Category: Literature

Light, Shadow, and the Human Quest: The Duality of Science and Shit

In this piece, the author reflects on the interconnected nature of language and life, using the evolution of the Proto-Indo-European root “skei-” as a lens. This root gave rise to words like “science” and “shit,” which represent opposing concepts but share a common origin. The author explores how this linguistic duality mirrors broader philosophical and religious themes of light and shadow, good and evil. By drawing parallels to Jungian psychology, Christian theology, and the works of Dante and Rumi, the author highlights the interplay between knowledge and waste, creation and rejection, light and shadow as essential to the human condition.

Vitruvian Man (Pen, brown ink, and watercolor over metalpoint on paper, c. 1490) by Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519). Gallerie dell’Accademia, Venice.

Language, much like life itself, often reveals the interplay of opposites—light and shadow, creation and destruction, knowledge and ignorance. The study of etymology, the history of words, can uncover surprising connections between concepts that seem worlds apart, offering us profound insights into the human condition. One such connection is found in the shared origin of the words science and shit. Though these words have come to represent vastly different ideas, they both trace their lineage back to the same ancient root: the Proto-Indo-European (PIE) root skei-, meaning “to cut” or “to split.” This essay explores how these seemingly disparate words, rooted in the same ancient origin, serve as powerful metaphors for the light and shadow inherent in the human condition and the perennial quest for understanding.

Proto-Indo-European Roots: The Seeds of Language

Proto-Indo-European (PIE) is not a language we have direct evidence of—it is a reconstructed ancestor, a theoretical framework derived from comparing the languages that descended from it, such as Latin, Greek, Sanskrit, and Old English. PIE roots, like skei-, are the conceptual building blocks from which countless words in these descendant languages evolved. These roots are not words in the modern sense but rather represent basic, primal ideas—actions like cutting or splitting, states of being, or essential objects.

In PIE, the root skei- originally meant “to cut” or “to split.” From this simple, physical concept, a remarkable range of words has emerged across different languages, each bearing the imprint of its original meaning while branching out into diverse semantic fields. This evolution offers us a window into how the same fundamental idea can develop in different directions, leading to words that are as disparate in meaning as science and shit.

The Evolution of Skei- in the Romance Languages

In Latin, skei- evolved into scire, meaning “to know,” which later gave rise to the word scientia and eventually science in English. This path reflects the metaphorical extension of “cutting” as a process of discernment, a way of separating truth from falsehood, knowledge from ignorance.

Beyond scientia, the influence of skei- in the Romance languages is extensive. Consider the Latin word secare, meaning “to cut,” which directly inherits the original sense of the PIE root. From secare stem a multitude of words in the Romance languages associated with cutting, division, and distinction. For example, the English word section derives from the Latin sectio, meaning “a cutting” or “division.” Similarly, segment, from Latin segmentum, refers to something that has been cut off or separated from the whole.

In French, the verb scier (to saw) also traces its lineage back to skei-, emphasizing the physical act of cutting. Meanwhile, the word ciseau (chisel), though phonetically and morphologically transformed, ultimately connects to the same root, representing a tool used to cut or shape materials. Italian retains the word secare (to cut), giving us sezione (section) and segmento (segment), maintaining the connection to division and separation.

Even more abstractly, the root skei- gave rise to words that convey the notion of separating or distinguishing in non-physical ways. The Latin discernere (to discern), combining dis- (apart) and cernere (to sift, to separate), encapsulates the mental process of distinguishing between different ideas or concepts. This term evolved into the French discerner and the Italian discernere, both of which continue to convey the act of intellectual separation and judgment.

The linguistic journey of skei- culminates in the English word science, derived from the Latin scientia. Here, science encapsulates the essence of skei-, as the pursuit of knowledge is fundamentally about separating truth from falsehood, understanding from ignorance. Science, in its most basic form, is the practice of discernment—of cutting through the noise to reveal the underlying principles that govern our world.

The Germanic Branch: From Skei- to Shit

In the Germanic languages, the PIE root skei- also left its mark, though in a different form. The sense of “cutting” or “separating” was preserved, but the focus shifted towards more physical, often bodily, processes. In Old High German, the word scīzan meant “to defecate,” directly preserving the sense of separation as it applies to bodily waste. This verb gave rise to similar terms in other Germanic languages: scheiden in Middle Dutch and skita in Old Norse, all of which convey the idea of separating waste from the body.

The Old English word scitan developed from this same root, referring to the act of defecation. Over time, scitan evolved into shit in Middle English, a term that has persisted into modern English with its meaning largely unchanged. Unlike its Latin counterpart, which evolved into abstract notions of knowledge and discernment, the Germanic branch retained a more literal, physical interpretation of skei-, focusing on the act of excretion.

This divergence is emblematic of the broader thematic dichotomy explored in this essay. The PIE root skei- gave rise to science—the disciplined pursuit of knowledge, marked by precision and intellectual rigor. Yet it also gave us shit—a word rooted in the most basic, physical processes, often associated with what is discarded or deemed unworthy.

A Metaphor for Life’s Duality

The linguistic journey of the PIE root skei- culminates in a profound metaphor for life’s duality: science, the pursuit of knowledge and enlightenment, represents the light, while shit, the rejected and discarded, embodies the shadow. This dichotomy between light and shadow is a theme that resonates deeply across various philosophical and religious traditions, each grappling with the tension between what is revered and what is reviled, what is illuminated and what remains in darkness.

Sassanid-era relief at Nassqsh-e Rostam depicting Ahura Mazda presenting the diadem of sovereignty to Ardashir I (180-242AD). Photograph by Wojciech Kocot / CC BY-SA 4.0.

