Darren Aranofsky's THE FOUNTAIN is a big stinking movie that is surprisingly brief. It is the type of philosophical postcard that filmmakers don't make very often - 2001 by way of Charlie Kaufman. It's about as accessible to a mass audience as Derrida in the original French, but its rewards are many. You get the sense that the actors (Hugh Jackman and Rachel Weisz headline, and both are fine) don't really know what's going on, and maybe on some level neither did Aranofsky.

If there's a companion piece to THE FOUNTAIN, it is unfortunately a drizzly little piece of mid-90s filmmaking starring Robin Williams and directed by Bill Forysth called BEING HUMAN. Both sought to ask questions about humanity, love, death, companionship, immortality, etc. on a grand, non-linear scale, but the former had an everyman tone that was painstakingly contrived. That and it was purposely free of a quality we modern movie-goers like to call "entertainment."

I found THE FOUNTAIN very entertaining - for its ambiguities in theme and story. If it is hampered by a low budget and perhaps a smaller scale, it makes up for its largess in ideas. It operates on a keen level of mystery until the very end, and has the courage to leave some of those questions unanswered. It suggests that there is a larger element of transcendence and grace that we would give all eternity to find, though most of us unfortunately have to be jarred by tragedy in order to face this.

I mean, how often is it we see a movie about the tree of life? Modern movies don't take this on a subjects. Modern movies tackle such life-affirming questions as what happens when a kooky Brit pretending to be an ugly foreigner goes to a dinner party and defecates in a bag? And we pat ourselves on the back because we can somehow or another invoke Twain and De Tocqueville in the same sentence as "Borat," when in fact we're giggling about the poop.

THE FOUNTAIN offers no such levity. Aranofsky takes his subject seriously. He hurts for his characters and he's interested in their stories. He longs for transcendence and he's hoping to tap into the a repressed desire we all have for such beauty. As Plato wrote in PHAEDRUS, "he is bursting with passion which he understands not." And I admire Aranofsky for refusing to think such beauty is maudlin or stupid - that the desire for immortality is rooted in nothing less than our desire to become one with the stars in the heavens.

It is a wonderful movie. I hope you'll see it. Bring your patience.

Thoughts on Rhetoric / Descartes / Certainty / Imagination / Post-Renaissance Humanists

RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE: VICO’S IDEALS IN AN AGE OF CERTAINTY

In Rhetoric in the European Tradition, Thomas Conley speaks of Giambattista Vico as a little known professor of Rhetoric from Naples who “exercised no visible influence in the eighteenth century” (199). Only in later centuries has his reputation enhanced. However, Vico has an important and timely, if overlooked, place in the history of rhetoric. Vico’s dedication and adherence to the discipline of rhetoric in a time when it was attacked, or in Conley’s words, “classicized.” Vico’s reaction against what he called “modern philosophical critique,” the preeminent Cartesian method, ironically gave rhetoric the very voice that it is supposed to train. Vico sees the Cartesian method as useful, but devoid of the imagination and invention that a rhetorical education prizes and nurtures. This applies also to his educational method, in which he found a useful place for Cartesian theory, but offered something altogether more humanistic and classical.

In On The Study Methods of Our Time, we find Vico looking back to the ancients (865). Critiquing Francis Bacon (although Vico recognizes him as a “pioneer”), he desires not to achieve an “absolutely complete system of systems” but to remedy cultural gaps. Moving away from the realm of supremacy and empiricism, Vico instead points to the ancients with their unified disciplines and progressive successes. While the ancients were “handicapped” by a lack of scientific knowledge or technological advancement, they “nurtured the reasoning powers of their young men” (869). In scientific method, the “study methods of our time” are clearly superior to those of the ancient, but Vico finds fault with the modern, Cartesian focus on “pure, primary, truth.”

In Discourse on Method, Descartes shows skepticism about philosophy, rhetoric, and the type of Humanistic education that those like Vico and the ancients propose. Such philosophy is full of “unstable foundations” and he concludes that it contains “nothing that is not doubtful” (5). As Bizzell and Herzberg note, “The method of Descartes owes nothing to argument and everything to solitary mental analysis” (793). At its center, the Cartesian method proposes that proof is strong enough to speak for itself, and therefore has no need to be embedded in flowery speech or metaphor. Perhaps implied in the method is a future student who will be able to recognize truth using Descartes’ guiding aims of certainty and empiricism in place of invention and dialectic. One need not argue every side when science indisputably shows which side is correct. Descartes hopes to “include nothing more in my judgments than what presented itself to my mind so clearly and so distinctly that I had no occasion to call it doubt.”

