A Splendid Peroratio

This month has been one of learning: I’ve gone through both Durant’s “Our Orientatal Heritage” and “The Life of Greece” and I’ve learned more than I can possibly remember, and I’ve forgotten more than I know I could ever learn. Nevertheless, it’s creating a map in my mind of one way of looking at the world (surely not the only way), and regardless, Durant oozes with style making the listen incredibly pleasant.

As I move from “The Life of Greece” to “Caesar and Christ” I feel the necessity to quote the last few paragraphs of “The Life of Greece” if for nothing else their verbal pantomimic generosity.

As a writer Durant is a master at the peroratio, fully bringing his thoughts into form in a beautiful and holistic framework while showcasing his love of words and his passion for history.  This short excerpt is an example of great writing, that I hope at some point to emulate in my own skill.

GREEK civilization was not dead; it had yet several centuries of life before it; and when it died it bequeathed itself in an incomparable legacy to the nations of Europe and the Near East. Every Greek colony poured the elixir of Greek art and thought into the cultural blood of the hinterland- into Spain and Gaul, Etruria and Rome, Egypt and Palestine, Syria and Asia Minor, and along the shores of the Black Sea. Alexandria was the port of reshipment forideas as well as goods: from the Museum and the Library the worksand views of Greek poets, mystics, philosophers, and scientists were scattered through scholars and students into every city of the Mediterranean concourse. Rome took the Greek heritage in its Hellenistic form: her playwrights adopted Menander and Philemon, her poets imitated the modes, measures, and themes of Alexandrian literature, her arts used Greek craftsmen and Greek forms, her law absorbed the statutes of the Greek cities, and her later imperial organization was modeled upon the Greco-Oriental monarchies: Hellenism, after the Roman conquest of Greece, conquered Rome even as the Orient was conquering Greece. Every extension of Roman power spread the ferment of Hellenic civilization. The Byzantine Empire wedded Greek to Asiatic culture, and passed on some part of the Greek inheritance to the Near East and the Slavic north. The Syrian Christians took up the torch and handed it to the Arabs, who carried it through Africa to Spain. Byzantine, Moslem, and Jewish scholars conveyed or translated the Greek masterpieces to Italy, arousing first the philosophy of the Schoolmen and then the fever of the Renaissance. Since that second birth of the European mind the spirit of Greece has seeped so thoroughly into modern culture that “all civilized nations, in all that concerns the activity of the intellect, are colonies of Hellas” today.

If we include in our Hellenic heritage not only what the Greeks invented but what they adapted from older cultures and transmitted by these diverse routes to our own, we shall find that patrimony in almost every phase of modern life. Our handicrafts, the technique of mining, the essentials of engineering, the processes of finance and trade, the organization of labor, the governmental regulation of commerce and industry- all these have come down to us on the stream of history from Rome, and through Rome from Greece. Our democracies and our dictatorships alike go back to Greek exemplars; and though the widened reach of states has evolved a representative system unknown to Hellas, the democratic idea of a government responsible to the governed, of trial by jury, and of civil liberties of thought, speech, writing, assemblage, and worship, have been profoundly stimulated by Greek history. These things above all distinguished the Greek from the Oriental, and gave him an independence of spirit and enterprise that made him smile at the obeisances and inertia of the East.

Our schools and universities, our gymnasiums and stadiums, our athletics and Olympic games, trace their lineage to Greece. The theory of eugenic mating, the conception of self-containment and of self-control, the cult of health and natural living, the pagan ideal of a shameless enjoyment of every sense, found their historic formulations in Greece. Christian theology and practice (the very words are Greek) stem in large part from the mystery religions of Greece and Egypt, from Eleusinian, Orphic, and Osirian rites; from Greek doctrines of the divine son dying for mankind and rising from the dead; from Greek rituals of religious procession, ceremonial purification, holy sacrifice, and the sacred common meal; from Greek ideas of hell, demons, purgatory, indulgences, and heaven; and from Stoic and Neo-Platonic theories of the Logos, creation, and thefinal conflagration of the world. Even our superstition is indebted to Greek bogies, witches, curses, omens, and unlucky days. And who could understand English literature, or one ode of Keats, without some tincture of Greek mythology?

Our literature could hardly have existed without the Greek tradition. Our alphabet came from Greece through Cumae and Rome; our language is littered with Greek words; our science has forged an international language through Greek terms; our grammar and rhetoric, even the punctuation and paragraphing of this page, are Greek inventions. Our literary genres are Greek- the lyric, the ode, the idyl, the novel, the essay, the oration, the biography, the history, and above all the drama; again nearly all the words are Greek. The terms and forms of the modern drama- tragedy, comedy, and pantomime- are Greek; and though Elizabethan tragedy is unique, the comic drama has come down almost unchanged from Menander and Philemon through Plautus and Terence, Ben Jonson and Moliere. The Greek dramas themselves are among the richest portions of our inheritance.

