A Journey Through the Library of Parnassus

my first attempt at a novel. it's a dialogue for the construction of a worldview, or life philosophy rather. (written between 8/18 - 9/2)

Pieter Bruegel the Elder - The Tower of Babel (Rotterdam)

Preface

Midway upon the journey of our lives, we must all confront certain questions—questions that, if unaddressed, stir painful realizations. These are the philosophical inquiries, the existential dilemmas that awaken one in the dead of night. I, like so many others in our society, find myself in a state of confusion, burdened by the cries of my contemporaries who seem just as lost. It grieves me deeply, and so, as I sit to write these lines, I hope, like Marcus Aurelius in his Meditations or Seneca in his letters to Lucilius, to gain clarity through self-examination.

I have wandered through the vast expanse of human thought: from the holy texts of the Abrahamic and Hindu faiths, to the works of the Greek and Roman philosophers, the American Transcendentalists, and the Chinese sages. I had hoped that immersing myself in this well of knowledge would lead to a deeper understanding of life’s purpose. But now I see that this, too, is a folly unless one integrates such wisdom with lived experience. Learning, no matter how profound, remains shallow if it is not woven into the fabric of one’s existence. Homer, Virgil, Nietzsche—they may inspire, but without application, their teachings remain mere echoes in the mind, fleeting and hollow.

I, like Montaigne for Emerson, or Emerson for Nietzsche, am but another link in this chain of thinkers. These men, who sought wisdom not to boast of knowledge, but to live more fully, resonate most with me. After endless reading, I find myself standing alongside them, looking to synthesize the vast array of human perspectives. I write without clear direction, uncertain of what conclusions I may reach, yet determined to strip away ambiguity and uncover what I truly believe.

It is through narrative that I feel most compelled to explore these thoughts. In this, I draw inspiration from Dante’s Divine Comedy and Plato’s dialogues, striving to create an interplay between setting and dialogue. This project, originally sparked by my Godbrother, Jonathan Diaz, seeks not only to map out my intellectual journey but to honor him—a guiding force, a constant source of encouragement. His unwavering support, his wisdom, have been invaluable. And so, this writing is not merely for myself, but for him as well—a token of eternal gratitude, a shared testament in ink.

Chapter 1: The Journey Begins

Narrator: It was a darkness so profound, so complete, that it swallowed all sense of orientation. Joseph lay disoriented on the cold floor, his mind spiraling with confusion. The oppressive blackness pressed in, filling him with a deep, unsettling fear, and he longed for it to end. Unsure of where he was or how he had arrived there, he began groping blindly, his fingers finally brushing against something soft. It felt like cotton, but heavier, thicker—almost like velvet. He pulled at it, but it held firm. Determined, he decided to follow the fabric, hoping it might lead him to something, anything, resembling light. After what seemed like hours of fumbling through the void, he finally caught sight of a faint glimmer. He followed it with growing desperation, and as he drew closer, the light revealed itself to be a torch.

With the torch in hand, the room around him came into view. He stood in a massive bedchamber, the ceiling soaring high above him, devoid of windows and bathed in an eerie stillness. The chamber was surrounded by black Persian curtains, their rich fabric cascading down the walls, adding to the suffocating atmosphere. Aside from a large, imposing bed, the room was empty. The only exit was a beautifully crafted, round wooden door—like something from a medieval castle, polished to perfection, with a heavy black handle. With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, Joseph opened the door and stepped into a sight that took his breath away.

Before him stretched an immense library, larger than any he had ever imagined. Endless shelves, towering 30 feet high, were filled with books—ancient and modern, leather-bound and pristine. He marveled at the titles, the sheer depth of knowledge contained within them. "Secreta naturae et Dei" (The Secrets of Nature and God), one read, and another, "Responsa ad quaestiones philosophicas difficillimas" (Answers to the Most Difficult Philosophical Questions). The room was circular, crowned by a dome lit by golden stage lights, and the shelves, carved from pure white marble, reached dizzying heights. Wooden ladders were positioned to allow access to even the highest tomes, and countless books spilled onto the floor, stacked in great heaps that stretched toward the ceiling.

Joseph was overwhelmed. The bedchamber he had awoken in was nestled into a corner of the library, dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of the room. The smell of fresh leather bindings and pinecones filled the cold air, though no vents could be seen. Miraculously, none of the books were covered in dust, not even those that had clearly remained untouched for ages. Despite the grandeur, the room felt almost timeless, a sanctuary for scholars, and it resonated deeply with Joseph, a lover of books and a seeker of wisdom.

Drawn by the faint sound of crackling fire, Joseph navigated the maze of shelves, his heart racing as he searched for someone—anyone—who could explain this mysterious place. And there, at a desk in a distant corner, illuminated by the soft glow of a reading lamp, sat a figure. Tall and slender, with impeccably straight brunette hair, it wore the garb of a Renaissance scholar: a fur-lined robe and a traditional scholar's cap. The figure was hunched over a massive tome, entirely absorbed in its study. Hesitant to disturb the scholar, Joseph nevertheless called out.

Joseph: Excuse me! Do you know what this marvelous place is?

Narrator: The figure turned slowly, and as its face came into view, Joseph gasped in disbelief.

Joseph: No… it can’t be! It is! It is my master, my idol, and my inspiration—the man whose counsel I have cherished above all others. The one who has guided me with fatherly wisdom, whose presence has always been a beacon of light in my intellectual pursuits. My Godbrother, Jonathan.

Narrator: Joseph stood there, awestruck, his heart swelling with admiration and gratitude. The figure before him was no mere scholar, but Jonathan, the very person who had shaped his intellectual journey, who had shown him the path to knowledge, and who, in that moment, seemed to embody the wisdom of the ages.

Jonathan: Too much praise you give me, Joseph. You always were the most agreeable child—ever seeking to please, to express your affection toward those you love.

Joseph: No one knows me better than you, Jon. I was always shy, avoiding the spotlight, preferring solitude to social interaction. That was, of course, until I witnessed your passion when speaking on such varied topics. Your enthusiasm lit a fire in me—a hunger for knowledge. You showed me that there were other ways of being, of interacting with the world.

Jonathan: And I’ve told you before, that remains one of my proudest accomplishments. To inspire someone is one thing, but to witness their ideas and plans take shape, their passions flourish because of a single spark—that is another entirely.

Joseph: I may have strayed from that scholarly path at times, but never have I fully abandoned it. As you know, I strive daily to improve myself, to learn. Knowledge should be a lifelong pursuit. How many men of the past have shown even the most debased souls a path to virtue and study? How many have been rescued from despair by the great minds of history? In moments where hope would seem cruel, learning has provided consolation when no other comfort could have sufficed.

Jonathan: Absolutely! It saddens me deeply to think how many people lack an appetite for scholarship. How much of life they miss! They never experience the joy of Dante, or the profundity of Goethe. These men laid the entirety of human experience before us, like a feast, and encouraged us to live in a more harmonious and fulfilling manner. One cannot read Dante’s Divine Comedy without grasping the immense greatness of its narrative. Dante shows us that the way through hell is through the use of our divine faculties. He made Virgil the epitome of human reason, guiding us through the perils of the underworld. Isn’t that just a reflection of our own lives? Life constantly places obstacles before us in our pursuit of happiness. We all know regret, sadness, and remorse. Consider Homer’s Odysseus, who endured misfortune at every turn—from Circe’s enchantments to the Cyclopes’ brutal strength, from being stranded on Calypso’s island to reclaiming his home from suitors. Don’t we all experience trials like these? And then there is Boethius, who found comfort in Lady Philosophy during his imprisonment, with her timeless reminder: "How could I desert my child, and not share with you the burden of sorrow you carry, a burden caused by hatred of my name? Philosophy has never thought it right to leave the innocent man alone on his journey. Should I fear to face my accusers, as though their enmity were something new?"¹ She reminds us that scholars, from Socrates to Boethius himself, have always been attacked by ignorance and folly. Yet, nothing brings greater satisfaction than living in accordance with the principles we’ve drawn from our studies. But Joseph, I’m curious: what do you believe is the purpose of philosophy?

Joseph: Your eloquence never fails to stir me, Jon. I agree with Montaigne that to study philosophy is to learn how to die. Montaigne, of course, borrowed this from Epictetus, who thought that philosophy’s purpose was to know the state of one’s mind.² Epicurus too taught that wisdom is a universal pursuit, saying: "Let no one be slow to seek wisdom when he is young nor weary in the search of it when he has grown old. For no age is too early or too late for the health of the soul... Therefore, both old and young alike ought to seek wisdom... we must exercise ourselves in the things which bring happiness, since, if that be present, we have everything, and, if that be absent, all our actions are directed towards attaining it."³ I’ve always been drawn to philosophers who write for the common man—those who study to live a fulfilled life. I’ve never desired much in life; I’m content with simple subsistence, and still believe this is the truest way to live. Sadly, many today have forgotten this. As Juvenal reminds us: "Count it the greatest of all sins to prefer life to honor, and to lose, for the sake of living, all that makes life worth having."⁴ Unlike my contemporaries, I’ve never desired material success or the approval of society. I’ve often told you I was born in the wrong era—perhaps even the wrong millennium. How simple life must have been for the Romans. How delightful to farm and press grapes for the festivals! Today’s labor is so soul-crushing by comparison. At least in Caesar’s time, a man worked for himself. He gave the landlord his due, but the fruits of his labor were his own to enjoy. Perhaps I’m romanticizing it, though. If I had lived then, maybe I would have longed for the scrolls and ink rather than the simplicity of the farm. After all, would I not have still been drawn to Cato’s writings on agriculture, seeking the wisdom buried in even the most mundane of tasks?

It's funny, isn't it? That we always project our own situations onto the men and women of past ages and somehow delude ourselves into thinking that their lives were better than ours. It's true that, in many ways, the life of a 21st-century individual is superior to that of a 1st-century individual. However, new innovations and improvements also lead to new restrictions and problems. At present, most problems we face today are those imposed on us by the external world; my solution to this problem was to simply ignore what the external world is telling me. Some problems are within the structural integrity of a nation, like income inequality and the lack of housing for the poor, but these issues have always been and will always be a part of civilization. There will always be deadbeats and the downtrodden, the mentally disturbed, and the lazy free-riders. In some instances, I think society should attempt to alleviate these issues (like with the handicapped and those incapable of self-care); in other instances, I think it perfectly reasonable for people to be homeless and struggle to survive, provided they are fully functional adults with a sufficient amount of education. What I despise, however, is hardworking people living hand-to-mouth. Nobody who works should have to worry about paying the bills. In such cases, if the individual is already living below their means and doing the best they can with economizing, adding such stress is deleterious to existence. I see no drudgery so violent to the cause of human prosperity. Most people desire nothing more than the ability to raise a family and achieve social mobility. To restrict this to only a certain privileged class of individuals, already fortunate enough to prosper from the labor of their ancestors, is not a good way to structure an economy or government. Shall you let resentment prevail and allow the suffering to suffer more? Why not structure the economy in such a way that raises wages so that social mobility and starting a family can be achieved nationwide? The wealth earned by the top 1% of earners is enough to cover the expenses of almost all working adults.

A ubiquitous argument against income equality is that taking money from the rich isn't necessarily going to help the poor; it will only reduce their incentives to work and move up the social ladder. I find this objection hilarious because they must not understand human nature. Being paid enough to start a family and cover your expenses without much worry will foster a sense of accomplishment and encourage people to work toward new goals. Achieving one goal doesn’t necessarily mean that you will find no new goals to fulfill. People don’t automatically become lazier because they earn more. Higher earnings necessarily lead to higher productivity, since productivity is dependent on the market, which is governed by supply, demand, and purchasing power. Adam Smith tells us: "When the quantity of any commodity that is brought to market falls short of the effectual demand, all those who are willing to pay the whole value of the rent, wages, and profit, which must be paid in order to bring it thither, cannot be supplied with the quantity which they want. Rather than want it altogether, some of them will be willing to give more. A competition will immediately begin among them, and the market price will rise more or less above the natural price, according to either the greatness of the deficiency or the wealth and wanton luxury of the competitors, which happens to animate more or less the eagerness of the competition. Among competitors of equal wealth and luxury, the same deficiency will generally occasion a more or less eager competition, according as the acquisition of the commodity happens to be of more or less importance to them. Hence the exorbitant price of the necessities of life during the blockade of a town or in a famine."⁵ Will Durant beautifully epitomized this as follows: "In free enterprise, the spur of competition and the zeal and zest of ownership arouse the productiveness and inventiveness of men; nearly every economic ability sooner or later finds its niche and reward in the shuffle of talents and the natural selection of skills; and a basic democracy rules the process inasmuch as most of the articles to be produced and the services to be rendered are determined by public demand rather than by governmental decree."⁶

Another diabolical cant that spews from the lips of conservative commentators is the notion that pushing for economic equality leads to a socialist nation where the government provides economically for the majority of people. This, in turn, lowers productivity and leads to an overall weaker nation. Again, this is based on a faulty assumption about human nature. Not everyone is a misanthrope who would gladly stay in their home all day scrolling on their phone or watching TV. Most people desire social interactions and companionship, and to think that most would simply not want to work anymore is ill-conceived at best. Work is where most social interactions occur, where friendships are started, and where potential lifelong partners are found. People will eventually want to get out and do things. We saw the drastic impact the COVID-19 pandemic had on people's mental health; does one really think that such isolation would be endured by people for long? It's another erroneous assumption that most people don't like to work and are naturally lazy.

Let us assume for a second that most people actually would stop working. What would they do? What do most people actually find fulfilling in their lives? Family is one, for sure, and another almost certainly is the pursuit of a goal. How many people are natural philosophers or scholars who would love nothing more than to adorn their erudition by finally reading that book or expounding on that thought they had so long ago? Who would devote their time to self-improvement rather than fruitless diversions? Do people with ample leisure already pursue these things? I would argue no. Most people only do things that bring instant gratification, but once that is achieved, what is left to pursue? Work provides a foundation and a routine that brings regularity and a sense of purpose to people's lives. Whether they enjoy it or not is not the point of this internal critique; the point is to show that they still find working a reasonable option to pursue, even if the government were paying them ample money to survive with little care in the world.

It also assumes that people would stop caring about social mobility and not desire to earn more than they are already getting from the government. This is another wrong-headed assumption. This is all, of course, ignoring the real-world improbabilities of such a society, such as a consistent increase in productivity as well as increased GDP to continue such governmental payments. Nothing more than vain counterfactuals that don't actually apply in the real world is how I view such objections.

The last objection, and the one I find most amusing, is that calling for economic equality is inherently unfair and even amounts to stealing. Well, no economic system is perfect. There will always be winners and losers; the question is, can we make the system allow for more to prosper if it means taking more from those who have it and giving to those who need it? I would say there is nothing unfair about taking from someone who has an ample supply of something already, even if the person from whom we are taking thinks otherwise. It shows a perfidious greed among individuals of immense wealth to hoard so much of something they don't need anymore. How much money must one possess before never needing another cent? Surely most reasonable people cannot spend 100 million dollars within a lifetime. There are misers who spend less than 10 thousand dollars a year on food. But not everyone needs to become Daniel Dancer, nor is everyone so lucky as to fall upon a fortune like Timothy Dexter's.

What should be noted is that, while it may be unfair to the giver, the receiver will be more than happy to accept such an offer. Utilitarians would no doubt say that such an economic policy is a good thing, for it benefits the majority. Keynesians and monetarists would argue it is beneficial because it increases the money in circulation and allows more people opportunities to make larger purchases and take out loans. It would also improve the morale of citizens and stave off potential thoughts of revolution should things get to that point. Simple problems often require simple solutions. How many of the best inventions were brought about by nothing more than an attempt to solve a practical problem? Economic problems will always permeate large civilizations, and social nets will not always save you; but I do think it is the job of the populace to demand what improves their happiness and increases their zeal for productivity and success.

The American dream is built upon a necessarily false premise: that everyone who works hard shall be rewarded amply. Rather, the American dream should be that everyone who works consistently and diligently, no matter the job, shall be able to raise a family and not live hand-to-mouth. The fact that working so-called minimum wage jobs results in a hand-to-mouth existence is a positive poison to the soul. You can't simply tell those unfortunate enough to work such jobs to find a new one. They can barely afford food after rent is paid; do you honestly expect them to take the risk of their own well-being to move up the social ladder?

And what about those who are incapable of learning new skills? Shall they give up all hope of starting a family or owning a home one day? What about those social rebels, as you know I am, Jon, who don't wish to conform to the whims of society? Those who wish to find their own path, their own way, without following those pastures that have already been trampled on by millions of conformists. Those who see the system for what it really is and will not play along. Those who take the risk and dare to experience the slings and arrows of time and fortune.

It's extremely patronizing and tiring to hear the same old platitudes of virtue that boomers spout without realizing that the times have changed for the worse economically. Most of my coevals say the same thing when asked about the economy: "Capitalism sucks!" This is almost invariably followed by, "The matrix is a rigged game; our employers don't really care about us; they only exploit us for their own selfish ends." Why must my generation suffer in this way, and why must we find it so hard to cope with our problems? It's because the values and the mindset that society forces upon us have corrupted the positive outlooks we have on the world.

But this leads into a deeper metaphysical problem regarding meaning in a meaningless world, which I would be happy to expound upon, but I don't wish to stray too far from your original question, Jon. I should apologize in advance for my half-monologue, half-soliloquy approach to explaining things; ever since I read Emerson and Woolf, I have found the stream-of-consciousness approach to writing to be most commiserate and natural to myself.

Jonathan: I prefer that style of conversation and writing anyway; it makes it more interesting and allows for the topics to be taken anywhere. The way you answered my question was truly beautiful, Joe. I asked you about philosophy, and you gave me your thoughts in a manner that was true to yourself and in a style that you find most agreeable. It seems to me that the philosophers you find most enlightening are those who are part of the wisdom tradition, those who wrote of life as it is. Am I correct in this assessment?

Joseph: That's right, Jon. I have always been interested in literature that elucidates the experience of man. This goes back to when I first read Benjamin Franklin's autobiography. I have never found words more inspiring than this: "I was in my working dress, my best cloaths being to come round by sea. I was dirty from my journey; my pockets were stuffed with shirts and stockings, and I knew no soul nor where to look for lodging. I was fatigued with traveling, rowing, and want of rest; I was very hungry; and my whole stock of cash consisted of a Dutch dollar and about a shilling in copper. The latter I gave to the people of the boat for my passage, who at first refused it; on my insisting, they received it; a man being sometimes more generous when he has but a little money than when he has plenty, perhaps through fear of being thought to have but little."⁷ Look at Franklin's determination and his willingness to work hard despite having little money when he first arrived in Philadelphia. Also, sentiments such as: "I took care not only to be in reality industrious and frugal, but to avoid all appearances to the contrary. I dressed plainly; I was seen at no places of idle diversion. I never went out fishing or shooting; a book, indeed, sometimes debauched me from my work, but that was seldom, snug, and gave no scandal; and to show that I was not above my business, I sometimes brought home the paper I purchased at the stores through the streets on a wheelbarrow. Thus, being esteemed an industrious, thriving young man, and paying duly for what I bought, the merchants who imported stationery solicited my custom, others proposed supplying me with books, and I went on swimmingly."⁸ To go on swimmingly; is this not a noble aspiration, only accomplished through deep introspection and a desire for high pursuits? I also have to lay the deepest gratitude to the autobiography of Gerolamo Cardano, without question the most important book I have ever read. I will never forget that cloudy day of February 2nd, 2022, when I first laid my eyes upon that monumental work. A true philosophical masterpiece and a very entertaining and profitable piece for anyone to read. Within that text, one does not just receive advice; one truly feels it, for Cardano never left the reader wondering what he himself thought at the moment of such occurrences.

From his time as a medical student dealing with sickness and weakness of body, to when he was in his early thirties gambling to make a living and pawning his wife's jewelry, to his poverty and near destitution—completely unable to support his wife and children, to curing John Hamilton (Archbishop of St. Andrews) from a disease that left him speechless for nearly a decade—all such events are told in great detail with the aid of hindsight, and a lesson is always derived from these experiences. Cardano himself rightly says: "In no respect have I shown myself more adept than in formulating my experiences, partly because of my long life, partly because of my numberless adversities. Oh, how many times, taught by my trials, have I avoided the most devastating calamities!"⁹ You can recall, no doubt, when I would always mention and praise him every time the opportunity arose. So indebted am I to Cardano for my intellectual development; I thoroughly believe that I would not have taken the path of the scholarly life had I not seen that such an example existed in Cardano. To find a man so devoted to study, reading, and contemplation despite every trial and tribulation that life can throw at you—such steadfast resolve was all the inspiration I needed to know that such a life was possible, and I truly desired such a life, for it has always been my true calling since youth.

You can recall, no doubt, that I had a particular interest in academic study and loved to learn things when I was young. I was always told to learn as much as you can about the world before actually entering into it; and I was only further encouraged by your example, Jon, for you were the first model I had of the ideal scholar. You were the one I looked up to, and still do to a great extent. I wish I were as passionate and as elegant as you, but we can't have everything in life: I have always contented myself with being inspired by your example alone. This is something I think most people lack—a person to look up to. Most parents raise their children to seek after money, foolishly thinking that is where happiness resides. But, as Aristotle rightly says: "The life of money-making is one undertaken under compulsion, and wealth is evidently not the good we are seeking; for it is merely useful and for the sake of something else. And so one might rather take the aforenamed objects to be ends; for they are loved for themselves. But it is evident that not even these are ends; yet many arguments have been thrown away in support of them."¹⁰ Unless you're a miser, you would not say the sole purpose of your life is to make money, and yet we indoctrinate our children with this despicable attitude toward life. We tell people that money is the means by which all ends can be achieved, and this is factually wrong. No amount of money can make you eloquent in discourse or make you a more likable person. Nor can it make you more knowledgeable on topics outside of its purview. To say money leads to your every desire is too myopic a view on existence, and I find it to be the greatest issue plaguing humanity today. So much of the world has been co-opted by America that it makes it seem like every value we espouse (including those of consumerism and nihilistic materialism) must be right because we're so successful. This is widely asinine, and it surprises me that most people don't see this for what it is: a mere ploy to obfuscate the fact that such a life is completely and utterly meaningless.

From my own experience of living thus far, I find that very few people actually reflect on life. To me, it seems as if they have simply been told what to follow because everyone else does. Why is it the current norm to become so fixated on material prosperity, as if this were the sole objective of life? How meaningless are these individuals, who often boast of their hard work and material success, as if they were gods demanding worship? Do they not realize that such things are merely transitory and fleeting? Have they considered for one second why they actually pursue such things? So often, we pollute the simplicity of life by comparing ourselves to the material success of others. How unfortunate it is to relinquish simple goals and happy living to desire things beyond your means. I would argue that if people actually learned philosophy, they would see through the nonsense that is the current social milieu. We no longer allow the father of understanding to guide us, and we don't care about what he has to say either. We no longer cultivate our gardens, as Voltaire so rightly advised us to do in Candide. We no longer seek those noble and virtuous acts that raise our spirits, improve our minds, or strengthen our bodies! Why not follow the advice of Julius Scaliger:

Cultivate Your Mind.
Be patient with your culture, your mind, and your ears:
If you desire to be considered, and desire to be happy.¹¹

Aspire to the Highest.
Be persistently eager for the heights of goodness.
If you cannot attain what you aim for, at least stand on some limit: that is honorable.
Indeed, standing on the lowest edge is also honorable.¹²

Yes, Jonathan, you know better than I that I affect not reserves which I do not feel. My life philosophy has always been this: to strive towards a goal that fulfills your life. It sounds rather simple, and that's because it is. How foolish are these large philosophical edifices that claim to answer all questions in life and beyond! I blame Kant for this nonsensical approach to philosophy as a whole. He took the good that was in Plato and the analytical rigor that was in Aristotle and tried to use one to justify the other. In the end, he failed by not realizing that he was committing a category fallacy. Buffoonery of the highest magnitude, in my opinion.

Life is all about finding meaning in the insignificant. I blend the freedom of Emerson's Transcendentalism with the rationalism of David Hume. I never seek beyond what my experience tells me epistemologically or what my rational faculties deem reasonable; yet, I delight in fanciful speculations on the numinous and what could potentially be going on there. I try to live by that phrase of Alberti's: "It's good occasionally to turn the mind from work to harmless pleasures, which is what I am doing. When time and place permit, I act silly in everything, with all my energy and effort; because I consider it to be the duty of prudent men to be wise around philosophers and jolly around winecups; for whoever wants to be serious in all places and at all times, and to look grave, restrained, and gloomy, is always foolish, in my opinion. But because I know how to behave in both situations, no one rejects me in serious matters, and all admit me in amusing ones."¹³

Is such an approach to life not a perfect one? I believe this is the right way to engage with philosophy. Philosophy is a subject for the living, taught primarily by the dead. So often do we find our own rejected thoughts echoed in the works of others that, upon discovering them, we wonder why we dismissed them in the first place. I have frequently felt this way when reading Montaigne or Emerson—men whose philosophy was nothing other than life itself. They took the experience of life as their guide in everything, and so liberating and freeing was this approach that they produced some of the most elegant essays humanity has known, and likely ever will know.

Nothing is more liberating in life, I think, than to live with the conviction that one can never know enough. To strive for the infinite every day, while knowing that complete knowledge is impossible, creates enough meaning and inspiration to last a thousand lifetimes. I am as surprised by a blade of grass as I am by my own existence. I adopt the approaches of the encyclopedist and the polymath, seeking to know all things and reveal all secrets, only to confront the same age-old truths that humanity has known since the beginning: "Life is short, and Art long; the crisis fleeting; experience perilous, and decision difficult."¹⁴ "Time is. Time was. Time is past."¹⁵ And "Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity."¹⁶

Yet, I lean more toward the optimism of Goethe: "Wood burns because it has the proper stuff for that purpose in it; and a man becomes renowned because he has the necessary stuff in him. Renown is not to be sought, and all pursuit of it is vain. A person may, indeed, by skillful conduct and various artificial means, make a sort of name for himself; but if the inner jewel is lacking, all is vanity, and will not last a day."¹⁷ Our goal, which orients our meaning, is to find that proper stuff within ourselves. May we all seek renown and live a self-actualized life.

Jonathan: Bravo, Joe. Once again, another great oration on topics of the highest merit. You expounded your own philosophical system, which resembles that of Emerson very astutely, and gave great arguments in support of such an enlightened view.

Joseph: To receive your praise is enough satisfaction to last a lifetime. But Jon, I still did not receive an answer to the very first question I posed to you: What is this marvelous place we currently reside in? It seems as if Truth herself fashioned it as an effigy of her own mind. I awoke in a dark labyrinth of a room and sought my way out by following my touch against a black Persian curtain toward any semblance of light. I found light, and it revealed to me that the room was, for the most part, empty, save for a massive bed. I was confused at first, but upon exiting that dark room, I was amazed. One could not find a more perfect example of dread to awe within a matter of seconds.

Jonathan: I see. The room you describe was indeed my bedchamber, a place that conceals its secrets in shadow and silence. There is more to it than meets the eye, should one know where to look and what to seek. It is a sanctuary for contemplation, where the mind can wander free from the distractions of the world. The darkness, far from being oppressive, is intended to sharpen the senses and make one aware of the subtle and the unseen. The journey from that chamber to the light is not just a physical passage but a metaphorical one, from the unknown to understanding, from confusion to clarity. It is a reflection of the broader journey we all must undertake, to move from the darkness of ignorance to the illumination of truth. But to answer your question, the place we reside in is the Library of Parnassus.

Joseph: Parnassus? As in, the home of the Muses?

Jonathan: Yes, but not only the Muses, Joseph. This library is a repository of humanity’s greatest votaries of erudition. Every polymath, every genius, every philosopher, every great writer, every academic, and scholar of note—all those who seek knowledge as a source of comfort and enlightenment—reside within these walls.

Joseph: All of them? Everyone? That can’t be, Jon. We’ve been conversing here for over an hour, and I haven’t seen another soul.

Jonathan: Ah, that is because we are currently in my personal study.

Joseph: What! You must be joking! You mean to tell me all these books belong to you, Jon?

Jonathan: Every single one.

Joseph: But your study resembles the Library of Congress! If this is your personal collection, what about everyone else? Surely not everyone can have a study of this size?

Jonathan: They do, down to the inch. Not everyone possesses as many books as I do, but each study is identical in dimension. It’s often said that a man needs no more than 10,000 books to last a lifetime, but here, the Muses provide enough space for a million.

Joseph: And how many do you have?

Jonathan: Close to 2 million.

Joseph: Is that why you have that maze of bookshelves, with piles of books stacked to the ceiling?

Jonathan: Precisely. You know how I value things that are both good and useful, and nothing is more useful than a good book and the solitude to reflect on it.

Joseph: Incredible, Jon, truly. But what about the more practical aspects of life—eating and other basic needs?

Jonathan: In this library, no human malady troubles us. We neither get sick, nor need to eat, nor does nature call us. We, like monks, devote ourselves entirely to the cultivation of the mind.

Joseph: Remarkable. But what about recreation? Do you exercise for health? And can we engage in debates with other scholars?

Jonathan: There’s no need for exercise, for we are perpetually in perfect health. As for interactions and debates, anyone can engage with the greatest of scholars whenever you find them in the public study.

Joseph: Public study?

Jonathan: I should have explained the layout of the library earlier. Everybody within the library has a personal study, and each study has a passageway that leads to the public study, where each scholar at that level can interact and debate. We are currently on the ground floor, the foundation of the entire library. This level is where the drudges of scholarship toil—the compilers, lexicographers, literary critics, essayists, obscure philosophers, and general writers. These are the paremiographers and generalists—masters of nothing in particular, but well-versed in what is considered proper and worth studying. Above us is the level where the encyclopedists reside, those who attempt to compile all known knowledge. This is the realm of the true polymaths and universal geniuses. Higher still, reserved for the greatest devotees of knowledge and learning, are the divine philosophers, writers, poets, and artists. These are the ones who have come closest to uncovering the true meaning of philosophy as it relates to life. And above us all, at the apex of the library, dwell Apollo, the Muses, and, even higher, Truth herself.

