such tasks make writing in-term nearly impossible. 

parochialism

I’ve seen a great many essays of this kind over the decades. I’m no longer surprised by them — I used to be disgusted, but now I try to be amused — but we shouldn’t forget that the radical parochialism of elite opinion is quite a remarkable thing. Manvir Singh thinks Christianity is dead (murdered by “the natural sciences”) — someone should tell the world’s two billion Christians — and that suspicion of our moral self-justification began with Nietzsche — someone should tell St. Paul. But for Singh, ideas that aren’t present (a) in his social cohort and (b) at this instant simply don’t exist. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Manvir Singh.” 

three further thoughts on re-enchantment

One: The world of economic commodification and the enchanted world are not mutually exclusive, as Hope Mirrlees’s great novel Lud-in-the-Mist demonstrates. 

Two: Jesus’s conquest of the Powers begins by his exposing them for what they are, which is to say, with demystification. In is in this sense that, as Thomas Pynchon implicitly argues throughout his fiction, in our cultural era first theology is suspicion. 

Three: G. K. Chesterton’s Father Brown, in “The Oracle of the Dog”:

“The dog could almost have told you the story, if he could talk,” said the priest. “All I complain of is that because he couldn’t talk, you made up his story for him, and made him talk with the tongues of men and angels. It’s part of something I’ve noticed more and more in the modern world, appearing in all sorts of newspaper rumors and conversational catch-words; something that’s arbitrary without being authoritative. People readily swallow the untested claims of this, that, or the other. It’s drowning all your old rationalism and scepticism, it’s coming in like a sea; and the name of it is superstition.” He stood up abruptly, his face heavy with a sort of frown, and went on talking almost as if he were alone. “It’s the first effect of not believing in God that you lose your common sense, and can’t see things as they are. Anything that anybody talks about, and says there’s a good deal in it, extends itself indefinitely like a vista in a nightmare. And a dog is an omen and a cat is a mystery and a pig is a mascot and a beetle is a scarab, calling up all the menagerie of polytheism from Egypt and old India; Dog Anubis and great green-eyed Pasht and all the holy howling Bulls of Bashan; reeling back to the bestial gods of the beginning, escaping into elephants and snakes and crocodiles; and all because you are frightened of four words: ‘He was made Man.’”  

two further thoughts on re-enchantment

The world of economic commodification and the enchanted world are not mutually exclusive, as Hope Mirrlees’s great novel Lud-in-the-Mist demonstrates. Jesus’s conquest of the Powers begins by his exposing them for what they are, which is to say, with demystification. In is in this sense that, as Thomas Pynchon implicitly argues throughout his fiction, in our cultural era first theology is suspicion . 

summary judgment

Every now and then I check back with Google Gemini and ChatGPT to see how they’re doing — and especially how they handle tasks my students might ask them to do. This morning it occurred to me that some of my first-years who are supposed to be reading Dorothy L. Sayers’s The Nine Tailors might fall behind and ask for some chatbot help. So I asked the chatbots for summaries of the book. 

Gemini’s response will be of particular interest to those who have read the novel: 

Dorothy Sayers’ The Nine Tailors is a classic detective novel featuring the renowned Lord Peter Wimsey and his resourceful valet, Bunter. Set in the picturesque English countryside, the story revolves around the enigmatic death of a parish vicar and the discovery of a unique bell with nine tails.

The novel begins with the mysterious disappearance of Reverend Clement Dimmock, the rector of Fenchurch St. Paul’s.When his body is found in a nearby churchyard, the circumstances surrounding his death raise suspicions. The local police are baffled, and the case is handed over to Lord Peter Wimsey, who is known for his keen intellect and unconventional methods.

Wimsey arrives at Fenchurch St. Paul’s and quickly becomes intrigued by the peculiar bell that the vicar had been researching. The bell, known as “Great Tom,” is a relic of significant historical importance and has been the subject of much local folklore. Wimsey discovers that the bell has nine tails, a rare and unusual feature that seems to hold a special significance for the vicar.

As Wimsey delves deeper into the case, he uncovers a web of secrets and hidden connections. He learns about the bell’s history, its association with a local legend, and the potential motives of several individuals who might have had a reason to harm the vicar.

One of the key characters in the novel is Harriet Vane, a writer and Wimsey’s love interest. She becomes involved in the case when she is accused of being the vicar’s mistress. Vane’s innocence is at stake, and Wimsey must prove her alibi while also solving the murder mystery.

The investigation takes Wimsey to various locations, from the quiet village of Fenchurch St. Paul’s to the bustling city of London. He interviews suspects, examines evidence, and unravels the complex puzzle that surrounds the vicar’s death.

Along the way, Wimsey encounters a colorful cast of characters, including a mischievous young boy named Basil, a mysterious stranger named Colonel Mustard, and a jealous rival named Dr. Fell. Each character adds a unique layer to the story and contributes to the overall suspense and intrigue.