Nothing else in Greece seems so foreign to us as its music; and yet modern music (until its return to Africa and the Orient) wasderived from medieval chants and dances, and these went back in part to Greece. The oratorio and the opera owe something to the Greek choral dance and drama; and the theory of music, so far as we know,was first explored and expounded by the Greeks from Pythagoras to Aristoxenus. Our debt is least in painting; but in the art of fresco a direct line can be traced from Polygnotus through Alexandria and Pompeii, Giotto and Michelangelo, to the arresting murals of our own day. The forms and much of the technique of modern sculpture are still Greek, for upon no other art has the Hellenic genius stamped itself so despotically. We are only now freeing ourselves from the fascination of Greek architecture; every city in Europe and America has some temple of commerce or finance whose form or columnar facade came from the shrines of Greek gods. We miss in Greek art the study of character and the portrayal of the soul, and its infatuation with physical beauty and health leaves it less mature than the masculine statuary of Egypt or the profound painting of the Chinese; but the lessons of moderation, purity, and harmony embodied in the sculpture and architecture of the classic age are a precious heirloom for our race.

If Greek civilization seems more akin and “modern” to us now than that of any century before Voltaire, it is because the Hellene loved reason as much as form, and boldly sought to explain all nature in nature’s terms. The liberation of science from theology, and the independent development of scientific research, were parts of theheady adventure of the Greek mind. Greek mathematicians laid the foundations of trigonometry and calculus, they began and completed the study of conic sections, and they brought three-dimensional geometry to such relative perfection that it remained as they left it until Descartes and Pascal. Democritus illuminated the whole area of physics and chemistry with his atomic theory. In a mere aside and holiday from abstract studies Archimedes produced enough new mechanisms to place his name with the highest in the records of invention. Aristarchus anticipated and perhaps inspired Copernicus; and Hipparchus,through Claudius Ptolemy, constructed a system of astronomy which is one of the landmarks in cultural history. Eratosthenes measured the earth and mapped it. Anaxagoras and Empedocles drew the outlines of a theory of evolution. Aristotle and Theophrastus classified the animal and plant kingdoms, and almost created the sciences of meteorology, zoology, embryology, and botany. Hippocrates freed medicine from mysticism and philosophical theory, and ennobled it with an ethical code; Herophilus and Erasistratus raised anatomy and physiology to a point which, except in Galen, Europe would not reach again till the Renaissance. In the work of these men we breathe the quiet air of reason, always uncertain and unsafe, but cleansed of passion and myth. Perhaps, if we had its masterpieces entire, we should rate Greek science as the most signal intellectual achievement of mankind.

But the lover of philosophy will only reluctantly yield to science and art the supreme places in our Grecian heritage. Greek science itself was a child of Greek philosophy- of that reckless challenge to legend, that youthful love of inquiry, which for centuries united science and philosophy in one adventurous quest. Never had men examined nature so critically and yet so affectionately: the Greeks did no dishonor to the world in thinking that it was a cosmos of order and therefore amenable to understanding. They invented logic for the same reason that they made perfect statuary: harmony, unity, proportion, form, in their view, provided both the art of logic and the logic of art. Curious of every fact and every theory, they not only established philosophy as a distinct enterprise of the European mind, but they conceived nearly every system and every hypothesis, and left little to be said on any major problem of our life. Realism and nominalism, idealism and materialism, monotheism, pantheism, and atheism, feminism and communism, the Kantian critique and the Schopenhaurian despair, the primitivism of Rousseau and the immoralism of Nietzsche, the synthesis of Spencer and the psychoanalysis of Freud- all the dreams and wisdom of philosophy are here, in the age and land of its birth. And in Greece men not only talked of philosophy, they lived it: the sage, rather than the warrior or the saint, was the pinnacle and ideal of Greek life. Through all thecenturies from Thales that exhilarating philosophical bequest has comedown to us, inspiring Roman emperors, Christian Fathers, Scholastic theologians, Renaissance heretics, Cambridge Platonists, the rebels of the Enlightenment, and the devotees of philosophy today. At this moment thousands of eager spirits are reading Plato, perhaps in every country on the earth.