In many philosophies and religions, light is associated with truth, purity, and the divine. In ancient Zoroastrianism, one of the oldest dualistic religions, the eternal battle between Ahura Mazda (the god of light) and Angra Mainyu (the spirit of darkness) symbolizes the cosmic struggle between good and evil. Here, light is knowledge, order, and goodness—concepts closely aligned with what we might associate with science, the disciplined pursuit of understanding that seeks to illuminate the mysteries of the universe. In contrast, Angra Mainyu is associated with the physical world’s corrupt and defiled aspects, bringing death, decay, and moral corruption—elements metaphorically aligned with shit, representing what is base, impure, and rejected.

However, it is important to note that while mainstream Zoroastrianism presents Ahura Mazda and Angra Mainyu as distinct and opposing forces without a common origin, a divergent tradition within Zoroastrianism, known as Zurvanism, offers a different perspective. Zurvanism posits Zurvan (Time) as the primordial deity, the ultimate source from which both Ahura Mazda and Angra Mainyu emerged. Just as the words science and shit diverge from the same linguistic root to embody opposing concepts, Zurvanism’s narrative suggests that the duality of light and darkness, good and evil, originates from a single, primordial source. This perspective mirrors the linguistic evolution we see with skei-, where a single root gives rise to words with vastly different meanings.

Just as the duality of light and darkness is central to Zoroastrian thought, Christianity presents its own understanding of these forces, offering a distinct yet parallel exploration of the tension between good and evil. Although Zurvanism was influential for a time, it was eventually deemed heretical by mainstream Zoroastrianism, which maintained a strict dualism without a common origin for good and evil. This divergence in religious thought parallels the Christian perspective on light and shadow, good and evil.

In Christianity, light is often used as a metaphor for God’s presence, truth, and divine guidance. The creation story in Genesis begins with God’s command: “Let there be light” (Genesis 1:3), bringing light into the void and establishing the foundation of the universe. However, it is essential to recognize that God is also the creator of darkness and shadow. Isaiah 45:7 affirms this: “I form the light and create darkness, I bring prosperity and create disaster; I, the Lord, do all these things.” This verse underscores that both light and shadow, good and evil, are within God’s dominion.

An illustration from “Milton’s Paradise Lost illustrated by Gustave Dore.”

God is also the creator of Satan, originally an angel named Lucifer, who rebelled against God’s authority. According to Christian tradition, as depicted in Paradise Lost by John Milton, Satan’s rebellion leads to his expulsion from Heaven and his fall into Hell. Milton vividly describes Satan’s fall, portraying him as a once-glorious being who becomes the ruler of a realm of darkness and despair, a place of punishment that is also part of God’s creation. In Paradise Lost, Hell is depicted as a kingdom of “darkness visible,” where Satan and his fallen angels are condemned to eternal torment.

This depiction of Hell is further elaborated in Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy, particularly in the Inferno. Dante places Satan at the very center of Hell, a realm of perpetual darkness and despair. Here, the damned suffer in various circles filled with filth and excrement, symbolizing the moral corruption that led them to their fate. Especially vivid is his articulation of the fate of flatterers, recounted in Canto XVIII:

“Here we heard people whine in the next chasm,
and knock and thump themselves with open palms,
and blubber through their snouts as if in a spasm.

Steaming from that pit, a vapour rose
over the banks, crusting them with a slime
that sickened my eyes and hammered at my nose.

That chasm sinks so deep we could not sight
its bottom anywhere until we climbed
along the rock arch to its greatest height.

Once there, I peered down; and I saw long lines
of people in a river of excrement
that seemed the overflow of the world’s latrines.

I saw among the felons of that pit
one wraith who might or might not have been tonsured—
one could not tell, he was so smeared with shit.”

Illustration for Inferno Canto XVIII by Gustave Doré (1832–1883), from The Divine Comedy: The Vision of Hell by Dante Alighieri, translated by H. F. Cary, M.A., 1892. Cassell and Company.

The image of Satan presiding over a kingdom of darkness and filth powerfully illustrates the connection between evil, rejection, and waste—concepts intimately tied to the notion of shit. In Dante’s vision, Hell’s filth is not merely a punishment but a reflection of the inner corruption of the soul, manifesting physically in the environment of the damned.

Darkness and shadow, therefore, are not merely the absence of light but are active forces within the world, created by God to fulfill His divine plan. Just as light reveals and guides, shadow obscures and challenges, reminding humanity of the consequences of straying from the path of righteousness.

The shadow—represented here by shit—carries connotations of what is hidden, ignored, or rejected. In Jungian psychology, the “shadow” represents the unconscious mind, the darker, hidden parts of ourselves that we “cut off,” deny or repress. Jung’s concept of the shadow is not just an abstract idea; it is a fundamental aspect of the psyche that influences behavior, decisions, and self-perception. The shadow is composed of all the aspects of our personality that we do not wish to acknowledge, the traits and impulses that are contrary to our conscious self-image. These elements are not necessarily evil, but they are often perceived as such because they conflict with the ideals and norms of society or our personal moral compass.

Jungian psychology teaches that the shadow must be confronted and integrated into our conscious awareness to achieve psychological wholeness. This process, known as individuation, involves bringing the shadow to light, recognizing it as part of ourselves, and reconciling it with our conscious identity. The failure to do so can result in projection, where we see our own shadow traits in others, or in the shadow manifesting in destructive behaviors.

In a similar vein, Samuel Beckett’s wayfarers in Waiting for Godot find themselves mired in a cyclical existence, often lying in ditches—literal and metaphorical—beset by a sense of futility and degradation. These ditches, filled with the mire of their own making, symbolize the excremental realities that we, too, must navigate. Here, the clash between our lofty aspirations and the baseness of our condition becomes starkly apparent. It is in such moments, where the struggle between light and shadow is most palpable, that the human quest for understanding reaches its existential depths.