Joseph: So, the library consists of these three levels, each home to a different echelon of scholars and thinkers? And above us all, Apollo, the Muses, and Truth preside over this vast temple of knowledge? It’s almost as if each level represents a step closer to enlightenment. But tell me, Jon, how does one ascend from one level to the next? Is it through mere study, or is there something more profound required?

Jonathan: The ascent is simpler than you might imagine. One must merely know where the door of separation resides—the passage that divides the levels of the library. Anyone is free to move between them. The only place one cannot freely travel is the summit. It has been said that the door of separation for the summit opens only for those who have come closest to Truth.

Joseph: Has anyone ever seen Truth herself?

Jonathan: No. The closest were Goethe, Shakespeare, Montaigne, Emerson, and Nietzsche. Aside from them, no one has even approached the summit.

Joseph: We must seek her out, Jon. We have to be the first to ever reach her!

Jonathan: Are you serious?

Joseph: Yes. She can reveal the answers to the questions we seek. We need not labor for eternity over the mysteries of philosophy, life, and meaning.

Jonathan: But isn’t that labor the most joyous thing for a scholar?

Joseph: It is, but how much more joyous would it be to know the truth?

Jonathan: But "what is truth," as jesting Pilate asked Jesus?

Joseph: You pose the very question I want answered. I know of no one else more worthy to approach with reverence and respect than Truth herself, and I know of no one better to ask.

Jonathan: But how will we reach her? If Shakespeare and Goethe couldn't, what makes you think we can?

Joseph: The naïve optimism of youth burns deep within my bosom, Jon. You know full well that I’ve dedicated much of my life to the pursuit of knowledge and the advancement of understanding. The fact that men as great as Shakespeare and Goethe couldn’t do it only fuels my desire to succeed where they did not.

Jonathan: laughs That's what I was afraid of. I know how closely you’ve studied the biographies and histories of nearly every genius, polymath, and dedicated scholar. You probably know everyone of note in the history of scholarship as if they were your own friends, Joe.

Joseph: I wouldn’t count that possibility out. The only question I have now is—how does one approach Truth? How did Goethe, Shakespeare, Montaigne, Emerson, and Nietzsche manage to reach such heights of supreme intellect as to almost embrace Truth herself? I want to know, and I cannot rest until I do so.

Jonathan: Perhaps embarking on the journey will reveal in time how we may do so. How we may approach Truth the closest.

Joseph: Yes, Jon. Let us begin our journey, then, and seek with patience and humility, Truth.

Jonathan: Come, let us start by going to the public study; from there we may make our ascension towards her.

Joseph: You are my master and my guide, Jon—like Virgil was to Dante in his Divine Comedy.

Narrator: And so, the two scholars went on their way, to fresh fields and pastures new. Placed with a goal before them, they made their approach with confidence toward the public study. Not knowing who they would see or what kind of debates they may find themselves in, they braced with the truest serenity for all they might encounter, worthy only of philosophers who seek Truth in all her glory.

Chapter 2: Encounter in the Public Study

Narrator: As the two scholars made their way through the narrow passageway, they were halted by a large stone blocking their path.

Joseph: What is this nonsense?

Jonathan: Watch closely.

Jonathan placed his hand on an adjacent stone and pushed. The large stone before them slid aside, revealing another part of the library.

Joseph: Is this...?

Jonathan: Yes.

Narrator: What they saw resembled a dungeon more than a library. A vast stone corridor, dimly lit by torches resting on giant Corinthian columns, stretched out before them. The air was thick with the scent of aged books and scented candles, reminiscent of a monastery.

Joseph: Do all private studies lead to this place?

Jonathan: Yes, at least on this level of the library.

Joseph: So, where is everyone?

Jonathan: They are either in the public study or in their private ones. Though occasionally, one might encounter other scholars here, on their way to or from the public study.

Joseph: Have you ever?

Jonathan: I seldom leave my study, Joseph. You know how I am. Come, let me show you the public study.

Narrator: Jonathan led Joseph down the corridor, their footsteps echoing in the silence. The journey was long, the corridor’s vastness and complexity disorienting.

Jonathan: Here we are.

Narrator: They stood before a massive door, stretching as far as the eye could see. Made of solid bronze, it resembled Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise. Ten colossal panels depicted the greatest scholars in history, each captured in a moment of genius: Goethe at his writing desk, crafting Faust; Socrates crowned with a laurel wreath by Wisdom herself; Francis Bacon holding the earth in one hand and a book titled Omnia Secreta Revelata (All Secrets Revealed) in the other. The most striking of all was a scene reminiscent of The Last Supper, with Leonardo da Vinci as Jesus and the greatest minds of history as his apostles.

Jonathan pushed open the door.

Inside, the scene was breathtaking. It was less a library and more a world unto itself. Books stretched for miles in every direction, dwarfing even the vastness of Jonathan’s private study. Grand spiral staircases led to rooms filled with bookshelves and lounge tables, inviting debates and discussions. The entire space was lit by candles reminiscent of the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. In the center, there were reading stands and round tables surrounded by chairs that resembled thrones. Yet, despite the grandeur, the library was eerily quiet, devoid of any sign of scholars.

Joseph: It is the most glorious sight I have ever feasted my eyes upon.

Jonathan: Amazing, isn’t it?

Joseph: It is, but it’s too quiet. Where are all the scholars?

Jonathan: I’m not sure. Perhaps we’ll find someone if we go toward the center?

They made their way to the center, passing towering shelves of books. The journey was long, and by the time they arrived, Joseph was slightly out of breath.

Joseph: Hello?

Silence. They pressed on, turning a corner around a particularly large bookshelf. That’s when they saw him. The figure stood still, his massive silhouette imposing in the dim light. They stopped, hesitant to disturb him.

Joseph: Should we say something?

Jonathan: I think so.

Joseph: Excuse me, we’re on a journey to seek...

Narrator: The figure rose, revealing a towering presence. His round shoulders and Falstaffian bulk immediately marked him as a scholar of the highest repute. When he turned, the recognition was instant. His singed powdered wig, practically glued to his forehead; his deep, penetrating eyes, a window to the depths of his contemplation; his High Baroque attire, strange mannerisms, and nervous tics; and most telling of all, his deeply scarred face. There was no mistaking him.

Joseph: You’re... you’re Dr. Samuel Johnson!

Samuel Johnson: Sir, it is a pleasure, though I must confess, your countenance is unfamiliar to me. Pray, who might you be?

Joseph: I am Joseph Diaz, son of Joseph, grandson of Primitivo.

Samuel Johnson: And your companion, who might he be?

Jonathan: I am the guide to the man you speak to. I am Jonathan Diaz.

Samuel Johnson: Your attire looks familiar, sir: are you another literary cretin, basking in the glory of words and erudition for its own sake?

Jonathan: One can trivialize any glorious occupation. I'm sure you know the feeling, considering your Vanity of Human Wishes was nothing more than a poor emulation of Pope. And then, you say of him that he was the master of a dead style. Are we not all striving headlong into oblivion, only to be revived centuries later by those men who, in their own time, desire something from the past for their present expression? I'll have you know, sir, that I have resided in the library for over a decade and have only seen you occasionally: always pouring over countless tomes by the ancients and moderns.

Samuel Johnson: A decade, you say? That would indeed account for my lack of recognition. Jonathan? The name stirs the faintest recollection. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well. Pray, forgive my sometimes cantankerous disposition; it is never my intent to give offense where none is due. I have ever been a lover of conversation and debate, and many a friend has jested that I would sooner trample truth underfoot than concede an error in argument.

Jonathan: In that case you have my empathy, for I speak from the heart in the same manner. Joseph would tell you; me and him could talk forever if we so wished.

Samuel Johnson: Indeed? Then I count myself fortunate, for I too find no greater delight than in the company of learned minds. I was a frequent visitor to the Turk’s Head Tavern in Gerrard Street, where I would converse with men of the highest distinction and education. They found pleasure in my discourse, and I was lavishly rewarded in their esteem. Yet, truth be told, I would have engaged in such exchanges for no reward at all, for solitude is a burden I cannot bear. I require the presence of others to stimulate my thoughts, to sharpen my wits through the exchange of ideas.

Joseph: Really? This I find the most striking admission, Dr. Johnson. I myself never understood how people could be productive in the presence of others. So many innocuous necessities like breathing and small-talk that drive me mad. How could someone write while another person is fluttering about like a bubble in the midst of a tempest; readjusting themselves in their seat as if that would help them concentrate better. How often does a single sneeze by one of these miscreants result in entire ideas lost; ideas which could have went on to change the world, or at least fill a few dozen pages in my journal. Why must they distract me from my work? I never asked them to sit by me and yet they do so anyway. And worst of all, to hear them talk, almost always, with their equally annoying friends; people so base and contemptuous that to even be near them is to bring about ideations of suicide. No, Dr. Johnson, I could never subject myself to such torture willingly. I prefer my solitude, my oldest friend. The thing that has always been their for me in times of deepest misery. I could praise it as such:

The joyful quiet that shakes the deep,
Rouses my mind and brings ideas complete.
Ideas so furnished to bring delight,
And block the crowd's annoying spite.

Within that darkness brings the light to me,
And light so pure it gives me all supply.
Tranquil and pleasant are my thoughts to be,
And to the sky, I praise my thoughts: sublime.

No noise or talk to bring my anger nigh,
Yet all dumb folk don't seem to bat an eye.
Trouble they give me all my weary days,
Yet air they pass without the sight of haze.

Expel your thoughts without the thought of me,
Distract you do, and no curfew you use.
Toil I do and get but great abuse.
Compel yourself to be a bane to me.

Solace I find on all the windy nights,
While airy spirits work their great delight.
I strove to show why such is great,
So weary scholar, don't belate.

For you regret the time you spend near them,
To lose all hours of the night again.
Wayward must you push on that trotted path,
And know not of the sight of weary heads.

To speak and talk as if that's all you do,
And often do you speak like such a fool.
Contemplation is the scholar's home.
Forget the scorn that they labor forlorn.

Rude they are when they collect in groups;
And hubris they abuse to make a dupe.
Stoop not to levels that they make you hate,
Return to solitude that you find great.

Glorious is the day with its bright lights,
And all is calm when noise is of respite.
So nice is night to make the chatter stop,
To bring the tired to a halting lot.

It is disease of mind that makes them talk,
And talk nonstop they do and never walk.
To make it far in thought they never do,
Nor cease their chatter, to be a fool.

I think sometimes it is a plague of truth,
That all scholars do wish for solitude.
And make a great array of their learned proof,
To show the books they read, great vastitude.

But more to say is folly of style;
Avoiding ornaments I wish to do.
No more I say unless I cause a fray.
So scholar, when they talk, do keep away.

Samuel Johnson: Ah, but I can play that game too:

For in my thoughts do sound give life to it,
To hear of chatter livens up my mind,
And calls from rough to strength, to make a hit;
To write of verse to make it most sublime.

See the sea of words that make me think,
Improve upon my works, those sinking ships:
Create a world of joy and happy thoughts,
Forlorn no more my thoughts, my works of hope.

Called upon the mind to make a sign,
A sign so big I thought it all divine.
Express my ways in all their happy shows,
Viewed upon by those with many woes.

Woes and cries and lamentations spent,
I do so wish success from their repent.
So often does the talk release our grief,
And bring about those joys of sweet relief.

Forgetting days that we were worse for wear,
And found ourselves in talks with our forebears.
New hope we sought, we found, we cherished dear,
And sang we did for all those with a cheer.

To talk the talk with those who love to talk,
To find new ways; expression is the thought.
Hard it is expressing inner thoughts,
But to talk is easy when we walk.

And walk we do along the barren streets,
To reach our destination and to feast.
We love the wine that gives us revelry,
And mark the time when no more misery.

To those who wish to know: forgetting is
That day of thinking which is all for naught.
To seek a source of unknown origin,
And raise themselves from hoary loneliness.

Let talk of talk be talk of all our minds,
Forget the mathematician's horrid lines.
That crude feeling of using reason's way;
Shun it for the conversation's sake.

To make a date, and show your friends your mind,
To pique the interest of your company.
And give ideas encouraging your rhymes,
Which show the acts of great humanity.

But moderation in all things is key,
Do not let talk dethrone reason of thee.
For if you do, hard fate will make you kneel,
Within reason, however, you may heal.

Does one not see the joys of talking free;
And does it not forestall all agony?
I speak to you convincing all our minds,
That talk, of all great things, is most sublime.

Joseph: I know not if you speak with conviction, however, for you were always one to play devil's advocate while holding a large rosary. So exquisite are you, Dr. Johnson, at seeing both sides of an argument and appearing as if you accept both positions. It is a rare thing to see, for most men are myopic in their capacity to see beyond the purview of their convictions.

Samuel Johnson: A truth we all must acknowledge, for what man does not harbor a bias that he artfully conceals? In certain circumstances, we are all revealed as frauds or pretenders. I claim no credit for this particular skill; it seems rather a gift of natural genius than the result of any labor. A man who reads widely gives the appearance of profound intelligence. Perhaps you have heard of my abilities in recall: to recite poetry verbatim after hearing it but once, to read entire books and remember them down to the comma, or to single-handedly compile hundreds of thousands of quotations for my English dictionary.

Joseph: Yes, Dr. Johnson, you are almost certainly the most learned person in all of English literature: certainly on par with Shakespeare, Milton, and Pope.

Samuel Johnson: There is no need to remind me of what I already know. I have surveyed the vast literature of our language and found those three men to be the greatest exemplars of their age. Shakespeare, in particular, stands as a colossus, his genius so profound that it transcends the humble origins from which he sprang, leading some to doubt the very authenticity of his works—a doubt that only further cements his immortality within the annals of literature. I once heard a heretic ask, "How could you believe in Jesus Christ?" To which I replied, "It is easier for me to believe in Jesus Christ than in Shakespeare, for Shakespeare was but a man." One need only turn to his sonnets to recognize that we are mere subjects in the vast and eternal kingdom of Shakespeare.

From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory;
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou, that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.¹⁸

But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify your self in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens yet unset
With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit;
So should the lines of life that life repair,
Which this time's pencil or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.¹⁹

And one more,

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-liv'd phœnix in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet, do thy worst, old Time; despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.²⁰

Regarding him, I once said: "The stream of Time, which is continually washing the dissoluble fabrics of other poets, passes without injury by the adamant of Shakespeare."²¹ And on another occasion I said: "It was said of Euripides, that every verse was a precept; and it may be said of Shakespeare, that from his works may be collected a system of civil and economical prudence."²² So complete was his mastery over humanity, one may as well say that he created us all in his own image. Even to Pope and Milton is Shakespeare a god among men.

But I would like to know your own opinions on English literature, Joseph. You seem to know more than you let on, and I want to pick your mind as long as I can.

Joseph: My thoughts on English literature? You're Samuel Johnson, for Christ's sake; possibly the greatest literary critic in our language. What could I possibly say to enlighten you?

Samuel Johnson: Indeed, ancient proverbs still ring with an undiminished truth. It seems mankind expresses the same thoughts and opinions across the ages, merely cloaked in different garments of time and place. There is no opinion so foolish that it cannot add some small illumination to a well-informed judgment. I inquire because I genuinely wish to listen, and I wish to listen because I believe you possess insights on the subject of literature—a subject I hold most dear—that might shed light on aspects I have perhaps overlooked.

Joseph: I thoroughly appreciate your candor, Dr. Johnson. You desire my opinion, and so I will acquiesce. Before one talks about specific literature, however, one must first understand it in general. Literature is as old as language itself. Even before writing, there were bards who would tell stories relating the great past deeds of their ancestors. This era of mankind, Vico said, was the heroic age; the age when men formed civilization around a single story; where agreement on past events was necessary for social cohesion. It was an age when men primarily spoke in metaphor and were natural poets. Blind Homer springs to mind, reciting the final days of the Trojan War; Aesop too, who so eloquently wrote fables with morals that lasted for millennia. This is what literature originally was: a form of poetic storytelling that had either a moral or pedagogical aspect to it. You yourself once said: "The end of writing is to instruct; the end of poetry is to instruct by pleasing."²³ And I would say that all the great writers of antiquity did exactly that. Allow me now to express my thoughts on literature from its inception to the present; in doing this, one must start where the subject begins, and so we go to Aristotle.

Aristotle recognized three types of poetry: Epic, Lyric, and Dramatic. All of these are found in Homer, which is why, I suspect, Aristotle wrote his book on Poetics primarily drawing from Homer. Of epic poetry, he says: "Epic poetry must have as many kinds as Tragedy: it must be simple, or complex, or 'ethical,' or 'pathetic.' The parts also, with the exception of song and spectacle, are the same; for it requires Reversals of the Situation, Recognitions, and Scenes of Suffering. Moreover, the thoughts and the diction must be artistic. In all these respects, Homer is our earliest and sufficient model. Indeed, each of his poems has a twofold character. The Iliad is at once simple and 'pathetic,' and the Odyssey is complex (for Recognition scenes run through it), and at the same time 'ethical.' Moreover, in diction and thought, they are supreme. Epic poetry differs from Tragedy in the scale on which it is constructed and in its meter. As regards scale or length, we have already laid down an adequate limit: the beginning and the end must be capable of being brought within a single view. This condition will be satisfied by poems on a smaller scale than the old epics, answering in length to the group of tragedies presented at a single sitting. Epic poetry has, however, a great—a special—capacity for enlarging its dimensions, and we can see the reason. In Tragedy, we cannot imitate several lines of action carried on at one and the same time; we must confine ourselves to the action on the stage and the part taken by the players. But in epic poetry, owing to the narrative form, many events simultaneously transacted can be presented; and these, if relevant to the subject, add mass and dignity to the poem. The epic has here an advantage, and one that conduces to grandeur of effect, to diverting the mind of the hearer, and relieving the story with varying episodes. For sameness of incident soon produces satiety and makes tragedies fail on the stage."²⁴ However, I think Addison is quite right in his criticism of Aristotle on this point, saying: "Aristotle’s rules for epic poetry, which he had drawn from his reflections upon Homer, cannot be supposed to quadrate exactly with the heroic poems which have been made since his time; as it is plain his rules would have been still more perfect had he been able to peruse the Æneid, which was made some hundred years after his death."²⁵

In essence, the criticism is that Aristotle's rules for epic poetry aren't applicable to poetry written after his time; this is because, like language, poetry evolves and new forms of expression emerge. Expression is not a static thing that must meet a certain set of criteria to be considered good. When Aristotle says, "Epic poetry must..." one can stop him right there and say, "No, it doesn't." There are no necessities in expression. There is no high authority whose rules are never to be superseded in writing—not even Aristotle's. Aristotle's rules are nothing more than road signs meant to show the reader what he himself found good and poor within poetry.

Being a tremendous analytic and formulaic thinker, Aristotle provided a clear foundation and analysis for all branches of humane investigation; however, he erred in many respects due to a lack of critical method, especially in his Poetics. Aristotle did not view things in subjective terms; he preferred to create entire analytical systems where everything was logically sound and fully explicated, but he left no room for disagreement. This, I think, is where Aristotle's almost divine status, from his own time to the Enlightenment, derives. This is not to say that all his opinions are rubbish, but they are very restrictive for the modern mind.

I personally think that "Epic poetry differs from Tragedy in the scale on which it is constructed and in its metre..." is generally true. Epic poetry traditionally refers to long narrative poems that recount grand events with elevated style. Look at how Homer opens The Iliad:

“Sing, O Muse, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans.”

"Sing, O Muse" is a quintessential expression that conveys elevation and prepares the reader for the epic story that is about to unfold. When he pronounces "sing," it is an invocation to the Muses, to give him the power to speak of Achilles' rage in an appropriate manner. The phrase "countless ills upon the Achaeans" suggests that Achilles' rage is not only harming the Trojans but also causing suffering among his own comrades, the Achaeans.

In The Iliad, Achilles is portrayed as a hero who, despite his divine attributes, is profoundly human. His rage, grief, and sense of honor are deeply human emotions, and he grapples with his mortality and the limitations of his divine bloodline. Thus, while Achilles possesses divine ancestry and remarkable abilities, he is not a god in the traditional sense. Instead, he is a complex character embodying both human frailties and divine strengths.

This, I believe, is the end goal of all great writing: to express what you feel deep within your own humanity, so as to reciprocate that feeling in others. There is no limit to what can be expressed; whether you wish to convey your sadness over the passing of a loved one or instruct the youth in the morals of the Renaissance, it all falls under the purview of expression. Epic poetry simply takes this expression and weaves it into an entire narrative with characters—all necessary for the progression of thought and feeling.

As for tragedy, Aristotle makes some poignant connections between it and epic poetry. He states: "Epic poetry agrees with Tragedy in so far as it is an imitation in verse of characters of a higher type. They differ in that Epic poetry admits but one kind of metre and is narrative in form. They differ, again, in their length: for Tragedy endeavours, as far as possible, to confine itself to a single revolution of the sun, or but slightly exceed this limit; whereas the Epic action has no limits of time. This, then, is a second point of difference; though at first, the same freedom was admitted in Tragedy as in Epic poetry."²⁶ And later, he observes that "... all the elements of an Epic poem are found in Tragedy, but the elements of a Tragedy are not all found in the Epic poem."²⁷

We see here that epic poetry must conform to only one meter type; however, what could be more counterintuitive to the modern audience? We express varying meters all the time without batting an eye. To insist on a singular meter is, again, fundamentally myopic in views on expression. Regarding length, this observation is generally true: The Iliad and The Odyssey are around 15,000-20,000 lines each, Virgil's Aeneid is about 9,000 lines, and Dante's Divine Comedy is close to 14,000 lines. In contrast, tragedies such as Oedipus Rex by Sophocles comprise only about 1,500 lines, and Antigone is close to that. The Bacchae by Euripides contains roughly 1,200 lines, while The Eumenides by Aeschylus has around 1,000 lines.

Aristotle, as quoted earlier, explains this phenomenon, stating: "In Tragedy we cannot imitate several lines of actions carried on at one and the same time; we must confine ourselves to the action on the stage and the part taken by the players." While this is generally true regarding structure and flow, it no longer remains the norm. Did Shakespeare not allow for inner character dialogue to deepen the audience's understanding and connection with the character? Did Edmund Spenser not employ the use of allegory and symbolism to explore complex themes and moral issues? One does not need to "... confine ourselves to the action on the stage" when other elements of a plot can be explored through imagination or imagery. To claim that the main plot is the only thing a character can reference is asinine.

In my view, the reason tragedies are generally shorter than epics is that their plots necessarily call for a swift and tragic end. Nothing epitomizes this more than the endings of Macbeth and Romeo and Juliet. Another reason for the shorter length is audience engagement; to prolong a tragedy would cause great suffering to the character, which may prove too much for a sensitive audience. Barbaric imagery often leads the reader to quiet resignation. Authors should avoid disgusting their audience; they must keep them engaged and, in the context of a tragedy, provide a reversal of fortune or tragic occurrence to make the story more engaging and memorable. Who can ever forget Macbeth's reflection:

"I pull in resolution, and begin
To doubt th' equivocation of the fiend
That lies like truth: 'Fear not, till Birnam Wood
Do come to Dunsinane'; and now a wood
Comes toward Dunsinane?"²⁸

A most superb example of prophecy being fulfilled, which led to a tragic occurrence. And such is the essence of tragedy: to be in form like an epic, but to provide certain aspects that drive the audience to fear and misery. Aristotle also states: "Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude; in language embellished with each kind of artistic ornament, the several kinds being found in separate parts of the play; in the form of action, not of narrative; through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions."²⁹ Notice that the focus in tragedy is on action, not narrative or plot; this only reaffirms my thought that tragedy is shorter than epic poetry because it relies less on narrative and more on the actions and effects of the characters.

Regarding lyric poetry, Aristotle believed it focused more on the personal rather than on narrative or dialogue. The term "lyric" originally referred to poetry sung to the lyre, evoking thoughts of music accompanying a piece of poetry beautifully harmonized as the shores of Athens roared. These poems often traversed the whole range of human experience; from deep affection to harrowing grief, they revealed more about the author than about a narrative. For Aristotle, personal expression was all about suppressing mimesis (imitation of action), which was central to the plots of tragedies and epics. Aristotle's conception of lyric poetry sounds like what we would today simply call poetry. Modern poetry, although it can take various forms, is almost always about personal expression rather than a long narrative that adheres to a single overarching theme. It is this type of poetry that has come to dominate most literature. There is a long history of great authors stressing the importance of mastering this type of poetry above the rest; I suspect this is because self-expression far exceeds the scribbles of a tragedy or the harangue of a choppy narrative poem. The great Renaissance scholar Joseph Scaliger, in his usual profundity, expressed its importance in an elegy to Jan Dousa, saying:

"Why should I recount poems woven with the Lyric Muse's string,
Nor a noble work attempted amiss with the Epic?
Nature denied you nothing of a happy spirit's usefulness,
Fit for every kind of polished song.
The first part of your life has been passed in these pursuits,
With quiet steps, making no noise."³⁰

Notice the connotation of music with lyric poetry. Horace similarly states: "Pass my old age and not my honour lose, and, if I may, still serve the lyric Muse."³¹ To be perpetually in connection with the muse who serves our earthly views; these personal emotions of ours give color to our mostly gray sights. They uplift our spirits and give us hope for a new dawn to rise, shining on us that ethereal light which brings great delight. Lastly, John Milton, who, of all writers, could judge best, said in his famous tract on education: "To which Poetry would be made subsequent, or indeed rather precedent, as being less subtle and fine, but more simple, sensuous, and passionate. I mean not here the prosody of a verse, which they could not but have hit upon before among the rudiments of Grammar; but that sublime art which, in Aristotle's Poetics, in Horace, and in the Italian commentaries of Castelvetro, Tasso, Mazzoni, and others, teaches what the laws are of a true Epic Poem, what of a Dramatic, what of a Lyric, and what Decorum is, which is the grand masterpiece to observe."³² Milton, by most standards, is far beyond the reach of adults with leisure, let alone youths with no experience of life itself; but one can see what the standards were in education during the 17th century by such a remark. One might as well say that today's children are as ignorant at 18 as most kids were at 15 in the 1600s. To master lyric poetry is to become a master of yourself. Only through reading and understanding the good does one see how paltry and feeble the scribblers of today are. How devoid they are of personal anecdotes, which enliven their prose; we are left today with the slop of formulaic, "informative" writings that are completely soulless. One would find the writings of the physiocrats more entertaining than whatever impersonal nonsense is drudged out of writing workshops today. This, in essence, is the core importance of lyric poetry.

However, like all great ideas, there are detractors who thought little of the lyric when compared to the dramatic or epic. Those who think, as Macaulay did, that: "It is the part of the lyric poet to abandon himself, without reserve, to his own emotions."³³ To say, as Seneca did, that: "The lyric poets are avowedly frivolous..."³⁴ And Montaigne, echoing Seneca in the same manner, said: "Cicero said that though he should live two men's ages, he should never find leisure to study the lyric poets; and I find these sophisters yet more deplorably unprofitable. The boy we would breed has a great deal less time to spare; he owes but the first fifteen or sixteen years of his life to education; the remainder is due to action. Let us, therefore, employ that short time in necessary instruction."³⁵ He seemingly goes completely against what Milton suggests, by stating that such time studying the experiences of other men is useless if you don't live yourself; a typical objection one may find against any presumably innocuous intellectual pursuit. If I may be allowed to use a tu quoque, Montaigne himself was a thoroughly educated child who read as widely as the sea is blue. To then criticize such an education that served him so well—no doubt providing the fruits of his ornamentation—which leaves his prose at times completely prosaic, seems to me a great disservice to himself. Then there is the worst offender of all: Plato, who thinks that lyric poetry is a kind of madness that vivifies the mind through the aid of the Muses. "There is also a third kind of madness, which is possession by the Muses, enters into a delicate and virgin soul, and there inspiring frenzy, awakens lyric... But he who, not being inspired and having no touch of madness in his soul, comes to the door and thinks he will get into the temple by the help of art—he, I say, and his poetry are not admitted; the sane man is nowhere at all when he enters into rivalry with the madman."³⁶ He takes this belief beyond all others when he suggests in his Republic that this kind of poetry is to be banned completely, saying: "...and we are ready to acknowledge that Homer is the greatest of poets and first of tragedy writers; but we must remain firm in our conviction that hymns to the gods and praises of famous men are the only poetry which ought to be admitted into our State. For if you go beyond this and allow the honeyed muse to enter, either in epic or lyric verse, not law and the reason of mankind—which by common consent have ever been deemed best—but pleasure and pain will be the rulers in our State."³⁷ However, I suspect that Plato only wrote such a thing because of his jealousy of Homer. Plato, prior to his encounter with Socrates, was a poet with ambitions to win the "Agon," a literary competition held at the ancient Olympic Games; and, upon giving up this youthful ambition, consigned all his poetical works to the flame in the pursuit of philosophy. The ashes from these burning manuscripts served as the foundation for his philosophical development. The life of a poet was one Plato was to shun but sympathize with at the same time.

I, for one, prefer Milton's eclecticism when it comes to poetry. Lyric poetry is not pointless or a pursuit of folly; it is the light by which everything else is seen. It is the most fundamental of all poetic forms, for it resembles the original point of literature in the first place: the expression of self for the communication of ideas and emotions. One must never neglect the self in writing, for who else do we write for aside from our audience? To do so is to sin gravely in the art of expression. Without the self, you are nothing more than a mindless automaton, stringing together words that have no deeper significance beyond their meaning. It is to lose the numinous, that celestial fire which burns deep within our bosoms every time we express feeling. To hold a pen is to be at war, but to fight such a war with words is to assume that the pen is mightier than the sword. And this is true, for it was the letters of Salutati that made Gian Galeazzo Visconti, Duke of Milan, remark that such a pen "caused more damage than a thousand Florentine horsemen."³⁸ To express oneself fully is to unshackle oneself from the prejudice felt from the naysayers; ignore these senseless oafs who have never picked up a book in their life for enjoyment. They are people of complete and utter incompetence in anything literary. I say, let life resemble lyric verse, for therein lies all that expression can afford.

