Conveniences commonplace today were once novel. In this regard, today let us remember with gratitude Vincent of Beauvais, who died in 1264 AD, for making access to to the content of books easier. He is credited as having been the first writer to systematically provide indexes for his works, a trend which others eventually followed. He added an index to every single book of his Speculum historiale after 1244. This kind of apparatus only spread more widely in the field of historical writing during the fourteenth century, beginning with the Tabula secundum litterarum ordinem alphabeti on the same work by Vincent, composed by Jean Hautfuney in Avignon around 1320. Thank you, Vincent!
Source: Kujawiński, J. (2015). Commenting on historical writings in medieval Latin Europe: A reconnaissance. Acta Poloniae Historica, Volume 112, 169. Especially see footnote 26, which states the following: “See the study and edition by Monique Paulmier, ‘Jean Hautfuney, Tabula super Speculum historiale fratris Vincentii’, Spicae. Cahiers de l’Atelier Vincent de Beauvais, Nouvelle série, 2 (1980), 19–263 (on Vincent’s indexes, see 20–3), and ibidem, 3 (1981), 5–208. Both Vincent’s and Jean’s indexes are discussed within the history of medieval historiography by Guenée, Histoire et culture historique, 232–7, and within the history of medieval indexes by Olga Weijers, ‘Les index au Moyen Âge sont-ils un genre littéraire?’ in Leonardi, Morelli, Santi (eds.), Fabula in tabula, 11–22, here: 20–1, and il. 5.”
The act of writing for others is often fundamentally narcissistic, driven by the desire to impress or profit. Academic scholars and artists are cited as examples of this tendency, with their use of language and prose serving to elevate their own status rather than effectively communicate with diverse audiences. This points to a broader issue within academic and artistic discourse, reflecting a deeper narcissism that pervades all writing and creative work. The challenge lies in balancing inherent self-focus with a genuine commitment to clarity and accessibility, ultimately creating works that are intellectually enriching and broadly impactful.
Writing for others is, except in the most exigent of circumstances, a fundamentally narcissistic act. The words we compose for others may be necessary, convenient, expedient, pleasing to the reader, and otherwise desirable. However, ultimately, writing for others is an act of narcissism, akin to all creative endeavors by which we seek to express ourselves, profit, or impress others.
If one writes with style, erudition, clarity, and aplomb, while simultaneously instilling a semblance of humility within that writing, one has grasped a technique that few have contemplated and fewer still have mastered. In a previous posting, it was noted that the Ursuline sisters early on admonished me and the other students at St. Luke Elementary School to avoid the perpendicular pronoun, and other first-person personal pronouns, at or near the beginning of sentences. Thus, contemplation of humility in writing persists, though I am fairly confident that I have not grasped this technique with any modicum of success.
The above is a precursor to commentary on some academic writing that I have observed in the past several weeks.
The first example is the most recent I have encountered and served as motivation to write this post. The text reads as follows:
“Or consider Matthäus Schwarz of Augsburg, who while still a child, at the age when the young Dürer painted his first known self-portrait, conceived the ambition of writing an autobiography, an ambition that would become a reality fifteen years later, after he had become chief financier for the Fuggers at age twenty-five. At that time he wrote an account of his private life entitled The Way of the World and simultaneously painted watercolors of himself in various costumes. A more narcissistic project can hardly be imagined. This brilliant mind, this confidant of one of the most powerful men of his time, led a full life yet deliberately chose to indulge himself by concentrating his attention on appearances and frivolities. Having achieved success, the adult cast an eye back on his childhood. His sentimental and mordant commentary suggests what feelings the men of the Renaissance, after generations of self-absorbed literature, harbored toward their youth.” (Braunstein, P. (1988). Towards intimacy: The fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In G. Duby & P. Ariès (Eds.), A history of private life: Revelations of the medieval world (A. Goldhammer, Trans., Vol. II, pp. 555-556). Harvard University Press.)
How extraordinary it is that Professor P. Braunstein, a Frenchman writing in an age dominated by photography, high couture fashion, vapid celebrities, and best-selling autobiographies of such celebrities, could pen such a paragraph while seemingly unaware that his own writing—signed, no less—in the liberal arts, particularly medieval history, could likewise be called a frivolous indulgence and a narcissistic undertaking. Today, many would label the good professor an unproductive idler while viewing Schwarz of Augsburg as critical to economic prosperity as the accountant for one of the most important merchant and financier families of the era.
