Chiaroscuro: The Battle Between Light and Shadow within Our Souls

The Good God and the Evil God
By Khalil Gibran

The Good God and the Evil God met on the mountaintop. The Good God said, “Good day to you, brother.” The Evil God did not answer. And the Good God said, “You are in bad humor today.” “Yes,” said the Evil God, “for of late I have often been mistaken for you, called by your name, and treated as if I were you, and it ill-pleases me.” And the Good God said, “But I too have been mistaken for you and called by your name.” The Evil God walked away, cursing the stupidity of man.

In my youth, I eschewed the simplistic notion that humanity was innately good or evil. Rather, I opined that humanity was innately confused—a collective of beings adrift in the vast ocean of existence, grappling with the manifold complexities of our condition. In those earlier days, my worldview was perhaps influenced by the idealism of youth, a belief that clarity could be found in the pursuit of knowledge and understanding.

Now, decades later, having traversed the cacophony of life’s myriad experiences and having engaged with countless multitudes of my fellow beings, I have arrived at a more somber conclusion. The confusion I once recognized as a fundamental aspect of our nature has revealed itself as a fertile ground upon which the basest and blackest of motives take root. It is not merely that we are confused, but that this confusion often serves as a pretext for succumbing to base emotions—emotions that, when left unchecked, lead us to actions driven by hatred, fear, and greed. Those driven by a lust for power know how to play upon, manipulate, and inflame these emotions to their advantage.

Over the past thirty or forty years, I have borne witness to the pernicious effects of these emotions, observing how they fester and metastasize within individuals and societies alike. In my professional and personal endeavors, I have encountered those whose actions are fueled by malignant self-interest, an insatiable hunger for power, or a profound disdain for “the other.” These observations have led me to a troubling realization: that the very forces that drive individuals in their personal lives—those same dark and destructive impulses—also drive nations, shaping the course of history in ways both overt and subtle.

It is here that Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s reflection in The Gulag Archipelago resonates with particular poignancy: “If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being.” Solzhenitsyn’s insight challenges the comforting illusion that evil is an external force, embodied in others who can be isolated and eradicated. Instead, he exposes the profound and unsettling truth that this dichotomy of good and evil resides within each of us. It is a truth that underscores the very essence of our internal struggles—a reflection of the chiaroscuro that defines the human soul.

This inner conflict and the murkiness of moral judgment were starkly impressed upon me during my youth by a singular event: the assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero in El Salvador. Romero, a man of deep faith and profound courage, became the voice for the oppressed, the spokesman for the innocents caught in the crossfire of a brutal civil conflict. His murder, carried out while he was celebrating Mass, was not merely an act of violence; it was an act of profound darkness, a chilling reminder of the depths to which humanity can sink when driven by fear and hatred.

Chiaroscuro – Light and Shadow within Our Souls (The music which I created using Udio.com that inspired this essay, then this video, dedicated to the memory of St. Oscar Romero.)

Romero was assassinated in 1980 less than a month after he wrote the U.S. president as follows: “I am very worried by the news that the government of the United States is studying a form of abetting the arming of El Salvador…. The present junta government and above all the armed forces and security forces unfortunately have not demonstrated their capacity to resolve, in political and structural practice, the grave national problems. In general they have only reverted to repressive violence, producing a total of deaths and injuries much greater than in the recent military regimes whose systematic violation of human rights was denounced by the Inter-American Committee on Human Rights. … As archbishop of the Archdiocese of San Salvador I have an obligation to see that faith and justice reign in my country, (so) I ask you, if you truly want to defend human rights, to prohibit the giving of [U.S.] military aid to the Salvadoran government.” His plea was a direct appeal to the moral conscience of those who held the power to influence the course of the conflict, an appeal which was ignored.

What made this tragedy all the more harrowing was its connection to misguided American foreign policy—we are, after all, the “good guys.” In our fear of communism, a fear that pervaded the geopolitics of the era, we chose to support the bleakest and most ruthless elements within El Salvador with over $5 billion in military and economic aid after the assassination of Romero (equivalent to over $12 billion in 2024). In a population of under five million—of which nearly one million fled the country and nearly 85,000 were killed during the conflict—that level of spending did little for the people but clearly enriched the greed-driven American military-industrial complex and the wealthy in El Salvador. The irony was bitter: in our quest to combat what we perceived as a greater evil, we found ourselves complicit in the oppression and murder of the very innocents we claimed to protect. The financial and military support we provided did not foster peace or justice; instead, it fueled a cycle of violence and repression that devastated a nation, while enriching those who profited from the machinery of war.

