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Aristotle

THE ADVANCE OF REASON

Francis Bacon – not the figurative Irish

painter, the almost incomparable

depictor of human unreason –

but the Elizabethan/Jacobean

English essayist, diplomat, lawyer,

philosopher and politician, who was,

according to Euro-centric legend,

not only the real author of Shakespeare’s

plays but also the last person to have read

every book that had ever been written –

went to Trinity College, Cambridge,

when he was 12, and left at 16

to join the diplomatic service.

While at Cambridge he concluded that,

though admirable in itself, Aristotle’s

approach was not fit for purpose since

it did not improve ‘the estate of man’.

 

Later he would write THE ADVANCEMENT

OF LEARNING, whose taxonomies would inform

The Enlightenment, and NOVUM ORGANUM,

in Latin, whose empiricism

would establish the scientific method.

 

In a parallel life he was an MP

in a number of constituencies,

took gifts from litigants while Lord Chancellor,

and campaigned tirelessly for the urgent

beheading of Mary Queen of Scots.

 

***

 

The title NOVUM ORGANUM alludes

to Aristotle’s ORGANUM, his work

on logic the youthful Bacon decried.

The engraved title page of Bacon’s book

shows a galleon in full sail surging

through the Pillars of Hercules – now the Straits

of Gibraltar – west of which, according to

Plato, Atlantis lay. The pillars

were inscribed with a sailors’ warning:

Non Plus Ultra – Nothing Further Beyond.

 

Meanwhile, however, in far Cathay,

medical practitioners still consult

regularly a book of herbal medicines

and their uses which was written in the late

Han dynasty more than a thousand years

before Francis Bacon put quill to parchment.

 

 

 

 

ON THE NATURE AND SCOPE OF THE UNIVERSE

The most recent excavations on the site

of Mieza – ‘the temple of the nymphs’ –

a town in ancient Macedonia,

a mountainous land of river valleys –

have uncovered three sheets of papyrus

preserved in a tube of bronze.  Some scholars

believe the writing may be Aristotle’s.

The philosopher and polymath was engaged

by Philip II of Macedon

to tutor his oldest son – who was destined

to become Alexander the Great,

whose name is still bestowed on first born sons

throughout all of Central Asia.

 

The discovery appears to be

an unfinished treatise by Aristotle

in the form of a letter to his pupil,

Alexander. It is entitled:

On The Nature and Scope of the Universe –

Part One: Inanimate Objects. It begins

with a preamble, pointing out that

there are things we can learn to control –

for example, playing a flute, or treating

Greeks as friends and family but Barbarians

as beasts or as plants. It continues

by classifying three types of object

that are completely beyond our control:

first, the utterly predictable –

like the sun and moon; secondly,

the mostly predictable – like snow-melt

turning a river to torrents, or drought

drying its waters, killing its teeming fish;

lastly the utterly unpredictable:

stray stones a galloping horse lets fly

blinding a cavalry man for life;

a loose clay tile sliding from a roof

wounding the captain at the head of his troops

marching in the narrow street below;

a large slice of freshly baked zea bread,

young Alexander’s favourite breakfast,

falling honey-side down…

 

‘MARILYN MONROE READING ULYSSES’: EVE ARNOLD (1955)

David Selzer By David Selzer3 Comments1 min read591 views

After the shoot on Long Island’s Cedar Beach

they drove next to a local playground.

While Eve loaded her camera, Marilyn sat

on some play equipment and read a book –

her worn copy of James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’,

which she kept in her car, and had been reading

for some time, often aloud to get it’s sense.

(She looks to be about nine tenths through

so into Molly Bloom’s unpunctuated

soliloquy of love and longing).

This photograph of a pretty woman

in her late twenties, tanned, wearing short shorts

and a stripy top, reading an egghead’s book

was greeted with incredulity, “Oh yeah!” –

and, more harshly, “The thinking man’s shiksa!“.

 

Among the four hundred and thirty books

auctioned after her death were works by Flaubert,

Freud, Aristotle, Housman, as well as Joyce.