If Descartes seeks to remove the boundaries of doubt and ambiguity, Vico explores the avenue that these factors play in the edification of humanity. This focus is best exemplified in Vico’s metaphor that describes the “aim” of his humanistic method: “it should circulate, like a blood-stream, through the entire body of the learning process.” Simply, man is a living, breathing creature, not a calculator forever computatively seeking a correct answer. Rather, metaphysically and spiritually, he should be a creature of wonder, loving argument and poetry, and “useful to human society” (877). “What is eloquence,” Vico asks, “but wisdom, ornately and copiously delivered in words appropriate to the common politics of mankind?” Still, Vico keeps in mind that the end goal is truth, but differs with Descartes on the means with which to arrive there. However, Vico does not resent the sciences. He merely influence the strain that the Cartesian method influences on education.

Vico’s Orations compiled as On Humanistic Education are equally enlightening. In an oration titled On True Learning, he suggests that philosophers often disguise ignorance as pretended knowledge (87-89). After presenting his audience with a dialogue that illustrates this, in which a philosopher “proposes to demonstrate physical phenomena by geometric methods,” he argues:
Why do we pretend to impose on a man of sane mind geometric demonstrations which he cannot follow? Such a one, although he has unobstructed vision and is vigilant, is still not able to see the sun in full daylight, even though we know that the mind is attracted to truth as the eye is to light. Let us at last confess our natural limitations. Our studies are valuable insofar as we learn that we do not know or we know only a few things. (89)

Learning that “we do not know” is a far cry from the Cartesian condescension against probability. However, without this, invention and independent discovery become lost an important place within the confines of education. As Bizzell and Herzberg note, “Such a method oppresses rather than inspires students” (863). Rhetorical study, on the other hand, encourages the guiding virtues of invention and imagination that allows a student to develop his intellectual powers. These skills are bolstered through the improvement of memory and eloquence, and a renewed focus on ethics. In his writings, Vico clearly does not express disdain for science, but does note that the current educational system dedicates “an excessive amount of attention to the natural sciences” (871).

As Vico points out in On The Study Methods of Our Time, the ancients supercede modern thinking because of their focus on the big picture – the guiding principles. Modern philosophical critique, in its dedication to reason, overlooks the universals that thinkers like Plato and Augustine for which so passionately strive. In an oration titled On the Liberal Arts and Politic Power, Vico channels the Platonic desire for dialectic to order the soul (118). Though this passage is long, I feel compelled to include it in its entirety because it sums up what I wish to prove so plainly. Vico sees rhetoric as a necessary part of an education that includes science to such a large degree that he includes such particular sciences as mechanics, optics, and geometry. In his description of a “supreme commander,” he refers to virtues both of spirit and mind. His sketch is similar to that of Plato’s divine charioteer guided to the heavens – all the virtues are aligned, and he is not merely “decorated with an ostentatious helmet and crest.” Vico illustrates the virtues of the mind as such:

“Dialectic provides him with cautiousness of judgment so that he may avoid surprise ensnarements. Geometry teaches the design of the camp and the battle order of the troops in a circle, then dispersed, then in square and finally in wedge-shaped formation as conditions require. By arithmetic he can establish the number of the enemy from the location they occupy. Optics allows him to estimate from a distance the height of fortifications and the length and duration of a march. Architecture erects the arches, builds the walls of defense, the ramparts, and excavates the trenches. Mechanics contributes to the inventions of artillery, and moral philosophy aids him in knowing the customs and nature of the people. The lessons of the past will enable him to know what to avoid and what to pursue. Eloquence gives him the means to arouse the reluctant to battle, to encourage those who are dispirited in defeat, to restrain the exuberant in victory. How much utility the natural sciences contribute to the military arts is confirmed by the example of the leader who accounted for the causes of the eclipse of the moon or sun to his frightened troops and thus urged them on to great feats.” (emphasis added)