The second example, in two parts from another professor, comes from the first volume of the work cited above. After noting the Roman urban nobility’s preference for idleness and its adherence to rigid class distinctions, the author observes:
“True, we believe that work is respectable and would not dare to admit to idleness. Nevertheless, we are sensitive to class distinctions and, admit it or not, regard workers and shopkeepers as people of relatively little importance. We would not want ourselves or our children to sink to their station, even if we are a little ashamed of harboring such sentiments.” (Veyne, P. (1987). The Roman Empire. In P. Ariès & G. Duby (Eds.), A History of Private Life: From Pagan Rome to Byzantium (Vol. I, pp. 118). Harvard University Press. (A. Goldhammer, Trans.).)
The same author, reflecting the peculiarities of his class and profession, later indulges in sweeping generalizations, as evidenced by this statement:
“Apart from this proverbial wisdom of the people, Rome had an oral tradition of common sense, a tradition shared by all classes of society and pertinent to every sort of problem. It was a veritable philosophy, like Marxism or psychoanalysis, the two varieties of common sense most prevalent in the West today.” (Veyne, P. (1987), p. 178.)
Professor Veyne displays remarkable narcissism in both extracted statements, presuming that the reader shares his class prejudices against shopkeepers and workers, and embraces his social biases favoring Marxism and psychoanalysis. He scarcely considers that the reader may come from a different class or social background than his own, which is likely the case for the volumes translated into English. This vanity is compounded further when these assumptions are inserted without thought or hesitation into a scholarly work, which should strive to reflect objectivity rather than the exclusivity of social and class status, bias, and prejudice.
The third, and final, example is of a different sort—academic jargonistic exclusionist vocabulary. Or perhaps it is just muddled, unedited writing. In any event, the Cleveland Museum of Art (CMA) issues Cleveland Art: The Cleveland Museum of Art Members Magazine quarterly to communicate information about its exhibits and calendar events. Curators with appropriate academic backgrounds write many of the articles. One such article recently caught my attention due to the density and near inaccessibility of its prose for the average reader. The article discussed an art project which will be exhibited in the CMA’s atrium, which has been “activated with contemporary art at various points.” The latest project, and the artist selected for it, was discussed by the curator:
“Her signature ceramic figures represent a bold intervention in colonial legacies of dependency, erasure, and assimilation. The influence of her identity as a Native woman is evident in her work, but she balances her deep rootedness in her heritage with modern methods, materials, and processes, incorporating elements like metal and Pumice-Crete along with clay.” (Fellah, N. R. (2024). Rose B. Simpson’s Strata. Cleveland Art: The Cleveland Museum of Art Members Magazine, 65(2), 9.)
Academic concepts such as dependency, erasure, and assimilation within colonial legacy are not self-explanatory, and those with different educational experiences than the curator or artist may not grasp the meaning of the above, though they could hope to understand it were the presentation less muddled. For my undergraduate honors thesis, I researched and wrote on the socio-political-economic theory of dependency, and I found myself tripping over the excerpt, rereading it at least three times to discern the intent.
Given that the Cleveland Museum of Art has among its organizational values the statement, “Build an audience-centered culture,” and it states in its summary of its strategic plan that, “We must continue to enhance the visitor experience, affirming the welcome we extend to everyone who walks through our doors and providing joyful and enriching encounters with art for schoolchildren, teens, college and university students, families, and older adults,” it is peculiar that it would use highly academic, almost inaccessible language in a general publication. How much more accessible would it have been to write the above in a more straightforward, less narcissistic “I am an academic with a degree” style, such as:
“Her unique ceramic figures make a strong statement against the negative effects of colonialism, such as making people dependent, erasing their cultures, and forcing them to assimilate. You can see her identity as a Native woman in her artwork, where she mixes her deep connection to her heritage with modern techniques and materials. She uses things like metal and Pumice-Crete, along with clay, to create her pieces.”
The above rewrite may not fully explain the concepts of dependency, erasure, and assimilation, or the effects of colonialism, to readers not wholly familiar with them, but I suspect they would have a better sense of the meaning after reading the above than the original excerpt.
While scholarship and creativity inherently involve a degree of self-expression, they should not devolve into exercises in vanity that alienate the very individuals they purport to enlighten. If institutions like the Cleveland Museum of Art truly aim to build an audience-centered culture and enhance visitor experiences across all demographics, then it is incumbent upon them to adopt more accessible language. This shift would not only foster greater inclusivity but also ensure that the profound messages and insights contained within their works are appreciated by all, not just a select few.