Let us now talk of the dramatic. Aristotle viewed dramatic poetry, like tragedy, as a subset of epic poetry. One simply employs different sentiments they wish to convey, and what results is poetry that emphasizes the dramatic. Do you see now why I view Aristotle as a great systematizer, but not so much as a systems builder? He believed that, "Dramatic ability is a natural gift, and can hardly be systematically taught."³⁹ While I agree that some have an innate sense of dramatic action, there is no human action that cannot be taught. Actors, in a sense, do exactly this; they perform actions playing a role they themselves do not follow in the real world. Drama is the unexpected tempered with reason. One expresses oneself dramatically when emotion overrides the limits of what is appropriate. Within drama, like tragedy, a change occurs that causes the character to rethink a preplanned course; such an experience may be heightened by the author by adding a suspenseful, as-yet-unknown element to the narrative—what is called situational irony.

Aristotle noted that, "As, in the serious style, Homer is pre-eminent among poets, for he alone combined dramatic form with excellence of imitation, so he too first laid down the main lines of Comedy, by dramatising the ludicrous instead of writing personal satire. His Margites bears the same relation to Comedy that the Iliad and Odyssey do to Tragedy. But when Tragedy and Comedy came to light, the two classes of poets still followed their natural bent: the lampooners became writers of Comedy, and the Epic poets were succeeded by Tragedians, since the drama was a larger and higher form of art."⁴⁰ Comedy arises when one trivializes the tragic aspects of life; tragedy is born when one dramatizes them. Aristotle explicates this further, saying: "Since the objects of imitation are men in action, and these men must be either of a higher or a lower type (for moral character mainly answers to these divisions, goodness and badness being the distinguishing marks of moral differences), it follows that we must represent men either as better than in real life, or as worse, or as they are. It is the same in painting... The same distinction marks off Tragedy from Comedy; for Comedy aims at representing men as worse, Tragedy as better than in actual life."⁴¹

To be worse, in this sense, is to not take seriously what makes you appear ridiculous in the eyes of the audience; to be better is to face what makes you ridiculous with unsympathetic will. How many men, when presented with scenarios, are wont to say they would do such and such, but when faced with the same things in reality, scurry away like mice from a lion? I must say that Aristotle's views on drama are quite insightful. The narrative of drama is built upon situations of dread, where the character is almost always overcome.

To linger on comedy, Aristotle indeed differentiated it from tragedy, stating: "Comedy is, as we have said, an imitation of characters of a lower type, not, however, in the full sense of the word bad, the Ludicrous being merely a subdivision of the ugly. It consists in some defect or ugliness which is not painful or destructive. To take an obvious example, the comic mask is ugly and distorted, but does not imply pain. The successive changes through which Tragedy passed, and the authors of these changes, are well known, whereas Comedy has had no history, because it was not at first treated seriously."⁴² Aristotle’s view suggests that comedy was initially not granted the same intellectual consideration as tragedy, though it occupies a critical place in human expression.

The last sentence is especially telling. Despite comedy not being treated seriously in its early forms, the Greek playwright Aristophanes later declared, "Comedy too can sometimes discern what is right. I shall not please, but I shall say what is true."⁴³ This acknowledgment shows that even within comedy, there is room for truth and social commentary. Aristophanes himself used humor to criticize Athenian society, politics, and the Peloponnesian War, making comedy a vehicle for discernment, though delivered through laughter. This evolution in how comedy was perceived reflects the progression Aristotle alluded to. Initially dismissed, comedy found its place as a form of artistic expression that could expose truths, a view that would challenge Aristotle's early critique.

Plato also recognized comedy's power to stir emotions, though he was more cautious. He remarked: "And does not the same hold also of the ridiculous? There are jests which you would be ashamed to make yourself, and yet on the comic stage, or indeed in private, when you hear them, you are greatly amused by them, and are not at all disgusted at their unseemliness...having stimulated the risible faculty at the theatre, you are betrayed unconsciously to yourself into playing the comic poet at home."⁴⁴ Plato critiques how comedy taps into human nature’s more impulsive tendencies, allowing the audience to laugh at things they would not normally find appropriate, even questioning its moral impact. He implies that the experience of comedy can loosen a person's rational restraint, prompting behaviors and attitudes they would usually avoid.

The power of comedy lies in its ability to confront the difficulties of life in a less painful way, offering relief from harsh realities. In this sense, comedy is like wine that softens the soul, allowing us to see the ridiculousness in life’s burdens. By laughing at what is otherwise sorrowful or difficult, we are able to endure life’s hardships with less bitterness. This is the true essence of comedy: to transform sorrow into a lighter, more manageable emotion. In my own experience, I have found solace in comedy when weighed down by worries, and its charm has often left an indelible mark on me. Comedy, in that sense, offers catharsis similar to tragedy, but through laughter instead of tears.

This humanizing effect makes comedy invaluable, not just as entertainment but as a form of emotional and psychological relief, a mechanism through which we process the absurdities of life.

One may see from the preceding paragraphs that poetry was man's original form of expression. It conveyed ideas and emotions that were necessary for our progression as a species. As material conditions improved and more leisure time was available, man told stories. These storytellers went on to become the first bards, or professional storytellers and chroniclers. This served the function of social cohesion, as our ancestors gathered around the fireplace and heard the deeds of their forefathers. These stories later became the foundation for tribal history and, later, mythologies. Long after language, the development of writing as a method of communication followed. This allowed stories to be codified and become ingrained within the cultural fabric of society without fear of being forgotten. The rest is a long history of innovation upon innovation; countless men have written stories they wished others to hear, and it's important to remember that. Mankind is one big story; the only difference is whose narrative you're listening to. Each great culture has its founder, from whom all other ideas are derived. The Chinese have Confucius, the Arabs have Muhammad, the Americans have the Founding Fathers, the ancient Greeks have Homer, the ancient Romans have Virgil, and the Jews have Moses. All these men were poets, bringing their messages to the masses to hear and be moved by. We must all remember what Emerson said in his essay on prudence: "We must call the highest prudence to counsel, and ask why health and beauty and genius should now be the exception, rather than the rule, of human nature? We do not know the properties of plants and animals and the laws of nature through our sympathy with the same; but this remains the dream of poets. Poetry and prudence should be coincident. Poets should be lawgivers; that is, the boldest lyric inspiration should not chide and insult, but should announce and lead, the civil code, and the day's work."⁴⁵ And Giambattista Vico, positing this same sentiment for civilization, said: "...everything that the poets sensed in their popular wisdom was later understood by the philosophers in their esoteric wisdom. We may say, then, that the poets were the sense of mankind, and the philosophers its intellect. Thus, what Aristotle said in particular about the individual is also true in general about humankind: ‘Nothing is found in the intellect which was not found first in the senses,’ Nihil est in intellectu quin prius fuerit in sensu. This means that the human mind can only understand a thing after the senses have furnished an impression of it, which is what today’s metaphysicians call an occasion. For the mind uses the intellect whenever it ‘gathers’ something insensible from a sense impression, and this act of gathering is the proper meaning of the Latin verb intelligere, to understand."⁴⁶ And, further affirming his original conjecture using philological arguments, said: "All these observations prove that human nature determined the creation of poetic style before prose style, just as human nature determined the creation of mythical and imaginative universals before rational and philosophical universals, which were the product of discourse in prose. For after the poets had formed poetic speech by combining universal ideas, the nations formed prose speech by contracting these poetic combinations into single words, as if into general categories."⁴⁷

And to linger on that notion by Emerson that poets should become lawmakers, Vico thought that’s how history actually played out, saying: "As popular tradition relates, poetic wisdom created sages who were equally great as philosophers, lawmakers, generals, historians, orators, and poets. But in creating them, this wisdom formed them only roughly: this is how we see them in their myths, in which we perceive the embryonic outlines, as it were, of all esoteric wisdom. We may conclude that in their myths the nations used crude and physical language to describe the principles of the world of sciences. Later, this was elucidated by the specialized research of scholars who used rational argument and general rules. All this confirms the thesis of my second book, that the theological poets were the sense of human wisdom, as the philosophers were its intellect."⁴⁸ Mankind is made for stories and expression. We use all our senses in an attempt to understand the world we see, and so often do we only receive a glimmer of truth on that front.

Poetry is perhaps the earliest form of storytelling. No matter the language, it always relies on either meter, rhythm, or syllable count. The first person to study it systematically was Aristotle; after him came Longinus, then Quintilian, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Plutarch, Aelius Aristides; and for the moderns, we have Philip Sidney, John Milton, John Dryden, Alexander Pope, etc. It should be emphasized, however, that literary criticism after Aristotle remained stagnant. Longinus, the most notable figure after him, did not deviate much from the master, although he did emphasize the importance of lyric poetry more. It was not until the great John Milton that the spell of authority Aristotle had cast over everyone was broken. You yourself, Dr. Johnson, also played an incredibly important role in advancing the field, removing cant, as you say, and planting the seeds for a literary canon that has become the dominant form of authorization in literary studies. From there, it became, and still is, a flourishing pastime and profession for bookworms and literary parasites alike. From Aristotle's three-way division of poetry, we get the divisions of poetic genres: the epic, lyric, and dramatic. Contained within epic poetry are the genres of tragedy and comedy; both share aspects of epic poetry like narrative storytelling and character development but are distinct enough not to share all the same qualities. Lyric poetry focuses on the author's emotions and has a personal depth to it. I view it as the most important of all poetic forms and mandatory for all who desire to write well to master its contents. Finally, we have the dramatic, which could also be argued to be a subset of epic poetry like tragedy and comedy, but it has its own tradition that separates it out enough. The dramatic differs most from the epic in narrative style; where epic narrative is built upon actions of grace and thought, the dramatic is built upon ignorance and misfortune that is not endured with grace. I could explain how poetry has advanced since your time, Dr. Johnson, but to do so would only reiterate my same sentiments regarding it and would require too much analysis to seek every nuance out correctly. Such is the lament of the literary critic: so much to say, so little attention.

In summary, I view poetry as the counterpart of prose in expression. One who wishes to be a good writer should read only the best poets that have written: Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Donne, Jonson, Marlowe, Herbert, Dante, Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Horace, Juvenal, and the list can go on for quite some time. There is no shortage of great writers; one need only look and read what speaks to the heart; the rest is superfluous. To read poetry is to receive ideas carefully developed and tempered with emotion. To understand the subtleties of poetry is divine; to read for enjoyment is human. There is no aspect of writing that poetry doesn't improve; most obviously, diction, which is trained and honed with every stanza written. Another is emotional expression, which can be conveyed within the meter or rhythm. Finally, we have ornamentation, which is used to embellish and beautify expression; this I find to be the most rewarding of the three, for it frees up your writing and allows you to express yourself in ways you never thought possible. Let the meter and rhythm of poetry infect your prose, for with that comes melodic grace; and allow your prosody to always be spirited with an aim toward clarity, elegance, and virtue. Never forget that your words are power and your ideas matter; the better you express your ideas, the more power you'll wield.

Let us never forget what Will Durant said of poetry and words in general: "Think of it not as a sudden achievement, nor as a gift from the gods, but as the slow development of articulate expression, through centuries of effort, from the mating calls of animals to the lyric flights of poetry. Without words, or common nouns, that might give particular images the ability to represent a class, generalization would have stopped in its beginnings, and reason would have stayed where we find it in the brute. Without words, philosophy and poetry, history and prose, would have been impossible, and thought could never have reached the subtlety of Einstein or Anatole France. Without words, man could not have become man—nor woman woman."⁴⁹ Humanity is nothing without the tools that got us to where we are today; words are one such tool, and the writer's job is to hammer away at thought until it molds to your idea of expression. May we always hammer, may we always mold, and may we always express thought.

If you will indulge me, Dr. Johnson, I would like to share my thoughts on prose writing as well. I have read more on this subject and would prefer to give my thoughts rather than my criticisms of the thoughts of others.

Samuel Johnson: My dear sir, I am always inclined to indulge those who endeavor to share their thoughts with earnestness and reflection. Speak freely, and let us see if your reflections do justice to this noble craft, as they did when speaking of poetry.

Joseph: Unlike verse, which has always had a dedicated readership, prose does not strike the mind or heart as quickly. I find prose to be easier for the common man but harder for the man of letters. With verse, one is free to write as they please with all the colorful imagery they have at their command; but to attempt the same in prose is to drown the plant with too much water. Whenever you wish to express an idea in prose, you should seek to ornament it insofar as it improves readability and engagement. When a text is boring, nobody will care to labor through it; even the most obscure topics can be made intriguing with the touch of style. Look at how Baron Macaulay made The History of England a staple in the historical tradition. Look, too, at how Will Durant managed to keep an eleven-volume history engaging. There is almost nothing to improve upon in these books because they were so wonderfully written that to add to them would only serve to detract from their grace and elegance.

I am of the view that to be a good writer, one must be a very wide reader. I mean not just in one subject, but in the whole of humane literature. From Homer to the present, one must see how others have written to gauge what style is appropriate for any meritorious composition. I myself found that the greatest prose stylists were, without question, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Friedrich Nietzsche, William Hazlitt, Thomas Babington Macaulay, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, and, last but not least, you yourself, Dr. Johnson. I took the most from Emerson, however. Never will I forget his advice for the upstart scribbler and wannabe bibliophiles—those who maintain inky fingers with great constancy and hunched backs with firm resolve: "The best rule of reading will be a method from nature, and not a mechanical one of hours and pages. It holds each student to a pursuit of his native aim, instead of a desultory miscellany. Let him read what is proper to him, and not waste his memory on a crowd of mediocrities. As whole nations have derived their culture from a single book— as the Bible has been the literature as well as the religion of large portions of Europe— as Hafiz was the eminent genius of the Persians, Confucius of the Chinese, Cervantes of the Spaniards; so, perhaps, the human mind would be a gainer if all the secondary writers were lost— say, in England, all but Shakespeare, Milton, and Bacon— through the profounder study so drawn to those wonderful minds. With this pilot of his own genius, let the student read one, or let him read many; he will read advantageously. Dr. Johnson said, 'Whilst you stand deliberating which book your son shall read first, another boy has read both: read anything five hours a day, and you will soon be learned.'"⁵⁰

I found my appreciation for quotation in explication first in Grotius; however, the problem with Grotius was that he overlaid his prose too much with quotations. What I find most superb in Emerson and the others listed is that they tethered their own voice so perfectly to the authority of another that such a blend of opinion and feeling led to a delicate and eloquent piece of writing. So masterful and powerful did I find such an approach to writing that I became desirous of mastering such a style; and I think, at present, I could say that I am still attempting to reach a percentile of greatness shown by those who made words dance to the tune of their pen. Look at how Emerson not only quotes you, Dr. Johnson, but also shows his vast reading by merely mentioning Hafiz, Confucius, Cervantes, Milton, Bacon, and Shakespeare. And look at what he says in the very beginning: "Let him read what is proper to him, and not waste his memory on a crowd of mediocrities." It is sentences like these that made me aware of the great power simple expression has.

Prior to my reading of such sentences, I would have thought it trivial and unimportant to write in such a manner. I was always told that writing must be informative first and clear second. My only problem was that I did not emphasize clarity. What I thought was clear was really barbaric independent clauses that weren't worthy of a kindergartener. I sought to be evocative and expressive with great imagery and pomp, but found that my metaphors were too bogged down with ancillary predicates. To be too wordy, in other words, was my problem, and I too struggled to find a way to use quotation, charm, and natural elegance coupled with opinion and experience to make my writings compelling. I still struggle with this at present, if I may be blunt, Dr. Johnson. In trying to find my own voice, I sought the literature of those writers who were proper to me, as Emerson put it. And from that germ of an idea, I found my solution at once before me. I followed the advice of Emerson fully, and that of Montaigne before him: to write from the heart whatever comes to mind; to speak first for myself; to search within, to consider the contents of my own soul, my humanity. And to affirm the idea that if I'm honest with myself, then whatever I write is true.

The other piece of advice I found helpful from Emerson was this: "Be sure, then, to read no mean books. Shun the spawn of the press on the gossip of the hour. Do not read what you shall learn without asking, in the street and on the train. Dr. Johnson said, 'He always went into stately shops,' and good travelers stop at the best hotels; for though they cost more, they do not cost much more, and there is good company and the best information. In like manner, the scholar knows that the famed books contain, first and last, the best thoughts and facts. Now and then, by rare luck, in some foolish Grub Street, is the gem we want. But in the best circles is the best information. If you should transfer the amount of your reading day by day in the newspaper to the standard authors— but who dares speak of such a thing?

The three practical rules, then, which I have to offer, are:

1. Never read any book that is not a year old.

2. Never read anything but famed books.

3. Never read anything but what you like; or, in Shakespeare's phrase,
   "No profit goes where is no pleasure ta'en;
   In brief, Sir, study what you most affect."

Montaigne says, "Books are a languid pleasure"; but I find certain books vital and spermatic, not leaving the reader as he was; he shuts the book a richer man. I would never willingly read any others than such. And I will venture, at the risk of inditing a list of old primers and grammars, to count the few books which a superficial reader must thankfully use.⁵¹

What could possibly be more necessary to a person who wishes to write than to hear such a quotation? To write is to express oneself, as I have said before, and in the context of prose, that means doing so in independent clauses that should be engaging, elegant, and informative. Not too pompous, not too quotation-heavy, not too brief, not too long, not formulaic; but from the heart, from the soul, from the rational intellect that feeds itself on the ambrosia of good thoughts and the celestial fire of imagination. To write good prose is to find what you like and do your best to emulate it while maintaining your character. Nothing is more pleasant than the essays of Montaigne or Emerson, the aphorisms of Nietzsche, the imagery and spirit contained within the lines of Hazlitt, the power and force in Macaulay, the quaint evocativeness of Goethe, and lastly, the sheer immensity of mind present in every syllable of writing, Dr. Johnson. I truly believe there is nothing superior to the men listed. One could say Pope was the greatest couplet writer in the English language, another could say Shakespeare was the best of mankind, and another could say Milton outshines every poet; I, for one, do not care about such senseless platitudes of who is best objectively. I simply like what speaks to my heart and soul and desire nothing more than to take such a place in my bosom.

But I want to speak more about the comparisons of prose to verse. Verse was man's first way of communication in the youth of our species. Then prose developed as a way to write without the constant use of metaphor to explain everyday things as they were, not what they were like. I say "write" because it seems more likely that the primitive utterances of mankind were made in poetical language. To speak poetically in conversation is the norm in every language. So often do we struggle to come up with purely descriptive phrases that we must take from the poet's playbook every time we think and engage. It is natural to say things like, "I burn with desire for this fair maiden," or "To leap across the sky to see the one I love." These are poetical because they employ imagery in their expression of a verb: burn, leap across the sky; these are verbs animated with life and applied to the emotional state of the subject. To be poetical in prose is to imbue the subject with life and describe the verb in ways beyond the action itself. It is to lavish the verb, as it connects to the subject, with ornamentation that resonates with our senses. This is what it means to apprehend an expression: to have a sense of understanding and emotion brought about by a sympathy with the words and their meanings. To do this in verse is the natural state of things. Verse, like prose, expresses meaning and emotion, but does so in rhyme, rhythm, or repetition.

Listen to that great sage Emerson again on the construction of a good mind and its relation to verse and written expression: "The conditions essential to a constructive mind do not appear to be so often combined that a good sentence or verse remains fresh and memorable for a long time. Yet when we write with ease and come out into the free air of thought, we seem to be assured that nothing is easier than to continue this communication at pleasure. Up, down, around, the kingdom of thought has no inclosures, but the Muse makes us free of her city. Well, the world has a million writers. One would think, then, that good thought would be as familiar as air and water, and the gifts of each new hour would exclude the last. Yet we can count all our good books; nay, I remember any beautiful verse for twenty years. It is true that the discerning intellect of the world is always much in advance of the creative, so that there are many competent judges of the best book and few writers of the best books. But some of the conditions of intellectual construction are of rare occurrence. The intellect is a whole and demands integrity in every work. This is resisted equally by a man's devotion to a single thought and by his ambition to combine too many."⁵²

Notice how Emerson catches the reader's attention by gripping them with a statement that is made to be understood and empathized with: "...but that a good sentence or verse remains fresh and memorable for a long time. Yet when we write with ease and come out into the free air of thought, we seem to be assured that nothing is easier than to continue this communication at pleasure. Up, down, around, the kingdom of thought has no inclosures, but the Muse makes us free of her city." Indeed, a good sentence (prose) or verse does, in fact, remain fresh and alive in our memories as our days go by.

And notice too the great transition in ideas, which flows so naturally in his stream-of-consciousness approach to writing; he goes from the sentimental sentence about writing directly to one that touches on authors and books at large. Genius is the only way to describe it. To write with ease is to feel at liberty to do precisely what one wishes, only to contrast that with the idea that many people feel that same experience, which does not constitute a writer of merit. How seamless yet fantastic is it! One finds this in all the writers I listed as well; how blessed I am to have spotted the good in those whom others ignore: to do such a thing is to feel like coming upon a fruit others have brushed aside for the marks it bears. Looking only at the surface level of things and not what hides beneath the abrasions.

To return to verse, however, one usually employs it in lyric poetry and not much else. Advancing times lead to regressions in societal opinions whenever culture is involved. We, as a modern culture, certainly ignore our ancestors' reverence for poetry. What was once thought divine and authoritative has now languished under the rubble of crude opinions and complete rejections of sentiments that "hold no relevance for the modern world." How foolish modern man is to lack even an appreciation of the beautiful in spoken word. Your actions reflect an attitude toward what you prioritize, and what you prioritize reflects a value that you hold. It seems we have forgotten this simple statement or, rather, ignore it on purpose: to let verse die so as never to bother with it in the first place. There has been talk of such a downfall since the days of new criticism within modern literature. Harold Bloom, that star whose light shall never fade, spoke of what outright rejection of standards leads to culturally, and we are seeing it play out before our very eyes. How many people actually read Homer and Shakespeare, let alone the more obscure authors like Charles Lamb and Macaulay? There are no doubt communities that show respect and love toward great literature, but it is, at present, a dying minority that subsists on the passion of people's hearts alone. I don't think it should be this way; I find it more appropriate to see as many people enthusiastic about Milton as they are about success and fame. The only positive aspect of loving something as niche as great verse within literature is the prestige one is associated with when telling others you love such and such. "What? You read Homer and Virgil in your spare time? You must be a real academic or something!" No, you utter miscreant! I read Homer and Virgil because I'm passionate about literature and the cultural evolution of our species, not because I like appearing smart or memorizing verse to impress people. Maybe if you studied philosophy and actually understood what introspection was, you wouldn't live such a dull, beleaguered existence; where it seems your sole occupation, outside of acquiring premature white hairs from that job you hate, is to judge the passion others feel for a subject you yourself don't care about and have never cared to consider. Sick to death am I of modern humanity, with their pomp and circumstance for utter garbage they think is quality. These people wouldn't know real culture if Hazlitt's The Spirit of the Age smacked them upside the head.

Verse allows for the expression of all emotions with their vividness intact. In English, iambic pentameter is the most common meter type, although the greatness of our language is that it can vary. There is also allowance for nuance in verse, which one may not think possible. Take, for example, intransitive verbs, which allow for action to be expressed without the need for a direct object. Or perhaps a double entendre. The greatness of verse is its playful nature when being written. Do I write in free or blank verse? Do I wish to add this particular anapest or find another word that continues the iambic flow? Should I start with a monosyllable and worry about metrical variation later, or do I make each word a disyllable? These are the questions that all poets and writers of verse must ask before they begin. It is a common occupation we wordsmiths share, yet, mirabile dictu, all our efforts and results tell their own story. How great this is, how fantastic it is to be a writer of verse: God bless you, spoken word, the muse of my thought, the founder of my intellectual lineage. How you were always there for me when I considered death a greater good than life; how you brought me back from the brink of nihilism; how you seamlessly recovered my spirits and led me down a path of virtue and praise rather than myopic hedonism. How great it is to employ your use, to remain fresh at all times, and to keep the ink flowing for as long as you give me thoughts. How bountiful you are, to furnish me endlessly with ideas; to give me thought only to inspire me anew. How you, for all writers, support us and provide us with daily bread, that nourishment we so freely pass off to the muses. To give me integrity and confidence in my own opinion; to allow my own genius to spurn lasciviousness and seek the chaste. To find beauty in the ugly and youth in the aged, and allow my coteries to seek the great sage.

And we now come to prose, which, in comparison to verse, finds an equal. Both, as I said, employ the use of language to convey meaning, but prose does so without restriction. In verse, one must ask many questions prior to starting, even those who write in free verse. But in prose, one needs only pen, ink, and idea to swell the pages with words and meaning. How often does the youth, ambitious for praise, desire great elegance in prose to convince his coevals that he is indeed a great writer? Yet so often does he stumble along the rocky road of expression, overburdening the poor page with more ink than it can hold; sooner or later, the ink spills out and floods the table with jargon and enigmatic expressions that would never capture the reader’s attention. In seeking to appear wise and well-read, they make themselves foolish and unreadable. It’s a hard line we writers, we poets, we literary critics, we essayists, we philosophizers of literature, cross. We spend all our time trying to write as if we spent no time at all writing—to make what took days, months, even years to write, appear as if it came to us in an afternoon. I often wonder what the writing process was like for Hazlitt and Macaulay, men of such profound command of literature and the English word that every single word in their sentences is like salt to a well-cooked meal. Their approach to writing was much more traditional and classical, drawing much from Cicero and Horace in their Latin lessons, and no doubt reading great English poetry in their free time. All this allowed them to find ways of conveyance that are so engaging and powerful that one who reads a single sentence cannot put the book down, for every word is like gold. To me, they epitomize what writing English was in the 19th century: formal, with the elegance of Cicero and the ability to draw a narrative out of the beauty of their words alone. It’s so shocking to see the decline of cultural heritage when one would prefer a bulky, modern textbook to the greatness on display in, say, Lays of Ancient Rome by Macaulay.

For Emerson, Goethe, and Nietzsche, we know how they wrote: from the heart. But their genius in composition and diction seems almost unassailable to any who wish to emulate it. This is for good reason, as one cannot copy the heart of another; one can only feel what the heart has brought forth. One should not attempt to copy another anyway; to do so is to make oneself a parrot of what another has said. Write for yourself alone, and let others be inspired by what you put forth. Recall what Emerson has said: to take in only what is proper to yourself and your interests. Emerson also says:

"Truth is our element of life, yet if a man fastens his attention on a single aspect of truth, and applies himself to that alone for a long time, the truth becomes distorted and not itself, but falsehood; herein resembling the air, which is our natural element, and the breath of our nostrils, but if a stream of the same be directed on the body for a time, it causes cold, fever, and even death. How wearisome the grammarian, the phrenologist, the political or religious fanatic, or indeed any possessed mortal whose balance is lost by the exaggeration of a single topic. It is incipient insanity. Every thought is a prison also. I cannot see what you see because I am caught up by a strong wind, and blown so far in one direction that I am out of the hoop of your horizon. Is it any better if the student, to avoid this offense, and to liberalize himself, aims to make a mechanical whole of history, or science, or philosophy, by a numerical addition of all the facts that fall within his vision? The world refuses to be analyzed by addition and subtraction. When we are young, we spend much time and pains in filling our notebooks with all definitions of Religion, Love, Poetry, Politics, Art, in the hope that, in the course of a few years, we shall have condensed into our encyclopaedia the net value of all the theories at which the world has yet arrived. But year after year, our tables get no completeness, and at last we discover that our curve is a parabola, whose arcs will never meet."⁵³

How often do we find this ringing true now more than ever, when one creates a worldview predicated on a single 'truth,' which ends up dominating their entire life. No one should go through life without having experienced both the bad and the good. "Waste not time, for that is the stuff life is made of,"⁵⁴ said Franklin. But I too would say that time is experienced in action, and to make action is to make life. We must act in order to live; nobody sits around and has life fall into their lap. We must do, we must act, we must, as Nietzsche prescribes, will to power. There is much wisdom in taking power for oneself, in knowing what one enjoys and what one does not enjoy in the experiences of life. As Thomas Browne once said:

"Life is a pure flame, and we live by an invisible Sun within us. A small fire sufficeth for life; great flames seem too little after death..."⁵⁵

To talk of meaning is to talk of life, for we live the dreams of other people. So often do we desire another world to live in, that the meaning we find in this one is incompatible with that of the other.

But one can write forever in vaguely analogous ways, and this, I find, is the greatest thing about prose. One can start with one theme, end it, and begin another; or, as in the writings of someone like Thomas Browne or Montaigne, intermingle thoughts and scorn the precepts of Aristotle, who wishes to be dictator of the written word, prescribing that an epic poem must have a beginning, middle, and end. Suppose I wish to start in medias res, or have a narrative whose entire point is to never end? No, Dr. Johnson, I find that our approach to writing is as malleable as the spoken word itself. Rules and restrictions are an obstacle to the soul of the writer. One should write whatever comes to mind and find a way to weave it into the original topic. To go off on tangents is the sweetness of ornamentation in action; to write something related to the topic, but not directly. There are no contradictions in feeling when we write of our own experience; we can only allow ourselves to be conduits of thought, channeling the muses for intercession whenever we desire help. When writing prose, let the following maxims always be before the mind:

1. Before putting pen to paper, search within your soul and seek things that need resolving. These problems will serve as the main theme for your writings.

2. Consider the experiences you have had in life and know what to draw upon in the right context.

3. Attempt to be as elegant as possible to keep the narrative engaging. Never be boring in writing.

4. Write what comes from the heart; nothing written from the heart is ever incorrect. From there, attempt to improve expression, rhythm, and flow if needed.