A critical part of Carl Gustav Jung’s own journey involved confronting what might be considered the ultimate shadow: the filth and shit inherent in life itself. In a pivotal dream, which Jung described in his autobiography, he saw God defecating on a cathedral. This shocking image challenged his previously held religious beliefs and led him to a deeper understanding that both the sacred and the profane, light and shadow, are intrinsic to the truth of human experience. For Jung, recognizing and integrating these elements was essential to achieving psychological and spiritual wholeness.

The Christian concept of sin and the Jungian shadow share significant parallels. Just as sin is what separates humanity from God, the shadow is what separates the conscious self from the full realization of the psyche’s potential. In both cases, the shadow or sin must be acknowledged and transcended to achieve a higher state of being. The metaphor of shit, then, becomes a powerful symbol for the shadow—something that must be expelled or transformed if one is to attain spiritual or psychological clarity.

Just as the light of science allows us to discern truth, the exploration of the shadow—be it in Dante’s dark realms, Jung’s psychological depths, or the moral struggles depicted in Christian theology—reveals the complexity of the human condition. It challenges us to confront what we might prefer to ignore, to recognize that the pursuit of purpose or truth is not only about enlightenment but also about grappling with the darkness within.

In addition to the psychological insights provided by Jung, the teachings of the 13th-century Persian poet and mystic Jalāl Al-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī offer a profound perspective on integrating the shadow. Rūmī, known for his deeply spiritual and allegorical tales, explores themes of love, transformation, and the human journey toward divine understanding.

In one tale from his Masnavi, the Prophet Mohammed encounters a man known as the Huge Eater, who, after a night of excessive eating, defecates in his bed. Rather than chastising him, Mohammed quietly cleans the soiled bedclothes. This act of humility and compassion profoundly moves the man, leading to his spiritual awakening.

Rūmī’s tale symbolizes the cleansing of the shadow—what Jung might metaphorically describe as the basest parts of our psyche—transforming what is impure within us into something pure. As Rūmī writes, “When the body empties and stays empty, God fills it with musk and mother of pearl. That way a man gives his dung and gets purity.” This stanza underscores the transformative process, where acknowledging and cleansing these shadow elements leads to spiritual growth. It also subtly alludes to the idea of “cutting off” or removing what is impure to make room for the divine.

Just as Muḥammad’s act of dealing with literal shit in Rūmī’s tale leads to the man’s transformation, so too does the integration of our shadow lead to deeper knowledge and understanding. This mirrors the duality discussed throughout the essay: the interplay between science and shit, light and shadow, and the continuous process of transformation that defines the human experience.

But this exploration of light and shadow, science and shit, extends beyond the mere experience of these dualities. It speaks to the human quest—the relentless search for truth that drives our existence. This quest is fraught with tension, as illustrated in the imagined dialogue I recently wrote between da Vinci and Beckett. Da Vinci, the archetypal figure of the Renaissance, represents the light of reason, the pursuit of knowledge through science and art. Beckett, on the other hand, embodies the existential struggle, the shadow of doubt, despair, and the acknowledgment of the absurdities that define human existence.

Their dialogue captures the essence of this tension: the push and pull between the desire to illuminate the world with knowledge and the recognition of the inherent limitations and darker aspects of that pursuit. It is within this tension that the human search for truth takes place, a journey that is neither straightforward nor devoid of shadow.

In their imagined conversation, continued anew here, Leonardo da Vinci, the Renaissance polymath, questions Beckett about the purpose of his work, Waiting for Godot. Da Vinci, who devoted his life to the pursuit of knowledge and the perfection of art, sees in Beckett’s work an unsettling reflection of the human condition—a world stripped of certainty, where meaning is elusive and the quest for truth is often met with silence.

Da Vinci: “Your characters wait endlessly, in vain, for something—or someone—that never arrives. Is this the conclusion of your inquiry? That we are condemned to wait, to search without hope?”

Beckett: “Leonardo, your works capture the beauty and order of the world, but what of the chaos, the emptiness? My work reflects the shadow, the nothingness that underlies our existence. The quest for meaning is not always met with light; often, it is swallowed by the void. Yet, in the waiting, in the recognition of the absurdity, there is a truth—perhaps not the truth we desire, but a truth nonetheless.”

Da Vinci: “Yet, to acknowledge the void is not to surrender to it. Even in the shadow, there is form, there is structure. My studies of anatomy, of light and shadow, reveal the underlying patterns of life. Can we not find meaning even in the darkness?”

Beckett: “Perhaps. But meaning in darkness is not the same as light. It is ambiguous, fleeting, and it demands a confrontation with the parts of ourselves we’d rather not see—the shadow, as Jung might call it. We cannot have one without the other, can we?”

Da Vinci: “No, we cannot. My work has always sought to unify—to bring together the light and the dark, the known and the unknown. Your work, in its starkness, Samuel, reminds us that this unity is not easily achieved, that the search for truth is fraught with difficulties, and that sometimes, the answers we seek lie in the very questions we ask.”

Beckett: “And so we continue, each in our own way. You with your light, me with my shadow. Both necessary, both incomplete without the other.”

This dialogue between da Vinci and Beckett reflects the core of the human experience—the pursuit of knowledge and meaning, which inevitably involves grappling with both light and shadow, science and shit. It is through this dialectic, this ongoing tension between opposites, that we inch closer to understanding the complex reality of our existence.

Yin and Yang motif featured at the center of the reverse side of the silver fifty-cent piece from Kirin Province, Empire of China, issued during the reign of the Guangxu Emperor (1875-1908).
Coin image courtesy of Stephen Album Rare Coins.