Rather than replace science and its study, Vico only desired to renew the focus on the integration of rhetoric and oratory because of the power it placed on invention and imagination. The “supreme commander” cannot rule by his control of scientific faculties alone, or the elevation of his own reason to a status above received wisdom and historical knowledge. Instead, the sciences (geometry, arithmetic, mechanics, architecture, optics) have an important place alongside the rhetorical skills of eloquence and dialectic. It is interesting, and perhaps intentional, that Vico couches this exhortation in between the rhetorical virtues of dialectic and eloquence, as though all the scientific skills are aided by a mastery of oratory.
Also, the “lessons of the past” play an important role in the training of this supreme commander. Similar to Machiavelli’s Prince, who must take into account all factors both present and past in became a successful monarch, Vico’s commander must master the twin virtues of science and rhetoric.

Is Vico chasing phantoms? In an immediate sense, yes. As Peter Burke notes, a “cult of Vico” rose forty years after his death, thus exaggerating his influence on culture while he was alive (2). Burke writes, “It has been observed that Vico finally became famous at the very moment when posterity had nothing more to learn from him” (89). The prominent attacks on rhetoric were too vociferous and contemporary to be ignored. In History of the Royal Society, Thomas Sprat expresses that the Society became wary of language and distrustful of the “shallowness” and deceitfulness inherent in Rhetoric (Bizzell and Herzberg 796). Whether or not Sprat really wanted “to return back to the primitive purity” of language, the message was clear: rhetorical education had a limited place in the brave new world divorced from “these specious Tropes and Figures.”

But Vico’s contentious voice gave confidence to a later generation who would use his name and his legacy as a rallying call to fellow rhetoricians. The thinkers and poets influenced by Vico – Coleridge, Arnold, Blake, and Marx among them – belie the claim that nineteenth century posterity had nothing to learn from Vico. The humanistic education owes much to what at the time was considered a mere reaction to Descartes. As rhetoric found a new flowering in the works of Newman and Mill, the words of Vico rang proud and true. Questioning the posterity of certainty and Cartesian thought, these writers began to look to Vico as a voice of humanity and sanity in a time when man was subtly encouraged to become a rational machine removed from the conversations that nurtured the great ages before them.

In short, Vico bravely and iconoclastically preserved the voice of his beloved ancients from louder modern influences. For this, modern rhetoric is thankful in its own preservation as a discipline, as are the imaginative, inventive students that the discipline continues to produce.

Marie Antoinette . . . (copied from an earlier email I sent)

. . . is a mess - a two hour movie poem about the
trappings of the rich that looks pretty but does
nothing. Most of the reviews have admired Coppola's
ability to make a movie about Marie Antoinette that
doesn't really saying anything about Marie Antoinette,
which is the type of ludicrous thing critics say when
they want to seem edgy. The movie is utterly free of
narrative - after the first ten minutes they could
show the movie out of order and noone could tell -
which allows Ms. Coppola to overwhelm us with shots of
Kirsten/Marie picking out shoes and eating dessert.

Seriously, there is a five minute scene set to a Kevin
Shields (of MY BLOODY VALENTINE) remix of "I Want
Candy" where people are eating dessert. It's supposed
to symbolize decadence. It reminded me of the Simpsons
where Homer is a boxer and his rise to fame is
visualized by a montage that shows the increasing
quality of his car washes. The last time I saw that
many desserts was when I went with my Dad to dinner at
a Piccadilly.

And while we're on the music, I loved it in the
trailer. I liked the Kubrickian closeups and
painting-like compositions scored to New Order and
Gang of Four. But it's a gimmick. It serves no
purpose, and lady doesn't have the fortitude to
actually set the whole movie to a pop soundtrack. It's
interspersed with classic period piece orchestration.
When The Strokes come up, it's laughable. I smelled an
artistic statement, but I don't even think she knew
what it was.

And while we're at it, didn't a lot of interesting
things happen to Marie Antoinette? Because this movie
seems to think she spent all her time frolicking.
Coppola has made one of the longest, most beautiful
movies about frolicking ever, and it still isn't good.

I still like Coppola. Her first two movies were
awesome. They had style and bled passion. They were
personal and yet not shamelessly sentimental. This is
her first bad movie. It's just pointless.

ALSO . . .

