La Trahison des Images [The Treachery of Images] (oil on canvas, 1928-9) by René Magritte (1898-1967). Los Angeles County Museum of Art.
Once again, a word that appears with some frequency in my writing (delve) is maligned as an indicator of AI authorship. But, at least in this instance, it comes within the context of an essay that includes a warning that humans are only under the illusion that they can detect AI written material. The essay in which the aspersion occurs also accurately notes that studies have shown that a well-written AI prompt has often been adjudged by reviewers as more surely written by a human than a piece written, indeed, by a human. The study in circulation demonstrating the latter, written by individuals associated with the Department of Cognitive Science, UC San Diego, does not look like it was written by humans, no matter how many times I review it, but that is attributable to a different bias, not AI.
Ethan Mollick, a writer whose insights at www.oneusefulthing.org are always worth exploring, recently captured my attention with his thought-provoking essay Post-apocalyptic Education. In a section aptly titled, “The Illusions,” Mollick states:
People can’t detect AI writing well. Editors at top linguistics journals couldn’t. Teachers couldn’t (though they thought they could – the Illusion again). While simple AI writing might be detectable (“delve,” anyone?), there are plenty of ways to disguise “AI writing” styles through simple prompting. In fact, well-prompted AI writing is judged more human than human writing by readers
Ha! that parenthetical regarding the word delve, included to provide a small exception to the author’s point, is no exception, at least when it comes to my writing.
Untitled (oil on canvas, c. 1916) by Kazimir Malevich ( 1878-1935). Peggy Guggenheim Collection, Venice.
Introduction
The dialogue below brings together two iconic figures from different eras—Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519) and Samuel Beckett (1906–1989)—to explore contrasting views on art, existence, and the search for meaning. Leonardo da Vinci, the quintessential Renaissance man, was a polymath whose works spanned art, science, and engineering. He is best known for masterpieces like The Last Supper and Mona Lisa, and his relentless pursuit of knowledge and understanding of the natural world. Leonardo’s philosophy is deeply rooted in the belief that art can reveal the underlying harmony and divine order of the universe, offering humanity a glimpse into deeper truths that transcend the fleeting nature of life.
In stark contrast, Samuel Beckett, an influential 20th-century playwright, novelist, and poet, is most famous for his existentialist works, including the groundbreaking play Waiting for Godot, which puzzled me to no end when I first encountered it in college. Beckett’s worldview, shaped by the absurdity of the human condition, strips away illusions to reveal a world devoid of inherent meaning, where the act of waiting and enduring becomes central to existence. His minimalist approach challenges traditional notions of purpose and order, suggesting that meaning, if it exists at all, is found not in grand designs but in the persistence of the human spirit amidst an indifferent universe.
In this imagined dialogue, Leonardo and Beckett engage in a thought-provoking conversation that delves into the purpose of art, the nature of existence, and the ways in which different philosophical perspectives can both clash and complement one another. The exchange invites readers to reflect on the role of art and creation in human life—whether it serves to elevate, to challenge, or merely to mirror the complexities and absurdities of our existence. Through their contrasting views, the dialogue underscores the universal human experience of seeking understanding, whether through the lens of hope or despair, harmony or chaos.
This dialogue continues my summer writing exercises, which have spanned academic writing, prose, poetry, fables, musical lyrics, and more. If I am not mistaken, this is my first attempt at constructing dialogue, making it a new and challenging endeavor for me. As such, the exchange between the characters may be more superficial than one might ideally hope. I ask for your understanding as I continue to explore and refine my craft, and I apologize for any shortcomings in this or my other recent efforts.
Setting:
A large, solitary tree stands in an otherwise barren landscape. The tree is full of leaves, their colors shifting subtly with the light. The leaves rustle softly in the breeze, creating a tranquil, yet slightly eerie atmosphere. Leonardo da Vinci and Samuel Beckett are gathered beneath the tree, engaged in a deep, reflective conversation.
Dialogue:
Leonardo da Vinci:Leonardo sits beneath the tree, sketching quietly, absorbed in the play of light and shadow on the leaves. He looks up as Samuel Beckett approaches, his tone one of curious observation.
“This tree—its form, its structure, the way the light filters through its leaves—there is something here that speaks of life’s continuity, of the patterns that repeat in nature. I find myself drawn to capture it, to understand its place in the world. And you, Samuel? What brings you to this solitary tree?”