5. Lastly, write something you wish someone else had written. Writing is the act of expressing thought, and one should only express what they find enjoyable and what they believe others may as well.

All else, I think, is superficial.

Samuel Johnson: Truly excellent, marvelous indeed. I would never have expected someone so youthful to match me in conversation. You have explained yourself with remarkable thoroughness and should take pride in having outlined a system for approaching literature, as well as in having developed your own distinct voice in writing. That said, I must note some slight imperfections within your prose—chief among them being your occasional tendency to stray too far from the original theme in your ornamentation. Yet overall, you write with a form that is both engaging and well-considered. I regret, however, that I must now take my leave, as a book in my private study beckons me with its silent pages. I thank you again for this most stimulating conversation, Joseph, and I look forward to our next meeting. Farewell.

Narrator: And thus, the largest of literary titans made his leave, slowly lumbering past the aged books that sat upon youthful shelves. It was almost sad to see such a man go; one would have wished that he would accompany you wherever you went just to hear him speak. So great is Samuel Johnson that even in death, his spirit lives on in all would-be compilers and systematizers of literature. Joe and Jon went on their way in search of the second door of separation. But, while wandering through the vast public study, Jon, quite annoyed at the lack of depth and emotion in any of the great Johnson's questions, wanted to enliven the atmosphere again by posing a question to Joe.

Chapter 3: Further Contemplations in the Public Study

Jonathan: That Samuel Johnson is a bore, is he not?

Joseph: He is a man of singular genius with many interests. No one compares to him in lexicography, and he is the equal of any great literary critic. But where he shines most is in his tremendous eclecticism. His nearly eidetic memory has allowed him to have a wealth of material at his command for comparison. Like all critics, he’s opinionated, but like all good critics, he leaves the reader with more than just his thoughts. He adds to the discourse with nuance and always supports his views with strong diction and well-chosen quotations.

Jonathan: I suppose everyone knows him from his dictionary, but I knew him through those excellent essays in The Rambler he published. Nearly every conceivable topic was touched by his pen in that tome of opinion. So much good sense and virtue were exposed in less than 3,000 words; it’s really those essays that show one need not write much to say a lot. I found myself agreeing with you wholeheartedly, Joseph, in your views on prose and verse. But did you discuss criticism itself with Dr. Johnson?

Joseph: I’m sorry to say, I don’t think so, Jon.

Jonathan: I would like to hear your thoughts on that.

Joseph: Well, I suppose my thoughts on criticism don’t differ much from my thoughts on writing. Who doesn’t love to praise a style of writing they love, or denigrate one they hate? You know my affection for Goethe, Jon; I think he was the best writer of his age, not because of his polymathy, but because of the way he employed his genius. Those essays he wrote on literature, or his autobiography, are perhaps the greatest prose ever written in German, and are a treat in English. What Goethe lacks, however, is restraint of emotion. He sometimes lets his opinion overshadow what should be solid criticism.

Solid criticism should be a beautiful blend of opinion and reason. Opinion is necessary in all good writing, for opinion is required for personality to subsist in every mode of expression. By reason, I mean informed judgment—the kind that comes from having read the works of others enough to collect certain literary sentiments that reflect the thoughts of the person being read. To be a writer is to combine the two: to form your own judgment on what you read, and take into your heart what is proper for yourself, while maintaining the influence that other great writers have had on you. I once said that all great acts are done through the example of another. Nobody makes themselves; we are nothing more than the accumulation of influences and experiences we have had, wrapped into a frail body that will one day cease to be.

Criticism can take infinite forms, for what one sees to criticize depends on the topic and the written word, and both are practically infinite. For poetry, for example, one may analyze the meter and rhyme scheme, another may seek a nuanced meaning, and yet another may look at the author’s history at the time of writing to understand the influences at play. For prose, one may analyze diction, another may seek the meaning of the text, and another may study the progression of ideas within the text. This is the beauty of literary criticism—it opens itself to exploration. All questions may be asked, and any answer can yield interesting results. It’s a subject as free as the individual mind is open to thought. And so long as you maintain an open mind, it will always be there, ready for you, yearning for the day when you decide to think deeply on an aspect of the text.

Jonathan: So, no rules or criteria when engaging in criticism?

Joseph: Let the only rules be to ask interesting questions, seek truth truthfully, and write elegantly. As I said, the essence of good criticism is opinion coupled with informed judgment—to compare what is good with what is bad based on what you have read in the past and what you currently know.

Jonathan: You’re so free and liberating, Joseph. What do you think of those who try to seek objectivity in criticism, like Harold Bloom, for example?

Joseph: I think they’re on a fool's errand. Objective criticism is a contradiction in terms. The only "objective" aspect to literary criticism is that it is based on the thoughts of a single person, who themselves were influenced by others. There is no right or wrong; there is only what one feels is right or wrong when it comes to writing. Let writing, as I say, always come from the heart; let it reflect the contemplative soul tethered to the numinous. Let us always:

"...consider better years, to rekindle
Apollo's former ardor, and with a new breath
Awaken the dormant fires?"⁵⁶

These fires, burned at the altar of our mind for Apollo's sake—may they always fulfill and satisfy us in our writing endeavors.

Jonathan: I couldn't agree more, Joseph. I hate when people try to dictate what we should and shouldn’t enjoy. This method accepts all and rejects none. But the only downside to having such an open view about literature is that it can lead to the collapse of standards, no?

Joseph: True, but standards themselves are subjective judgments about the greatness and influence of an author or work. There is no objective truth behind Shakespeare's greatness, only that he is almost universally loved by all mankind and is probably the greatest writer we have ever seen. But some find him boring and difficult, others think he’s a misogynist, while others, like Harold Bloom, believe he created the modern human. I, as Emerson said, take into my heart what I feel is great in him, and view the opinions of others as just that—opinions. Good criticism should strive to make the reader pause when evaluating their opinion, not to change it completely.

Jonathan: I'm sure you could go on for hours, offering example after example of your criticism on great writers, as William Hazlitt and Samuel Johnson did, but let us move beyond literature, Joe. Let’s talk of something dear to my heart and something we might disagree on—the role of the passions in life.

Joseph: Before we begin, let us define our terms. By passions, do you mean the inspiration of emotion and its effects on our actions?

Jonathan: Precisely. Plato once said that there are four kinds of madness: prophecy, priesthood, poetry, and love; and I believe each of these is integral to life as we know it. Prophets have always been viewed with suspicion in the modern era, but in our primitive age—when man awoke each day unsure of his next meal or whether he would survive—we regarded the prophet as one who delivered a message as true as the sun itself. This message was said to come from a higher being, effectively meaning whatever god the locals believed in. His life was about delivering inspiration from a source nobody else could interact with, and this gave him validity. That validity turned into power, and from there, the first forms of religion took shape.

Maimonides, in On the Jewish Creed, said: "To all the prophets the inspiration came not at their own choice but by the will of God. The prophet at times waits a number of years without an inspiration reaching him. And it is sometimes asked of the prophet that he should communicate a message [he has received], but the prophet waits some days or months before doing so, or does not make it known at all. We have seen cases where the prophet prepares himself by enlivening his soul and purifying his spirit, as did Elisha in the incident when he declared ועתה קחו לי מנגן ‘But now bring me a minstrel!’ (2 Kings 3:15), and then the inspiration came to him. He does not necessarily receive the inspiration at the time he is ready for it. But Moses our teacher was able to say at whatever time he wished, עמדו ואשמעה מה יצוה ה’ לכם ‘Stand, and I shall hear what God shall command concerning you’ (Numbers 9:8). It is again said (Leviticus 6:2), דבר אל אהרן אחיך ואל יבוא בכל עת אל הקדש ‘Speak unto Aaron thy brother that he come not at all times into the sanctuary,’ with reference to which the Talmud remarks ‘that only Aaron is בל יבא, but Moses is not בל יבא. The prohibition ("That he come not at all times") applies only to Aaron. But Moses may enter the sanctuary at all times.'"

Similarly, Spinoza said: "If we turn to the sacred volume, therefore, we shall find all that God reveals to the prophets to be imparted to them either by words or by visions, or in both ways at once—both by words and visions. The words, and the visions likewise, were, however, either real, actual, and independent of the imagination of the prophet who heard or saw them, or they were imaginary, the imagination of the prophet, even though watching, being so disposed as to lead him to believe that he clearly heard certain words, or distinctly saw certain visions."⁵⁷

One sees that prophets are intimately connected with God. One could generalize this notion further by saying that inspiration itself is a divine force that comes from a place we cannot enter, yet it affects us profoundly. Inspiration compels us to act and perform great works. Prophets perform a higher duty than this, however; they not only perform great works but also speak of things to come—events that will occur in the future without fail.

Does man not see his own endeavors in the same light? Do we not always believe that what we aspire to do will certainly come to pass one day? Do we not find great hope in contemplating our glorious future, basking in the thought of having accomplished something we planned months in advance? Modern man could learn great lessons from prophets, for it is as Jesus said: "Know what is in front of your face, and what is hidden from you will be revealed to you, for there is nothing hidden that will not be revealed."⁵⁸ He also said: "Whoever seeks should not stop until they find. When they find, they will be disturbed. When they are disturbed, they will be amazed and reign over the All."⁵⁹

To seek is to search the inner soul and understand what is within you—to see life by feeling it with a cautious hand. First, know what lies deep within your soul, and then resolve it. This is the first aspect of passion: the use of irrational thinking to solve what you thought was a rational problem. There are countless so-called "champions of reason," but how many have actually stopped to consider problems that cannot be solved using reason? Reason is a great tool for most problems in the world, but it isn’t compelling to some, nor is it helpful in all situations. One cannot rationalize away the urge to eat, for example, without great harm. I also don’t think one can create gripping narratives based on rationality alone. Great narratives are built on misfortunes overcome, where perseverance must be shown. To relegate this to rationality is folly for narrative—and for life, I think.

Ministers are nothing more than the followers of prophets. They perform the rituals that prophets implemented—those sources of inspiration, as Maimonides said. They give the layman hope and recount stories from past ages that still hold relevance today. In the lives of people long gone, one can often find parallels with present circumstances. It is common to find guidance for contemporary dilemmas in the decisions others have made in the past on similar issues. Ministers distill the teachings of the prophet for the uninitiated, helping them realize that there is always another path to take in life, that life is not a zero-sum game, and that there is always hope at the end of the tunnel. They remind people of the importance of being able to say, "I have seen my work, and I am proud." To recognize the value in one's own work, to turn something miserable within oneself into something glorious and worth celebrating—this is the passion of the minister: to inspire in others what the prophet has inspired in them.

The poet is a secular prophet, although poets too can be connected with God. In general, however, the poet speaks of experience in a language that evokes awe and wonder. There is, once again, that creative element in language—the idea that words themselves possess a lively energy. This is the aspect of inspiration that allows readers to engage with words that give life to their thoughts. To make a life happy by mere words alone is a power unlike any other. The poetical expression of language, allowing for parables to be told, invites further inquiry, wisdom, enjoyment—in short, more of life itself. There is this notion, as you surely know, in Emerson’s words:

"The student interprets the age of chivalry by his own age of chivalry, and the days of maritime adventure and circumnavigation by quite parallel miniature experiences of his own. To the sacred history of the world, he has the same key. When the voice of a prophet out of the deeps of antiquity merely echoes to him a sentiment of his infancy, a prayer of his youth, he then pierces to the truth through all the confusion of tradition and the caricature of institutions. Rare, extravagant spirits come by us at intervals, who disclose to us new facts in nature. I see that men of God have, from time to time, walked among men and made their commission felt in the heart and soul of the commonest hearer. Hence, evidently, the tripod, the priest, the priestess inspired by the divine afflatus. Jesus astonishes and overpowers sensual people. They cannot unite him to history, or reconcile him with themselves. As they come to revere their intuitions and aspire to live holily, their own piety explains every fact, every word. How easily these old worships of Moses, of Zoroaster, of Menu, of Socrates, domesticate themselves in the mind. I cannot find any antiquity in them. They are mine as much as theirs."⁶⁰

And Vico rightly saw that the prophets were the original poets and lawgivers. Writing began as a form of civil organization, but out of that necessity also came the need to tell stories—to recount ancient events and to inspire future generations with the deeds of the past. What can't be achieved when one has the fire of inspiration within? Look at how beautifully Emerson speaks of the inspiration of past peoples as the same inspiration he himself felt. Does this not apply to all of us? To discern facts in nature is to uncover truths hidden within it. The study of nature is a mystery in itself, but to reveal its secrets allows one to enter into a state of freedom, for it frees one from the limitations of the mind and allows one to transcend it. You enter a world where knowledge of your own experience becomes sovereign, and from this knowledge, your efforts are directed toward goals that benefit both yourself and others.

Let the words of Homer and Plato be as inspiring to you as the words of Christ, Muhammad, Moses, and any other figure whose teachings have made life more bearable. This is the role of the poet: to paint images with words and to explain fundamental aspects of life in verse. Did not Alexander Pope write in couplets to make his moral teachings easier to remember and recall? Did not Nietzsche, Gracián, and La Rochefoucauld write in aphorisms to make their ideas more impactful? And did not the great prophets of world religions teach in parables? All these modes of expression allow knowledge to be distilled, making life more pleasant and more meaningful.

Lastly, love the strongest of all emotions. Is there anything so powerful and great as experiencing love? Love of books, love of learning, love of eating, love of others, and love of life itself! Do we not do all things in life because we love them? It seems to me that the most common form of wisdom today is to do nothing that doesn’t evoke feelings of love in us. I find it the truest truth that has persisted for all mankind. No man should be forced to do what he hates. No person should subject themselves to things they would rather not do. Life is too short to live the dreams of another. Dream of a life where you are the main character, where you control the actions of your destiny, not the author of you. Such shame and pity for those who can't live their own life. So often, I have seen people go through life following the dictates of their parents. How miserable are these people, being told that such and such is the only thing worth living for, and any sign of personal choice is trampled upon without the slightest remorse for the feelings of their own child. Hate-filled, domineering parents, who don’t know the first thing about actual happiness. I consider it the biggest fallacy in history to assume that the more money you make, the happier you must necessarily be. Recall what Seneca has said:

"I would therefore have you reflect thus, not only when it is a question of gain, but also when it is a question of loss. 'This object is bound to perish.' Yes, it was a mere extra; you will live without it just as easily as you have lived before. If you have possessed it for a long time, you lose it after you have had your fill of it; if you have not possessed it long, then you lose it before you have become wedded to it. 'You will have less money.' Yes, and less trouble. 'Less influence.' Yes, and less envy. Look about you and note the things that drive us mad, which we lose with a flood of tears; you will perceive that it is not the loss that troubles us with reference to these things, but a notion of loss. No one feels that they have been lost, but his mind tells him that it has been so. He that owns himself has lost nothing. But how few men are blessed with ownership of self!"⁶¹

So often, this is the only idea that parents drill into their kids, for no other reason than it’s all the parents know themselves. I can understand the natural instinct to assume such a thing, but I find it such a dreadful existence to do something that brings no enjoyment. People need to live life according to the goals they wish to fulfill. This is Nietzsche’s will to power in its truest form: for what is power other than the ability to will something into existence by sheer desire for it? To live is to do such a thing. To love is to know what brings you happiness, and this comes only through experience. One cannot live life without a sense of love, for to love something is to desire that it be better off than yourself. I can’t conceive of a heart without love. Even the nihilist would say that the lack of meaning in anything is a kind of meaning, since it is framed in a linguistic structure that predicates knowledge of the expression itself. There is truly nothing in life that is pointless when viewed from the right perspective, and there is no one who cannot be loved once you get to know them. Love conquers all, and hate becomes impossible in a world where everyone acts for the benefit and well-being of others. To have a sense of love is precious in a world where seemingly every artistic passion is denigrated and viewed as pointless unless it lines your pocket. The artist is someone who endures struggle for the sake of their art; and I would say life is a struggle endured for the sake of living itself, for nothing is greater than life. To say, along with Cardano:

"...just as it makes for happiness to be what you can, when you cannot become what you would, so it makes for a more abundant happiness to be desirous of that which is best among all those things we long for. It is necessary, then, that we should recognize what we have at our command, and make the most expedient selection of such faculties as are best for our purposes—choosing two or three from the number which are of a kind to claim our ardent affection and desire, so that we may possess them with the least possible disadvantage both for the purposes for which they were set apart and for other purposes as well."⁶²

To become what you can, when you cannot become what you would, and yet so many parents think the goal of life is to become what they would want you to be. A foolish and helpless injunction that presumes you would find meaning through money alone. Your goals are what give you meaning; money is merely an accessory to a life well-lived. You could go through life thinking money is the only thing that matters, because you falsely assume that through it everything else could be yours. Or you could be happy anyway, without the need to toil your precious days away at something that gives you so little in return. The only thing money is truly useful for is your own keep. Anything beyond the bare necessities of life is pointless in the context of money. What struggles does one put upon themselves? How much debt do they find themselves in, living beyond their means? How much debt, dear God, do people accumulate trying to educate themselves for 'better career prospects'? That’s your goal, a better career? How many people stumble through life with this singular goal, hounded by their parents, telling them the same cant every single day, only to find out they despise the box they were forced into by the will of others?

This is no doubt why these same people, who were star students in high school, become the biggest rakes in college, no longer under the influence of their domineering parents. Free to do things as they wish, on their own terms—what sad cretins these people are, lacking the foresight in life to become what they wanted through their own interests and goals. It’s now already too late to change what they’ve been forced to become, and they go the rest of their days with the resentment they feel from the loss of time. This is why pursuing what you love infinitely trumps whatever you’re told. And such is the reason love is the strongest and greatest of all the passions.

Joseph: Well, Jon, I have to say that was a very beautiful and spirited defense of your positions. Plato’s four madnesses are no doubt true within our experience, and I loved how you explained each as they relate to life. Nothing could have been more pleasant or informative to hear.

I view prophets and ministers as people who receive divine inspiration—people who believe they are receiving commands from a higher entity. Whether that entity actually exists is not the point here; the point is that the inspiration itself allows them to perform actions they otherwise would not. I, for one, think the origin of a source of inspiration is irrelevant; the effect is what’s important, not the cause. Nobody cares that you wrote great poetry believing you were receiving messages from the muses—what matters is that it’s good poetry.

The poet is a prophet who receives inspiration from nature. The poets, as you beautifully put it, Jon, are people who paint with words and express experience in verse. They are the best of writers, for their craft demands them to constantly create words and phrases that speak to the heart in ways normal, boring prose cannot capture. Who does not love the long, almost monotonous, listing of nouns used in the poetry of Walt Whitman, the brevity and conciseness of Emily Dickinson, or the transcendent worldliness of Emerson’s best poetry?

Transcendentalists all have the same thing in common: speaking to the soul with such vibrancy and color that one could never perfectly emulate but only feel the effects which emanate from the writing itself. Finally, love, of all the other emotions, is the most important, for as you say, what could be done without some tint of love in it? Love keeps us inspired and is the salt of life. I have personally allowed it to enter my life on various occasions to inspire me, to make me determined, to make me good to myself, to keep me on track with my goals, and to find pursuits that leave me more elevated than I was before. Man cannot love and hate at the same time, for hate is the absence of love. Nor can man find satisfaction in anything he does if he does not love.

I always come back to this, Jon, for it is the core of my life philosophy: if the goal of philosophy is to make man understand himself and the problems that plague his existence, who would say that love in no way aids him in this pursuit? Love is precisely what gives you your goals, and your experience tells you whether such a thing undertaken was good or not. Remember that your actions are a reflection of the choices you value, and if you love something, as you said, you value that thing above yourself.

For me, Jon, emotions are a range of feelings we experience based on the encounters we have on a daily basis. Some people say that they are primarily governed by genes, and I find this true for the most part; for how often do we see children act like their parents in certain ways? Other times, there are children like me, who are as different from their parents in every respect except in looks. I have tried to live my life more based on reason than on emotions, as the poets and free spirits do; however, I have found that the older I get, the more I yearn for the transcendent and the ability to write with elegance and expression matched only by the greatest English writers. This was my love, so to speak: and as you know, Jon, you were a big influence on me in this regard, with your passionate speeches and harangues. I read widely and tried to match the best English stylists there are: the Miltons and Macaulays. At present, I still try my very best to write as they did, with very dubious results, but I maintain consistency in writing; for to be a good writer, one must be a good reader. To read widely is to pick up on compositional styles you love. One can also say that reading widely allows you to become acquainted with the thoughts of others and experience more in life than you can on your own. Who doesn’t read the essays of Hazlitt and feel as if he is a personal friend? Who can read Shakespeare and not feel as if the man knew him personally? No one can read the New Testament and not say the ethical teachings of Jesus are proper in all times and places. Can anyone get as much life out of a book as in Goethe’s autobiography? What about those of Rousseau, Franklin, Cardano, Cellini, or Augustine?

How many times must we prevent ourselves from living all because we do not feel that love is the appropriate emotion to respond with? You were absolutely right, Jon, when you said that to live life without emotion, all Stoic and unfeeling, is to go through life as a stone. Nobody admires a stone for its conversation; to live life is to be active, to be prompt, to be present, and to put your best foot forward at every occasion. “Life is short; art is long,” says the old aphorism of Hippocrates. So make the most of it while you’ve got it, and enjoy life with all its defects and downfalls. For in great pain, there is life, and in experience, there is wisdom; and the two together make up all of earthly existence. Never should one shun the opportunity to learn when they are presented with something they have never done before; always should they recall Schopenhauer's will. That man, a modern Diogenes, who showed the world is worth drudging through if you maintain the right perspective on what causes you anguish. He rightly said of the will that: "The will to live, which forms the inmost core of every living being, exhibits itself most conspicuously in the higher order of animals, that is, the cleverer ones; and so in them the nature of the will may be seen and examined most clearly. For in the lower orders, its activity is not so evident; it has a lower degree of objectivation; whereas, in the class which stands above the higher order of animals, that is, in men, reason enters in; and with reason comes discretion, and with discretion, the capacity of dissimulation, which throws a veil over the operations of the will. In mankind, consequently, the will appears without its mask only in the affections and the passions. And this is the reason why passion, when it speaks, always wins credence, no matter what the passion may be; and rightly so. For the same reason, the passions are the main theme of poets and the stalking horse of actors. The conspicuousness of the will in the lower order of animals explains the delight we take in dogs, apes, cats, etc.; it is the entirely naive way in which they express themselves that gives us so much pleasure."⁶³ This also relates to the Jungian shadow: the true self that you reveal when no one is watching because of the disgust you know it will evoke in them. The will most purely manifests itself in the passions when the mask is taken off, so to speak. The interrelatedness of each idea compounds to form a whole system of thought that gives one the power to move through life with a sense of assurance. In a way, that is why I speak to you, Jon, in all ways but brief; for I am working out my ideas on things that I have considered but never thoroughly and with a passionate interest: I seek to know from myself what I think.

So often, history has been filled with many opinionated people but little with actual contemplation on their stances. I despise ignorance, and once said that it is the seed of destitution and penury; but I err in not taking it a step further by not saying that those who remain ignorant cannot live a full life. I don't agree with those who say that children are the happiest people on earth. Children know little and contemplate less; what they are truly great at is inquiring. Now, inquiring is the basis of a skeptical and well-rounded mind, which should never be quenched, but curiosity is not enough to be happy. One must be active in the search for answers; one must always be ready to consign to the flames any hypothesis that doesn’t match reality. Always value experience and reason over any authority, and never stop asking questions that get to the heart of a problem. To stifle this is to stifle all creativity and to remain like a brute beast, based only on instinct and feeling.

One cannot go through life on those two alone. There needs to be reason employed in life to understand the cost-benefit analysis of decisions. This is, perhaps, my only problem with the passions; they can lead to too liberal a view of the consequences of an action. In the same way, too strong a reliance on reason often leads one to a kind of boring Stoicism in which they reject the good feelings in life and relegate them to a mere reaction. You know from psychology that all behavior is influenced both by genes and the environment, and so too in life is there a kind of dichotomy that must be maintained in order to live life to its fullest enjoyment. We must employ reason for problems that can only be solved by reason, and wrestle with our emotions when the situation demands it. I, for one, employ my emotions every time I pick up a pen; for to write is an act of expression that must draw on emotions if it is to be interesting. I use reason whenever I am analyzing an aspect of my life that has a contemplative nature to it; I mean to say that it has many variables that all affect each other and cannot be acted upon without due consideration. This is the fine line that must be drawn between rationality and emotion, Jon; but in full, I agree with you wholeheartedly that one cannot live on reason alone; we must enjoy emotion too.

Jonathan: I see your point clearly. But perhaps we have lingered too long on the emotions; I would now like to turn the mood to a more somber, depressing one, and ask what you think about war, Joseph.

Joseph: They say that all is fair in love and war, but having just discoursed on love, I don't see it. The traditional meaning of that phrase was that all actions are proper when it comes to getting something you truly desire; but to make all potential actions fair game is to open yourself up to equally egregious attacks. In war, both sides attempt to win by any means necessary, so it makes sense in that context; but to say the same applies between objects of affection is a case of letting emotions get the best of you. If two men fight over a woman, let this become a type of war, and you have the same end: defeat for the one the woman chooses, or defeat on both sides should the woman reject both. Either way, no one comes out looking good. Love, in that context, could be turned into a warlike thing, which destroys the whole point of love to begin with. To love something is to love it more than yourself, to make sacrifices you normally wouldn't for anything else; but to turn this into a kind of war between two people is no longer to do it for love's sake, but for the sake of victory.

But to return to war more generally, it has been said that it is as old as humanity itself; nay, that it even goes further back, to a time when there were no humans at all. For survival, like love, can be viewed in terms of war, where those most adapted to their environment survive while the others die off. Edmund Burke rightly says that: "War is the matter which fills all history, and consequently the only or almost the only view in which we can see the external of political society is in a hostile shape; and the only actions to which we have always seen, and still see all of them intent, are such as tend to the destruction of one another."⁶⁴ And Will Durant rightly echoed this notion by saying: "War is one of the constants of history and has not diminished with civilization or democracy. In the last 3,421 years of recorded history, only 268 have seen no war. We have acknowledged war as, at present, the ultimate form of competition and natural selection in the human species. 'Polemos pater panton,' said Heraclitus; war, or competition, is the father of all things, the potent source of ideas, inventions, institutions, and states. Peace is an unstable equilibrium, which can be preserved only by acknowledged supremacy or equal power. The causes of war are the same as the causes of competition among individuals: acquisitiveness, pugnacity, and pride; the desire for food, land, materials, fuels, mastery. The state has our instincts without our restraints. The individual submits to restraints laid upon him by morals and laws and agrees to replace combat with conference, because the state guarantees him basic protection in his life, property, and legal rights. The state itself acknowledges no substantial restraint, either because it is strong enough to defy any interference with its will or because there is no superstate to offer it basic protection, and no international law or moral code wielding effective force."⁶⁵ Luckily, humane practices in war have been established throughout history through nothing more than a kind of mutual deterrence regarding actions that would harm either side. But, of course, the world is not perfect, and crimes against humanity are almost always committed in times of war; one needs only to look at the Israel–Hamas war to see what I mean. And think about what atrocities had to be carried out throughout history to get us to this point of moral progress. Of all wars in all history, consider how many were started by nothing more than the sheer desire for conquest and power. The universal desire within mankind to dominate all those who oppose our will. How cruel the human race has been, not only to itself but to non-human inhabitants of the world we live in. All senseless slaughter for the sake of vanity. And this is not to mention the wars carried out in the name of religion.

Sun Tzu said: "War is a matter of vital importance to the state; the province of life or death; the road to survival or ruin. It is mandatory that it be thoroughly studied."⁶⁶ To study war is to become learned in the art of defense and killing. Throughout most of history, the norm has been to ask, "What use is negotiation if you can just dominate your foe?" This was more or less the position of the ancient Greeks, epitomized in the saying of Thucydides: "...since you know as well as we do that right, as the world goes, is only in question between equals in power, while the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must."⁶⁷ This reflects a cruel and barbaric approach to war, resembling those of only the most heartless conquerors in history.

War, as Grotius thought, should only be undertaken in three scenarios: self-defense, reparation of injury, and punishment. For self-defense, Cicero rightly said: "A war is never undertaken by the ideal State, except in defense of its honor or its safety. True law is right reason in agreement with nature; it is of universal application, unchanging and everlasting; it summons to duty by its commands and averts from wrongdoing by its prohibitions."⁶⁸ I agree with this wholeheartedly; for what nation would be so foolish as to let another attack it without putting up a fight? The smaller the nation, the harder this attack is felt; sooner or later, people will rise up and defend what is theirs, even if it is not done out of a sense of patriotism.

When war is on the minds of the people, industry is spurred to make advancements in the military-industrial complex; this invariably leads to the production of more death machines for the sake of killing the enemy. There can be no weakness shown in war, for this only serves to boost the enemy's confidence and weaken the nation's morale. What’s more, there is no true victory in war; for as Cicero said: "...war is deplorable in every way, but the worst part of it is the victory, which, even though it falls to the better party, renders them more cruel and less powerful, so that, even though they may not be tyrannical by nature, they are forced to become so. The victor is obliged, even against his will, to do many things at the dictation of those through whom he gained his victory."⁶⁹ To win a war is to make yourself the master of an enemy you fought so hard to repel.

This is hateful to the native population, for the victor must treat the people with fairness and humility; to go against this is to risk reverting to war again within a few years. Resentment builds into hatred, and this must be quenched at the earliest moment.