THE FEARLESS FREAKS, a documentary about the Flaming Lips, is the best thing I've seen recently. If you love the Lips, as I do, I think this film will only endear you more to their weird genius. Wayne Coyne is a badass; a true believer/Oklahoma kook; a complete original. He is a joy to listen to, whether talking about his brothers or singing about an ingenue Asian blackbelt who is the only hope against the villanous pink robots.

And then there's Steven Drozd, who at the time of the filming was a full-out heroin addict. In one harrowing, unbelievable scene, Drozd shoots up on camera. It is painful, powerful, and saddening - the perspective gives you the sense that you could stop it but you're too weak, and so is he. But the redemption comes as, a few weeks after this scene, Drozd gives up the junk. Then they go off to make YOSHIMI BATTLES THE PINK ROBOTS, which is one of my favorite albums ever ever.

These guys are family. Coyne still lives in the same ghetto where he grew up. He doesn't seem to understand that he's a celebrity or an innovator. He just likes making music.

And has anybody checked out Beck's THE INFORMATION? I love it.

Interested in Aristotle? Confused by Macbeth? Wondering what the former has in common with the latter? No? Well then, you probably don't want to read my essay on the subject:

Seriously, this is what my blog is going to be about. Occasionally people say they want to read my papers and I figured, rather than send them out individually, I'll just throw them up on The Gash.

This paper argues that Macbeth is not a Christian play, but operates on a more rationalistic morality defined by Aristotle in his "Golden Mean" - which I take pains to explain (though my teacher told me that was the weakest part of the paper; this is a glorified rough draft). This is not to say that Macbeth has no biblical principles, but Shakespeare has fashioned a world in which the traditional lens of Christ-centered salvation. Macbeth sins against a pagan moral order, and I think Shakespeare wants to show how sin doesn't always have ramifications on a transcendent plane. This goes with my thesis that, while Shakespeare's plays sometimes have Biblical undercurrents, ultimate he was not a Christian (it is not only my thesis, but I hold to it).

(Attention MLA format goons: everything was in the right place when i finished, but the fault lies not in my stars but microsoft word)

Here goes nothing:

“Measure, Time, and Place”: The Golden Mean in Macbeth

In his Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle writes about the “nature of the states of character that are produced” (953). The virtuous man must “act according to the right rule.” To elucidate the virtue, Aristotle employs a “sphere of actualization,” traditionally referred to as a “golden mean” (954). In order to comprehend the virtue, one must understand the proportionality that “both produces and increases and preserves it.” For example, in the case of the courage, Aristotle presents the alternate poles of cowardice and rashness. The virtuous man, then, will exist in between the excess and the deficiency, both of which will destroy him and the virtue he seeks to uphold. The mean preserves the virtue as a truly brave man can “stand (his) ground against them.”

The resurgence of an Aristotelian world order characterizes the Renaissance and its writers. Charles B. Schmitt writes, “the comprehensive nature and persisting validity of the Aristotelian synthesis still had value for the age” (Schmitt 33). Edmund Spenser, in particular, sought to synthesize Aristotle’s pre-Christian teaching with Biblical doctrines of temperance, holiness, and humility.

In analyzing William Shakespeare’s Macbeth, one might assume that in his depiction of such depraved “dread exploits” (IV.i.164), the author purposely removes virtue. The focus does seem to be on Macbeth’s immediate descent into vice through the vehicle of selfish ambition, vain trust in apparition, and a darkening of heart and conscience. It puts the emphasis on the personified idiot’s tale that the doomed Macbeth makes life to be, “full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” (V.iv.30).

Throughout the play, however, there is a clear moral imperative, similar to Aristotle’s, to “temper” ambition. Also, the results of the excessive vices that Aristotle mentions are vividly portrayed. In Shakespeare’s fiction, the tragic result of this violation is Macbeth’s recognition that the world is an idiot’s tale, ultimately meaningless, when removed from the divine ratio. As Harold Bloom notes, Macbeth “allows no relevance to Christian revelation” (519). Macbeth’s sin is not against God, but man, and in a humanistic order that the Golden Mean upholds. His primary blasphemy comes in the distortion of the Aristotle’s proportional virtue, and in this offense he falls victim to the “punishment” that is also “a kind of cure” (Aristotle 595) For violating the mean, Macbeth realizes that “what’s done cannot be undone” (V.i.71) and accepts a bloody fate. In the closing scenes, when few examples of moderation remain, the audience experiences the cathartic reminder of temperance when Malcolm exhorts the need for “measure, time, and place” (V.viii.86) in the kingdom to come. Catharsis, a term familiar to Aristotle, makes Shakespeare’s play a stark and subtle (at times subliminal) but masterfully intricate actualization of the Golden Mean.