Samuel Beckett:He stops a few paces away, his gaze fixed on the tree, his voice flat, resigned.
“I am here because it stands alone, like the tree in Waiting for Godot. There is something in its isolation that mirrors the emptiness of waiting, of existence itself. It’s just a tree—there’s nothing more to it. And perhaps, like my characters, I wait without knowing why, without expecting anything to come.”
Leonardo da Vinci:Nods slowly, considering Beckett’s words, his tone contemplative.
“Waiting… It is a concept I have pondered often, though in a different sense. I wait for the right light, for the moment when nature reveals its hidden order. But you speak of waiting as if it is an end in itself, a state of being rather than a passage to something more. Is there not, even in this waiting, some expectation, some hope?”
Samuel Beckett:His voice remains steady, almost emotionless, with a trace of irony.
“Hope? A word, nothing more. My characters wait, because waiting is what they do, what we all do. There’s no expectation, no miracle—just the passage of time, the empty habit of existence. The tree stands here, indifferent, like the world. Whether we wait or move on, it’s all the same. And yet, we wait. Because what else is there?”
Leonardo da Vinci:Leonardo pauses, considering Beckett’s words with deep reflection. His tone is gentle, yet firm.
“Perhaps you’re right, Samuel. Perhaps, when we strip away everything, we are left with nothing but the bare truth, as stark as it may be. But I have always believed that even in that starkness, there is something worth reaching for—a light, however faint, that guides us. Art, in my view, is not merely about reflecting what is, but about aspiring toward what could be. It’s about finding order in chaos, meaning in the void. Take, for example, my Adoration of the Magi. I used light and shadow not just to define forms, but to reveal the deeper truths within the scene—the struggle between the sacred and the profane, the divine revelation amidst human confusion. Even if that meaning is fleeting, even if it is, as you say, just another illusion—it is one that gives us reason to continue, to create.”
Samuel Beckett: Beckett listens, his expression calm but with a glint of irony in his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is quiet but carries a sharpness, a dry humor beneath the surface.
“Illusions are the finest of comforts, Leonardo. They keep us warm at night, keep us from staring too long into the abyss. My characters, Estragon and Vladimir, wait for Godot because they think it might give them purpose. But in the meantime, they do everything but find meaning—they argue, they contemplate hanging themselves, they try on each other’s hats. It’s all distraction, all misadventure, because they know deep down that Godot won’t come. But they wait, because that’s all there is to do. And if there’s a glimmer of beauty in that, it’s in the sheer absurdity of it all. Not the light, not the shadow—just the fact that we’re still here, passing the time, playing out the farce.”
Leonardo da Vinci: His gaze shifts from the tree to Beckett, a deep respect evident in his tone.
“Then perhaps we wait together, under this tree, each seeking our own understanding. Whether it is the light I seek or the void you confront, we are united in the act of waiting, in the search for something beyond ourselves. And in that search, there is meaning, even if we cannot fully grasp it.”
Leonardo da Vinci:Leonardo’s eyes wander back to stare intently at his sketch book for a moment, then, looking back up from his sketch book to Beckett, his voice thoughtful, he weaves in his understanding of the natural world.
“My work in The Last Supper was driven by a desire to capture a moment of profound significance—a moment suspended between betrayal and redemption, where the divine intersects with the human. I sought to convey the tension, the movement, the interplay of light and shadow that defines the scene. The way light falls on Christ’s face, the way shadows creep toward Judas—it’s all part of a larger harmony. Yet, Samuel, in your Waiting for Godot, I find a world that seems to reject the very principles that guided my hand. Your characters wait in vain, trapped in a cycle of despair. How do you find purpose in such a depiction?”
Samuel Beckett: He replies with characteristic brevity, his voice carrying the weight of existential reflection.
“Purpose? There is none. In Godot, there’s no divine order, no grand design. The characters wait, because that’s all they know—an endless habit, a ritual without meaning. They’re stuck, like the rest of us, waiting for something that never comes. The tree in my play—it’s initially bare, lifeless, a symbol of the void that lies beneath our expectations. And yet, it sprouts a few leaves, as if to mock the very idea of hope—offering just enough to keep us waiting, but never enough to change anything. No light, no shadow—just emptiness.”
Leonardo da Vinci: Nods slowly, his tone contemplative, struggling to reconcile this with his own beliefs.