Reparation of injury refers to those who have been attacked, as America was by Japan in 1941. This is done more for deterrence against future attacks than from an actual desire for bloodshed. One may view reparation of injury as self-defense for the attacked. It is as Macaulay put it: "No war ought ever to be undertaken except under circumstances that render all interchange of courtesy between the combatants impossible. It is a bad thing that men should hate each other; but it is far worse that they should contract the habit of cutting one another’s throats without hatred. War is never lenient where it is wanton; when men are compelled to fight in self-defense, they must hate and avenge: this may be bad, but it is human nature; it is the clay as it came from the hand of the potter."⁷⁰ He also rightly says: "If there be any truth established by the universal experience of nations, it is this: to carry the spirit of peace into war is a weak and cruel policy. The time for negotiation is the time for deliberation and delay. But when an extreme case calls for that remedy which is in its own nature most violent, it is idle to think of mitigating and diluting. Languid war can do nothing which negotiation or submission will not do better; and to act on any other principle is not to save blood and money, but to squander them."⁷¹ This goes back to my earlier point that no nation can show weakness in war, lest it embolden the enemy.

Lastly, we have punishment, which may be a combination of the previous two causes of war. In this context, the stronger punishes the weaker, for the weak have no say in war, only endurance in what is to come upon them. When faced with this prospect in war, I find great misfortune and misgiving, for attacking someone on the charge of punishment assumes that you were attacked first, which would then fall under the category of reparation of injury. To me, it is only if a weaker power attacks a stronger one that it becomes punishment; for the context of punishment implies that there is a stronger authority by which the negative reinforcement is applied. To willingly punish someone or something is to exert command over that entity. This approach to war, however, seems to me an abuse of power, for if you truly are the stronger force, why would war even be a necessary retaliation? The only context in which a war started on the basis of punishment would be acceptable would be if the weaker force committed such a heinous act that equal justice needed to apply. Now, what determines a heinous act would have to be established by war councils in which the nations in question are already members. If no agreement can be reached prior to war, then let the victor determine what is to occur through treaty. A victor in war should never do what the Mongols did across most of Asia and Europe: that is, offer complete submission or the sword; such a policy only serves to fuel hatred for a race and provides all the more reason to go to war again.

War is a defect in human compassion. Should a perfect world exist, there would be no need for war, for all would be satisfied with the fruits nature has endowed them with. To kill another for the sake of a political conflict serves no purpose other than to reduce the population count. To kill another for the sake of self-defense—or in retaliation for a past crime—is one of those misfortunes that must be committed for the sake of self-preservation. Survival necessitates the death of another; such is a part of life, as sad as it is. Life is so precious, yet so fragile that the slightest touch can shatter our being into a million pieces. The modern world, by all standards, is the greatest period in history to live in. Some take this optimism too far and say that human progress is infinite, and we will never return to the dark ages, that midnight of the human mind; but I am not so sanguine myself, taking a more realistic approach to reality, believing that what we have at present is extremely rare and could be lost at any moment through a series of events that no one saw coming. A civilization as great as the West—to have lasted as long as it did without being completely dominated by another competing culture—is indeed a very rare thing. We must fight for what is great at present and only strive to improve it beyond all measures. War in no way aids our cultural attainments; it only serves to spread our culture through conquest and intermingling with the native cultures we dominate, sometimes to positive effect, as in the case of Japan, or to utterly horrendous effect, as in the case of the Native Americans. In general, however, I think war is to be avoided at all costs: for the loss of human life is too great, the cost of it too high, the rewards merely transitory, and the negative impact long-lasting. May mankind one day reach a point of moral and cultural progress when history could say: "and here lasted a millennium of peace."

Jonathan: Amen, may war one day extinguish like the light from a large candle.

Joseph: From your mouth to God's ears. I have to say, though, Jon, we've been walking around the public study for what seems like hours. Are we getting close to the door of separation?

Jonathan: Yes, Joseph. The public study is massive and requires much effort to get to the next level. While we near it, allow me to ask you one more question. We have talked about all manner of things: from life philosophy to economics, to literary criticism, to war, and the passions, but we have not touched on politics, another area where we may disagree. Tell me, Joe, what are your political views, if you have any?

Joseph: Well, Jon, I think I may be better informed regarding my own opinions if I hear someone who has had more time to think about such a question. I would like for you to tell me what your views on politics are first, so that I may be better able to assess my own.

Jonathan: Gladly, although please feel free to cut me off at any moment, for you know I could talk forever on this topic. Allow me to define what I mean by politics first, lest we make the same mistake Voltaire warned all philosophers against: talking past each other by means of an ill-defined term. By politics, I mean a system of ideas concerning various problems that naturally arise within countries.

Any nation of sufficient size will naturally have problems that arise within it. Income inequality, tax regulations, border rules, highway laws, punishment for crimes, and just about everything else you could think of falls within the purview of politics. As the population of a country increases, so too do its political issues; this has always been true in America, and I would go as far as to say that this is a universal truth, borne out by the natural differences in spirit and passion for an issue. All of politics can be summarized by the old man on the mountain, Al Mualim, when he said: "I do not despise his goal; I share it. But I take issue with the means." Politics is solely concerned with the means of achieving a common goal. This results in a Darwinian battleground of ideas, where the most adaptable and malleable ideas survive, while the other ideas—less capable of changing as the political climate shifts—will die off. Mankind has always differed on how political issues should be solved. Like war, politics always seems to bring out the worst in humanity; it never ceases to amaze me how quickly we are to turn on one another for the sake of our views. Some issues in politics are solved with time and moral progress: slavery was as intractable a political issue in 1800 as civil rights were in 1900; yet today, the majority of the population would agree that these political and cultural institutions were evil and backward, and to return to those times would mean regressing completely as a nation. The legalization of same-sex marriage was exactly the same within our own lifetime; 70 years ago, if you asked someone whether they would support it, the answer would almost certainly have been no; yet in less than a century, our nation progressed enough to legalize it. And what a glorious thing it is! Nothing is as satisfying in politics as actually pushing legislation that positively impacts the nation. A similar thing is occurring with trans rights currently.

But to return to politics more generally, we have seen that social issues are resolved as the moral arc widens. Things that were once taboo and illegal become the norm and are legalized. However, not all things are solved by time and moral progress alone; not every issue is as black and white as certain cultural problems. Take economics, for example: some people think free trade is the only way to do business, while others believe that tariffs should be imposed in some capacity. I feel that whatever serves both countries best is what should be used; the problem is that both countries have different economic situations—what may serve one may hinder another. In that sense, it is as Thomas Sowell said: "There are no solutions. There are only trade-offs."⁷² And perhaps one can view all political issues in that sense. All progress ever made started out as a heresy against the norm. Some people enjoy progress, even yearn for it, but very often in progress, there is someone who wishes things would stay the same. In essence, I have just described how all of politics invariably collapses into a dichotomy of opposing views: the Democrat and Republican, the Liberal and Conservative, the Whig and Tory, the Optimates and Populares. All political issues are fought in the battleground of ideas, and the ones that win are pushed to the top; those at the top are then selected as viable solutions to political problems. Get enough people to agree on a solution set, and you have yourself a political party. The reason all political parties are dominated by two opposing sides is that people are naturally inclined toward either a liberal mindset or a conservative mindset. The liberal desires change and progress above all else. The conservative wishes to maintain things as they are. To give you my views in brief, I am a mix of the two; I lean toward my liberal mindset when it comes to social issues and toward my conservative mindset for political issues. To delve into detail on all conceivable issues would be impossible, for the issues in politics are endless; so take what I have given, Joseph, and see what you could add to it.

Joseph: I must confess, Jon, I would like to steer clear of giving my thoughts on political issues, for they are too immature and underdeveloped to say anything of actual substance. I would rather let these thoughts languish and perish with time so that they may one day arise like a phoenix from the ashes of ignorance, taking the glorious form of well-thought-out judgments on the most important issues today. What I would prefer to do is speak as Plato did in his Republic; to give my utopian vision of the world and to speak more prescriptively (what should the world be like) rather than descriptively (how the world appears to be).

It has been the common lament of all mankind that times could be better. There is always a longing for the fulfillment of our goals and a desire for those we care about to prosper; I can say I feel this way for mankind as a whole. No matter the creed, dogma, or belief, I wish well upon all, wrong and injustice to none, and punishment for the wicked. I think back to the age of Homer, when the vibrancy of the sky outshone all else; when the air was filled with the luscious scents of the Aegean; and when man toiled as he does now. The only difference was that he did so with dignity then. Modern man knows too much to see happiness in his plot of misfortune. Only when the plowman made his weary way along the dewy soil did he have a sense of accomplishment. I think back to the birth of the modern era: when Nietzsche and Marx lived in relative poverty and obscurity, writing their tomes anyway because that was their passion. When the sky began to smolder under the labor of the oppressed Victorians. When subsistence farming was abolished, and when man started his shift—when labor was timed and managerialized. And later, when life as we know it became soulless and corporatized. The death of the old ways of doing things. The birth of modern conservatism—that desire to hold onto that which was familiar to us. To drudge your way through life has very little enjoyment in it anymore. When Virgil talks of the shepherd, sweating and in debt but happy, that life today almost seems impossible. We now have fools who openly state, as if it’s obvious, that everything is better with more money. Really? Does having more in your bank account make any experience more enjoyable? In what way does it heighten your quality of happiness? So myopic are you that you assume bills are your sole problem in life; thus, your solution is to slave away and stress over amassing fortunes higher than skyscrapers, all to begin living an enjoyable life.

Take two happy men, one rich and one poor: in what way is the rich man 'more' happy than the poor one? Can you say objectively that Socrates was less happy than Alcibiades? No. In fact, in that case, we know Socrates was more content than Alcibiades, for Alcibiades' problem was that he desired too much. View the only problem in life as not having enough money, and you'll spend the rest of your days stressing over materialism. It's such a basic fallacy in logic that it truly shocks me that not enough people realize it. If money is to bring you happiness, then why can't you purchase it? Why is your desire for more never satisfied? To make money your only source of happiness is to see material goods as the only desirable thing in life. This single idea has infected the entire world, with America emerging as the greatest superpower in the wake of World War II.

People have often theorized about where such a notion originated; one could point to the lack of meaning in the wake of the Industrial Revolution, the birth of the modern era. In the days when labor was meant for oneself, that was long before mechanical technologies. When subsistence farming ended, so too did a significant source of our daily happiness. When man was put under the control of a manager, we lost the spirit of individuality; the well from which we drew in times of emotional hardship no longer had water. We have become a docile, weak-minded, oppression-filled world that no longer adheres to its values of rugged individualism. And I speak for those who know what I feel: those artists and free thinkers who go against the normal path dictated to us by an insipid culture. Those who yearn for the transcendental in life—to desire bread and a roof over our heads—while doing what we were born to do.

We have a culture that produces mindless copies in droves; there is no understanding of what life could be like, only what takes away the self and replaces it with the desires of our employers. In moments of such degradation, I think back to Nietzsche, writing away in his garret, happier than anyone in the modern world; I think of Wagner, whose music spoke to the soul and provided it with the full work of art: that fulfillment of the numinous. I think of Thomas Jefferson; that Renaissance man, that great American ideal. It’s not a shock that he fought so fervently against the economic policies of Hamilton. To have had the foresight he did in seeing a nation's downfall should it be beholden to the funders of money, the nation's economic lackeys, is remarkable. The establishment of national credit by way of debt may well be seen as the beginning of our folly. The worship of Plutus, the desire for increased productivity, the ever-crushing and ever-demanding complaints of our overlords—pompous half-wits lacking even a semblance of culture. They swallowed the American dream in full, and now only desire wealth, for to them, it has replaced God. They have become mere eating, drinking, and money-grubbing machines, and they don't seem happy.

There is some merciful dispensation at work here, no doubt; for what is the artist and writer to do other than express their sorry state in the way they know best—through words and images? We are not beholden to our whims; rather, we are in touch with them and understand what they say when they call to us. These cretins, on the other hand, only know what they have been told to follow, which is why there is no life in them at all. But I come to the issue at hand: the things our culture values no longer inspire us with a desire to become what we wish to be. Having gone through the pangs of life like most, I know how hard it is to find a worldview that encompasses everything you care about; but I would say this is the point of life: to find that goal or desire that gives you fulfillment in the pursuit of it and to always strive for its perfection. From the earliest moments of life, one should be surrounded by greatness—culture, music, literature, philosophy, mathematics, history, etc. From those influences, allow the child to be the captain of their own ship; to canonize what they enjoy most from the greats they have been surrounded by.

But what is an ideal curriculum for the budding minds of youth? There is no one-size-fits-all subject order; let the child determine that for themselves. The nonsensical Prussian model of education that America follows is soul-crushing and does little to help them actually live a life of happiness. The only positive aspect of it is that it is state-funded and introduces the child to a wide array of subjects they may potentially be interested in; however, past a certain age, when the child finds what truly grips them, they should pursue that interest in full. A common retort might be: “But how does the child know that’s what they really want to do?” They don’t, but it’s better than saying, “Here’s what you were good at in school, so you should consider those things in college.” A pursued interest is what greatness is made of and affirms the spirit of life for every individual. The whole system of adolescent education in America, which serves only to prepare the child for college—and poorly at that—is counterproductive to what allows great culture to flourish.

The problems of college are the same as the problems of culture, in a sense, since they have become so ingrained in the American psyche; so much so that it is now viewed as absurd or strange not to go to college directly after high school. What a bizarre twist, since prior to the 1940s, attending college for higher education was something only the wealthy could afford. But colleges are no longer institutions that care about education. They prefer to burden their alumni with debt, all to give them a certificate that shows potential employers they are worthy candidates. America has managed to produce a system of education that is in direct opposition to greatness; rather than creating a system where quality of life and happiness are maximized, they have prioritized productivity and shareholder value.

I take the utilitarian view in politics that what is best for the aggregate is best overall. Governments that run societies should strive to give each of their members a chance to pursue what they most desire in life; this desire should stem from an environment that draws from the greatest institutions and accomplishments of humanity. We should instill in the child a sense of awe and wonder about the world around them, allowing them to discover what they most enjoy and desire to pursue. We should provide them with activities that would make them say: “I wish to do this for the rest of my life and to do it well. I want to be able to raise a family on my labor, which seems so light to me because I barely consider it work; I am so fulfilled in this. And maybe, should ambition arise within me, I will earn enough for social mobility in my life and call a place my own, which is one of the tenets of the modern world: property.”

My vision of the world is not too different from Emerson’s and Nietzsche’s. Emerson, the father of Transcendentalism, believed that the whole point of life was to be self-reliant and independent of any external authority that might take away your individuality. He also believed in the interconnectedness of the cosmos, that everything has a part of the divine in it. I draw on this idea every time I write, following in the spirit of Emerson, attempting to make each word true to myself and to convey the spirit of meaning I intend. I aim not to be boring in my writing but to create expressions that enliven the soul of my reader; to affirm the spirit that dwells within them—to rouse and inspire them to accomplish what they so earnestly wish for. I want to write for the sake of inspiring cultivation; to give every reader a sense of my thought and a taste of my soul. I want to write sentences that read like a polished symphony of Mozart, that evoke the imagery of a concerto by Tchaikovsky, and that embody the will to life—that tremendously vivifying spirit—found so profoundly in Wagner.

Nietzsche, who was greatly inspired by Emerson, found that life itself is a will to power. Taking this idea from Schopenhauer, the will to power is the dynamic force that compels all life to continue for its own sake. Look how liberating such an idea is! One can will to power whatever they desire, and as long as it continues life, one is capable of achieving whatever goal they set for themselves.

It's like my own life philosophy, Jon: the ultimate objective in life is the willing of a goal that fulfills life and makes it worth pursuing, so long as you have the power within you. You may call it the will to affirmation, where the affirmation in this context is the goal set for yourself by your own initiative, without the influence of any negative or life-denying naysayers. Such should be the purpose of life; and such is what each and every society on Earth should strive to achieve; for there is nothing more helpful or consequential to human prosperity than this

Jonathan: Your thoughts remind me of a quote by Nietzsche in Beyond Good and Evil: "With all your love for truth, you have forced yourselves for so long, so persistently, and with such hypnotic rigidity to see Nature FALSELY, that is to say, Stoically, that you are no longer able to see it otherwise—and to crown all, some unfathomable superciliousness gives you the Bedlamite hope that BECAUSE you are able to tyrannize over yourselves—Stoicism is self-tyranny—Nature will also allow herself to be tyrannized over: is not the Stoic a PART of Nature? . . . But this is an old and everlasting story: what happened in old times with the Stoics still happens today, as soon as a philosophy begins to believe in itself. It always creates the world in its own image; it cannot do otherwise; philosophy is this tyrannical impulse itself, the most spiritual Will to Power, the will to "creation of the world," the will to the causa prima."⁷³ Your vision is akin to that of the Renaissance humanist, where the goal of a society is to produce people who will contribute to the culture of the nation and for the greater good of humanity. To live without culture would be a mistake. There would be no Greek or Western culture, for that matter, without Homer. Like Nietzsche, you think that one finds meaning without God through aspirations that arise from great cultural achievements; like that of Wagner, although in his case, the dream was to create a solely nationalist culture for a singular people. This, I think, was his mistake, for he did not foresee the possibility of his music being influential to people outside of Germany.

You make excellent points, Joseph, although you seem to be a few generations too early or too late, depending on how you want to view it; for one could argue that a more humanistic and rigorous culture could have emerged in the wake of the cultural revolution in the 1960s. Although one could argue against that, since the free-spiritedness of that era has led to the cultural platitudes we hear so often from nearly every generation since the Baby Boomers: "Do what you love; find something you enjoy and pursue it." I have the feeling, Joseph, that these people echo your exact philosophy—but mainly didn’t live up to your standards by not embodying its message.

Joseph: That's exactly right, Jon. And the reason they didn’t is that they were too lax in their morals and commitments. Had they been a bit more chaste and focused, they might have made something of themselves; but instead, they became carbon copies of people—soulless and materialistic—with the only difference being that they lived in prosperous economic times. It's amusing to see people of my generation say they wish they had lived during that era just so they could afford housing. What am I to say? I only want my silence to represent my indignation toward these blockheads. It seems the old Latin adage is apt here: "Et patrum invalidi referent jejunia nati" [The poor keeping of the parents will appear in the poor constitutions of the offspring]. Like produces like, and the influences upon the parents will rub off on their children, corrupting and infecting them with the most ludicrous ideas. In essence, that is the death of our culture. The values of the people are reflected in the culture of their nations, and weak ideas produce weak-minded, boring, spiritless people who are unable to appreciate anything that history has given them. It was once remarked that the loss of demand and interest in the essays of Macaulay showed a degradation of English culture; and I would go so far as to say that the lack of seemingly any academic or intellectual interest has been the greatest sign of decay for the entire human race.

Now one could respond by saying that all the great cultural accomplishments throughout history have been the result of extremely privileged individuals, achieved through the patronage of the wealthy: which carries an air of elitism, showing only the cultural attainments of the wealthiest and not meant for the common man; thus, to lament its decline is to lament the rotting of something already spoiled. But I don't feel this way. The origin of a great achievement doesn't diminish its greatness. The fact that Plato was wealthy and lived his entire life in leisure does not detract from the superb composition that is The Symposium. Nor does Cardano writing his autobiography in poverty make it any greater; what matters is the work itself, how it speaks to the individual, and what lessons can be drawn from it. Those works are a part of us whether we like it or not; the only thing that matters is how they affect us. It's also a genetic fallacy to say that the origin of an idea determines whether it is worthy of being valued. The only point they do have is that intellectual pursuits have always been a minority interest among human beings. You know my romantic notions, though, Jon: I wish people were as interested in Socrates and Milton as they are fond of eating or being idle. If only there were a way to make humanistic studies and reading as universal as cars or phones.

Jonathan: Well, I'm sure you are aware that the most ubiquitous form of education throughout most of history was the trivium, which focused on Grammar, Rhetoric, and Logic. A modern person would look at this with bewilderment, considering modern education teaches ten times as many subjects; but sometimes, more isn't necessarily better. The ancients had this right. The purpose of the trivium was to create people who knew how to think and why they thought as they did. The freedom that comes with knowing how to express yourself allows you to understand yourself better; with this comes the ability to think more clearly and have firmer judgments than you would otherwise. From here, one could take their thoughts just about anywhere and solve any problem they are presented with just through proper contemplation. This is precisely the reason why most polymaths in history flourished between the ages of Aristotle and Goethe; after Goethe, the trivium was more or less abolished and replaced by the soul-crushing Prussian model of education. This no longer meant a study based on Grammar, Rhetoric, and Logic, leading to a slow decline in people’s skills in articulation and cultural accomplishments. As I'm sure you also know, Joe, Mortimer Adler tried to revive this with his Great Books of the Western World—a most valiant and meritorious labor—but ill-timed in such a frivolous culture, it remains more furniture than a cultural staple, much like Will Durant's life work, The Story of Civilization. It's as you said: unless the culture changes, people will never see the value in these works. The only way to change this is, as you rightly propose, through a reformation in the education of society as a whole, all in the hopes of changing this decadent zeitgeist. A return to the trivium might actually facilitate this, but this raises another question, Joseph: what is the best system of education for people to adopt?

Joseph: Well, Jon, it was remarked by Antisthenes that the most necessary learning was to "not unlearn what you have learned."⁷⁴ I think that the best education is to be filled with a desire to learn all things; to find a subject within the whole sea of humane learning—whose fruits are endless—and to pursue that subject with complete obsession. Before the child finds such a subject, however, let them be introduced to all the subjects that we humans have managed to develop; from this, let them pick their favorites when they reach the age of 13, when their desires become more solidified. If they have a change of heart, their solid foundation in all other branches of humane learning will allow them to pick up any new interest with great rapidity. They create a personal canon of education that best fits their own interests rather than those of the state; this allows them to maintain their individuality and ensures their happiness when considering their life prospects.

Allow me to make this plan a bit more detailed. Let us maintain the strict division of grades by age: our elementary, middle, and high school. In elementary school—between the ages of five and ten—let the children undergo study in the trivium. They shall achieve mastery over the English language upon graduating and be able to think and express themselves with great confidence. Let the eight-hour school day be divided as follows: the first two hours for the study of Grammar, the next two hours for the study of Rhetoric, followed by an hour for lunch, then two hours for Logic, and the last hour for physical education (when the food has settled and the mind, weary from study, can indulge in fitness and socialization).

As for what is the best material to teach for each subject, I propose the following: for grammar (the study of the rules governing the sounds, words, and sentences of a language), let the child be taught by the greatest examples in our language. John Milton, Francis Bacon, William Shakespeare, John Dryden, and Alexander Pope should be paramount. For the more inclined or advanced students, William Hazlitt, Samuel Johnson, Baron Macaulay, and Thomas Browne can serve as supplements. They will learn grammar not by rote memorization, which is so often employed today, but through osmosis and writing workshops, where the goal is to write on a theme chosen by the teacher after having read abridged passages from the selected authors for the first hour. The reading should be done in a slow and deliberate manner, allowing the child to pick up on the rhythm, flow, and diction of expression; also, be sure to explain vocabulary whenever necessary.

Milton himself said of grammar: "For their studies, first they should begin with the chief and necessary rules of some good grammar, either that now used or any better; and while this is being done, their speech is to be fashioned to a distinct and clear pronunciation, as near as may be to the Italian, especially in the vowels. For we Englishmen, being far northerly, do not open our mouths in the cold air wide enough to grace a Southern tongue; but are observed by all other nations to speak exceedingly close and inward. So that to smatter Latin with an English mouth is as ill a hearing as Law French. Next, to make them expert in the most useful points of grammar, and to season them, winning them early to the love of virtue and true labor, before any flattering seducement or vain principle seizes them wandering, some easy and delightful book of education should be read to them, whereof the Greeks have a store, such as Cebes, Plutarch, and other Socratic discourses. In Latin, however, we have none of classic authority extant, except for the first two or three books of Quintilian and some select pieces elsewhere. But here, the main skill and groundwork will be to temper them with such lectures and explanations upon every opportunity that may lead and draw them into willing obedience, inflamed with the study of learning and the admiration of virtue; stirred up with high hopes of living to be brave men and worthy patriots, dear to God and famous to all ages."⁷⁵

And Francis Bacon said of it: "Concerning speech and words, the consideration of them has produced the science of grammar. For man still strives to reintegrate himself in those benedictions from which, by his fault, he has been deprived; and as he has striven against the first general curse by the invention of all other arts, so he has sought to emerge from the second general curse (which was the confusion of tongues) by the art of grammar; the use of which in a mother tongue is small, in a foreign tongue more so; but most in such foreign tongues as have ceased to be vulgar tongues and are turned only to learned tongues. Its duty is of two natures: the one popular, which is for the speedy and perfect attainment of languages, both for intercourse of speech and for understanding authors; the other philosophical, examining the power and nature of words as they are the footsteps and prints of reason. This kind of analogy between words and reason is handled sparsim, brokenly though not entirely; therefore, I cannot report it as deficient, though I think it very worthy to be reduced into a science by itself."⁷⁶ Grammar is arguably the most important element of the trivium; let it be mastered.

Rhetoric follows more or less the same plan, albeit with different emphasis, of course. Let the first hour be for reading; let the second be focused on writing declamations (either for praise, rebuttal, or commentary) on a selected writing. This will not only utilize the knowledge of grammar but will also reinforce those great virtues that are so frequently discussed in the text. Next is lunch, which should be healthy but also taste good. For logic, teach the students arithmetic and encourage critical thinking on word problems, along with practice through problem sets. Lastly, physical education should invigorate the children's spirits.

Of this particular kind of curriculum, Francis Bacon rightly summarized it as follows: "Reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man; and writing an exact man; and therefore, if a man writes little, he needs a great memory; if he confers little, he needs to have a present wit; and if he reads little, he needs much cunning to seem to know what he does not. Histories make men wise; poets witty; the mathematics subtle; natural philosophy deep; moral philosophy grave; logic and rhetoric able to contend. 'Abeunt studia in mores' [Studies become habits]; nay, there is no stand or impediment in the wit that may not be wrought out by fit studies: just as diseases of the body may have appropriate exercises; bowling is good for the stone and reins, shooting for the lungs and breast, gentle walking for the stomach, riding for the head, and the like; so, if a man's wit is wandering, let him study the mathematics; for in demonstrations, if his wit is called away ever so little, he must begin again. If his wit is not apt to distinguish or find differences, let him study the schoolmen, for they are 'Cymini sectores' [Splitters of cummin-seeds]; if he is not apt to beat over matters and to call upon one thing to prove and illustrate another, let him study the lawyer's cases. Thus, every defect of the mind may have a special remedy."⁷⁷

In middle school—between the ages of 11 and 13—let the students be introduced to all topics of study (as they are presented in the current Prussian model of education). The list of subjects includes, but is not limited to: Language Arts, Mathematics, Science, Social Studies, Foreign Languages, Music, Art, Theater, and Mandatory Physical Education.

In high school—between the ages of 14 and 18—let the students pursue, in complete freedom, the study of the subjects they enjoyed most throughout their elementary and middle school years. This ensures that the students are doing what they actually enjoy while allowing them the ability to hone skills they will use in the real world. This is what education should be like if a society wishes to return itself to greatness. There is nothing more important than the education of youth in society, for that youth is the future upon which later generations will rely. Let all students be treated like adults and allow their interests to flourish. Flourishing times bring creative minds, and creative minds, like stars, shine brightest in a clear sky; let education be as clear and profitable as possible.

Jonathan: What a great system for a great cause. But wait, I think I see the second door of separation.

Chapter 4: Entering the Second Circle

Narrator: As the two scholars approached the intimidating second door of separation—the door that led to the encyclopedist and universal geniuses—they noticed an inscription at the very top: "Here begins the path of universality. Do not enter unless you seek knowledge alone, for its own sake." They observed that the door, in design, was like that of the first door of separation, but was cast in gold instead of bronze. It depicted an image of Roger Bacon, with his brazen head looking over him, writing the last lines of his Opus Majus. Another panel featured Cardano—perhaps the greatest mind in history—arguing with his rival, Julius Caesar Scaliger; Cardano was holding his De Subtilitate, yelling at Scaliger, while Scaliger held his Exotericarum Exercitationum, also yelling. Another panel showed Hugo Grotius sitting with his Mare Liberum in hand while John Selden pointed to his Mare Clausum, attempting to demonstrate where Grotius had misled the mark. Lastly, at the very top, was the owl of Athena resting atop Francis Bacon's The Advancement of Learning, with a flame lit upon an altar in the background, bearing an inscription that read: "Let the eternal fire of knowledge always be lit upon the altar of reason." The two scholars, seeing such a display, were equally terrified and amazed by the greatness that lay beyond those doors; it was the kind of excitement one feels when embarking on a great project. Jonathan cautiously pulled on the gold-plated door handle, which led to the second circle of erudition. The scholars were greeted by the sound of divinity itself: J.S. Bach's Mass in B minor, while cherubs cloaked in the dress of wizards flew around the room, carrying books, glass globes, scrolls, and other academic tools.

Joseph: Jon, is this the...

Jonathan: No, not yet. This is only the hall that leads to the public study. Quite a difference from the drafty, dark, and rather lonely dungeon corridor of the first circle.

Joseph: If this is the second circle, my God, the glory and splendor that must be in the third circle.

Jonathan: Indeed, I feel this quest for truth is bringing us toward something greater, something within ourselves.

Joseph: Something greater, without question. What that thing is, we don't yet know; but perhaps as we ascend, we will come to know it

Narrator: As the two scholars passed the golden hall—filled with music and the most pleasant sights—they finally saw the public study. Large and imposing were its columns, which seemed aged with dust but were, in reality, the bearers of the most erudite tomes that had caused them to age prematurely. The shelves were gilded with Latin inscriptions of encouragement and great quotations from past scholars. Every book was leather-bound and emitted a sweet-smelling vapor that, if observed closely enough, seemed to manifest visibly. There were original manuscripts in sometimes unintelligible Latin, Greek, or English sprawled out across the white marble floor, being examined by the cherubim. There were also spiral bookshelves that acted as stairs, leading to the third circle. Yet, like the first circle, there seemed to be nobody in the study at all. With all these sights recognized, the two scholars were somewhat disappointed, desiring more people present to converse with.

Joseph: The place seems to me a more beautiful version of the first circle, but, like it, there is no one in the public study. It seems the solitary nature of all scholars prevails even on the higher rungs of erudition. I don’t know why I expect there to be massive conversations going on!