Rather than the traditional optic of Christian morality, I will view Macbeth through the ancient, but inherently applicable prism of Aristotle’s ethic. Seen through this lens, scenes take on new layers, as the man who does not “despise things that are terrible” (Aristotle 594) faces a grisly fate. The horror of Macbeth becomes a humanistic nightmare for those who seek success outside of Aristotle’s definition of virtue.

Each of the “weird sisters” welcome Macbeth with a progression of titles: first as Thane of Cawdor, next as Thane of Glamis, and finally as “king hereafter” (I.iii.51-54). His previous position, before an exhibition of distinguishing valor, the Thane of Glamis. represents the deficient state for Macbeth. As Duncan will point out, “I have begun to plant thee and will labor to thee full of growing” (I.iv.32-33). This “harvest,” as Banquo calls it, is a worthy reward, “the proportion both of thanks and payment” (I.iv.22). For the moment, Macbeth proves to have the virtue the previous Thane of Cawdor lacked. Such prophecy from the mouth of the second witch is not altogether noxious, but accurate, as this “supernatural soliciting” finds fulfillment (I.iv.43). While the first and second witches’ words represent the (deficient) past and (virtuous) present, the third witch offers him a glimpse of excess – kingship. Macbeth immediately recognizes that such a title is akin to “borrowed robes” (I.iii.115), and reminds both himself and his companion Banquo not to “eat the insane root that takes men prisoner” (I.iii.85). Brave Macbeth is not without his neuroses, but such soul-searching proves appropriate. He lacks the experience, virtue, and nobility necessary to accept these “robes.” Still, the stirring ambition in Macbeth, in the form of a “horrid image”, inspires him to achieve what he cannot and that what for which he is not ready. The demeaning and seditious words of his wife will lead him to commit murder, thus taking what does not belong to him, and veering into the excess of his just state.

Stirred by ambition, Macbeth struggles with accepting the merited position, Thane of Glamis, that Duncan offers him. Lady Macbeth convinces him that this position is wholly beneath him, and that the position of king is due him. She finds the present “ignorant” and wants to feel the future in an “instant” (I.vi.65-66). In encouraging Macbeth to find his present state deficient, Lady Macbeth further steers Macbeth toward the excess. Macbeth recognizes “vaulting ambition” (I.vii.27) as necessary for him to achieve this state. He must “vault” over the appropriate state to which he belongs, and in doing so commit the dastardly act of murder. When Macbeth announces he will “proceed no further in this business,” (I.vii.34) Lady Macbeth challenges him, saying:

. . . Art thou afeard

To be the same in thine own act and valor,

As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that

Which thou esteem’st the ornament of life

And live a coward in thine own esteem,

Letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would,”

Like the poor cat I’ th’adage? (I.vii.43-49)

Macbeth responds, “I dare do all that may become a man. Who dares more is none” (I.iv.51). Here, Macbeth argues, like Aristotle, that what “becomes a man” are just and temperate actions, while Lady Macbeth distorts Macbeth’s idea of virtue into cowardice. It is this distortion of the Golden Mean that causes Macbeth to commit his foul deeds, as his wife’s emasculation helps to rid him of his innate virtues. His association of “cowardice” with inaction guides his next step. Ever the valiant soldier, Macbeth must prove that he belongs, that he is a man – to his wife, to his countrymen, and even to the king he must slay. Macbeth can stand being a step below a king, but he cannot take such demeaning talk from his wife. Her exhortation to “screw your courage to the sticking place” is in reality a twisted directive to act rashly, out of unjust ambition and murderous intent. Macbeth has now disassociated courage with the ideal, moderate virtue that Aristotle describes, and replaced it with a vision of his own selfish glory.