The Taoist concept of Yin and Yang further encapsulates this duality, with Yin representing the shadowy, passive, and receptive aspects of the universe, and Yang symbolizing the bright, active, and creative forces. Unlike the Western dichotomies of good and evil, light and darkness, Taoism teaches that these forces are not in opposition but are interdependent and interconnected. Yin and Yang exist in a dynamic balance, each necessary to the other—just as science and shit both derive from the same linguistic root, and just as light and shadow originate from the same source. This balance reflects a more holistic understanding of duality, one where opposites are seen not as conflicting entities but as complementary forces that together create a unified whole.

Thus, from a single ancient root, we derive two words that reflect this timeless duality: science, the light guiding us toward knowledge and understanding, and shit, the shadow symbolizing what is cast aside, hidden, or ignored. This divergence serves as a powerful metaphor for the duality inherent in human experience and our ongoing quest for truth. Just as light and shadow originate from the same source, so too do our highest ideals and our basest realities emerge from the same fundamental force.

Recall that Dante’s journey in The Divine Comedy culminates in the Paradiso, where the pilgrim is ultimately united with the divine light, a symbol of ultimate truth and understanding. This final vision represents the fulfillment of the human quest for knowledge and the transcendence of earthly shadows. While Dante’s Paradiso offers an idealized conclusion—one that many might consider beyond the reach of human experience—it underscores the universal journey through light and shadow, science and shit, a path marked by both striving and imperfection.

Indeed, in exploring the relationship between science and shit, we confront the uncomfortable truth that both are essential parts of the human condition—two sides of the same coin, each reflecting different aspects of our quest to understand and navigate the world. The light of science allows us to discern, to separate truth from falsehood, illuminating the path ahead. But the shadow of shit reminds us of the inevitable waste, the parts of our existence that we might prefer to forget but which are nonetheless integral to the whole.

Tracing the evolution of skei- from PIE to modern English deepens our understanding of the intertwined nature of knowledge and waste, creation and rejection, light and shadow. This exploration reveals that these seemingly opposite concepts are, in truth, two sides of the same coin—each essential to the human condition, each a reflection of the complex interplay of light and shadow that defines our existence, and each a testament to the perpetual human quest for truth.

Bibliography

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Beekes, R. S. P. (2011). Comparative Indo-European Linguistics: An Introduction (2nd ed.). John Benjamins Publishing Company.

Boyce, M. (2001). Zoroastrians: Their Religious Beliefs and Practices (2nd ed.). Routledge.

Dante Alighieri. (2003). The Divine Comedy. Trans. John Ciardi. New American Library.

De Vaan, M. (2008). Etymological Dictionary of Latin and the Other Italic Languages. Brill.

Fortson, B. W. (2010). Indo-European Language and Culture: An Introduction (2nd ed.). Wiley-Blackwell.

Graver, L. (2004). Beckett: Waiting for Godot (2nd ed.). Landmarks of World Literature. Cambridge University Press.

Harper, D. (n.d.). skei-. In Online Etymology Dictionary. Retrieved August 30, 2024, from https://www.etymonline.com/word/*skei-

Jung, C. G. (1959). Aion: Researches into the Phenomenology of the Self (Collected Works, Vol. 9, Part 2). Princeton University Press.

Jung, C. G. (1963). Memories, Dreams, Reflections. (Aniela Jaffé, Ed., & Richard and Clara Winston, Trans.). Vintage Books.

Kohn, L. (2009). The Taoist Experience: An Anthology. State University of New York Press.

Laozi. (2003). Tao Te Ching. Translated by D. C. Lau. Penguin Classics.

Mallory, J. P., & Adams, D. Q. (1997). Encyclopedia of Indo-European Culture. Fitzroy Dearborn Publishers.

Mallory, J. P., & Adams, D. Q. (2006). The Oxford Introduction to Proto-Indo-European and the Proto-Indo-European World. Oxford University Press.

Milton, J. (2008). The Major Works including Paradise Lost. Oxford University Press.

New International Version. (2011). The Holy Bible. Zondervan.

Rumi, J. (2004). The Essential Rumi (New Expanded Edition, Translated by Coleman Barks). HarperOne.

Watkins, C. (2000). The American Heritage Dictionary of Indo-European Roots (2nd ed.). Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

Yarab, D. S. (2024, August 29). Exploring Art and Existence: A Dialogue Between Leonardo da Vinci and Samuel Beckett. North Coast Antiquarian. https://northcoastantiquarian.com/2024/08/29/exploring-art-and-existence-a-dialogue-between-leonardo-da-vinci-and-samuel-beckett/

Exploring Art and Existence: A Dialogue between Leonardo da Vinci and Samuel Beckett

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.

Nietzsche, Proust, and My Antiquarian Self

Recently, I mentioned that I had read Friedrich Nietzsche’s “On the Use and Abuse of History.” My rough and tumble summary is as follows:

In “On the Uses and Abuses of History,” Nietzsche delineates three principal approaches to history: monumental, antiquarian, and critical. He argues that each methodology serves distinct purposes and carries unique implications for the perception and utilization of historical knowledge.

Monumental History: This approach venerates history as a continuum of extraordinary deeds and eminent individuals, offering inspiration for present and future endeavors. It emphasizes the perpetuity of greatness, encouraging individuals to aspire to the achievements of historical giants. Nietzsche asserts that by demonstrating what was once attainable remains within the realm of possibility that monumental history acts as a powerful motivational force.

Antiquarian History: Antiquarian history esteems the past for its own intrinsic value, driven by reverence and loyalty. It concentrates on the preservation of customs, traditions, and artifacts, fostering a sense of continuity and belonging. Nietzsche argues that this approach is indispensable for cultivating a collective memory and identity and providing comfort and a sense of rootedness within a historical continuum.