Jonathan: Perhaps because they are busy compiling the thoughts and ideas of others, they have less time to discuss their own. It might be fair to say that the encyclopedists are busier than the regular compilers. But let us go toward the center, as we have done before; that seems to be where they reside.

Narrator: As the two scholars approached the center, dodging manuscripts along the way, they turned around a larger-than-usual shelf to find, at the end of the opposite shelf, a man. He wore a fur cloak and a scholar’s cap, almost matching Jonathan's outfit completely. He was looking with particular intensity at one shelf that contained nothing but patristic authors. He was tall, with an emerald ring on his left hand, gripping an ancient wooden pencil in his right. It was without question to both scholars who this was.

Joseph: Jon, do you recognize who that is?

Jonathan: That’s the great Erasmus of Rotterdam!

Joseph: Let’s approach him.

Narrator: As the two scholars approached, Erasmus saw them out of the corner of his eye and turned. His countenance was serene and contemplative, with a subtle hint of detachment, as though he were lost in thought or quietly observing the world around him. The lines on his face exuded an air of great wisdom, indicating to the two scholars that he welcomed conversation.

Jonathan: Hail, great master, leader of all learned men and the author of the Adagia! The greatest inheritor of the humanistic tradition started by Petrarch. The best of all humanists and the man who preserved the purest doctrines of the Christian religion. The man who revitalized culture through study and sought peace among the fractured denominations. The sole individual who ended the Dark Ages and ushered in a new dawn for all future scholars. The light who shines upon us all and reveals to us our inequities.

Erasmus: But as Jesus said, "Who do you say that I am?"⁷⁸

Jonathan: You are like the seed of a peach; covered with the sweet learning of past ages and adorned with the greatest wisdom, yet your thoughts are implanted in the scholars’ minds, which go on to become entire systems of philosophy and right living. The outside is your learning and magnanimity, but your thoughts are the seeds that grow and become great things.

Erasmus: Ah, Jonathan, you are ever too generous, heaping upon me praises that I scarcely deserve. While you speak loftily of my virtues, I find it more fitting to embrace humility.

Jonathan: I speak only the truth, dearest teacher.

Erasmus: But come now, speaking of truth, do tell, Jonathan, who is this esteemed companion of yours?

Jonathan: This here is a man who means many things to me, teacher. He is my greatest achievement, my best student, my dearest godbrother, and my friend. This is the crowning jewel of my family, Joseph Diaz.

Joseph: I am honored to meet you, Erasmus. I am a great admirer of yours, although I had no idea you were a teacher to my godbrother.

Erasmus: Jonathan is himself a student of many great masters.

Joseph: That’s not surprising, for great men are like embers, kindled from even greater fires of brilliance.

Jonathan: So, what brings you to the public study, master?

Erasmus: I was in pursuit of a text by that illustrious Christian scholar Origen, my intention being to craft a humble commentary upon him. Yet, as fortune would have it, your arrival, accompanied by this fine protégé, has presented an opportunity far more delightful. Why not, then, as the Peripatetics once did, abandon solitary study for a time and engage in noble discourse? Together, we might wander through the grandest topics the mind can conceive, probing the depths of reason and truth as those ancient sages so gloriously did.

Jonathan: Sounds excellent! Joseph and I have already discussed many topics on our way here.

Erasmus: Have you, perchance, debated the matter of justice?

Jonathan: Not on its own, only in the context of war.

Erasmus: Ah, splendid! Then let us converse about justice, for it is a subject dear to me. I am well acquainted with your views, Jonathan, but what of your godbrother? Surely he holds a position of intrigue.

Joseph: If crimes are allowed to exist in our world, then so too should punishments; and punishments are imposed for the sake of justice itself. Justice, as a word, has its origins in the Latin iustitia, meaning 'righteousness' or 'equity'—which itself comes from iustus, meaning 'just' or 'fair.' There is an intrinsic aspect to the word that relates to something being just. If one is to be just, they must do nothing contrary to public decency. This is one of the great aspects of civilizations: the fact that we have developed laws and rules to keep in check our more unsavory tendencies. Man is the rational animal, but still has some semblance to its more primitive ancestors in given situations. We will never overcome our base origins, but we can strive to become more rational and less animalistic. To overcome in this sense is to undertake a course of behavior that molds us into the idealized version of ourselves. I wish more people would use their forethought to come to this conclusion regarding themselves; is there a better approach to existence than this willing of self-improvement? To transcend justice is to live in a world where the concept doesn't even exist—a world in which any concept of punishment and crime has no referent. It's the current culture that allows for jails, madhouses, and criminal justice systems to continue as institutions. Had the human race no defects, none of those things would be necessary; only the deeds of our ancestors would be enough to encourage us to will happiness and self-actualization into being.

But to return to justice: it is the ability to enact retribution when a wrong is committed. Wrongs are committed when they break a law, rule, or norm that has been set to prevent harm from occurring in society. Those who commit injustice are worthy of punishment, for they choose the wrong over the right. By going against the law, you go against the will of society, which, as a collective, has agreed upon terms that were set in place to avoid harm. To cause harm unnecessarily is to make yourself a brutish beast, whose nature is repugnant to the way we act in society at present. This leads to the question: who is to be the judge?

The moral philosophers would say that the man who holds Zeus' golden scales, the ultimate decision-maker, would base judgment on the harm caused in the act itself; but I hold the view that one cannot make complete objective judgments of the sort. The existence of masochists disproves this entire notion of there being objective ways of determining right and wrong: what is harm to us is joy to them and vice versa. But society cannot function without a system of punishment enacted against those who have wronged the social order; without it, everyone without a moral sense will feel free to commit acts of atrocity. Punishment must be put in place to deter those who would be bold enough to perform such acts, and it must serve as an example to those who have already acted poorly. There is no moral phenomenon, only opinions on moral phenomena; but what there is, however, is a general consensus on what is harmful or pleasurable. What we call justice is nothing more than an opinion on punishment necessary for a particular act that most deem contrary to well-being.

A common objection I hear to this line of argument is the idea that you are unable to punish someone if you can't say what they did is objectively wrong. What nonsense! It doesn't have to be objectively wrong to be punishable. What they usually mean by "objective," in this context, is being wrong irrespective of opinion on the subject. The problem is that subjective opinions regarding right and wrong or pleasure and pain are all we have in this discussion. However, this doesn't mean that we can't punish people for crimes committed. In order for a crime to be punishable, you must show that there was intent (knowledge of what one was doing and an overriding desire to do it); without intent, there would be no way of showing that the actions of the individual were done freely. This implies that the criminal justice system presupposes (a priori) that human beings have free will to decide their actions. Of course, the determinist would be quick to object, saying that your actions are never free, because all actions come down to processes occurring within your head that you're not in control of. This line of reasoning makes sense, but if we assume determinism to be true, it doesn't mean we no longer punish people. If your actions are determined by external causes, then the crimes you commit are the result of external influences that were determined to occur; but the opposite is also true: you can be presented with external influences that determine you not to commit a crime.

There is no contradiction between the belief that some actions are morally abhorrent to us and the belief that we lack free will. In fact, these ideas complement each other. I take measures to deter or discourage actions that I find unacceptable because I believe that such deterrents and disincentives can influence people's behavior to some extent. If I didn't believe in any form of determinism, there would be no reason to attempt to deter or discourage any behavior, as truly free wills—if not influenced or determined in any way—would render such efforts meaningless. The purpose of imposing incentives or disincentives only holds if these measures influence future behavior to some degree. Similarly, the act of praising or blaming someone for their actions only makes sense if that praise or blame contributes, at least in part, to shaping their future conduct. If an individual’s will were completely free, unaffected by external factors, then neither praise nor blame would have any meaningful impact. Consequently, it would be futile to praise or blame someone in such a scenario.

We assign blame to people for their actions insofar as it has the potential to influence their future behavior. This is why mental health considerations are crucial in legal proceedings. We do not blame individuals for their actions if their mental state is so impaired that praise or blame would have no causal effect on their behavior. This is why I stated earlier that society cannot function without a system of punishment enacted against those who would wrong the social order. Such a system of punishments would serve as the greatest deterrence for crime, and it would do so deterministically.

Also important to note is that rationality can guide us in achieving our moral goals, but it cannot determine what those goals should be. As Hume famously remarked, "'Tis not contrary to reason to prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching of my finger."⁷⁹ He wasn't suggesting that there's no distinction between the two or that the distinction is irrelevant. Rather, he was emphasizing that such preferences are fundamentally rooted in values, not in facts or logical reasoning. Ultimately, the judgments we make regarding crimes are value-based and, by extension, firmly rooted in subjective opinion. There is no other way around this; you either accept that moral facts are subjective, or you lead yourself into mental gymnastics trying to prove they are objective, to no avail.

Erasmus: I gather that you lean toward a denial of both free will and moral accountability. But how can you hold such a view when God, in His wisdom, has fashioned us in His image, with the faculty to choose between good and evil?

Joseph: I have stated multiple times that moral responsibility is necessary for society, even if it seems contradictory without the concept of free will. One could also take the position of a compatibilist, who sees no contradiction between causal determinism being true and free will still existing; in essence, every action is determined, but you freely choose which action to perform. This is actually the standard assumption within law. But be that as it may, no, Erasmus, I don't see it as a contradiction to punish people for a crime committed, even if they were determined to do it, because what justifies punishment is not free will but intent. Even if the intent was determined, so too were the influences that could have stopped you from committing the crime; it just so happened that your intent to commit the crime was stronger than your ability to resist. The influences upon your mind are determined in the sense that you could not have been influenced otherwise. Therefore, your ability to commit the crime or not was already predetermined. As for being made in the image of God and similar nonsense, you would have to show me evidence of the sort that demonstrates His existence.

Erasmus: You are not, perchance, entertaining atheism, are you?

Joseph: I'm an atheist for the same reason you're a Christian, Erasmus. I have searched for evidence of God in the natural world, in philosophy, in science, in poetry, in the transcendental, and in the holy books. Everywhere I look, I find Him not. My epistemology makes it very hard to say I believe in something for which I have no evidence. I would say everything I know is tentative; I don't proclaim to be certain of any fact that isn't a tautology or deduced from axioms in an analytic sense. I define truth as the characteristic of an idea that reliably predicts observations in a consistent, falsifiable, and parsimonious manner. I do not equate truth with correspondence to noumenal (mind-independent) reality, as our access to that reality is, at best, indirect. What matters to me is our ability to navigate empirical experience. Whether that experience is ultimately illusory is irrelevant, as long as the illusion remains consistent. The only way we distinguish illusions or hallucinations from other experiences is by revealing their inconsistency with the broader set of experiences. If all our experiences were part of a single, consistent illusion, we would have no way of knowing, as the illusory nature would have no observable consequence. A rather pragmatic definition, but I gave up on the concept of objective truth outside of analytical statements a long time ago. I now focus on what best suits me in life given the situations I'm presented with. I'm a life philosopher, as Nietzsche presented himself, and I try to find the expressive, beautiful, sublime, and numinous in every aspect of my life, all without positing the existence of a deity.

Erasmus: How, then, do you account for the beauty of nature, if not as a reflection of divine artistry? Is the rapture that poetry evokes in you but a mere delusion of the senses?

Joseph: You are already starting with a faulty premise by assuming there is no beauty in nature without a deity. A materialist could trivialize those experiences as nothing more than brain firings; but I would argue that those experiences transcend mere impulses from the brain. They speak to us on a level that is, at the moment of experience, beyond the material and tap into the meaning of our own subconscious. It is an attempt to search within our souls and find something that speaks to our humanity—something that compels us to act and to seek something greater than our current state. It is the will to something higher that makes us proud to have been born; to have the privilege of experiencing life for what it is—to feel reborn in the sensation of new meaning found within the old ideas of the world. There is a semblance of truth in all great thinkers, which results from the common human experience of which we are all a part. It's why Emerson believed there was no culture outside the realization that everything is within God and that we are all interconnected beings through our experiences of being alone, breathing the air, feeling the dewy particles of mist, and inhaling the scents of roses and pinecones, as well as the inspiring celestial fire that permeates the entire universe—so is the heat that drives all vital essences forward. This can all be found within individual experience alone—which explains why Emerson focused so much on the individual and self-reliance. It's also why Nietzsche viewed the Greeks as paragons of cultural excellence; he believed that Greek tragedy spoke to human existence for all people across all times because it represented something fundamental about ourselves. The will to power is about overcoming suffering in a way that allows one to transcend their own mortality and appear immortal, like the gods upon Mount Olympus. It is about searching for that one thing in life that propels us further. Schopenhauer thought that one thing was death itself, an escape from the will to life. Nietzsche believed it was a revitalization of culture; where our ideals are encouraged and pursued by everyone around us, creating an atmosphere that speaks only toward the affirmation of life. Emerson believed that this pursuit was living life on your own terms, true to yourself and your own goals. Wagner thought that great music, which unified minds toward a nationalist fervor, was what propelled life.

And here I ought to speak of the debt of gratitude I owe to that titan, nay, god of a man, Wagner, for writing music that made me accept myself for who I am—a kind of music that spoke directly to my soul. I, a youthful artist of 22, struggled to find and grapple with my own identity and self-doubt. Wagner is the man who instilled confidence in my decisions in life; he made me realize that I hadn't wasted four years studying frivolous things. He removed my hesitation in speech and gave me a new form of expression that allows ideas to come to me spontaneously and with ease, all so I could write them down. Eternally grateful will I be for the prelude to Act Three from Lohengrin—that masterpiece, almost god-like in expression, which roused my burning soul to a boiling point until I finally snapped and arose from the water with Wagner as my baptizer. Arise I did, as a new, better man. But do you see, dear Erasmus, how I was able to extract greatness from all these past thinkers without the need for a belief in God? Where is your so-called God anyway? The Christians make very big claims for themselves without a lot to go off of.

I would argue that Christianity has been philosophically dead since David Hume, who undermined most religious arguments and took the legs out from under them, and theologically dead since Thomas Paine, who obliterated the entire Christian ethos by exposing the fact that Jesus performed no miracles and that everything claimed to be true in the Bible is really falsehood. These two thinkers are combined in one Robert G. Ingersoll, the great agnostic, who was the king of American oratory during the golden age of free thought. In his writings on Christianity, one finds the subtleness of Hume and the firmness of Paine. There is really no need to attempt to debunk Christian claims since Ingersoll already did the heavy lifting for us modern atheists; we are, at this point, riding along on his gentle coattails. What is there to improve upon in Hume's Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, Paine's The Age of Reason, and Ingersoll's Why Am I an Agnostic? There are, of course, Baron d'Holbach's The System of Nature, Shelley’s A Refutation of Deism, Schopenhauer's Religion: A Dialogue and Other Essays, and Nietzsche's The Antichrist. There is no going through these books and coming out the other side a Christian still. As Nietzsche said: "If you wish to strive for peace of soul and pleasure, then believe; if you wish to be a devotee of truth, then inquire."⁸⁰ He who inquires into the validity of the Bible, or any holy book for that matter, will see the many blatant issues and obvious human contradictions that lie dormant within these texts.

In my own investigations, the holy books of every religion are nothing more than man-made stories that contain some truth but more falsehoods than anything else. These books possess zero scientific knowledge, questionable moral knowledge, and next to no practical knowledge for life. Let’s stick with the Bible, which, for scientific knowledge, says that the Earth was created by God (Genesis 1:1-3), is flat (Psalm 19:1-4), round (Psalm 104:2-3), and a sphere (Isaiah 40:22). Contradiction upon contradiction; all while presupposing God’s existence and referring back to the Bible, which is circular reasoning and begs the question. This alone shows the evident human origin of this so-called divinely inspired book. The Bible is a book of its time, not for all time. Many people champion the Bible as a supreme source of moral wisdom that no other book surpasses, usually citing Matthew 7:12, the golden rule passage: "So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets." However, this exact idea was already articulated by Rabbi Hillel in the Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 31a: "That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the whole Torah; the rest is interpretation." This principle is also present in Tobit 4:14, Philo, Confucius, Publius Syrus, Epictetus, Plato, and just about every culture in history. C.S. Lewis was right when he said: "The first thing to get clear about Christian morality between man and man is that in this department, Christ did not come to teach any brand new morality. The Golden Rule of the New Testament (Do as you would be done by) is a summing up of what everyone, at bottom, had always known to be right."⁸¹ There's not a single moral teaching by Jesus that is unique to Christianity.

The most common argument against this is the idea that we are all made equal in the image of God (Genesis 1:26-27, Genesis 5:1-3, 1 Corinthians 11:7, James 3:9). However, one only needs a little knowledge of history to see how false this really is. In Mesopotamian and Egyptian cultures, kings and pharaohs were often seen as representatives or incarnations of the divine on Earth, reflecting a form of divine image-bearing, though typically restricted to rulers rather than all of humanity. While not directly analogous, Hinduism holds the belief that Atman (the individual soul) is a reflection or manifestation of Brahman (the ultimate reality or world soul), indicating a deep connection between the individual and the divine. In Platonic thought, the idea of the human soul sharing in the divine nature through reason and intellect is somewhat analogous to the idea of being in the image of a divine principle. This concept predates Christianity by centuries, and to say otherwise is merely special pleading in favor of Christianity.

This isn't even to mention the truly evil acts embedded in the Bible: slavery (Exodus 21:20-21, Colossians 3:22, Ephesians 6:5), blood sacrifice (Genesis 8:20, Leviticus 1:5, Leviticus 12:6), human sacrifice (Genesis 22:1-2, Judges 11:30-39), misogyny (Genesis 3:16, Exodus 21:7-8, Corinthians 11:8-9), genital mutilation (Genesis 17:10-14, 1 Samuel 18:27, Leviticus 12:2-3), genocide (Deuteronomy 2:33-34, Numbers 21:3, Joshua 6:21-27), infanticide (1 Samuel 15:3, Exodus 12:29), rape (Deuteronomy 22:28-29, Zechariah 14:1-2, Genesis 19:7-9), trivial death penalties (Exodus 35:2, Leviticus 24:14-16, 2 Samuel 6:6-7), thought crimes (Matthew 5:27-28, Exodus 20:17), eternal damnation for nonbelievers (Deuteronomy 17:2, Isaiah 64:6, Mark 3:28-29, Revelation 21:8, Ecclesiasticus 2:13), and the idea that only Christians can be saved (Mark 16:16, John 5:24, Acts 10:43, Romans 4:5).

So no, I don't view the Bible as a particularly impressive book, and the same goes for any other religious text. To claim with complete certainty that this book is the perfect word of God, when it is not, is worse than wrong; it is evil. It is evil because the book affects the views and decisions of people, which, in turn, have real effects in reality. Beliefs inform actions, so if you follow a book that advocates harmful behavior, you may do so because you believe it is ordained by God.

Some people think that God's purpose is objective, but God's purpose cannot be considered objective. Objectivity implies that something exists independently of any subject's judgment. A subject refers to any conscious being. If God is a conscious being and purpose relies on His judgment, then purpose is contingent on the judgment of a subject. Consequently, even God's purposes are subjective, not objective.

It is the essence of pragmatism to say that beliefs exist to guide actions. Decisions based on true beliefs will manifest themselves in the form of controlled, predictable experiences, while decisions based on false beliefs may eventually fail in that goal, as they inevitably will when it comes to belief in God. No one should let a belief guide their actions if the belief in question has no real existence in reality.

When making a claim, there are two forms the proposition can take: analytic or synthetic. Analytic propositions describe the interplay between ideas and definitions, while synthetic propositions are model statements about the external world. "God exists" is a synthetic proposition; it is described in logical terms but substantiated by empirical evidence and predictive modeling. In short, analytic propositions concern themselves with language and axioms, while synthetic propositions look at sense experience and induction.

Again, in the pragmatic sense, truths are the beliefs that allow you to make decisions under the expectation of desirable outcomes. Of what use is a truth if it doesn't lead to a desirable outcome?

This is why I find the writings of Emerson and Nietzsche so liberating; they speak of a pragmatic life philosophy that encourages and affirms anyone's will or desire for a particular goal. It epitomizes a pragmatic way of thinking that encourages people to live and affirm life for what it is—to make something great of yourself, you who are infinite in potential and capable of all things with the right attitude. I once said that a change in atmosphere results in a change in attitude, and so too does this apply to the ideas one takes in and is influenced by. Your atmosphere of ideas should only contain those things that make you great and inspire you to hunger for more action and life.

But to return to the Bible, one finds little to no practical knowledge within it. Of the 66 books, only Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Psalms, Matthew, and the Epistle of James offer any semblance of practical knowledge or wisdom for life. However, of those five books, what is in them that can't be found in Goethe? As Robert Ingersoll said, "For my part, I prefer the books that inspiration has not claimed. Such is the nature of my brain that Shakespeare gives me greater joy than all the prophets of the ancient world. There are thoughts that satisfy the hunger of the mind. I am convinced that Humboldt knew more of geology than the author of Genesis; that Darwin was a greater naturalist than he who told the story of the flood; that Laplace was better acquainted with the habits of the sun and moon than Joshua could have been; and that Haeckel, Huxley, and Tyndall know more about the earth and stars, about the history of man, the philosophy of life—more that is of use, ten thousand times—than all the writers of the sacred books. I believe in the religion of reason—the gospel of this world; in the development of the mind, in the accumulation of intellectual wealth, to the end that man may free himself from superstitious fear, to the end that he may take advantage of the forces of nature to feed and clothe the world."⁸²

Nietzsche also expressed similar sentiments: "What they would fain attain with all their strength is the universal, green-meadow happiness of the herd, together with security, safety, comfort, and alleviation of life for everyone. Their two most frequently chanted songs and doctrines are called 'Equality of Rights' and 'Sympathy with All Sufferers'—and suffering itself is looked upon by them as something that must be done away with. We opposite ones, however, who have opened our eyes and consciences to the question of how and where the plant 'man' has hitherto grown most vigorously, believe that this has always taken place under the opposite conditions, that for this end, the dangerousness of his situation had to be increased enormously; his inventive faculty and dissembling power (his 'spirit') had to develop into subtlety and daring under long oppression and compulsion; and his Will to Life had to be increased to the unconditioned Will to Power. We believe that severity, violence, slavery, danger in the street and in the heart, secrecy, stoicism, tempter's art, and devilry of every kind—everything wicked, terrible, tyrannical, predatory, and serpentine in man—serves as well for the elevation of the human species as its opposite. We do not even say enough when we only say this much, and in any case, we find ourselves here, both with our speech and our silence, at the other extreme of all modern ideology and gregarious desirability, as their antipodes perhaps? What wonder that we 'free spirits' are not exactly the most communicative spirits? That we do not wish to betray in every respect what a spirit can free itself from, and where, perhaps, it will then be driven?"⁸³

Lastly, Emerson summarized the practical spirit of life best when he said: "His power consists in the multitude of his affinities, in the fact that his life is intertwined with the whole chain of organic and inorganic being. In old Rome, the public roads beginning at the Forum proceeded north, south, east, and west, to the center of every province of the empire, making each market town of Persia, Spain, and Britain pervious to the soldiers of the capital: so out of the human heart go, as it were, highways to the heart of every object in nature, to reduce it under the dominion of man. A man is a bundle of relations, a knot of roots, whose flower and fruitage is the world. His faculties refer to natures outside of him and predict the world he is to inhabit, just as the fins of a fish foreshow that water exists, or the wings of an eagle in the egg presuppose air. He cannot live without a world. Put Napoleon on an island prison; let his faculties find no men to act on, no Alps to climb, no stake to play for, and he would beat the air and appear stupid. Transport him to large countries, with dense populations, complex interests, and antagonist powers, and you shall see that the man Napoleon, bounded, that is, by such a profile and outline, is not the virtual Napoleon."⁸⁴

And, should you not like the selection from the agnostic, atheist, and pantheist, I offer Montaigne, a Catholic, to give the same spirit: "For my part, then, I love life and cultivate it, such as it has pleased God to bestow it upon us. I do not desire it should be without the necessity of eating and drinking; and I would think it a not less excusable failing to wish it had been twice as long. 'Sapiens divitiarum naturalium quaesitor acerrimus': ['A wise man is the keenest seeker for natural riches.' —Seneca, Ep., 119.] Nor do I think we should support ourselves by putting only a little of that drug into our mouths, by which Epimenides took away his appetite and kept himself alive; nor that we should stupidly beget children with our fingers or heels, but rather— with reverence be it spoken—that we might voluptuously beget them with our fingers and heels; nor should the body be without desire and without titillation. These are ungrateful and wicked complaints. I accept kindly, and with gratitude, what nature has done for me; I am well pleased with it and proud of it. A man does wrong to that great and omnipotent giver to refuse, annul, or disfigure his gift: all goodness himself, he has made everything good: 'Omnia quae secundum naturam sunt, aestimatione digna sunt.' ['All things that are according to nature are worthy of esteem.' —Cicero, De Fin., iii. 6.]"⁸⁵

Does one not see the ineffable awe that these philosophers of life inspire in the bosom of all those who seek more out of life than mere subsistence? That we can all have a sense of understanding from the divine itself, which is the thing we think of in moments of desperation, and whom we know we can rely on every time. These ideas are worth knowing for the joy and impact they have on us. Such is culture when it is cultivated and allowed to grow its fruit up to its highest branches. We must let these ideas ripen in our hearts, so that we too may one day ripen and plant similar seeds in the hearts of others. Let us start with one true idea that prompts us to think, and from there, let our minds run free with thoughts of the greatest virtue and power. Recall that man is the rational animal, whose desire is as vast as the sea; if he may receive noble ideas from representative men and women, we can rest assured that we have the beginnings of an individual who shall always live true to their precepts.

Narrator: After the long oration on atheism, Erasmus stood there dumbstruck, for he assumed that all atheists were fools—in accordance with Psalm 14:1 and 53:1—but Joseph had shown him the passages nobody talks about and made sure to speak of a life without a deity; that such a life could be lived with equal splendor, joy, and profit as those who do believe.

Jonathan: If I may, allow me to offer some criticism on atheism, Joseph. You know this is one of only a handful of topics we disagree on. Starting off, you say the Bible is not a science book, but I know no one personally who considers it as such; it would appear to me as a straw man to say such a thing. You say the Bible has arguable morals, but you proceed to burden it with verses that only show the negative aspects of the book. Then you say that the Bible contains only a small amount of practical guidance for life; but nothing could surpass the richness of Proverbs or Ecclesiastes, which are filled with the most elevated and true sayings.

Joseph: You'd be surprised at how many people today still consider the Bible authoritative on scientific matters; primarily those young-earth creationists who deliberately fail to understand evolution and basic science. It's important to remember that there was a period in history when the Bible was regarded as an authority on all questions of science and the natural world. Anyone who thinks we can't or wouldn't go back to those days is kidding themselves, for that battle was long and hard-fought by many valiant champions of free thought and skepticism. So many martyrs died at the hands of a powerful institution that had no qualms about disregarding the commands of Jesus regarding peace and love if it meant maintaining complete control over the masses. The burning of Bruno and Vanini, the house arrest of Galileo, the self-imposed—and lifelong—secrecy of Jean Meslier, and the harsh criticism and death threats that plagued Knutzen and d'Holbach for the rest of their lives were all inflicted by the Christian religion. Will they ever forgive themselves for what they have done? How can they, when they are responsible for the deaths of millions of people: the Crusades, the Thirty Years' War, the French Wars of Religion, the Congolese genocide, the Armenian genocide, the Rwandan genocide, the Eighty Years' War, the Atlantic Slave Trade, and the Spanish Inquisition? These people proclaim the one true faith, ignoring all other divine books as mere falsehoods. Christians do not concern themselves with the hadiths of Muhammad; Muslims do not consider the ethics of Confucius; Brahmins could care less about the Book of Mormon; and Jews know with certainty that Judaism is without error. How could these people, who have not even considered the other faiths in the world, claim with certainty that the one they just so happen to believe in is the right one? We know where their certainty comes from; it stems from the fact that they believe in the religion into which they are born, while disregarding all others. If a Christian were born in Afghanistan, they would be Muslim; if a Jew were born in Italy, they would probably be Catholic; and if a Hindu were born in China, they would likely be a Confucian.

It is as Ingersoll said: "The average man adopts the religion of his country, or, rather, the religion of his country adopts him. He is dominated by the egotism of race, the arrogance of nation, and the prejudice called patriotism. He does not reason—he feels. He does not investigate—he believes. To him, the religions of other nations are absurd and infamous, and their gods are monsters of ignorance and cruelty. In every country, this average man is taught, first, that there is a supreme being; second, that he has made known his will; third, that he will reward the true believer; fourth, that he will punish the unbeliever, the scoffer, and the blasphemer; fifth, that certain ceremonies are pleasing to this god; sixth, that he has established a church; and seventh, that priests are his representatives on earth. The average man has no difficulty in determining that the God of his nation is the true God; that the will of this true God is contained in the sacred scriptures of his nation; that he is one of the true believers; and that the people of other nations—those who believe in other religions—are scoffers; that the only true church is the one to which he belongs; and that the priests of his country are the only ones who have had or ever will have the slightest influence with this true God. All these absurdities seem self-evident propositions to the average man; and so he holds all other creeds in scorn, congratulating himself that he is a favorite of the one true God. If the average Christian had been born in Turkey, he would have been a Mohammedan; and if the average Mohammedan had been born in New England and educated at Andover, he would have regarded the damnation of the heathen as the 'tidings of great joy.' Nations have eccentricities, peculiarities, and hallucinations, and these find expression in their laws, customs, ceremonies, morals, and religions. These are largely determined by soil, climate, and the countless circumstances that shape and dominate the lives and habits of insects, individuals, and nations. The average man believes implicitly in the religion of his country because he knows nothing of any other and has no desire to know. It fits him because he has been deformed to fit it, and he regards this fact of fit as evidence of its inspired truth."⁸⁶

So crude is man when it comes to logical thinking. Most people's belief systems resemble a house of cards, where one attack is enough to bring the whole paltry edifice down to the ground. And then, with their shattered beliefs before them, all they can do is either give up rationality completely and become firm believers with no evidence to the contrary to change their minds, or they could give up their faith entirely. Either way, one path is for those who cherish reason and evidence, while the other is for those who only want to believe.