Civilization does not die, it migrates; it changes its habitat and its dress, but it lives on. The decay of one civilization, as of one individual, makes room for the growth of another; life sheds the old skin, and surprises death with fresh youth. Greek civilization is alive; it moves in every breath of mind that we breathe; so much of it remains that none of us in one lifetime could absorb it all. We know its defects- its insane and pitiless wars, its stagnant slavery, its subjection of woman, its lack of moral restraint, its corrupt individualism, its tragic failure to unite liberty with order and peace. But those who cherish freedom, reason, and beauty will not linger over these blemishes. They will hear behind the turmoil of political history the voices of Solon and Socrates, of Plato and Euripides, of Pheidias and Praxiteles, of Epicurus and Archimedes; they will be grateful for the existence of such men, and will seek their company across alien centuries. They will think of Greece as the bright morning of that Western civilization which, with all its kindred faults, is our nourishment and our life.


Towards a new categorization

In reviewing the New York Times “Notable Books of 2011” I started compiling what I hope to be a different kind of categorization of fiction and nonfiction. As a writing teacher, I find it imperative to teach how good writing can flow from the classroom into society, and so in this categorization I am looking


unClouds (4haikus)

Trying on a gown, she decides against the blue, falls asleep once more. Dreaming of songbirds and two little white girls, balancing two cups. One: riverwater, Two: memories of sunlight; symphonies of hope. Western winds blow west, but before they can conjoin, Eastern winds blow east.


On the wall

Voices from the distance, an insect chorus mends the air and I sit here in silence, loving the world as it slips past. The sound of my own voice startles me, and among my collapsing thoughts, the wind is little comfort, singing in my ears, bringing the twinkle of birds in his breath. Ants crawl


Rules and universal things

I tell myself I have no say, my mother tells me not to say, and so silent I am, supposed in time, frozen, living my life one day at a time, Waiting for that beautiful moment when you are there, your figure in the mist, me in the mist, us surrounded by dew, but I


An Acmeist Wordmonger, unspoken

(I speak not elegies, nor mind the right and wrong) Oh deist, mine own, eternally in the sky. They say your son is a devil, shining in the moonlight, his grimace a shimmer and his laughter gone. (The elegy crows through me, riveted to the now) The edge of the mirror, pock-marked, studded with rust,


The Avenues

Poetry has fled for a moment, replaced by the grinding of gears and a shiny new cover. It has returned, though, much to my surprise. It is perhaps more common, more heady, touched with the necessitudes of a life not yet lived. To dream is divine, yet to live is somewhat benign, unless one walks


tomorrows

men with gloves cook lamb by moonlight you are with me, beside me, around charcoal smoke fills the tent dusty and burnt sticks are crushed into the ground the dull sound of the street from outside the cold envelopes us you are with me, beside me, around tv light from apartments flicker inside windows a


Lyrics to a birthday

the old men in the park remind me of children they play their games and laugh and drink the old days fade into dusty yellow books they smile at me, their teeth askew the old memories, they never go away I am a year older the morning brings cats, hiding in the bushes they meow


In Retrospect of a week, of winter change

Beside the cold creek, the wind blows, pulling my face northward, towards clouds.


At a Starbucks, Overlooking a busy street

In midst of a crowd, he wheels past, fast, blazing like a blur.


Five Statements of Being at a Local Park

I. Steam; boiling mist spills over rusty, black bikes; bushes, withered, dry. II. Moving arms; palms wave; red brick apartments surround; twilight exercise. III. Spaceship trains, guns raised, children at the helm, silent, winter on their face. IV. Monkey temples rot, thrashed by time’s terrible war, while old men play chess. V. Windows reflect sun,


诗 (Poem)

今天是秋天, 很 冷; 千落叶; 我睡在花的床里。 Jīn tiān shì qiū tiān, hěn lěng; qiān luò yè; wǒ shuì zài huā de chuǎng li. Today is autumn, very cold; many leaves are falling; I go to sleep on a bed of flowers.


Waking up to my roommate in the kitchen

Blue sky, a roof edge, alien tongues glibbing good mornings, chilled, through glass.


Harbor-song

Those golden lights grace our harbors of memory, imbued in blue. Night lampposts diffuse ephemeral threads, hushed in chiaroscuro. Waiting by the road, listlessly taken by the nevermore of stars. * My peace comes in breaths, stolen from the cold, ripe air; dreams dream of dreamers. My own, slashed, gutted, fed to monsters of the


Birds

Wind blows on framed trees, outside, birds flock on rooftops, black shades upon white.