Critical History: Critical history is characterized by its evaluative and interrogative stance towards the past. It enables individuals and societies to extricate themselves from outdated or oppressive traditions, serving as a liberating force that facilitates progress. Nietzsche states that by challenging and reassessing historical narratives, critical history promotes a dynamic and progressive engagement with the past.

Balancing These Approaches: Nietzsche stresses that equilibrium among these historical approaches is essential for an appropriate engagement with history. An overemphasis on monumental history may lead to the undue glorification of the past, which stifles innovation. Conversely, an excessive focus on antiquarian history risks engendering a stagnant conservatism resistant to necessary change and progress. Additionally, overreliance on critical history can result in destructive cynicism and a disconnection from one’s heritage. A balanced historical perspective integrates the aspirational qualities of monumental history, the conserving virtues of antiquarian history, and the emancipatory critique of critical history. This synthesis fosters a society that respects its past, cherishes its heritage, and remains receptive to change and improvement.

My introduction to Nietzsche’s characterizations of historical approaches was revelatory, as it revealed much about my own approaches and reactions to history and historical objects. It also clarified the occasional disconnect I experience when engaging with contemporary historical studies, methodologies, and historians. In brief, I perceive that the current academic climate exhibits a pronounced imbalance, favoring critical history.[1] This predominance serves the interests of individual academicians and ideologues, rather than the broader objectives of history or society. Conversely, within the realm of political society, there is a noticeable tilt towards monumental history, almost entirely neglecting antiquarian and critical perspectives, which poses significant risks. Interestingly, I find myself slightly imbalanced in the Nietzschean sense, perhaps excessively favoring antiquarian history, thereby rendering myself somewhat out of step with both the Academy and political society. The quest for balance is imperative.

However, the aforementioned observations merely serve as a prelude to the more profound enlightenment I experienced while delving into Nietzsche’s concept of antiquarian history. In a particularly insightful article by Stephen Bann, entitled “Clio in Part: On Antiquarianism and the Historical Fragment,” published in 1987, I encountered a truly remarkable quote from Marcel Proust. This quotation elucidated, with striking clarity, my perspectives on literature, history, historical artifacts (including coins), and my self-identification as an antiquarian. It profoundly articulated the essence of what this self-identification entails and reinforced my understanding of my approach to these fields.

To provide a fitting introduction for individuals unfamiliar with the work from which I take Proust’s quote, which is to follow, it is essential to contextualize Proust’s reflections on the imaginative power of antiquities. In “Contre Sainte-Beuve,” a collection of essays in which Marcel Proust critiques the method of literary criticism employed by Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve, he vividly describes how historical imagination can transform our perception of ancient sites, such as the fictional estate of Guermantes. Guermantes, a recurring symbol in Proust’s magnum opus “In Search of Lost Time,” represents an idealized vision of the past, embodying the timelessness and continuity of history. The following excerpt from “Contre Sainte-Beuve” beautifully captures the essence of this transformation, illustrating how the past and present converge through the lens of imagination:

“And if Guermantes does not disappoint one as all imagined things do when reduced to reality; this is undoubtedly because at no time is it a real place, because even when one is walking about in it, one feels that the things one sees there are merely the wrappings of other things, that reality lies, not in this present but far elsewhere, that the stone under one’s hand is no more than a metaphor of Time; and the imagination feeds on Guermantes visited as it fed on Guermantes described because all these things are still only words, everything is a splendid figure of speech that means something else…. As for the castle towers, I tell you they are not only of that date, they are still in it. This is what stirs one’s heart when one looks at them. People always account for the emotional quality of old buildings by saying how much they must have seen in their time. Nothing could be more untrue. Look at the towers of Guermantes; they still look down on Queen Matilda’s cavalcade, on their dedication by Charles the Bad. They have seen nothing since. The moment when things exist is determined by the consciousness that reflects them; at that moment, they become ideas and are given their form; and their form, in its perpetuity, prolongs one century through the midst of others.”[2]

That final sentence resonates with me profoundly, both emotionally and instinctively. It elucidates why I have often conveyed to friends and family that, despite not having physically traversed great distances in my lifetime, I have, in truth, journeyed to more places and temporalities than almost anyone I know. This has been achieved through my extensive readings and the curation of my collections.

It also illuminates why, nearly twenty-five years ago, when a beloved friend and colleague faced a life-threatening health condition, I found it fitting to send her an antique silver Ethiopian Coptic Cross from my collection. This cross, approximately a century old, was likely crafted from silver originating from a Maria Theresa Trade Thaler. Accompanying the cross was a note explaining that, although it resided in my collection as an antiquarian item, it was made by the Faithful, for the Faithful, to aid the Faithful in prayer. Thus, the aura of its origin and use still imbued it with a sacred presence, which she, as one of the Faithful seeking prayer, would find comforting during that critical time. The words of Proust, I believe, provide a more cogent explanation of what I, ever the antiquarian, attempted to convey in my letter.

[1] A powerful discussion of the current imbalance in the Academy, with its excessive favoring of critical history and the attendant detrimental societal affects, is found in an essay by Julian Young. Unfortunately, the essay, which has a convincing introduction and general analysis of the situation, suffers horribly from poor analysis in the section entitled The Anxieties of Youth and fails absolutely in the particulars of its conclusion, which approaches an ideological agenda despite its disclaimers. The essay is still recommended for it strong beginnings as it only goes off the rails towards the very end. Young, J. (2023). The Uses and Misuses of History: Reflections on Nietzsche’s Second Untimely Meditation. Society, 60(670-683). https://doi.org/10.1007/s12115-023-00879-0

[2] Bann, S. (1987). Clio in Part: On Antiquarianism and the Historical Fragment. Perspecta, 23, 37, quote is cited in fn25 to Proust, M. (1984). By way of Sainte-Beuve (S. Townsend Warner, Trans.). London: Hogarth. 182-183.