Similarly, the events of September 11 unleashed a torrent of rage and hatred—emotions so blinding that they allowed those who led us to manipulate the nation into engaging in war, torture, and atrocities against parties who had no involvement in the tragic events of that day. But beyond the emotions of hate and fear, there lay another, more insidious motivation: greed. The subsequent war in Iraq, which tore asunder communities, families, and an entire nation—even if it did result in the removal of a dictator—was driven not by a quest for justice related to September 11 but by the lure of access to oil, as openly admitted by administration officials and policy documents. The opportunity to test weapons and expand the influence of the military-industrial complex was also a significant factor, furthering the interests of those who profit from conflict, which cost over $1.1 trillion. Our collective hatred blinded us to these underlying motives, distorting our perception of reality and leading us down a path of destruction. The legacy of this blindness is writ large in the deaths of thousands, tens of thousands, and even hundreds of thousands of innocent lives, as well as in the horrors of the torture that occurred at Abu Ghraib prison under our watch and the ongoing moral quagmire of Guantanamo Bay, now in its twenty-second year.

And today, we are witnessing yet another iteration of this tragic cycle in the ongoing conflict between Israel and the Palestinian people. The world watches as Israel, a nation born from the ashes of the Holocaust, wages war upon the open-air concentration camps that confine the Palestinian people—a war supported and funded in large part by the United States. The threats posed to Israel are real and must be addressed, but the hatred and fear that fuel this conflict have become so pervasive, so deeply entrenched, that they have rendered many unable to distinguish between a targeted response to the provocation of October 7, 2023, and a war of extermination against the Palestinian people. As of August 14, 2024, approximately 40,000 Palestinians have been killed and 97,000 wounded, while approximately 1,140 Israelis have been killed and 8,700 wounded. Though it should be evident, it is not, due to the lens of hatred and fear through which so many view the world—most of the dead and wounded are, in every conceivable way, innocents.

Yet, beyond hatred and fear, the influence of greed is once again unmistakable. The military-industrial complex (a fancy way to say the wealthy and greedy) profits handsomely from the $12.5 billion in military aid being funneled to Israel from the U.S. in this current crisis. This unrestrained flow of arms and support, justified by the rhetoric of defense and security, serves to perpetuate the cycle of violence, ensuring that the conflict remains unresolved and that the profits of war continue to flow.

This inability to discern between combatants and innocents, this failure to grasp the complexities and realities of the situation, has led to a bloodthirsty campaign that is as disheartening as it is devastating. The complicity of our own government, and thus ourselves, in this unrestrained violence, in this systematic destruction of lives and communities, is a burden that weighs heavily on the conscience. It is a stark reminder of the perils of allowing fear, hatred, and greed to dictate our actions, of the moral abyss we approach when we fail to temper our instincts with reason and compassion.

These events serve as powerful reminders of the perilous consequences of allowing fear, hatred, and greed to dictate our actions. They underscore the importance of vigilance, of constantly reexamining the moral implications of our choices, both as individuals and as a society. As Carol Matas so eloquently captures in Daniel’s Story: “We are alive. We are human, with good and bad in us. That’s all we know for sure. We can’t create a new species or a new world. That’s been done. Now we have to live within those boundaries. What are our choices? We can despair and curse, and change nothing. We can choose evil like our enemies have done and create a world based on hate. Or we can try to make things better.” Matas’s words are a reminder that, while we may not possess the power to reshape the world or our fundamental nature, we do have the capacity to choose how we respond to the darkness within and around us.

In this context, the chiaroscuro of human existence becomes not merely a passive observation of the interplay between light and shadow, but a call to engage actively in the struggle. It is a reminder that we must strive, both individually and collectively, to make deliberate choices that reflect our higher aspirations rather than our baser instincts. The battle between good and evil may cut through the heart of every human being, but it is within our power to choose which side we will nurture and which we will resist.

To choose despair is to abdicate this responsibility, to allow the shadows to overwhelm the light. To choose hate is to perpetuate the very evils we decry, to create a world more steeped in darkness. But to choose to make things better—to educate ourselves, to act with integrity, to engage with the world around us in a spirit of compassion and understanding—is to affirm the light, to hold fast to the belief that, despite the confusion and the darkness, redemption is always possible.

In the end, it is this choice—this daily, often arduous choice—to strive toward the light that defines our humanity. It is this struggle, this tension between what we are and what we aspire to be, that forms the heart of Chiaroscuro, both as a musical composition and as a reflection on the human condition.

Cranes of Legend: A Lyrical Exploration

In an earlier posting I explored the origins of the Yarab surname, tracing it back to the Slovak surname Jaráb, which is related to the Czech word for crane, jeřáb. That essay also discussed the Eurasian crane, significant in Slovak culture, and explored the symbolic traits associated with cranes across various cultures. Such traits include wisdom, vigilance, mercy, and grace. Cranes also feature prominently in the mythology and folklore of many civilizations, including the Bashghirds, Arabs, Greeks, Koreans, and Japanese. After investing so much time in the research, I decided to write a poem, or lyrics, and set it to music using Udio.com. The result is above. For a detailed understanding of the various references in the lyrics of the song, please visit the posting at On The Origins of the Yarab Surname.

Vincent of Beauvais and the Evolution of Book Indexing

Vincent of Beauvais

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.”

From Obfuscation to Enlightenment: Addressing Narcissism in Scholarly and Artistic Communication

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.

Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com

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.