Hands

It’s a different way of thinking. Picture this: A man, his face torn and bloody, sits on the bottom of a dark and dusty shaft. He believes himself forgotten, displaced, so when he cries out (which he does) his voice is silent. He is like this for many years. And then a hand is placed


The Passing

They sit on their temples, songs passing over heads, swimming with the clouds, vanishing among the stars, faded moon, and the sun-filled heavens. They watch the multitudes, in their bright and wild colors, pass. They remark to one another: How strange they are! How remarkable. When midnight comes, and the darkness envelopes even the light


Meditation on Face

The river, quiet. Clouds sparkle, shadowed by thick mountains. A lone tree, shivering. The breeze is slight, traveling on a breath. The man sits on the grass. He has green eyes, like the forest’s bloom. He lies on his back, asleep. Peace fills his face. Birds speak in the leaves. The grass, the dew, the


Fall

What is in a name? By what glory do you stand before me, and shout your radiance? What right have you? I am among the dead men; they breathe and die, are reborn a second time, and quest for the eternity of the horizon. They smile plastic smiles, pure smiles, lustful smiles, mad smiles, all


Girl of Sacrifice

Above the azure haze, where the crown meets a maze of light, little children sleep on beds of oak, leaves browned by the summer sun fly between shafts of light, raining upon shattered dreams and sworn hopes, and the little girl lying on the grass with her heart in her teeth and a blaze across


Ages

Did you forget, my son? Did you forget when I held the sky for you, and stopped the storms? Did you forget when I blew the wind to make you cool, and grabbed a bit of the sun to warm you on a cold night? Did you forget? Do not forget, my son, of the


slave

Barren woods, the realms of lofty dreams all measured next to nothing when compared to the light of the future; the light that drifts from home to home, carried by a star, carried by a torch, carried by the glimmer of a man’s eye; he keeps this light in his pocket, in his purse, in


night maestro

we laugh and play by the rocks at the sea, we dance to the sound of the earth, it washes against us, and we feel the tug of time. somewhere on the beach, there is a song, it is soft like sand, but echoes among the cliffs, a fire roars into the night sky. from


Children sent by heaven

stars are among us. we are the dancing comets, the heralds of the future, constellations make our name, we are the children of the past, and the descendents of our grandchildren, we cry out to lost stones, raise our fists to the irony of the wailing road, and ponder the mystery of time’s last repose.


a wedding of particular peculiarities

waveforms on a wave, flying through the air, curling beneath the sand, our legs drenched, filled to the brim with starstones, dying of crystals, we are the memory of time, slip-drunken and fled, silenced by the moment in which we fail to understand the intricacies of the inlaid moon, with her silver lines and mysterious


the mystery of the shadows in fields

Piddlesticks, fiddlesticks, cats on a popsicle, Swing low, swing high, swing sickleful, Words are a merry band of high browed zen, drunk on their own men, filled to the brink now and then, but on their own they are waveless as sorrowful crows, spilling onto a field in bombastic blows, fleeing into the silence of


time has flown

left alone, left alone, beside the tunnels of the soul, we sing among the golden alleys and lift the thorns from heavenly melodies, but too late, too late, the time has come for mocking’s sweet sigh, cradling in high, the unborn waves upon the sand, the wind and tails of a forgotten land.


free again


traveling to solitude

I. Locked in, transparently held by my own hand; wearisome, the toil of eyes placed over and around my throat. II. Vapid smiles, rancid rolling laughter: in the fog, corporate steeples pledge their souls to alien words. III. Lifted slightly, sunbeams crashing into the shore; sand grown on the back of kings; scepters lying in


glorious, vain glorious

when you go to sleep, sleeply dream, dream of berries bright, heavy with delight, dream of blessings, son, don’t ever play the sun, for earthly things are mortal, mortals be, away from darkly lit, the skies are hallowed see, mill the words of old, and seek the holy fawn, who sleeps in sleepless dreams, among


Dew

Generations come and go, but we remain. We remain silent, the ones behind, the ones with the philosophy of wayward souls: but words like this mean nothing, they care not for weary tirades or serendipity and souless skies. It is like a dark blade of grass under a new morning, the sun shedding her light


Clappity-Clappity

Alive and well, it seems. I stamp in the ether, my feet making fog-holes, the clappity-clappity muck sound frogging the effervesence. Wherefore art the single-minded? Where has the poem gone? Into the netherworld, the solemn and dark land of delights, chocolate, and cream fingers.