“I understand your perspective, though it is far from my own. To embrace the void, to depict a world where order and meaning are absent—it is a stark contrast to my belief that art can illuminate the divine symmetry in all things. Your play challenges the very foundation of what I sought to express in my works. And yet, I cannot help but admire the honesty in your approach. You confront the darkness, the uncertainty, without flinching. But does this not lead to despair?”
Samuel Beckett:His voice remains minimalist, laced with irony.
“Despair? It’s just another word, another illusion. My characters don’t despair—they endure. Godot strips away the comforting lies we tell ourselves, leaving only the bare bones of existence. No despair, no hope—just being. Your work seeks to elevate, to find harmony. Mine strips away the illusion, shows what’s left when there’s nothing left to believe in.”
Leonardo da Vinci: He considers this, his voice filled with quiet resolve.
“Perhaps that is the essence of our craft—to persist, to create, in search of the harmony that underlies all things. Whether we work with light or shadow, we strive to uncover the deeper truths of the world. The act of creation itself connects us to the divine order, revealing a meaning that transcends the fleeting and the transient.”
Samuel Beckett:A faint smile touches his lips, his tone tinged with irony.
“Harmony, divine order… It’s a beautiful thought, Leonardo, truly. But when all is said and done, what endures? Maybe the search itself, or the act of creation as you say. But what’s left after the thoughts are provoked, after the truths are revealed? We’re still here, Leonardo, still waiting, still searching for meaning where there may be none. Maybe the real trick is to keep going, to keep creating, even when we know the search might be futile.”
Leonardo da Vinci:He gazes at the tree, then at Beckett, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Perhaps, Samuel, we will never fully agree on what lies at the heart of our existence—whether it is light, shadow, or simply the void. But in our own ways, we both seek to understand, to express the human condition. Maybe that is the true essence of our craft.”
Samuel Beckett:He offers a faint, sardonic smile.
“Maybe. Or maybe we’re just two men, passing the time under a tree, waiting for something that may never come. Either way, we keep going, because what else is there?”
Leonardo da Vinci: Nods, a quiet respect in his voice, yet firm in his belief.
“Yes, we keep going. For in that persistence, we find not just the passing of time, but the opportunity to discover, to create, and perhaps to glimpse a truth greater than ourselves.”
The two men sit in silence for a moment, the leaves rustling softly above them, as the conversation fades into the stillness of the landscape.
“The Ancient of Days” (frontispiece to Europe A Prophecy, 1794) by William Blake (1757-1827) The William Blake Archive
Giambattista Vico (1668–1744), Johann Gottfried Herder (1744–1803), and Johann Georg Hamann (1730–1788) may be obscure names to many, and their writings equally impenetrable, but they are nonetheless important to numerous academic disciplines, many of which I study. Consequently, many of the scholarly tomes and articles I read frequently mention these gentlemen, with whom I have thus become somewhat acquainted.
This past week, I have been revisiting The Roots of Romanticism (Princeton University Press, 2013) by Isaiah Berlin (1909–1997). The aforementioned scholars make their obligatory appearances, as do men more famous and more obscure. It was, however, when Berlin sought to set the stage for a lesser-known figure by discussing the genesis of the Pietist movement in the German lands in the 17th and 18th centuries, that the inspiration for today’s post took root.
Berlin, prone to sweeping observations—both historical and psychological—offers fascinating insights into the rise of the Pietist movement, insights that merit reflection and may well extend to contemporary parallels. He posits that, during this era, German culture was largely provincialized: “There was no Paris, there was no centre, there was no life, there was no pride, there was no sense of growth, dynamism and power. German culture drifted either into extreme scholastic pedantry of a Lutheran kind—minute but rather dry scholarship—or in the direction of the inner life of the human soul. This was no doubt stimulated by Lutheranism as such, but particularly by the fact that there was a kind of huge national inferiority complex, which began at that period, vis-à-vis the French, this brilliant glittering State which had managed to crush and humiliate this great country which dominated the science and the arts, and all the provinces of human life, with a kind of arrogance and success unexampled hitherto” (Berlin, 42).
Berlin then notes that the Pietist movement, a branch of Lutheranism, became deeply embedded in the German lands. He describes the movement as possessing a passion for a meticulous study of the Bible, a profound respect for the personal relationship between man and God, an emphasis on the spiritual life, and a contempt for learning, ritual, and form. Moreover, the movement placed “tremendous stress upon the individual relationship of the suffering human soul with its maker” (Berlin, 43).