She was on Long Island that day visiting

her friend the poet Norman Rosten,

one of the last people she spoke to

the day before she died. Long before they met

he wrote, ‘Morning meets memory/and kills it’.

 

 

 

 

 

FEARLESS ARIAS

In the gardens of the Premier’s palace

with its white Baroque facade there are

children’s swings and a red roundabout.

The linden trees the old Archduke planted

though leafless are evergreen with outbursts,

festoons of mistletoe, their berries

opalescent in the gentle wintry light.

A dozen or so mistle thrushes graze

amongst the leaf mould and peck in the branches –

but one, perched at the top of a tree, sings

its trilling, boundless, woodwind airs as if all

of the provinces were quiet and listening.

 

*

 

The ancients thought it spoke seven languages.

Clement of Alexandria noted its

‘harlot’s chortle’, Aristotle its

fondness for mistletoe. ‘Sanctus, sanctus’

it calls in the Armony of Byrdes.

‘Stormcock’ some name it – its notes heard above

the roughest, the loudest of weathers.

 

*

 

A scattering of snow begins to fall.

A child’s ball rolls from nowhere amongst the birds,

which rise, their long, white-edged wings flurrying

the flakes, their rattling alarms muffled –

but the one perched on a topmost branch still sings

its fearless arias.

 

 

 

COINCIDENCE…

the storyteller’s trapdoor: ‘And it so

happened…’ But it does sometimes. Aristotle

called them ‘accidents’ – and here’s a pile-up!

 

It is a Thursday night – and bell ringing

practice at the parish church we can see

from the long window on the half landing.

Our house was here years before the church

or the houses behind us or in our street.

The Shoulder of Mutton Field was bought

at auction and the first built was ours

more than a hundred and sixty years ago.

From the window, uninterrupted,

there would have been Cheshire countryside.

The first tenants were the Caldecotts,

one of whose sons was the illustrator

Randolph Caldecott. I attended

the same school he had done. The first grown up

poem my mother read me was Cowper’s

‘The Diverting History of John Gilpin’.

How I loved the drumming of the metre,

the slam-dunk of the rhymes and Caldecott’s

gaudy, storytelling illustrations!

 

A city infant, he was certain

the hedgerows, pasture, dew ponds of his boyhood

had inspired his art. He died, not quite forty,

in an unseasonably damp and cold

St Augustine, Florida, where, of course,

he had gone for his health. The cause of death

was the heart disease he had developed as

a child. I imagine him descend,

say on some early summer morning,

the wide, sunlit stairs, one hand carefully

on the banister, the other gripping

a pencil and sketch book; edge through the back door

kept ajar for the air, cross, as quickly

as he is able, the swept, cobbled yard,

lift the latch of the door in the high wall

and step through into the brightness of the fields…

 

 

 

THE COAT HANGER

It is wooden, a gent’s, with ‘Elder Dempster’

machined then varnished into one of

the shoulders. It belonged to the shipping line

which plied between Liverpool and Lagos,

via Freetown and Accra. It was purloined,

accidentally or otherwise,

by my father or mother, possibly

the latter on her last trip home, with me

in her womb, to ensure a safer birth

in temperate climes –  U-Boats permitting.

 

He died of septicaemia three months

after I was born – from an ill judged

operation. ‘If I had been there…’

– she was a nurse – ‘…if I had been there…’

became the refrain of her widowhood,

with its depression and eventual

alcohol. When I was small she told me,

over and over, tales of that journey –

the traders from Accra rowing alongside,

the thunderstorms breaking over the mountains

of Sierra Leone, the ship’s captain

taking the vessel out of the convoy,

heading for the Sargasso Sea then north east

for home, always in plain sight but no booty

for a U-Boat captain also heading home.

 

For Aristotle, tokens of whatever

kind were a poor means by which to move

the action on. Life, however, though not

often, sometimes trumps art. This wooden

token of a skeleton tells a story.