The climax of the novel comes when Wimsey finally uncovers the truth behind the vicar’s murder. The solution is both unexpected and satisfying, revealing a hidden motive and a connection to the bell’s history. The culprit is brought to justice, and Harriet Vane is exonerated. 

Just for the record: there is no one in the novel named Clement Dimmock, Basil, Dr. Fell, or (alas) Colonel Mustard — an interesting import, that one. No vicar is killed. Harriet Vane does not appear in this novel. And there is most definitely not a bell with nine tails. Etc. 

When I told Gemini that that summary was inaccurate, I got this:

You’re absolutely right. I apologize for the oversight. It seems I provided a summary of a different Dorothy Sayers novel, likely Gaudy Night.

“Likely”? Well, no, Gaudy Night is not involved at any point. But please proceed.

Here’s a corrected summary of The Nine Tailors: Dorothy Sayers’ The Nine Tailors is a classic detective novel featuring Lord Peter Wimsey and his resourceful valet, Bunter. Set in the picturesque English countryside, the story revolves around the mysterious death of a parish vicar and the discovery of a unique bell with nine tails. The novel begins with the discovery of the body of Reverend Clement Dimmock, the rector of Fenchurch St. Paul’s. The circumstances surrounding his death —

Okay, you can stop there.

The ChatGPT summary is much more accurate, but it has its own hallucinations:

Shortly after the New Year celebrations, tragedy strikes the village. The body of an unknown man is discovered in the grave of Mrs. Wilbraham, a recently deceased woman. The body appears to have been hastily buried there after her coffin was moved to a different graveyard. The man’s face is unrecognizable, and he has no identifying papers. Lord Peter is called upon to investigate.

Through initial inquiries, Wimsey learns that Mrs. Wilbraham had been involved in a notorious jewel robbery years ago. She had been entrusted with some stolen emeralds by a man named Deacon, a criminal who disappeared after the robbery. Mrs. Wilbraham’s husband, Sir Henry Thorpe, had been a key figure in trying to recover the stolen jewels. Over time, however, the jewels were lost, and Deacon was never found.

No, that’s not Mrs. Wilbraham in the grave, it’s a woman named Thorpe, as ought to be clear from the fact that her husband is Sir Henry Thorpe. Nor was there any movement of a coffin to a different graveyard. Also, Mrs. Wilbraham is the person from whom the jewels were stolen, not an accomplice of the thief. 

It’s kind of fun to read these things and imagine the alternate-universe novels Sayers might have written. The Wimsey-Mustard Papers, Volume One. 

what Milton isn’t

This is an excellent essay by Mark Edmundson, so of course I am going to write about the part I disagree with: 

I like to teach a class on Milton and Whitman. I do so from a political vantage, seeing Whitman as an archetypal progressive, a breaker of boundaries, an opener of new roads. Milton, by contrast, is an archconservative, someone who brilliantly dramatizes the allure of order, degree, and hierarchy. Few students have trouble entertaining Whitmanian values. What 20-year-old isn’t attracted to freedom? But with Milton, matters change. He believes that people can be happy only when they are installed in a hierarchy. We should revere what is above us and care for what is below. Milton’s views of hierarchy implicate religious, political, and family life. Reading these two poets side by side offers plenty of illuminating conflicts. 

The problem with this account is that, while Milton indeed believed in “order, degree, and hierarchy,” he thought it essential to ask which order, which model of degree, which system of hierarchy a society embodies. Because he thought his own society had radically misconceived such matters, Milton was not an “archconservative,” but rather was a political revolutionary who advocated for and then defended the violent overthrow of the monarchy, and then worked for a decade in the new anti-monarchical government. Moreover, his theology was very much his own; though he never repudiated the Church of England and is buried in one of its churches, he could not have been ordained in it, and probably not in any other church either. 

Whitman was a far more conventional figure than Milton. Though his poems were thought by some obscene, this was only by implication and suggestion, and in Whitman’s lifetime Leaves of Grass became a famous and celebrated work, despite its sensuality and its formal innovations. Whitman’s devotion to America and American exceptionalism was intense — he was a patriotic poet to a high degree, and famously the most eloquent celebrant in his time of Abraham Lincoln. 

I am perhaps overstressing the point — in many respects Whitman was a new thing in the world. But what I am trying to suggest is that our categories of “conservative” and “progressive” do not map very neatly onto periods other than our own. 

Some essays of mine that treat the issues Edmundson raises: 

“A Sentimental Education” “Hatred Alone is Immortal” “Chatbots and the Problems of Life” 

Jacobs’s First Law

Here it is:

People who know nothing about a subject are radically vulnerable to those who know less than nothing. 

 — those knowing less than nothing being people who have strongly held but baseless opinions. This law of the universe raises its head almost every time some American journalist or tweeter or YouTuber makes an argument based on a claim about our history. Some fatuous statement becomes a mantra for people who lack (a) the knowledge to test the claim and (b) the initiative to acquire the knowledge.