Berlin does not mince words in his assessment of the outcome:
“This was a very grand form of sour grapes. If you cannot obtain from the world that which you really desire, you must teach yourself not to want it. If you cannot get what you want, you must teach yourself to want what you can get. This is a very frequent form of spiritual retreat in depth, into a kind of inner citadel, in which you try to lock yourself up against all the fearful ills of the world. The king of my province—the prince—confiscates my land: I do not want to own land. The prince does not wish to give me rank: rank is trivial, unimportant. The king has robbed me of my possessions: possessions are nothing. My children have died of malnutrition and disease: earthly attachments, even love of children, are as nothing before love of God. And so forth. You gradually hedge yourself round with a kind of tight wall by which you seek to reduce your vulnerable surface—you want to be as little wounded as possible. Every kind of wound has been heaped upon you, and therefore you wish to contract yourself into the smallest possible area, so that as little of you as possible is exposed to further wounds.” He concludes that “[t]his is the mood in which the German Pietists operated” (Berlin, 44).
The above is striking, as it applies, in my view, to many historical, contemporary, and even personal scenarios. For the latter, I need only consider my post entitled Poetic Reflections: Exploring the Fortress of the Mind. Indeed, I see connections and relevance everywhere.
“The Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog” (oil on canvas, c. 1818) by Caspar David Friedrich (1774-1840). Hamburger Kunsthalle, Hamburg.
In light of my recent endeavors—posting fables, poetry, and lyrics for songs—it is essential to clarify my intentions. These creations, though shared in this space, are not primarily intended as offerings to others, though I am pleased if others find them of some utility. Rather, they represent my personal journey to navigate and comprehend the tumultuous landscape—the chaos—of my mind, my life, and my community. Chaos, in this context, is not pejorative; rather, it encapsulates the full spectrum of human experience—joy and sorrow, triumph and defeat, despair and hope, connection and isolation, fear and wonder, intellect and confusion. It embodies, in essence, the unadorned human condition.
Thus, these fables, poetry, and lyrics are not exercises in narcissistic introspection but rather unvarnished articulations of my attempt to discern order, meaning, or purpose—if any is to be found—from the chaos, and to commit my journey to metaphorical paper. To others, many of the words, allusions, and themes recording my thoughts may remain obscure, inaccessible, or even enigmatic—yet each word, allusion, and theme was chosen with care, purpose, and meaning, even if others cannot grasp it. And so it must be.
As these ramblings take form, I have noticed recurrent themes and words surfacing. In time, I shall undoubtedly delve more deeply into these themes, as they surely reveal either truths or obsessions that I should explore more systematically for my own edification. I may also conduct a census of the recurrent words—if only to either find more synonyms or avoid redundancy.
In the meantime, I apologize for the occasional poorly written or contrived poem, fable, or lyric. I also ask for your patience with those that you find incomprehensible, though artful—I assure you that they have deep meaning to me. Bear this fool kindly, as a fool must pursue his ramblings!
THE KING’S DELIVERANCE – A “Hymn” commemorating the rescue of the King from an attempted kidnapping by the Bar Confederation conspirators in 1771.
It is with pleasure that I share with you The King’s Deliverance, a musical composition inspired by the 1771 AR Medal crafted by Johann Leonhard Oexlein. This piece sets to music the lyrics written to commemorate the remarkable escape of King Stanisław August Poniatowski from an attempted abduction by the Bar Confederation, a group of Polish nobles opposed to Russian influence in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.
The medal, with its powerful inscriptions from the Psalms and intricate artistic details, captures the moment when “divine providence” intervened to protect the king. It symbolizes not only his deliverance but also the mercy he showed towards those who conspired against him. This event, which unfolded on the night of November 3, 1771, had far-reaching consequences, ultimately strengthening the king’s position. The hymn highlights the themes of justice and divine protection.
For those interested in a more detailed exploration of the medal and the history of the incident, I refer you back to an earlier post where I provide a fuller explanation of these significant historical elements.
The King’s Deliverance seeks to encapsulate these historical themes through music and lyrics, offering a tribute to this significant moment in Polish history. You are invited to watch the video and reflect on the enduring legacy of King Stanisław August’s resilience and mercy.
Northcoast Antiquarian 