After killing Duncan, Macbeth remarks, “To know my deed, ‘twere best not to know myself” (II.i.93). Nonetheless, Macbeth makes a game attempt at wearing the “borrowed robes” that have been placed upon him. However, consumed by Banquo’s “dauntless temper” (III.i.56), and by the earlier prophecy that his sons will become kings, Macbeth worries that his crown is “fruitless” as long as Banquo lives, but takes comfort in the fact that Banquo, like Duncan, is expendable (3.iii.43). Macbeth strikes quickly and hires murderers who swiftly kill Banquo. Perhaps in celebration, Macbeth holds a banquet and invites many noble Lords to attend. This is a display of his kingship, his adequacy. His words resemble not only the earlier kingly speech of Duncan, but also the proportional vocabulary of Aristotle. Inviting the Lords to sit, He reminds them that they know their “degrees” and that the hostess, Lady Macbeth, equally keeps her “state” (3.iv.6-7). Now the banquet table becomes an apt metaphor for proportion and measure. As the scene opens, everyone sits in his right place, and the woman serves her royal purpose. The latter is most ironic, as Lady Macbeth surely dominates and emasculates her husband. The very act that put Macbeth in his position came from Lady Macbeth’s jests, as opposed to his own capacities. Nothing about the scene is true, least of all Macbeth’s noble standing. The ridiculous spectacle he will create is further evidence of his undoing.

The deceit continues when, after his guests are seated, Macbeth comments, “Both sides are even. Here I’ll sit i’ ‘th midst” (III.iv.11-12). The scene depicts order, but the immediate entrance of the murderer shows the underlying chaos. Since Banquo’s son Fleance remains alive, the murderous spree will continue. In an aside, Macbeth fears Fleance, lamenting, “I had else been perfect . . . but now I am cabined” (III.iv.23,26). When Macbeth returns to the table, he finds Banquo, in ghostly form, sitting in his place. The Lords may know their respective degrees, but Macbeth’s state has been blurred, as only he can see the spirit. There is a dual symbolism in the appearance Banquo’s ghost. First, he represents the complicit guilt that Macbeth feels, and will never be able to escape, for his lost comrade. But that the ghost chooses to sit in Macbeth’s seat, in the “midst” of the table, reminds both Macbeth and the audience that he will never be able to return to a noble middle state.

Unbalanced by the ghost, Macbeth creates a spectacle with an apparently insane tirade. When the ghost finally leaves, Macbeth feels “like a man again” (III.iv.131). Lady Macbeth rebukes him, telling him that he has “displaced the mirth . . . with most admired disorder” (III.iv.132-134). The orderly distinctions that the Golden Mean upholds have given way to frightening apparitions. Truly now, “nothing is but what is not” and those who would trust Macbeth to lead now see him for the truly excessive, dangerous figure he has become.

As a rebellion against Macbeth grows, Malcolm, Duncan’s son, tests the loyalties of Macduff. In doing so, he reveals the true qualities of a king, stating that he has none in an attempt to reveal Macduff’s true nature. He announces:

. . . The king-becoming graces

As justice, verity, tempr’rance, stableness,

Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness,

Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,

I have no relish of them but abound

In the devision of each several crime,

Acting it in many ways. Nay, had I power, I should

Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,

Uproar the universal peace, confound

All unity on earth. (IV.iii.115)

Macduff is outraged and terrified at Duncan’s apparent world-view, bemoaning, “O my breast! My hope ends here!” (IV.iii.132) The act is a subversive ploy to test Macduff’s loyalties, but by contrast Malcolm’s words represent the qualities, discussed in Nicomachean Ethics, that Macbeth lacks and a truly noble king should possess. Malcolm instantly admits to his necessary trickery, claiming that “modest wisdom plucks me from overcredulous haste” (IV.iii.139). Whether or not Malcolm is truly virtuous, or merely setting himself up as a foil for the depraved Macbeth remains to be seen. But in his subversive espousal of “modest” virtues, he at least recognizes the traits a king should have, and in which Macbeth has fallen deficient.