The examples provided illustrate a broader issue within academic and artistic discourse: the propensity for language that obfuscates rather than clarifies, and for prose that serves to elevate the writer’s own status rather than communicate effectively with a diverse audience. This tendency reflects a deeper narcissism that pervades all writing, and much scholarly and creative work, where the desire to impress often overshadows the imperative to inform.
In revisiting the notion that writing for others is fundamentally a narcissistic act, it becomes evident that the true challenge lies in balancing this inherent self-focus with a genuine commitment to clarity and accessibility. The measure of effective writing lies in its ability to resonate deeply and universally, transcending the bounds of the page and embracing a shared human experience. By mitigating narcissistic tendencies, we can create works that are not only intellectually enriching but also broadly impactful and inclusive.
Many people dream numerous times each night, often with little to no recollection. However, a vivid dream from the 1980s still resonates with the writer. In the dream, they confronted a terrifying creature and miraculously produced an armadillo from their pocket to ward off the threat. The symbolism and lasting impact of this dream remain significant.
Purportedly, we dream several times a night, every night. Like many, I rarely recall dreaming, and if I do, the details are sketchy and incoherent at best. Usually dreams are nonsensical and defy rational interpretation, on rare occasion they are subsconcious attempts to make sense of our waking hours.
However, there is one dream fragment from the early 1980s, when I was a college student, that I recall with remarkable clarity even to this day. At the time, I was enrolled in one of Professor Stohl’s religious studies courses. If I recollect correctly, the course was a special offering addressing the interplay between Jungian concepts and religion. Thus, perhaps, I was particularly attuned to the symbolism in any dreams I might have had at the time, whether nonsensical or otherwise.
In any event, the dream fragment I remember is notable for allowing me to use the expression, on very rare occasions, “Roll the armadillo!” when circumstances warrant.
The dream, or rather, nightmare, was as follows: I was standing alone when, suddenly, I was confronted by a fearsome, loathsome creature or monster. Instinctively and without hesitation, I thrust my right hand deep into my right pant pocket and pulled out a live armadillo, which I deftly rolled on the ground (enabled by the armadillo obligingly curling itself up defensively) towards the menacing creature. The armadillo, apparently a protective talisman, appeased or thwarted the threat presented by the monster. The danger dissipated, and the nightmare ended. If only we could, societally, roll the armadillo today.
The genesis of the dream is well-known to me and is irrelevant to this post, but the imagery is vivid and has embedded itself within my mind so thoroughly that decades later, I still smile thinking of it. Fairly certain I had never seen an armadillo in person at that point in my life, I am struck that I turned to it for protection (a role it assumes in many cultures, naturally, given its shell and behaviors). Equally striking is the ease with which I was able to pull an armadillo so conveniently from my trouser pocket. Dreams do allow for such conveniences!
Think, dear reader, what one dream do you most vividly remember from all the years you have lived, and why is it so striking? Mine is striking for a creature named by the Spanish as the “little armored ones,” one of whom served as my protector in a nightmare decades ago.
Also, on a lark, I created a “Talisman (Armadillo) Violin Concerto in D Minor” based on the above memory writing lyrics based on the above thoughts and using Udio.com to create music. The resulting concerto can be heard in the YouTube video above.
Talisman Violin Concerto in D Minor Lyrics
Purportedly, we dream each night, Visions dance in the pale moonlight. Memories fade, but one remains, A nightmare where fear constrains.
Confronted by a beast so dire, A creature of my deepest mire. In terror's grasp, my hand did find, An armadillo, defense designed.
Roll the armadillo, brave and small, Facing darkness, defying all. A symbol of strength, a talisman true, In dreams, it protects, guiding me through.
In the professor's hallowed class, Jungian thoughts and symbols pass. Seeking meaning in realms unseen, In dreams, we find where we've been.
Deep within my pocket's fold, A tale of courage, quietly told. An armadillo, small and strong, Defies the monster, rights the wrong.
Roll the armadillo, brave and small, Facing darkness, defying all. A symbol of strength, a talisman true, In dreams, it protects, guiding me through.
Decades passed, the memory stays, Solace forms in countless ways. Little armored one, protector bold, A dream's embrace, a story told.