In Praise of Sîn-lēqi-unninni, Ancient Co-Author of the Epic of Gilgamesh

Clay tablets. Story of Gilgamesh and Aga. Old Babylonian period, 2003-1595 BC. Sulaymaniyah Museum Collection, Iraqi Kurdistan

Clay tablets. Story of Gilgamesh and Aga. Old Babylonian period, 2003-1595 BC. Sulaymaniyah Museum, Iraqi Kurdistan. (CC-BY SA 4.0. Dr. Osama Shukir Muhammed Amin).

Homer, even if the fictive creator of the Iliad and the Odyssey, is inseparable in the mind from those masterful and inspiring works of literature. Equally inseparable should be Sin-lēqi-unninni from the Epic of Gilgamesh.

Andrew George, whose engaging translation of the Epic of Gilgamesh is readily acknowledged by later translators of the epic as “a master class in philological precision and ingenuity,” has this to say about Sin-lēqi-unninni:

According to Babylonian tradition the [Epic of Gilgamesh] was the work of a certain Sîn-lēqi-unninni, a scholar from Uruk who was believed to have been a contemporary of Gilgamesh himself. However, Sîn-lēqi-unninni bears a name of a kind not found before the second millennium, so the tradition clearly preserved an anachronism. Instead, there is little doubt that Sîn-lēqi-unninni’s name was associated with the epic because he was the man who gave it its final, fixed form. Sîn-lēqi-unninni is thus one of the earliest editors in recorded history. From a comparison of the standard version of the first millennium with the older fragments we know that the person responsible for the standard version remodeled the poem. He provided it with a new prologue and recast the story to emphasize the theme of wisdom gained through suffering. Probably he was responsible for interpolating a version of the flood story, adapted from the old poem of Atra-hasis, and for appending to the epic as Tablet XII the rump of one of the Sumerian poems of Bilgames in an Akkadian prose translation. He left his mark also on the prosody, reducing variation in parallel and similar passages by combining their lines and repeating them verbatim to produce a text characterized by long sections of repetition where older versions had none. For this he often stands accused of damaging the poem’s literary qualities, but at the same time it can be argued that he introduced a profundity of thought that was probably lacking in the older versions.

Though the editorship of Sîn-lēqi-unninni probably changed the poem so radically that it is no wonder the Babylonians later named him as its author, it is clear from the multiple versions of the second millennium and from the existence of textual variants in the standard version of the first millennium, that he was not the only individual to leave his mark on the written epic. However, we know nothing of these others.

George, Andrew (2008) ‘Shattered tablets and tangled threads: Editing Gilgamesh, then and now.’ Aramazd. Armenian Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 3 (1). pp. 11-12.

George, perhaps, does an injustice to Sin-lēqi-unninni, by relegating him to the role of editor alone.  Sin-lēqi-unninni was not mere scribe, nor compilator, nor even editor; rather, because of the number and weight of the substantive additions and structural changes he made to the epic, we may rightly view him as an ingenious co-creator of the ever-inspiring epic, such that modern publications could have a title page reading Sin-lēqi-unninni’s Epic of Gilgamesh.

Book cover, Andrew George The Epic of Gilgamesh

Like George, my first introduction to Gilgamesh was the narrative prose synthesis by N.K. Sandar, The Epic of Gilgamesh. George read the 1960 copyrighted version in the Penguin Book series whereas I read the 1972 revised copyrighted version (reprinted in 1981). Also, like George, I have been enthralled by the epic ever since; although, admittedly, he more so since he devoted his life to Assyriology and teaching the Akkadian and Sumerian language and literature. Indeed, his inspired, scholarly translation of the work, The Epic of Gilgamesh, referenced above, was also published by Penguin Books (©1999, 2003, 2020), and is likely my favorite translation.

The life that you seek you will never find:
when the gods created mankind,
death they dispensed to mankind,
life they kept for themselves.

The Epic of Gilgamesh (2020), A. George, p. xlv

Two other translations of the poem in my library, both meritorious and worthy of note, include the recently published Gilgamesh: A New Translation of the Ancient Epic, by Sophus Helle (2021), which sought to strike a middle ground between George’s scholarly translation and the “translations of translations,” which can be used to described the other work in my library, Stephen Mitchell’s Gilgamesh (2004). Harold Bloom described Mitchell’s version of Gilgamesh as the “best I have seen in English” at the time it was published.

Book cover, Stephen Mitchell's Gilgamesh

Gilgamesh is a well I go to for reflection and creative thought repeatedly. This is not surprising, as The New York Review of Books concisely notes that Gilgamesh inspires reflection and creativity on a multiplicity of levels:

In the century and a half since its rediscovery, however, and especially since World War II, Gilgamesh has made up for lost time. It has been translated into at least two dozen languages and been the inspiration for countless works of theater, film, poetry, fiction, and visual art. Musical responses to Gilgamesh include several operas, a ballet, hip-hop, jazz fusion, and an ear-pummeling track called “Gilgameš” by the Greek extreme metal band Rotting Christ.

Gilgamesh has also been acclaimed as the earliest work of ecological literature and included in The Columbia Anthology of Gay Literature as a founding text of queer writing, for its treatment of the relationship between Gilgamesh and his wild-man friend, Enkidu. The cultural energy of Gilgamesh shows no sign of dimming; the novelist Naja Marie Aidt describes it as a “fireball” that “has torn through time,” constantly in a process of reentry to the present.