I don't even consider believing in a religion a bad thing; what is bad is attempting to hold beliefs on insufficient evidence that actually affect the world. As for cherry-picking Bible verses, I assure you, Jon, that if the Bible were actually written by an omniscient deity, it wouldn't have commanded the Israelites to commit the most barbaric acts imaginable. Why couldn't God just tell the Israelites not to own slaves or commit genocide against neighboring tribes? Why is there a kind of progressive revelation, with scripture being revealed for a particular place and time, if it's going to change anyway? This would only serve to undermine God's omniscience. If He knows everything—including the fact that humanity will one day end slavery—why not just deliver that message from the beginning?

It should also be mentioned that religious people are notorious for picking and choosing the Bible verses they like most. Pastors often do not read the verses I mention from the pulpit because they know how obscene they would sound to their congregation. I wouldn't consider it "burdening the book with bad verses," Jon; I think it's a book that has great things in it and some not-so-great things. The problem arises when people use that same book to justify horrific actions, which Christians have done since the beginning; and they are still trying, considering the numerous hate groups with similar ideologies who desire a Christian-only nation so that they can restrict the rights and basic needs of all non-Christians—not unlike how it was when the Puritans first settled in New England.

Your point about Jesus having the biggest impact on people's moralities—shaping, in a sense, all our moral views—is not surprising when you consider the spread of Christianity; it is nothing more than a message that spoke to the downtrodden, awakening in them a spark of hope: that this life is not all suffering, but that one may one day be reborn into a world of eternal joy, where my creator loves me, and all I must do is accept Jesus Christ, His son, as my savior. What drivel! What about the Muslims and Buddhists who do not see Christ as their savior? What will happen to us if we do not accept Christ into our hearts? I'll tell you what happens: Matthew 25:41, "Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels." Mark 9:43-48 states, "And if thy hand offend thee, cut it off: it is better for thee to enter into life maimed than, having two hands, to go into hell, into the fire that never shall be quenched: Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched. And if thy foot offend thee, cut it off: it is better for thee to enter halt into life than, having two feet, to be cast into hell, into the fire that never shall be quenched: Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched. And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out: it is better for thee to enter into the kingdom of God with one eye than, having two eyes, to be cast into hell fire: Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched." Revelation 14:10-11 declares, "The same shall drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is poured out without mixture into the cup of his indignation; and he shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the presence of the holy angels, and in the presence of the Lamb: And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up for ever and ever: and they have no rest day nor night, who worship the beast and his image, and whosoever receiveth the mark of his name." Revelation 20:10 states, "And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone, where the beast and the false prophet are, and shall be tormented day and night for ever and ever." Revelation 20:14-15 reads, "And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death. And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire." Finally, 2 Thessalonians 1:9 says, "Who shall be punished with everlasting destruction from the presence of the Lord, and from the glory of his power."

To not believe in God is the greatest sin of all in Christian doctrine, along with blasphemy against the Holy Spirit. John 3:18 says: "He that believeth on him is not condemned: but he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God." And Matthew 12:31-32 states: "Wherefore I say unto you, All manner of sin and blasphemy shall be forgiven unto men: but the blasphemy against the Holy Ghost shall not be forgiven unto men. And whosoever speaketh a word against the Son of man, it shall be forgiven him: but whosoever speaketh against the Holy Ghost, it shall not be forgiven him, neither in this world, neither in the world to come." Why would any rational person hear this and think it a great system to put their faith in? Jesus did nothing that Confucius, Plato, or Cicero hadn't already said or done. And why would it be wrong to be moved by the verses of Shakespeare, the music of Wagner, or the prose of Emerson as much, if not more, than by the words and deeds of Christ?

I don't believe in Christ because I don't see him as anything beyond a man with a message he thought he had to deliver to the world. The same goes for Muhammad, the Buddha, or any other religious leader who claimed to have a spark of divinity within them. This is why I find myself more at home with Confucius, Mozi, Nietzsche, Emerson, Goethe, and Swedenborg. In the realm of mankind is where I place my faith and hope—to see us all flourish in a world that accepts us for what we believe and yearn for. To say that each person is worthy and deserving of love, and that their goals are within their abilities. To hear the praises and hymns to life that resound across the world. And lastly, to think that we all are capable of transcending our current selves for the sake of our own empowerment and fulfillment.

This also remains true regarding the particular wisdom within that tissue of lies called the Holy Scripture; there is nothing in the Bible that the men listed can't provide with more relevance to our present lives. Such is the greatness of certain individuals. I end with my convictions as such: that the world is my country, my mind is my church, and my religion is to do good.

Erasmus: And with all this laid bare, can you honestly believe that any society might endure, let alone flourish, without the bedrock of religion to bind it together?

Joseph: I'd say that religion is a remnant from our more primitive age that has persisted to this day through nothing more than fear-mongering and complete authority. From the time of Constantine to the Industrial Revolution, a significant part of the world was Christian; but when humanity was freed from the shackles of ignorance—and the Church no longer held sway over who was and wasn't damned—the critical analysis of the Bible either led to deism or atheism. A deist is an atheist who believes a God was the first cause of all things, while an atheist is someone who does not believe in God. We atheists, if I may be allowed to speak for them, posit nothing that isn't supported by evidence. We do not believe the universe, or anything else for that matter, came out of nothing. We think that the universe and all other matter were preexistent in a state prior to the universe—a singularity from which all matter results from in the expansion of the universe. What was prior to the singularity we do not know, and neither do those who claim God as the creator of all things. God is nothing more than a man-made concept used to explain away our ignorance. There is nothing that God is posited to do that can't be ascribed to another equally absurd imaginary entity, like a Pegasus or an omnipotent teacup. The "God of the gaps" reigns supreme as the most used logical fallacy among believers, alongside the begging-the-question fallacy.

So many things have been attributed to God that science has either disproved or may disprove at a later date—like the origin of the universe. This is because God is nothing more than a prop that people pledge fidelity to. It's not like the atheist, whose epistemology is designed to seek new evidence wherever it can be found, and not told to hold a belief when it's disproven. Faith is completely antithetical to a pursuit of truth. It is so hard to maintain a belief when it has such blatant holes in it. An atheist's epistemology can be summarized as follows: we do not hold things to be true until evidence has convinced us of it. If we are asked what would convince us of God, we would reply that we do not know what would, because God is an ill-defined concept that contains many contradictions. We also do not know what an experience with God would be like since there could be other explanations that account for that same experience. In short, it is easier and more honest to say "we do not know" than to claim that everything mankind doesn't know is hidden within God.

So no, I don't think God is a necessary concept for society for the simple fact that modern man knows enough about the world today not to have to posit His existence for any potential explanation.

In terms of the good feelings and hope people derive from believing in God, I would say enjoy it, but do not let it consume you. Today, too many people make religion the central focus of their lives when they should prioritize the welfare of others. Instead of being primarily concerned with personal salvation, we should live to support and care for our fellow human beings. No one should be treated differently based on their beliefs or how they interpret religious doctrine. This is why ideas such as heresy, blasphemy, and apostasy are anathema to human freedom: they prefer to be controlled and regressive in how they approach the world—one of the fundamental downsides to conservatism.

If you would like to argue that religions give people hope and a strong community, I would say that is true; but that is not a strong enough argument to claim that all societies need it to exist. There are societies like Japan, the Netherlands, and Denmark, which are predominantly atheist and are doing just fine by most metrics. It's simply false to say otherwise. Hope and a strong community can be easily found with the right understanding of your own interests. One should build communities around what they enjoy, not around what they believe. Modern man finds his way through his own awareness, not through someone else's. The moment you give up rationality, you open yourself up to believing things that are patently absurd; and once you believe absurd things, you lose the ability to consider things with an unbiased mind.

As Voltaire said: "Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities."⁸⁷ One gains so much more out of life when they free themselves from the doctrines and utter nonsense of religion. In short, religion is an aspect of society, but it is not the whole of society. I find the freedom that comes from not believing infinitely more rewarding than whatever comfort one may derive from a belief in an entity that neither I nor anybody else understands.

Erasmus: Good sir, though our opinions may differ most profoundly, I would not, like our fiery friend Luther, hasten to consign you to the flames. Indeed, your discourse has afforded me great amusement, though I must confess there were moments when I wished Providence had spared me the use of my ears, so fanciful were the notions presented.

Joseph: The feeling is mutual, Erasmus. I simply tried to speak from my own heart and present my ideas as best I could.

Erasmus: Alas, I must take my leave, for the work of Origen awaits, and if I am to fulfill my task of writing that commentary, the text must be found without further delay. It has been a true pleasure to engage in such delightful conversation, but now, dear friends, I bid you farewell. Until we meet again, may wisdom guide our paths.

Joseph: Until we meet again.

Jonathan: O dear Erasmus, thou departest too soon,
From wisdom’s stage to search through volumes strewn.
Thy presence bright did light our humble way,
Yet now we mourn as thou dost drift away.
To dusty tomes and scholars’ quiet hell,
Farewell, great soul, in learning’s depths to dwell.

Narrator: And with that, Erasmus went off in search of his book. Thus, Joe and Jon continued their quest for the third door of separation, hopeful of encountering scholars along the way. As they praised the nearly infinite number of books and wrapped themselves around the confusing spiral, they spotted a most beautiful woman descending the stairs, carrying a scroll. She wore a white robe in the style of the ancient Greeks, and her hair was pulled back into a bun. Her delicate profile featured well-defined characteristics: a straight nose, a smooth forehead, and a softly rounded chin. Her overall impression was one of calm dignity, intelligence, and poise, reminiscent of ancient Greek portraiture. The two scholars froze, smitten by her beauty; they gazed, petrified that the slightest movement would scare the lady off. Joseph mustered as much courage as he could to say something—anything—to her.

Joseph: Uh, excuse me, would you happen to know where the third door of separation is?

Hypatia: And who would be asking such a thing? Do you not know that the men there are like a lame donkey? Barely could they walk themselves to the river; for that one labor is so difficult for them, after doing it, they can hardly do anything else. That is how those men think—obsessively focused on the same ideas without recourse to other methods of investigation. I suppose that is what gives them their divine status, however, for who could become so accomplished in a single endeavor, let alone a dozen, without being driven by passion? I find them more interested in things than in people, ideas than in conversation, and platitudes instead of action; and I venture to say that this is why I find them boring.

Joseph: Most men of genius are such through deep exertion and the right method in education. We are not blank slates but are molded by our genetic makeup and fetal experiences. But to return to your first question: I am Joseph Diaz, accompanied by my master, Jonathan.

Hypatia: Are you both seekers of the true essence of things?

Jonathan: Only truth, Hypatia.

Hypatia: Ah, but truth is a fickle thing, always becoming more obscure the more we look into her. … And how is it that you came to know my name?

Jonathan: Your reputation precedes you. Of all us scholars, how many women find themselves among us? How cruel has history been to women scholars, viewing them as nothing more than the lesser sex for most of history. How many women have desired to be scholars but were shunned because they were born in the wrong century? My God, the endless names of those who dared to learn and go against the grain are lost to history, all because of our own foolishness. And you, Hypatia, are now viewed as the greatest martyr for women scholars and for those of us men willing to stand up when the case for scholarship is derided by the foolish mob. The life of a scholar is necessarily one of solitude and isolation; but yours was not so, for you had men eager to learn what you had already known since childhood. So great were your abilities that you surpassed your own father—himself a very learned man and editor of Euclid—while still a child. So few in history come close to what you achieved; you overcame so many obstacles, burdened the most by your sex. How could mankind have lived for so long with women in complete subjugation? I tremble when I reflect that man is just, for history is but a record of injustices and genocides. I am saddened when one views the shortness of life as a joy; I wish that man could live for a thousand years to learn all there is to know. True dedication to scholarship is about sacrificing necessities for the sake of your ideas and growth in that endless sea of opinion we call philosophy, and equally endless that sea of facts we call science. For man is a product of his nature, always striving for some consistent method of alleviating his anxiety and fear of the inevitable. How often do men strive like Wagner or Nietzsche to overcome themselves, only to be swallowed up like the rest of us? I find that in writing we let ideas flow spontaneously, but very rarely do we consider the origin of such ideas; the same can be said of human misery. We are often struck with complete terror by the harshness life throws at us: poverty, illness, starvation, injury, homelessness, murder, etc. Yet how few of us consider these things for what they really are—trivialities: the mere thoughts of an idle mind. Nothing good comes to those who wait, they say; yet how little time do we find to do the things we actually care about! To wait is to use time to contemplate what is of use and what is not; so often do we have little control over the day, however, as the sun moves along its dreary path every day, and we get older by the minute. Of what use are our labors? Would one child in a million suffer hardship at the hands of a tyrant, only to find relief in your words? Who will you speak to with every utterance? Whose lives have to change in order for you to make your own greatness more necessary? We are all struggling together; of this, there can be no doubt. But we may also work towards a greater tomorrow—to plant a tree knowing we will not sit in its shade, but that our descendants will. Such should be the desire of every writer, every great individual, and every hopeful person, and such is what you have been to the world, Hypatia.

Hypatia: This comes as quite the shock to me, considering I was only doing what I loved. Never in a million years would I have thought the whole world would have some semblance of my existence. I have strived to learn all I could from the great masters: Plato, Aristotle, and Plotinus were always my favorites. Plato, that divine philosopher, who told us through dialogues what was good in life and why we should cherish friendship. Aristotle, that genius whose capacity to see within the depths of every subtlety the most profound questions and who provided conjectures and solutions to nearly every problem, thus providing the West with its intellectual tradition. And Plotinus, father of Neoplatonism, gave philosophy a breath of fresh air. From these men, I learned how to question, to think, and to rationalize. I made my reputation through my studies and quickly became noted as a woman of great learning. Men traveled far and wide just to hear my lectures, and I enjoyed giving them; for nothing could possibly top the experience of hearing a lecture on mathematics or philosophy. But forget about my accomplishments; I would like to hear your thoughts on what I consider the greatest of all accomplishments: finding your true passion in life.

Jonathan: What is life but the endless journey of seeking our passion? Passion is the enthralling force that makes us pursue nothing but that one thing. It's like love in the sense that it overtakes us and makes us care more for its well-being than our own. One may find endless passions if they are a romantic; another, a more temperate person, may find only one passion, but most people have no passion at all. Look at their dreary faces and tell me if they have ever been inspired. They do not understand the sense of Dionysus, the great mover of being, who makes all move their limbs and become one with their true feelings. He is the opposite of the calculated, boring, stiff Apollonian—one who reasons through something rather than feeling. The passion of your life is what makes life worth living. Indeed, it may be said that the mark of a true life philosopher is someone who affirms that which drives us to continue. To continue is to live life, preferably without suffering; but life often doesn't play by our feeble conceptions of preparation. Rather, like a natural disaster, it hits us when we least anticipate it. Then, once our boat has been shipwrecked and we cling to whatever wreckage remains to stay afloat, a tidal wave comes in and drags us down to our death. But what do we find so great in life that we endure so much suffering? Culture. Art. Love. Ambition. In short, our passions. How does one obtain such a thing? They experience life and stumble across something that fundamentally changes their views on suffering. What is so bad about this one annoyance when compared to this great passion I feel? Passion conquers all, and there is no overcoming what you feel within your heart. It was one of Plato's four forms of madness, after all. There is nothing like love, and love is but the ultimate expression of madness. There is a kind of revelry and a call that yearns for the everlasting in our passions. One finds that what Nietzsche prescribed is absolutely right; life is a pure flame, of which an invisible sun resides within us. This flame may be considered the will to power—that force which makes us desire the continuation of our fight. How many heroes have been made, fighting a battle we all fight? Is there not a similarity that we all see in each other? One views his life through his own experience; but when will the day come when we see everyday life as the continuation of a process lived by other people? When this day comes, we will be amazed; when we are amazed, we will be shocked; when we are shocked, that... that is when we will realize. To see within yourself that you are the sum of your passions, and that these passions are what make us great. To live is to affirm that which aids our living.

And to die is but another aspect of life; it matters not how demise manifests itself. Death is but the ceasing of experience, and how great are those moments when momentary sanity comes to us, either in quiet or in the bustle of life. One may not be able to see what they so wish when distracted by the everyday functions that are necessary to sustain life; so many hours are turned to idle waste that amount to nothing. This is precisely the opposite of what the passions demand, for they require freedom to flourish and a ready mind to inspect our moments of experience. One need not find their passion early, only that they seek it at every moment of life. As I said before, life is too short to spend what little time you have doing what is expedient if that thing makes you miserable. There is more to the world—more to see, to do, to feel. As I write these lines, I may very well die while composing them, yet it does not scare me to go. The only downside to death is that we can no longer experience the passions that drive us. Life is meaningless if you don't leave behind a culture better than it was when you were born. Without culture, there can be no knowledge of our past, our present, and what could become of the future; we use it as a marker of achievement, and these achievements represent the cultural heritage we're all a part of. What would be the point of it all if there were no experience to be had? That's what it is at the end of the day—a collection of our historical experiences that show us what we can do and what can be improved upon. There is no greater hope in life than realizing that there is more work as yet incomplete, and that should be pursued for its own sake. I speak of life, of passions—those things that allow life to be enjoyable. We all know that we will go—humans may be the only animals that recognize this fact—and yet we go on. Whether death comes quick or slow, the end result is all the same. The reaper rips us from our mortal coil, and we turn back from whence we came. Out of nothing came nothing, and so too in life; what lives shall continue until no more. We age and wrinkle and find that, at the end of our days, there was more work that we could have done. "Ruit hora" was the motto of Grotius—"time is running away"—and Ovid spoke the same: "Tempus edax rerum"—"Time, that which devours all things." How poor it is to drift through life, not shining in use, but to rust like steel left out in the rain. May we all shudder at the thought of uttering the last words of Grotius: "By undertaking many things, I have accomplished nothing." May we also scorn that quote by him regarding his personal conduct: "I have spent my life laboriously doing nothing."

There is no antidote to the sickness that time leaves us with. One may find that they lived life poorly, and, in the end, it didn't matter because they could not find their passion. No life can be lived poorly if there is joy to be found in it. The most hateful scoundrel will find life miserable if there is nothing for him to hate. And if the actions of a single man determine the course of history—as was the case with Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar—who is to say that the modern man can't do the same? One finds history full of those great men, as Carlyle put it, who shaped the world. The first person to recognize this idea in full was Plutarch—although Herodotus, Thucydides, and Livy had similar conceptions. The role of life is to play your part; and how often do we play the whole part and nothing but it, only to discover it was the wrong role all along? Time is precious, so before you squander it away, remember that you are in control of the experience you put yourself in. Always walk softly, talk calmly, speak confidently, and know thyself. Socrates was considered the wisest not because he knew the most, but because he understood how little he actually knew. There is no better man than Socrates when it comes to existentialism. He said, "The unexamined life is not worth living," and one cannot hope to live a happy life without examining oneself. We find ontology fickle, and even more fickle is our inability to find real things that satisfy us; so often do we long for the immortal, for those ideas and innovations that shall outlive us. We live our lives so that we may be remembered for our actions. How many times does life try to break itself with its many inconveniences? How pointless it is to lament those natural occurrences! I yearn for the day when I will overcome these pitiful experiences; to not let myself get wrapped up in rage and to be like the Stoics in those instances.

We can always see the faults in other people instantly, but we see little of our own imperfections. That's why friends are useful; they tell you where you can improve right away. As I gaze upon the sun and reconsider the decisions in my life, I find that the things I'm most proud of are those decisions I made consciously, on my own accord. No influence should sway a decision that you know is right for you. All writers, dreamers, and romantics speak of the same yearning: that of the infinite that leaves behind an immortal legacy. The sky is infinite, the clouds are infinite, my joys are infinite; I am only bound by my own morality. But the more I consider it, the more I realize that life would become boring were we immortal. I say that it is our mortality that makes our living that much greater. Enjoy what we have while we have it, for it will be over before we know it. What lies beyond is speculation, and I don't think it is of any useful kind. How many lives are lived desiring only death, and with the greatest assurance that they shall soon meet their maker? These people know less than nothing, and yet they seem certain—a mode of being I cannot personally adopt.

But as I find myself angry, I also find myself more inspired to pick up my pen; to pick up my pen, what a beautiful idea! That I can transmit my thoughts and others can understand what I say is a blessing of unimaginable proportions. How often I find myself saying, "Without writing, I would have gone insane long ago." To write the thoughts that come to my mind is a great thing; I no longer burden myself with these ideas. I would prefer that these thoughts go on to inspire others, not just that they provide me satisfaction in putting them down. To write is to play with thoughts, and everyone should let the natural flow of ideas dominate. There is no greater feeling in composition than a well-nigh finished thought that seemingly arose out of the ether. I don't even know where my thoughts come from; I can only say that I have experience in the history of literature, and if my prose is of any merit, it is from my study of the greats who have come before me. It would be hard for me to conceive of a writer of extraordinary talent without the aid of models. All great writers have read great writers. Goethe had Shakespeare, Shakespeare had Marlowe, Aristotle had Plato, and Plato had Homer. This too is a part of our culture, for culture is nothing more than the collection of our greatest accomplishments. The goal of all passions should be to strive for that which makes us great and which adds to our culture.

Hypatia: You covered so many things, Jonathan, that I know not what else to talk about but the magical and majestic: what are your thoughts on flight, the thought of soaring through the sky with no impediments?

Joseph: Allow me, Jon. As I gaze across the horizon of the earth and find myself lifted into the air, I notice that the sky becomes ever bluer. I am lost in thoughts of nothing but the fact that I am flying like a bird. It has been man's dream since antiquity to transcend the sky; and as I feel myself become weightless momentarily, I think it strange that man would not wish this upon himself every day. Like the philosophy of Nietzsche or the music of Wagner, one feels as if they have experienced a thousand separate lives. I wouldn't call it life-changing, at least for me, but I would call it an experience unlike any other. Yet, there is a macabre aspect to it in the fact that the calmest serenity may quickly become a torrent of misery and eventual death, should you fall out of the sky; the chances of such an occurrence are slim, but zero is never beyond doubt. It may be said, in that way, that to undertake such a burden and face the chance of death is what the will to power is all about. When the plane shakes, one knows not whether it is falling from the sky or simply experiencing turbulence from the airflow beneath the wing. But the greatness of our endeavors is not measured by their success but by their attempts; our will is never satisfied with what it was endowed with. We humans always desire more than what we already have; one could argue that culture arose out of ambitious men striving to outdo what they have already accomplished. One could easily imagine a Greek youth seeing the Bacchae by Euripides and saying to themselves, “I could go beyond this!”

To return to the sky, however, yes, that is where we shall reside for some time: hoping at every moment that we land safely or that our demise is quick. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, says Nietzsche, but this only remains true for internal troubles; surviving a car crash does not make you physically stronger, only mentally. Nietzsche viewed the will to power as a means to transcend ourselves by enduring struggle. Were we not made for labor and burden? Do we not earn the fruit of our labor by the sweat of our brow? Were not our ancestors apex predators, armed only with some rocks and sturdy sticks? We are Homo sapiens (wise human), and we should live up to that name. It's not every day we have these opportunities before us. To know that at any moment, we may cease to be; but if I were to go while flying, I would want my last sight to be of my beautiful Earth, the place I call home and the place I shall return. For all things return from whence they came, and the same remains true for our ideas. Solomon has said, “Nothing new is under the sun,” and with that, no new ideas are born but perhaps once a century. I find that man often judges ideas in three stages of disparagement: first he mocks them, then he understands them, and finally he accepts them; but in the chronicle of time, ideas are often the offspring of singular genius. Man may attempt to cultivate genius, but in the end, he finds himself only a parrot of the ideas of others.

It's a strange thing to be truly unique in the world; but if John Wilmot is to teach anything, his life will serve as an example of what not to attempt if you wish to attain lasting happiness. The honorable thing about him was that he lived true to himself and died as such—a wretched man consumed by the greatest afflictions of the body. To be unique is to find a way of life that is average but expressed in a creative way. This is not a good definition, I think, for it is circular; one cannot define uniqueness without resorting to the idea itself. Yet ideas are so numerous that one does not know what, if anything, they think is of a special denomination. We all bear reverence to the fire upon the altar of our minds; and so often do we draw inspiration from others that their ideas intermingle with our own. When we come to flesh out our ideas further, we find that our thoughts are the same as those of our inspired authors. It is as Emerson said: "In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty. Great works of art have no more affecting lesson for us than this. They teach us to abide by our spontaneous impressions with good-humored inflexibility, even when the whole cry of voices is on the other side. Otherwise, tomorrow a stranger will say with masterly good sense precisely what we have thought and felt all along, and we shall be forced to take with shame our own opinion from another."⁸⁸ In that sense, to be unique is to rediscover what has already been said by the greatest men and women.

But often do we find our ideas inspired by the greatest desire for life itself—that which we call upon when we wish to live, to experience, to love, in short, to find the passions of life. But I think I have said enough on this topic.

Hypatia: And I think I have heard enough. A woman must attend to herself more than a man, you know. I have had the greatest time listening with eager ears to your thoughts. Of all the men who have sought knowledge from me, I find you two to be among the brightest of all my pupils. I must go my separate way now, gentlemen. I hope to see you two scholars again sometime. Goodbye.

Narrator: And thus, Hypatia descended the spiral staircase, seeking her tomes and comfortable bedchamber, filled with books of ancient verity. One may find within her collection annotations sprawled across all the pages. No greater woman of learning has the world ever seen. The two scholars then went on, in search of the third door of separation, the last door they may have to cross. But while the two scholars went on their way, Jon began asking Joe philosophical questions, as he normally does.

Jonathan: On momentous occasions, man usually finds it necessary to show his happiness through celebration; but often in celebration does he take this experience too far. By expressing his love for wine and song, he makes himself a beast of passion. From that point on, it goes downhill, but why should it? We find it necessary to get lost in drunkenness to experience pleasure, as if we were devotees of Dionysus; but I view celebration in general as a call to happiness. We find happiness to be a thing that often slips through our fingers; yet it may be grasped with the right mindset when approaching it. But I wish to speak of a more specific kind of celebration—that of marriage. What are your thoughts on this?

Joseph: I must confess, Jon, I have always been a Puritan when it comes to fun and revelry. I dislike parties; for, as you say, they tend toward drunkenness and the kind of ecstatic frenzy that I don't wish to see in others. Perhaps, had I been more open to those experiences, I would not dislike them as much as I do; but one too many negative experiences have led me down this chosen path. I hate the fact that I am such a buzzkill to people's enjoyment; for how often does a happy drunk sober up at the sight of my Stoic, deadpan face? I wish I could be true to myself while at the same time allowing others their own happiness, but such is not my lot. Man may often find greater happiness in his own failings than in the successes of others. I think back to the devoutly religious lamentations of Samuel Johnson, where I find myself in the same position he was: "That one day I may hope to God that my failures will be forgiven, and that mankind will look upon the faults of my life and never suffer the same mistake." How many people read the Confessions of Augustine or Rousseau, the autobiographies of Goethe or Franklin, the religious sermons of Jonathan Edwards or George Whitefield, or the essays of Bacon, Montaigne, or Emerson, and not come away with a lust for the greatness that is possible within us all? I speak for the love of life, but very little consolation do I find in party-going. I have always viewed celebrations, parties, or bashes as coping mechanisms for the difficulties in life, not unlike drinking—which is, as I said, coincidentally associated with those undoubtedly frivolous events.

As for your specific point on marriage, I view it as no more significant than the passing of the day. The fact that you would celebrate a supposed eternal monogamous union does not strike me as an event worth indulging in revelry; but then again, my views on this are skewed by my strong Puritan ideations. I can't even recall feeling truly excited about celebrating my birthday as a child. So long ago those days seem to me now, and yet they have made me, like a good book I read but can't remember. Often, the best thoughts arise spontaneously, only to find that they are the same thoughts of other greats. Let celebration be shown through our actions and thoughts, not in expensive displays of one-upmanship.

Jonathan: I suppose your views are consistent, even if they lead to paltry conclusions.

Joseph: I would say more boring than paltry, Jon. I know how unseemly my views are to those in the current century; but to say otherwise would be a positive poison to my soul. Man must be true to himself if he wishes to understand himself. "Know thyself." The most important inscription on the Temple of Delphi. That phrase could be the beginning of existentialism for all we know; but I am much more confident in simply asserting that it is a phrase that speaks to my heart, and that alone is what makes it true for me. My whole philosophical system is summarized in that phrase, molded by the ideas of Emerson, Nietzsche, and Goethe; always changing for the better is what I plan to do for the rest of my life. No longer will I restrict myself by the thoughts and opinions of those who cannot understand my convictions or ideals. How much unnecessary suffering have I endured at the hands of those cruel, vindictive, foolish people who always seem to jeer at me for no other reason than spite? Why are they so cruel to me? I wish they would be as concerned for their own affairs as they are for mine. But that is alright; let them mock, let them doubt, let them remain ignorant of my life—it should be of no concern to them. Minding your own business has become a lost art in the modern world, sadly; for to be concerned with others is to lose precious time for yourself. Some may consider my view on this too selfish, almost like Ayn Rand's objectivism; and I would say that is a correct and fair judgment, for I do value the individual over the collective good when it comes to life philosophy. A philosopher's work is never done; his work is to live life and write down his experiences. There are those ancient men like Aristotle, Aquinas, and Locke who assume that the life of man is for his fellow creatures; but that only gets you as far as self-sacrifice, leaving out the individual. At this impasse, it becomes a question of values: the individual or the collective? Which one do you focus on?