In life's vast dreamscape, find your shield, In symbols, truths are oft revealed. Think, dear reader, what dream you keep, In your heart's vault, buried deep.
Roll the armadillo, brave and small, Facing darkness, defying all. A symbol of strength, a talisman true, In dreams, it protects, guiding me through.
Dreams allow for such convening, In their realm, find deeper meaning. Roll the armadillo, brave and wise, In dreams, our fears we can disguise.
This short observation notes that professors and many others believe they can identify AI-assisted writing based on vocabulary use, such as “delve,” “interplay,” “intricate,” and “captivated.” The writer reflects on using such words since the 1980s, suggesting subconscious AI use and critiques modern educators for favoring simplistic writing over complex prose. Additionally, he discusses the modern tendency to overestimate individual abilities in various tasks, such as pandemic response and legal document writing.
Earlier this morning, I read an article asserting that many professors are confident in their innate ability to identify papers authored with the assistance of CHATGPT and similar artificial intelligence tools. The article’s comments section revealed widespread agreement among its readers that they could do the same. It appears that one of the primary indicators of AI-generated content in their collective minds is the use of certain vocabulary, including words such as “delve,” “interplay,” “intricate,” and “captivated.”
This conclusion struck me as somewhat amusing, as it suggests that I have been subconsciously employing artificial intelligence in my writing since the 1980s. It seems AI must have been implanted in my psyche at birth, only to be activated when I commenced my collegiate writing endeavors. Upon reviewing several of my papers from that era, as well as some recent compositions, I noticed the word “delve” frequently appearing, often within the introductory paragraph. By contemporary academic standards, it appears I would be accused of plagiarism frequently, and without merit, by today’s professors, whom I consider to be lacking in literacy, vocabulary, and style.
These modern educators seem to favor a style of writing that is monosyllabic and nearly without style, characterized by grunts and groans, rather than the intricate and complex prose that I believe leads to captivating reading and meaningful conclusions.
It further reminds me of the modern predilection of individuals to overestimate their ability to perform almost any task, whether it be land an airplane, conduct research on how best to respond to pandemics (as opposed to, say, listening to individuals who studied for years at University on the topic), or writing that complex legal document that attorneys labor for hours to write precisely to avoid unpleasant surprises later even if it seems like something anyone should be able to jot off in minutes.
This sunny July morning, a dragonfly graced my backyard, flitting about in the sun. These creatures are truly marvelous, appearing as if crafted eons ago with a design that defies flight. They are unequivocally my favorite insect. Their ability to hover, dart, and flit brings me endless delight, matched only by their enthralling colors.
Facts worth knowing: Before they take flight as dragonflies, living for only about six months, they spend anywhere from two months to five years or more as larvae in the water. Their remarkable flying abilities are considered by some to symbolize poise and elegance. According to the beliefs of others, encountering a dragonfly flitting around you signifies impending change, while one landing on your person is seen as a sign of good fortune. Exploring the dragonfly’s symbolism online or at the library reveals countless interpretations, both auspicious and inauspicious.
Stenciled Velvet, c. 1902–10. Tiffany Studios. (America, New York, 1902–1932) Designer, Dorothy Marshall Hornblower (American, 1886–1968). Cleveland Museum of Art.
For my part, I hold the dragonfly in such high regard that I have included it in my personal emblem, preferring it over more traditional images, such as lions and crosses. This preference stems from its ability to achieve flight—an improbable feat given its construction. For me, the dragonfly represents not only the triumph of grace over physics but also the boundless possibilities inherent in life if only one dares to try.
Inspired by the dragonfly I saw earlier, I attempted the following poem:
Dragonfly with Wings of Sheen
In morning’s golden light it flies, A creature from ancient skies, Dragonfly, with wings of sheen, In hues of emerald and marine.
Born of water, from nymph to winged sprite, To dance on air, in pure delight, With grace that mocks the laws of earth, They flit and dart, in joyous mirth.
Their eyes, like gems, do catch the sun, As through the reeds they deftly run, A world of beauty in their flight, A fleeting glimpse of pure delight.
O dragonfly, in summer’s glow, Your dance of life, a magic show, A whisper from a distant age, With every wingbeat, nature’s sage.
So fragile yet so strong and free, A marvel of biology, In every swoop, in every leap, A secret of the waters deep.
Fly on, dear dragonfly, so grand, Across the waters, o’er the land, In every glint, we see in you, A symbol of resilience true.
Northcoast Antiquarian 