New York Review of Books (October 20, 2022), “A Fireball from the Sands,” by Robert Macfarlane.
Book cover, Sophus Helle's Gilgamesh

Some of my favorite more recent creative endeavors include two musical works. The first is a Lament on the Death of Enkidu, set to music and sung in Akkadian, based on the poetry of the epic. Peter Pringle, the creator, notes that he was helped along in his pronunciation of the Akkadian by Dr. George. It is simply stunning. Take a moment to listen and reflect on your mortality.

Gilgamesh’s Lament for the Death of Enikidu

The second is a nod to the ecological message that many find in the epic related to the consequences of the indiscriminate felling of the cedar forest in Lebanon. As explained in the New York Review of Books:

During the UK’s pandemic lockdown, [Robert] Macfarlane cowrote an album with the singer-songwriter and actor Johnny Flynn, Lost in the Cedar Wood. They collaborated on lyrics, sharing photos of notebook pages while in their respective homes, and Flynn would set them to music. “It felt like a wild wonder, to be able to feed words into the Johnny Flynn Song Machine and get a demo back a few days later!”

In addition to daily life in lockdown, the album is inspired by the Epic of Gilgamesh: “We wanted to write something both ancient and urgent,” said Macfarlane. “At the heart of Gilgamesh is the story of an unwise ruler, Gilgamesh himself, taking his axe to the Sacred Cedar Wood and felling these extraordinary trees. A few months after we began work on it, the Fairy Creek calamity started to unfold on Vancouver Island, with the premier of British Columbia, John Horgan, allowing the logging of the old-growth cedar forest there, including trees up to 2,000 years old.” Lines like “It was the first of the tellings/Of all of the fellings” (from the song “Tree Rings”), while unfortunately evergreen, took on a particular significance.  

New York Review of Books (July 10, 2021), Ramblin’ Man. Robert Macfarlane, interviewed by Willa Glickman.
Johnny Flynn and Robert Macfarlane’s Tree Rings

To circle back to the beginning, this remarkable creativity is very much, I believe, the result of the creativity and authorship of the ancient editor of the Epic of Gilgamesh, Sîn-lēqi-unninni. He deserves more credit for the depth and reflection which is inspired by the ancient epic in its most familiar form. Let us celebrate his memory every time we read the epic or enjoy any of its derivative inspirational works.

Giambattista Vico, Metaphorical Language, and the Darmok episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation

Giambattista Vico, an influential figure in the 18th century, has gained recognition for his work on historical imagination. His opus “The New Science,” published in 1744, has contributed significantly to various disciplines, including philosophy, anthropology, literary criticism, and psychology. Vico’s views have influenced notable thinkers and writers, such as Wilhelm Dilthey, Karl Marx, R.G. Collingwood, and James Joyce. Understanding Vico’s perspective on metaphorical language sheds light on the significance of ancient literary and artistic works. This understanding resonates with the “Darmok” episode in Star Trek, where the encounter between two species with different languages reflects Vico’s ideas. The implications of language and culture on human advancement continue to be a subject of debate and analysis.

Giambattista Vico

Of late, the insights and importance of Giambattista Vico, an eighteenth century Neapolitan, especially as they relate to historical imagination, have attracted my attention.  To plumb the depths of the significance of his work, which are far deeper than I initially imagined, I obtained and read a translation of his opus Scienza Nuova seconda (or simply The New Science, the title under which the definitive version published in 1744 is known today).  The translation I obtained was published by Yale University Press in 2020, translated by Jason Taylor and Robert C. Miner, with an introduction by Giuseppe Mazzotta.  It is the third English translation of The New Science and is both well-notated and highly readable.   

Book Cover: The New Science by Giambattista Vico

Giovanni Battista Vico was born in Naples on June 23, 1668.  He received his education at local grammar schools, from Jesuit tutors, and at the University of Naples from which he graduated in 1694 as Doctor of Civil and Canon Law.  Although he never succeeded in obtaining the chair of Jurisprudence at the University of Naples, which he long desired, he did obtain a professorship in Rhetoric at the University, which he held until 1741.  Vico died in Naples in January 1744, at the age of 75. 

In his lifetime Vico’s works were largely unremarked, however, by the nineteenth century his extraordinary insights began to make a significant impression on philosophers, historians, and other intellectuals.  Vico’s ideas reached a wider audience with a German translation of The New Science by W.E. Weber which appeared in 1822, and, more significantly, through a French translation by Jules Michelet in 1824.  Subsequently, Vico’s views influenced the work of Wilhelm Dilthey, Karl Marx, R.G. Collingwood, and James Joyce, who used The New Science to structure Finnegans Wake.  The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy notes that “ … an appreciation of Vico’s thought has spread far beyond philosophy, and his ideas have been taken up by scholars within a range of contemporary disciplines, including anthropology, cultural theory, education, hermeneutics, history, literary criticism, psychology, and sociology. Thus despite obscure beginnings, Vico is now widely regarded as a highly original thinker who anticipated central currents in later philosophy and the human sciences.”

When I was searching for guidance on understanding Vico, I quickly found that some of the greatest intellects of the twentieth century had both lectured and written on him.  For instance, the political philosopher Leo Strauss had lectured on him in Autumn Quarter 1963 at the University of Chicago.  Audio files of the lectures are available at the University’s Leo Strauss Center website; however, the quality of the audio files is uneven and, in many instances, poor.  But not to fear, a comprehensive and helpful written summary of the lectures is available here.  More helpful, and the immediate impetus for this posting, is the second guide I utilized for Vico: the writings by the intellectual historian Isaiah Berlin collected in the work entitled, Three Critics of the Enlightenment – Vico, Hamann, Herder (with a foreword by Jonathan Israel), Second Edition, edited by Henry Hardy, which was published by Princeton University Press in 2013.