My argument for individualism is rather simple. Adam Smith famously showed that, in the context of economics, individual ambition serves the common good; I simply generalized this concept to actions and results in the real world—the conduct of life, in short. The man who lives for his own happiness alone will find it easy to do so and will likewise encourage the same sentiments in others through his sheer benignity. On the other hand, the man who strives to make everyone happy will only make himself miserable. One cannot live this way and expect to maintain lasting happiness, especially when everyday life leaves him disheartened by the very people he seeks to please. I say this because you cannot force someone else to be happy—which is precisely what the collectivist types would want you to do. Rather, only you, through your own care, can leave someone with happiness; for by striving for your own happiness, you leave others with the same feeling.

Jonathan: Excellent, Joseph. Your discourse seems to improve the longer we talk. We have discussed so many topics; I know not what else to talk about.

Joseph: As you are aware, Jon, I always keep before my mind the models of Nietzsche and Emerson whenever I write; and as you also know, nobody was better at condensing entire books into single sentiments than Nietzsche, and nobody was better at expounding—engaging in every nuance and subtlety—than Emerson. There was also a great charm to his writings, as, aside from Montaigne, nobody comes close to his greatness in diversions. So good was he at it that he practically made it his own composition style. But I have discoursed enough on the literary merits of those two titans.

Jonathan: I wish to turn back to the emotions if you like.

Joseph: You were always the more passionate of the two of us, Jon.

Jonathan: I wish to address a topic that humanity often elevates to disproportionate importance: sex, that primal desire born of lust, yet essential for the continuation of our species.

Joseph: One could say the sin of lust primarily concerns itself with sex. What can't be said about it is probably a more interesting question. Sex is necessary for life, at least for Homo sapiens. One finds that most people—men primarily—are driven to the wildest heights just to acquire it. Some try to explain this away using evolutionary biology: men are "hardwired" for sex and other such conjecture. Nothing more than a "Just-so story" that has no solid scientific evidence behind it—just intuition and guesswork. I would say that sex falls under the madness of love, one of Plato's four madnesses. A poetic definition, but one with practical utility.

It was said that Helen had a face which launched a thousand ships, resulting in the slaughter of countless men driven by the passion of a few. Consider how Mark Antony disgraced himself and practically handed Rome to Augustus due to his lust for Cleopatra; his mind was more enraptured by vanity and love than by the battlefield. Men like Antony, with all their power and greatness, were reduced to mere pawns in the ever-shifting game of history. When he should have been critically analyzing events and taking decisive action, he was compromised by diversions of passion. It is why, after the Battle of Actium in 31 BC, he ended his life alongside the woman who contributed to his downfall. A tragic end for such a great man.

If this fate could befall men as great as Antony, what hope does the modern man have of overcoming himself? Can he even begin to control his desires? I would argue that moderation in the passions is the wisest course, but as we’ve discussed before, Jon, one either remains entirely immune to emotional influences, as the Stoics strive to be, or is swept up in them, as the Cyrenaics or Epicureans tend to be. A man who achieves moderation, however, embodies the golden mean that Aristotle sought in all things. Such a man is undoubtedly disciplined, strong-willed, and determined to overcome unnecessary distractions.

As to my personal thoughts on sex, I don’t know if it’s a sad fact or a happy accident, but most of the individuals I admire were either virgins or lifelong bachelors without known children: Socrates, Plato, Epicurus, Lucretius, Jesus, Leonardo da Vinci, Leon Battista Alberti, Erasmus, John Selden, Isaac Newton, Leibniz, Alexander Pope, Samuel Johnson, Oliver Heaviside, Emanuel Swedenborg, Thomas Macaulay, and Friedrich Nietzsche. I tend to align myself with these men's dispositions. These hard-nosed scholars found enough satisfaction in a simple life, so long as they had time to study—and study they did. One might say that’s all they ever wanted to do. These are the individuals who truly dwell in the library of Parnassus, fully immersing themselves in its treasures.

And, Jon, as you’re well aware, I myself am such a man. I have never desired carnal relations with women. I love women, especially in conversation—I find I connect with them more easily—but I don’t feel the same physical drive as most men. I don't consider sex a disgusting or degrading act; it is natural, and it allows a couple to bond and form a closer connection. In this sense, it’s a sacred act that should be consensual, free, and mutually beneficial for both partners. But I suppose some men or women are wired in a way that they don't feel this impulse, and that is certainly the case for me. At the end of the day, how one chooses to express sexuality and love is a deeply personal matter.

Jonathan: Ah, you see, Joseph, I'm not so fortunate as you to remain stoic in matters like this. You know I'm a man of passion, and love is no exception. When I see a beautiful woman, I say so—simple, as it should be. People love to overcomplicate things, especially when it comes to love. I grow sick to death hearing nonsense from so-called "dating gurus" who offer questionable advice on how to pick up women as if they were prey for some apex predator. Utterly half-baked lunacy.

A man’s approach to attracting women should be simple: see someone you like, go up and talk to them. Get to know them—their interests, hobbies, values, and background. The opening questions should be simple, laying the groundwork for a meaningful conversation that could lead to a potential date. Dates, in turn, form the foundation for a deeper connection and a long, usually happy, relationship. After a sustained period (six months to a year), one can think about marriage. Nothing more, nothing less—over-complicate it, and you lose sight of the goal; oversimplify it, and you make a fool of yourself.

Courting a woman should be like aging fine wine—done slowly, with time for incremental improvements and stronger connections. As Virgil said, live, and let love conquer all.

Narrator: As Jon wrapped up his discourse on dating, the two scholars reached the summit of the spiral staircase. The white marble steps gave way to a black marble floor in this new area, a striking transition that symbolized the precipice of true scholastic greatness. Battered and tired from walking and expounding, the scholars decided to lie down to rest their lungs and minds.

That’s when a mysterious ghost appeared before them.

The ghost was translucent and wore a black top hat. It spoke in a deep baritone voice, commanding immediate attention as it proclaimed:

Ghost of Scholars Past: Laborers of learning—two scholars who seek admission to truth herself. You, who have labored so hard only to lay your dewy faces upon this cold marble—why treat such a place as a mere stopping ground? Have you no respect for the pinnacles of culture that dwell nearby?

To be weary from study implies sloth, sayeth Francis Bacon, for study should reinvigorate the soul, making anew one’s conceptions and perceptions. To study to boredom is a failure of method; to study from boredom is a failure of entertainment. To study for riches is folly, for all scholars know the dictum of Alberti—only three in a thousand survive as scholars, and those who do usually survive by disreputable means. To study for fame is to be praised only by dust and bookworms, for look what became of the massive tomes of Cardano.

To study for erudition is to lack purpose; one does not become learned by cramming books into one's head, but by synthesizing their ideas. To study for passion is to lack acquaintance, for many men agree there are better pleasures than learning (how foolish they are). To study for life is wisdom embodied, for wisdom is the salt of life that flavors all experiences thereafter.

To study to confute is abuse, for a grasp of syllogisms and logical fallacies only makes one repugnant. To study for revenge is to lack confidence, for intellectual wars resemble more a deluge of words and ink than blood and bodies of fallen soldiers. To study for preparation is a fault in reasoning, for one can never be wise at all times, as Pliny said. To study from frustration is to lack adequate treatment, for there are superior ways of handling rage than through torrents of words.

Lastly, to study for study’s sake—this is the individual who knows the truest and greatest path to cultivation. I have lived for eons and know every book known to man, and then some. Only when you have reached such knowledge will I consider you my equal. Pitiful are your paltry accomplishments when compared to mine. You seek what you do not understand, yet you dare sully the marble leading to the third door of separation. Miserable wretches.

Beyond that door lie beings wiser than I, and I know all things; such is the distinction between knowledge and wisdom. One cannot exist without the other, yet the two are mutually exclusive. So gaze, feeble peasants, at your opposition to entry. You shall never join the greats unless you tell me this: what qualifies a person for greatness and the pinnacle of culture? Know that everyone who entered the third circle of erudition gave an identical response.

Narrator: The two scholars, faced with the gravity of their situation, contemplated every possible contingency. They repeated the ghost's question over and over in their minds, hoping to grasp any subtleties lying dormant within it. At last, after much deliberation, Jonathan and Joseph reached a single conclusion that satisfied them both. In unison, they shouted:

Jonathan and Joseph: Their ability to speak to all mankind with the force of their own genius alone!

Narrator: The Ghost of Scholars Past smiled, his face betraying intrigue. In a resounding, authoritative voice, he demanded to know why this was the case.

Jonathan and Joseph: Because there is no culture without the praises of works whose esteem is universally recognized. Ecclesiastes in the Old Testament, The Analects of Confucius, The Iliad and The Odyssey by Homer, The Bacchae by Euripides, Oedipus Rex by Sophocles, The Republic by Plato, The Ethics by Aristotle, The Aeneid by Virgil, the Gospel of Matthew in the New Testament, The Qur'an, The Consolation of Philosophy by Boethius, The Divine Comedy by Dante, The Decameron by Boccaccio, The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer, On the Family by Leon Battista Alberti, The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Paradise Lost by John Milton, The Declaration of Independence by Thomas Jefferson, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray, Faust by Goethe, Ulysses by Lord Tennyson, Representative Men by Ralph Waldo Emerson, and finally Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietzsche—all works that speak to the truth of philosophy's goals: to revitalize man's capacity to live life and find new joys in once-inert things.

Narrator: The Ghost of Scholars Past smirked, an air of defeat about him.

The Ghost of Scholars Past: Well, well, well... this is something even I could not foresee. You two, despite not coming close to my raw knowledge, have managed to extract the key principle from all great works of culture. For that, I must give you my sincerest admiration. You have discovered what took me ages, and in far less time. Accepting my defeat with grace, I shall now lead you to the Third Door of Separation.

Chapter 5: The Third Ring of Erudition

Narrator: The Ghost of Scholars Past guided the two scholars through the marble halls toward the Third Door of Separation—a gateway leading to the pinnacle of human wisdom, erudition, and perspicacity. As they ventured further into the room, they watched in amazement as it warped and distorted before their eyes. Whole universes were born and died right in front of them, with the only light in the room coming from these cosmic events. Massive marble columns, floating in mid-air, stood perfectly spaced in symmetrical order.

At last, they reached a diamond altar, where the Ghost of Scholars Past recited a few Latin and Greek verses in reverent tones. Upon finishing his ritual, the sky above them tore open into the shape of the philosopher’s stone, and the three ascended into it. This, as it turned out, was the true Third Door of Separation, leading to the Third Ring of Erudition.

From complete darkness, they entered a realm of blinding, pure white light—a room that seemed to be heaven itself. Dazed at first, their eyes slowly adjusted, and they were struck by the splendor that unfolded before them. They had arrived in the presence of the greatest minds in human history. Overcome, the two scholars knelt before them.

The gathered scholars, all residing within the Third Ring of Erudition, formed a council of judgment. They were arranged in concentric circles, where the outermost ring represented the least enlightened and the innermost the most enlightened. In the innermost circle stood figures Jonathan and Joseph knew well: Shakespeare, Goethe, Socrates, Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Julius Caesar, Napoleon, Montaigne, Swedenborg, Plato, and more—a veritable pantheon of polymaths and geniuses.

The system of judgment was structured so that disputes not resolved by democracy were settled by Apollo and the Muses, who resided directly above the council. Jonathan and Joseph caught a glimpse of the top of Parnassus and were frozen in awe. The pure, radiant energy emanating from the opening into heaven filled the entire Third Ring with enlightenment.

Dumbfounded, the scholars remained in reverent silence, awaiting the Ghost of Scholars Past to introduce them—anything to free them from the weight of the overwhelming silence, which they were too timid to break themselves.

The Ghost of Scholars Past: Praise ye, great founders of wisdom, fountains that bring forth erudition and culture. You are the ones mankind turns to for inspiration. Great are thee, who, with every advantage available, made expedient use of your mind—the most powerful tool for the progression of humanity. You, who, with natural genius and divine grace, discovered the true essence of life. That awe-inspiring self-awareness has led to the flourishing and advancement of intellectual pursuits.

How lowly were the times when, in our ancient past, man was more brute than civil. When man hunted and faced death daily, and survival was the only higher pursuit. Enemies to the human race were everywhere, and there was no cultivation of the mind beyond necessity. But those days are long behind us, thanks to the works of Homer, Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, and Goethe. I hope my estimation is correct in believing we shall never return to those days devoid of culture.

The greatness of mankind lies within each of you, and it remains unkindled in everyone’s heart. But as long as there are scholars who keep the vestal fire roaring, the spirit of learning will not perish, and erudition will not taste death. May we all find the truth of life that is so desired: the bliss in the everlasting, the greatest of all sensations—pursuing life with life in mind. This is, to enjoy the process by which we are fulfilled, and to strive for ever-greater perfection. That of ennobling ourselves while inspiring others to do the same.

Praise ye, glorious scholars from all times, ages, sexes, and races. To great Apollo, who lies above us, by the Muses shall our work continue to be fulfilled. Forever and ever, amen.

Narrator: With the Ghost of Scholars Past’s ode to those in the Third Ring of Erudition complete, he turned and introduced the two scholars to the council.

The Ghost of Scholars Past: Wise ones, I present to you two scholars, men who, with exceptional care and diligence, have managed to make themselves wiser than even I.

The older of the two is Jonathan Diaz, a protégé of many, but primarily of Da Vinci and Erasmus. He has always been wise beyond his years but recently discovered an untapped well of wisdom within himself, which has thrust him into the higher spheres of contemplation. There may be no man who has made such rapid progress in so short a time. He wears the garb of Erasmus so well that people have begun calling him a second Erasmus, much like Grotius was in his time.

The other is Joseph Diaz, Jonathan’s godbrother. A youth of exceptional potential, he possesses a great zeal for learning and an indefatigable work ethic. He pursued learning after abandoning his profitless ways and has since devoted himself ceaselessly to humane studies. Mathematics has proven most useful in honing his analytical thinking, philosophy for his critical thinking, and history for his appreciation of the long tradition of which he is a part. All other subjects serve as ornaments to his intellectual pedigree. He rightly understands that no subject is without use, and that the application of the mind will always amplify what is already gained. For there is no greater tool than the mind.

Joseph has drawn inspiration from all of you. He took to heart Emerson’s Self-Reliance and Nietzsche’s Will to Power, and from these, developed his own life philosophy. He shares Montaigne’s belief that to live life is to engage in the study of philosophy, for every experience helps us to understand ourselves. He has learned to use his own genius, extracting from others' lives the lessons that resonate most deeply with him. He understands at heart what true erudition is—and this, too, Jonathan has come to understand.

Both have reached the same conclusion on their journey: that in their search for truth, they have found its true meaning. They have learned more about themselves and each other, and it is through this discovery that they are now worthy of standing before you.

Narrator: At this point, the council spoke in unison, their voices resonating with authority and wisdom:

The Council: Leave us, Ghost of Scholars Past. We have questions to ask of the two scholars.

The Ghost of Scholars Past: As you wish, council.

Narrator: The Ghost of Scholars Past departed, retreating to his post to watch over those who dared venture into the third ring. Silence fell upon the council, deep and contemplative, as they pondered their next move. It seemed to stretch on endlessly until, at last, the council broke the stillness with their first question.

The Council: We ask three questions to test a person's true wisdom; for true wisdom is not found in the accumulation of facts and opinions, but in the depth of self-understanding and individuality. Our first question is this: what is the point of study?

Narrator: Jonathan and Joseph, as they had done with the Ghost of Scholars Past, contemplated deeply, weighing their thoughts with care. When the time felt right, they answered in unison:

Jonathan and Joseph: Study, the most useful of all pastimes, is to strengthen the mind, rectify the soul, and ennoble the spirit. It is to be undertaken when one no longer knows the answer to life's questions, and to be continued when one sees its utility. One must use the tools they have to advance, and the stronger that tool is, the more progress they can make.

Study is often overcomplicated, when in truth, the best study—like the best reading—is that which speaks to the individual and is put to use by them. Let it be simple in approach, for that is most effective. Study what aligns with your goals, and never let slowness in apprehension deter you. No one can grasp all things at once, for the rate of understanding is shaped by prior knowledge and complexity. As no one would claim calculus can be understood without first mastering arithmetic, neither would anyone claim a children’s book to be more complex than War and Peace. The pace and scope of study should be manageable, allowing progress without dread. Such is the point of study.

Narrator: The council nodded, approving of the wisdom in the response. In that moment, Apollo and the Muses, watching from above, leaned in with renewed interest. Even Truth herself, roused from her contemplation, lent her ear.

The Council: Our second question is this: what is the path to happiness?

Narrator: Once more, the scholars took time to ponder before answering with one voice:

Jonathan and Joseph: Happiness, if it is to be lauded at all, is the aim behind every action we take, every dream we pursue, every relationship we build, every goal we achieve, and every aspiration we seek to fulfill. It is what gives life its meaning. Without it, life becomes a mere cycle of misery, devoid of purpose or hope. A world without happiness would stagnate and, in time, regress into barbarism.

The path to happiness is simple: do what brings you joy. The challenge lies in the fact that happiness varies from person to person. What brings one person happiness may cause another suffering, which is why a broad definition is necessary. As scholars and thinkers, we find the greatest happiness in the pursuit of learning and the advancement of intellectual culture.

Let happiness be pursued in a way that uplifts others as well, allowing them to be made joyful by your quest for it. Be the example of what you wish to see in the world. Ultimately, happiness is a value judgment—trust your heart to know what is valuable, and from there, one may confidently say, 'all is true.'

Narrator: The council’s pleasure was evident, and Apollo, along with the Muses, fixed their attention even more intently on the two scholars. Truth herself leaned in closer, her interest piqued further. The scholars, though unaware of the divine scrutiny upon them, felt a rising anticipation as the final question awaited.

The Council: Our third and final question, dear scholars, is this: What is the meaning of life?

Jonathan and Joseph: Perhaps the greatest philosophical question one may ask. There was a period in history when the meaning of life was to serve whatever god you believed in; there were also periods, like our current one, in which there seemingly is no meaning. But to ask the question implies that there is some definite answer. However, like happiness, the meaning of life is a value judgment. As the existentialists would say, our meaning is derived from our experience; man must forge his own path if he is to understand what true living is, for true living can only be had when deliberate decisions are made. Without such things, one lives a life that is controlled by the whims of whatever is dictated to us. This is no life to live; one must have freedom in their decisions in order to know what the consequences of life may be. To err is but an aspect of life, from which we allow all the pangs of mortal coil to teach us to live better. Life is not had without mistake, nor is it lived in perfection; life is to be carried out in a constant state of confident uncertainty. We know not what may become of ourselves in 10 years, let alone a century from now, where the only thing to expect is death and a hope that posterity keeps us in their good wishes. All one can say regarding life is that it is short, filled with so many distractions and evils that cause us great despair; and yet the noblest of all things is to endure it with calm serenity. One need not concern themselves with what is to become of them; one should only be concerned with the present moment and the experiences you feel at the time. If one searches for meaning outside of what you value, then you chase a phantom: for no meaning can be had outside of what you value, and no value can be had without a sense of experience. For it is as Tennyson put it:

As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life_
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more...⁸⁹

This "something more," we surmise, is that of the ever-long mourning we feel at our past indigencies; but let life carry on, for life is precious, and we know not how long we have, nor do we know what lies beyond that eternal sleep. O death, like time, reaper of all things mortal, who, with a bountiful hand, takes from that pile of human creations and grinds them into dust; but dust, too, serves a further purpose, as in the account of time, which, if history’s chronologist be of any repute, shows that even old things may be revived: for how many centuries have gone by without a single person reading the words of Cicero, only for him to be revered next to the Bible. It is as Thomas Browne said: "The treasures of time lie high, in Urns, Coins, and Monuments, scarce below the roots of some vegetables. Time hath endless rarities, and shows of all varieties; which reveals old things in heaven, makes new discoveries in earth, and even earth itself a discovery. That great Antiquity America lay buried for a thousand years; and a large part of the earth is still in the Urn unto us."⁹⁰ Tell us, immortal spirits of erudition, where we have erred in our attempt to explain life. May it forever and only be found in that which we love, cherish, and value; for without those things, one does not live a truly authentic life.

Narrator: Upon completion of their spirited and vivifying talk on meaning, the entire third ring of erudition praised the two scholars and cheered loudly for them. The noise of joy was heard by the Muses and Apollo, who themselves deeply admired the wisdom shown. So highly were our scholars lauded that the Muses themselves descended into the third ring. Upon seeing them, every scholar bowed before them in great reverence. Upon touching the floor where our two scholars stood, they spoke with the highest elegance imaginable, all in unison.

Chapter 6: A Meeting with the Muses & Truth

Muses: You two seem unnaturally wise, especially considering your ages. If it is your desire to meet with Truth, allow us to take you.

Narrator: And so, the two scholars floated from the ground and ascended with the Muses past the third circle to reach the top of Parnassus. They had done what few others had and were greeted by Apollo. So magnificent was his appearance that our two scholars knelt before him.

Apollo: Arise, scholars, there is no need for reverence among equals.

Joseph: But you're the master of all humane arts; we are nothing without you, Il Divino.

Apollo: So too is The Ghost of Scholars Past, but you nearly showed him disrespect. What the ghost lacks is wisdom, something in no short supply in the third ring; but what you two managed to do is recreate wisdom in its own sense, to make it appear unique, and this deserves the greatest of praise. As you already know: Goethe, Shakespeare, Emerson, and Nietzsche are the only ones to have made it here, and the reason they made it here was from their own genius, calling upon the rest of mankind to follow in their narratives with such focus as to feel every syllable uttered by them. As you two have clearly shown, your understanding of this fundamental principle has allowed you to take full advantage of life, and live in such a way as to cultivate this genius yourselves. You two have come so far, yet are at the ages where most people begin their own journey.

Narrator: It was at this point that Truth herself descended from the clouds that rest eternally above Parnassus. At her approach, the Muses, along with our scholars, knelt before her, and Apollo bowed his head. She did not say a word and simply took our scholars with her to where she resides.

Truth: Are you the two scholars who began this journey in the hopes of meeting me?

Jonathan: Such was our plan, although we never thought we would ever have correspondence.

Truth: It is the sign of a humble scholar to reserve certainty with a kind of airy skepticism. The foibles of mankind are numerous, yet you have surpassed them all in my regard; for you discovered this principle early on and did so in such a way that maintains its own character. But enough of this side talk. I know all things, but I want to hear it from you once more: Why did you search for me?

Joseph: To find truth, to get a deeper understanding of ourselves, to advance personal learning; all these things so that we may no longer reside in darkness, and that our path to future action may no longer remain uncertain. You know, Truth, how often I have searched for you with an honest heart and clean hands, all forlorn. You know my present circumstances—how much of a failure I feel, and the insecurities I have felt regarding my own personal abilities and attainments. The life of a scholar is necessarily a poor and lonely one, and such things are no longer praised. How I lament my life at times, and wish to rebuke all those who jeer with glee in my direction. How little do they know that I have carved my own path in life and followed what my own heart desired, rather than following the dictates of society or others.

Jonathan: To console myself from the impish multitude, for how often do they slight us lovers of Truth; but such is alright, for the words they pass from their mouths are as wise as the winds they pass from their asses. Fools. Never could they wrap their minds around loving other things besides money or material possessions. But I get along as best I can, surrounded by those who have never even considered what true culture is. What sadness is felt by such a loss, how empty they must be. I can't even think about such a life without the greatest sense of despair.

Truth: You have sought me out because you have sought truth; but what is true is what you have already explained. To seek me is one thing, but to have the courage to approach me in the same manner is why you have been the first to ever lay eyes on me. It seems you do not realize that in searching for me, you have already discovered me: for you have explained what is in your hearts, and have searched deep within your own humanity. There is no part of your soul unturned, and with that acknowledgment, no one can ever say that you are ignorant of yourselves. With this truth acquired, you may face whatever the world throws at you, for you already know the most important thing—who you are. You may say you know not what to do in life, and in truth, you're not supposed to. What one must do before considering what to do is to consider oneself first: what you enjoy, what you hate, what you can and can't tolerate. These are the things all must ask beforehand. Truth is the lamp by which the mind discerns the path to wisdom; let it not be obscured by the shadow of prejudice or the glare of vanity. With this said, come, great scholars, embrace me.

Narrator: And as the two scholars embraced Truth herself, they were enveloped in the greatest illumination possible, and nothing but bliss filled them. Suddenly, however, Joseph awoke, realizing that the entire episode had been a dream. But this did not sadden or deter him, for he awoke with a new resolve to embark on his life’s new journey, now possessing an understanding of what it truly means to live.

End.

1. Boethius, On the Consolation of Philosophy.

2. The Golden Sayings by Epictetus, Section 1 Saying XLVI.

3. Letter to Menoeceus.

4. The Sixteen Satires. Edited by G. G. Ramsay, Satire VIII, pg. 55-56.

5. An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations. Part 1, Chapter 7.

6. Durant, Will, and Ariel Durant. The Lessons of History. Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, 2010. Ch 9, pg. 58-59.

7. Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.

8. Ibid.

9. The Book of My Life. New York Review Books, 2002. Ch 23, pg. 81.

10. Nicomachean Ethics, bk 1, part 5, Translated by W. D. Ross.

11. “Julius Caesar Scaliger: Epidorpides.” Epidorpidum. Book 3.

12. Ibid.

13. Philodoxus (1424).

14. Aphorisms by Hippocrates. Translated by Francis Adams, Section I Aphorism #1.

15. Saying by the Brazen head of Roger Bacon.

16. Ecclesiastes 1:2 KJV.

17. Conversations of Goethe with Eckermann and Soret (ed. 1850).

18. Shakespeare's Sonnets (1883)/Sonnet 1.

19. Shakespeare's Sonnets (1883)/Sonnet 16.

20. Shakespeare's Sonnets (1883)/Sonnet 19.

21. Mr. Johnson's Preface to His Edition of Shakespear's Plays (ed. 1765).

22. Ibid.

23. Preface to Shakespeare.

24. Poetics, Ch. 24, Translated by S. H. Butcher.

25. The Spectator, Number 273.

26. Poetics, Ch. 5, Translated by S. H. Butcher.

27. Ibid.

28. Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5.

29. Poetics, Ch. 6, Translated by S. H. Butcher.

30. “All the Poems of Joseph Scaliger, Son of Julius Caesar Scaliger.” 8. An elegy for the most noble, innocent, and learned Jan Dousa of Noordwyck.

31. Horace, Odes, I. xxxi. 19, 20.

32. Of Education.

33. Essay on Milton.

34. Moral letters to Lucilius/Letter 49.

35. Of the Education of Children Essay.

36. The Dialogues of Plato (ed. 1871).

37. The Internet Classics Archive | the Republic by Plato. Translated by Benjamin Jowett, Socrates, Book 10.

38. Gundersheimer, Werner L. The Italian Renaissance. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. 1965. Page 13.

39. Rhetoric, Bk 3, Ch. 1, Translated by W. Rhys Roberts.

40. Poetics, Ch. 4, Translated by S. H. Butcher.

41. Poetics, Ch. 2, Translated by S. H. Butcher.

42. Poetics, Ch. 5, Translated by S. H. Butcher.

43. Acharnians, line 500-501 - Acharnians (425 BC) [tr. Athen. 1912, Perseus].

44. The Republic by Plato. Translated by Benjamin Jowett, Socrates, Book 10.

45. Essays: First Series/Prudence.

46. New Science. Penguin Classics, 2000, pg. 136.

47. New Science. Penguin Classics, 2000, pg. 188-189.

48. New Science. Penguin Classics, 2000, pg. 351.

49. Durant, Will. The Greatest Minds and Ideas of All Time. Simon & Schuster International, 2002. Ch 5, pg. 75.

50. The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 1/Number 3/Books.

51. Ibid.

52. Essays: First Series/Intellect.

53. Ibid.

54. Poor Richard’s Almanack, 1746.

55. Hydriotaphia, Chapter V.

56. All the Poems of Joseph Scaliger, Son of Julius Caesar Scaliger. 6. Joseph Scaliger to the Putean brothers, sons of Claudius, concerning the death of their father.

57. Theologico-Political Treatise 1862/Chapter 1.

58. Gospel of Thomas, Saying 5: Hidden and Revealed.

59. Gospel of Thomas, Saying 2: Seek and Find.

60. Essays: First Series/History.

61. Moral letters to Lucilius/Letter 42.

62. The Book of My Life. New York Review Books, 2002. Ch 31, pg. 120.

63. Psychological Observations (Religion: A Dialogue, Etc.).

64. A Vindication of Natural Society (ed. 1756).

65. Durant, Will, and Ariel Durant. The Lessons of History. Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, 2010. Ch 11, pg. 81.

66. The Art of War (ed. Wordsworth Editions, 1997).

67. A summary of Athenian statements to the Melians, Book V, 5.89- - History of the Peloponnesian War.

68. De Re Publica [Of The Republic], Book III Section 22.

69. Coluccio Salutati, On the Tyrant, Ch 3, 1400. Quote taken from Cicero.

70. Mitford’s Greece, Nov. 1824.

71. Hallam’s Constit. History, Sept. 1828.

72. A Conflict of Visions: Ideological Origins of Political Struggles.

73. Beyond Good and Evil/Chapter I.

74. The Lives and Opinions of Eminent Philosophers. Bk 6, The Cynics, Antisthenes.

75. Of Education.

76. The Advancement of Learning.

77. The Essays of Francis Bacon: The Fifty-Nine Essays, Complete. Adansonia Press, 2018. Of Studies, pg. 88.

78. Matthew 16:15.

79. A Treatise of Human Nature, Section 3, 1739.

80. Letter to Elisabeth Nietzsche, Bonn, 1865-06-11.

81. Mere Christianity (ed. 1960).

82. Why Am I an Agnostic?

83. Beyond Good and Evil/Chapter II.

84. Essays: First Series/History.

85. The Essays of Montaigne. 1877. Edited by William Carew Hazlitt, Translated by Charles Cotton. Book III Chapter XIII. Of Experience.

86. Why Am I an Agnostic?

87. Questions sur les miracles (1765).

88. Essays: First Series/Self-Reliance.

89. Ulysses.

90. Hydriotaphia: Chapter I.