The Music Men

Where are the juke-boxes? Where are the simpletons in the plastic hats, waving their arms and singing folk tunes while carrying backpacks of rocks and burning the land in their wake? I saw a lad not long ago, he sat by the fire in Tomble-Toe. He drank a glass in one hand-right, and strung his


Hall of Memory

In a world of memorable skylights, of jumping rat-a-tats and chorusing larks, the invisible sits beside the stone, fingers mimicrying shadowmen, the honey oozing from the eyes, flooding the hall with light. We stand beside the invisible, contemplating the source of song. We stand behind desks, holding lightbulb pens, penciling out cursive recitals to our


Birds of Prey

We are the flight-birds, wheeling our cries over a stark and barren world. We have wings of steel and eyes of pale moonlight, and we hunt in the noon-time for chariots and herons, not having slept during the night for fear that our dreams would come and haunt us during the day. After we hunt,


Poetry Written near those Mansions

Morning calls on the zenith of our lives; stars wheel above; the Master watches us in repose, and we are slights to his gaze. Memory serves its purpose… hissing through the clouds, heady on the invisible wine, man speaks volumes of rubies, spilling into a bowl outside of time. Glowing, the fires of manna, they


The sixth: wondering acephalous in free

Upon a night of midnight clear, the Runner fled among the golden tombs, he was a man of ancient and high renown, who by the fate of heaven was scattered below, and left in madness to hear a voice of fire: “Oh Man, who caused the sun to fall, who sleeps beneath the moon and


The fifth: accentual verse

What are you talking about? The sun has risen, The moon has fallen, Daylight has come on a star. Longing for one little spark, You sing in circles, You build your steeples, Yet nothing you do brings me hope. God, in his visage, will watch, You fling sand castles, You have no master, You follow


The fourth: the poet upon a bed

Can’t think. What is a poet without inspiration? I haven’t read any good poetry lately. It’s all a farce, anyhow. I’ve been watching movies all day, and now Richard Gere is on the screen, in a blue bathrobe; the side of his face is profiled, his hair is grey, and although he is trying to


The third: nonesense (or, a pictoral of my room)

line one: a flute on the wall line two: wrapped in strips of black cloth line three: the boy fights long-toothed dragons line four: he holds his sword blazing line five: the world stares down at a wooden floor line six: the panels reflect the names of cities line seven: clothes are draped over a


The second: about a stone

Mesmerized by the inconsequence of a single act of unrequited brilliance the young boy steps forward and while settling his mind on a small stone placed in the palm of his hand, he remarks to himself how beautiful God has made this stone, how the edges are perfect, the color glorious like the end of


The first: green men

Woe upon those men of green, who sink beneath the land, they thrash and wail and scream and haunt, but nothing does ever come of their want. They are the men who live within, who live alone, unfeared, untouched, those men who we forget to see, yet live our lives and daily be. They dance


Words Just Because

Corporeal, we will feel, the bite of life’s last drop. That time comes like a fallen top, rushing to meet our doomed doom zoom. Fantastically, we fling rascally, amazingly, we sight flirtateously, but below the belt of azure’s wrath, within the glare of knife’s bent gaze, we sweep the porch of sightly might, clear the


[Lotus Seedpod Men]

In water-caltrop raiment clad, with belt of floating-heart, you dwell in faerie wonderlands. Such lush jade-green, your perfumed hue – tho’ wind may cease, its fragrance yet expands. Egrets’ reflections grace the pond no more, only the autumn wind’s soughing, a soughing so glum. Alone, but for the rush flower, you bear the nocturne wake


elegies on space

on the edge of the world between the glass light “terrible, terrible,” he says, while fishing with a pole, in plain sight of the beast who lives on the edge of the world * the men who sing, the man who sleeps between the covers of night and day, who recounts the days in flights


Snapfish

Pearls, I grasp, sitting on a pale-flesh beach. The sun is a lion, talons reaching into the clouds. I feel below the sand; there is a hint of sadness there. Memory, she says to me, is but a hope for dead dreamers. She is the sun; golden, fragrant, world weary. My love for you wanes


Paper on Jovian Strings

More’s the more, rain falling through the cracks, serendipity calling through the eyes of a transparent fallacy. He stands there, his unblinking stare arrayed against a circuit board of trees; the little people mimic each other, crying for help. They wring their hands, tears fall from their cheeks, bombs blow off inside their heads; smoke


growing into one

Levering the trepidations, washed upon the shore as litter from a bygone era; those horizons smile fortunes, gold glitters from the wreckage, a mouse chews foil, eyes as round as a bug, hair like whispered waves, shoreline lice, waking to dreams; the trees by the rocks are tall and twisted, wrapped around each other by


the aura of legitimacy

Fate’s pale artifice, glimmering with artistry; I am submerged in the subterranean roots of a deciduous ethereality. It stings; pain transcending, filling the mouth with light, revenging itself on the mind, who saw the transmigration of good into the obscene. Mentally, this place is impressed, to be cared for as the bird flutters her wings,