Bookcover: Isaiah Berlin's Three Critics of the Enlightenment Vico Haman Herder

From the latter work, Three Critics of the Enlightenment, Berlin wrote a masterful section summarizing Vico’s attitude towards an appropriate historical understanding of humanity’s use of metaphorical language that immediately gave me a greater understanding and appreciation of both Vico’s genius and insight as well as brought to my mind with particular force many different literary and artistic works which I had previously experienced, but in a new and more vivid light.  First, the lengthy extract from Berlin’s essay:

“We normally distinguish between the literal and the metaphorical use of language.  To be literal is to call things by their appropriate names, and describe them in plain, simple terms; to use metaphor is a sophisticated or poetical way of embellishing or heightening such plain usage for the sake of giving pleasure or of creating vivid imaginative effects, or of demonstrating verbal ingenuity; this is usually considered the product of conscious elaboration which could, with enough effort, always be translated back into the plain or literal sense of which it is merely an artificially heightened expression.  Metaphor and simile, even allegory, are not for Vico, deliberate artifices.  They are natural ways of expressing a vision of life different from ours.  Men once thought, according to him, in images rather than concepts, and ‘attributed senses and passions […]to bodies as vast as sky sea and earth’.  What for us a less or more conscious use of rhetorical devices was their sole means of ordering, connecting and conveying what they sensed, observed, remembered, imagined, hoped, feared, worshiped – in short their entire experience.  This is what Vico calls ‘poetic logic’, the pattern of language and thought in the age of heroes.  The metaphorical use precedes – and must precede – the ‘literal’ use of words, as poetry must come before prose, as song is earlier than spoken speech; ‘the source of all poetic locution are two: poverty of language and need to explain and be understood’.  Early man, animist and anthropomorphist, thought in terms of what we now call metaphor as naturally and inevitably as we now think in ‘literal’ phrases.  Hence a great deal of what now passes for literal speech incorporates dead metaphors, the origins of which are so little remembered that they are no longer felt – even faintly – as such.  Since the changing structure of a language ‘tells us the histories of the institutions signified by the words’, we can glean from it something of how their world looked to our ancestors.  Because primitive man cannot abstract, ‘metaphor makes up the great body of the language among all nations’ at that time.  Vico supposed that such men used similes, images and metaphors much as people, to this day, use flags, or uniforms, or Fascist salutes – to convey something directly; this is a use of signs which it would today seem unnatural to call either metaphorical or literal.  Vico maintains that when a primitive man said ‘the blood boils in my heart’, where we should say ‘I am angry’, his ‘metaphorical’ phrase is a uniquely valuable evidence of the way in which such a man though, perceived and felt.  What he felt when he spoke of blood boiling seemed to him – and indeed was – more directly related to his perception of water in a heated cauldron than our sensation of anger would seem to us today.  The marvellous images, the immortal phrases coined by early poets are, according to Vico, due not to conscious flights of fancy but to the fact that the imaginations of such men and their capacity for direct sensations were so much stronger than ours as to be different in kind, while their capacity for precise analogies and scientific observations was far less developed.  Hence, if we are to understand their world, we must try to project ourselves into minds very remote from our own and endowed with these unfamiliar powers.  A world in which men naturally talk of the lip of a cup, the teeth of a rake, the mouth of a river, a neck of land, handfuls of one thing, the heart of another, veins of minerals, bowels of the earth, murmuring waves, whistling winds, smiling skies, groaning tables and weeping willows – such a world must be deeply and systemically different from any in which such phrases are felt, even remotely, to be metaphorical, as contrasted with so-called literal speech.  This is one of Vico’s most revolutionary discoveries.”

A Roman copy of a Hellenistic image of the poet Homer, author of the Iliad and Odyssey, sculpted in white marble between 150 and 125 BC.  Copyright ©Museo Nacional del Prado

Revolutionary indeed!  Who cannot but grasp even a scintilla of the foregoing and not know that reading the Iliad or Gilgamesh will be even more instinctually meaningful and powerful if read with this understanding of how those works struck the ears and core of our ancestors so many thousands of years ago?  And this, finally, brings me to the Darmok episode, which came to mind quite readily as I read the above on metaphorical speech.

A Trekkie I am not.  However, I do recall being struck by the brilliance of the Darmok episode when I first saw it decades ago.  The episode summary: Starfleet, a species known as speaking a literal language, interacts with a species (Tamarians) that uses a metaphorical language.  As a result of the language disconnect, the two species are initially unable to understand each other with tragic consequences as they engage in an ‘epic’ struggle with a hostile predator.  Ultimately, Picard, using the metaphorical language of Gilgamesh, communicates his understanding, such as it is, with the other species, thereby extending a tenuous bridge between the species … with optimistic portents for future relations. Star Trek often had ‘primitive’ species zipping across the universe with advance technology.  As such, it is not surprising that a species capable only of metaphorical language would be capable of interstellar flight in the Star Trek universe.  In Vico’s universe, however, such a primitive state of humanity (for he could conceive only of humanity) would not be capable of such advanced technological achievements.

An Atlantic article published in 2014 noted that many Trekkies also argued that the Tamarians would be unable to be so advanced given the limitations imposed by their metaphorical language. However, the author of the article, Ian Bogost, countered that the Tamarian language was sufficient, if compared, not to metaphor, but perhaps to allegory or, better yet, was understood as an abstraction, that is, a form of logic, which could be best described as a strategy. His argument is, to my sensibilities, convoluted, complex, and unattractive, but worth reviewing.