As the play draws to a close, Macbeth recognizes his world is falling apart. After learning his wife is dead, he ruefully personifies life as the brief but gravely meaningless ranting of an idiot. Macbeth also senses his impending doom as the prophetic fulfillment of the apparent movement of Birnam Wood signals his downfall. He declares, “I ‘gin to be weary of the sun and wish th’estate o’ th’ world were now undone” (V.v. 55-57). In this “weary” confession, Macbeth recognizes the guiding moral order that he attempted to overthrow. Just as Duncan can represent a virtuous ruler in his kingly manner and speech, so does the sun represent a fixed position in the sky, a constancy and order that stands in bright contrast to the disorderly chaos of Macbeth’s kingdom. Macbeth’s weariness is not at himself, but at his failure to defeat this order. Wishing the “estate” were now undone, he perhaps imagines a Scotland where his evil goes unpunished, forgiven by moral relativity, pragmatic logic, or a miracle of Christian grace. Instead, he is guilty of violating the mean that Aristotle takes pains to depict. He is punished not for his violation against the heavens, but against the guiding values of man. Malcolm’s concluding call for “measure” is no mere mandate for the new kingdom. It is the closing word on Shakespeare’s exhortation to avoid the excesses into which Macbeth falls.

Two great links

First, a news story:

Guns N' Roses cancels concert appearances because of laws that ban them from drinking on stage.

And you thought they didn't have principles....

Second, a great article:

Who is the best band of the 80s? U2 and REM?

The only problem I have with the otherwise stellar memory piece is that he thinks U2 somehow came unscathed out of that mid90s reinvention. Sure, from 1982-92, they were the most revolutionary, political, and powerful band on the planet. Now they sing "Beautiful Day" at the Super Bowl. No thanks, guy. Otherwise, though, a lot of good points about what I love about both bands in their respective primes.

Perhaps my favorite GK Chesterton passage, from Chapter 5 of ORTHODOXY, one of my all-time favorite books.

it has been said that the primary
feeling that this world is strange and yet attractive
is best expressed in fairy tales. The reader may, if
he likes, put down the next stage to that bellicose
and even jingo literature which commonly comes next in
the history of a boy. We all owe much sound morality
to the penny dreadfuls. Whatever the reason, it seemed
and still seems to me that our attitude towards life
can be better expressed in terms of a kind of military
loyalty than in terms of criticism and approval. My
acceptance of the universe is not optimism, it is more
like patriotism. It is a matter of primary loyalty.
The world is not a lodging-house at Brighton, which we
are to leave because it is miserable. It is the
fortress of our family, with the flag flying on the
turret, and the more miserable it is the less we
should leave it. The point is not that this world is
too sad to love or too glad not to love; the point is
that when you do love a thing, its gladness is a
reason for loving it, and its sadness a reason for
loving it more. All optimistic thoughts about England
and all pessimistic thoughts about her are alike
reasons for the English patriot. Similarly, optimism
and pessimism are alike arguments for the cosmic
patriot.

Let us suppose we are confronted with a desperate
thing -- say Pimlico. If we think what is really best
for Pimlico we shall find the thread of thought leads
to the throne or the mystic and the arbitrary. It is
not enough for a man to disapprove of Pimlico: in that
case he will merely cut his throat or move to Chelsea.
Nor, certainly, is it enough for a man to approve of
Pimlico: for then it will remain Pimlico, which would
be awful. The only way out of it seems to be for
somebody to love Pimlico: to love it with a
transcendental tie and without any earthly reason. If
there arose a man who loved Pimlico, then Pimlico
would rise into ivory towers and golden pinnacles;
Pimlico would attire herself as a woman does when she
is loved. For decoration is not given to hide horrible
things: but to decorate things already adorable. A
mother does not give her child a blue bow because he
is so ugly without it. A lover does not give a girl a
necklace to hide her neck. If men loved Pimlico as
mothers love children, arbitrarily, because it is
theirs, Pimlico in a year or two might be fairer than
Florence. Some readers will say that this is a mere
fantasy. I answer that this is the actual history of
mankind. This, as a fact, is how cities did grow
great. Go back to the darkest roots of civilization
and you will find them knotted round some sacred stone
or encircling some sacred well. People first paid
honour to a spot and afterwards gained glory for it.
Men did not love Rome because she was great. She was
great because they had loved her.

Pimlico is a suburb of London. Gentrified today, it was a pretty rough place in GK's day. Substitute "Pimlico" for anywhere - your job, your school, your church, your city, the suburb where you grew up. This is one of the most rousing, convicting calls I've ever read.

"The point is not that this world is too sad to love or too glad not to love; the point is that when you do love a thing, its gladness is a reason for loving it."

Amen, brotha. If only we could really love Pimlico.