Pierre Loti

So I know all you inside the Internet have been missing me. I have been kickin’ it St. Jerome style in a cave for the last couple of months: writing my thesis with a talking lion. (Someday I will write a Jeromian sitcom, but that is a different story. “Lion, you never take the trash out of the cave!”) Regardless, I turned in the thesis. The feeling of release is, as is frequently said around here at Harvard, like birthing a hairy overweight child. Except, what they don’t tell you about are the subsequent intellectual stretchmarks and the delusion that anything must be beautiful on the other side of being in thesis labor. I thought, for example, that post-thesis life would be like wandering through sun filled meadows, gently creasing singing flowers with Disney-esque bubble eyes and eating honey until I fall asleep. Alas, I’m not a bear, but a student who postponed doing other things in the interest of my thesis and now all that stuff is hunting me like a pissed off bookie. Complicating this post-trauma trauma is that fact that Mother Boston has, like Fenrir, eaten the sun or something. No use frolicking WHEN IT’S STILL RAINING SNOW. Yes, I said raining snow, that intermediate meteorological state probably invented by Al Gore, where winter has neither the balls to be frozen, nor the exuberance to splash sunshine all over my face. Eww. At any rate, it’s like a weepy soap opera, where you long for commercial breaks that never come. (American Sartre.)

But should you worry for my health, gentle readers, I am soon to be rejuvenated. I’m leaving for fair Istanbul tomorrow night (with a stop over in Amsterdam if anyone needs a hooker on the way back). The tulips will be in bloom in front of Topkapi Palace, and I will be laying in them in the displaced ecstasy of spring-finally-come-damn-you, until of course a macho Turkish man locks me in that tower for Christian princesses. Even then, I’ll be happy. For one, it’s in the middle of the Bosphorus and so you can hear submarines from Russia headed for Mediterranean adventures. Second, and related to the first, is that this very tower appears in The World is Not Enough as the hiding place for the nuclear submarine of the crazy Russian villain with a bullet in his medulla oblongata. Which is how I intend to feel: no pain.

Anyway, if anyone needs meatballs, unfiltered cigarettes, harem girls, Turkish delight or chest hair, let me know. I will hook you up. Like Pierre Loti, famous 19th century French spy to “Constantinople.” How I get it all back in my luggage is nobody’s business but the Turks…

Doxology

Who is like you, O Lord? Who can comprehend the magnificence of Infinite Mind? What man can form the suitably harmonious words to praise and honor the Almighty and His Anointed? The Psalmist, the Convert, the Exile, and the Objector formed the finest praises to your Name, but without the gifts of your Spirit, they are nothing.

We are One with the Lord through His Son, yet we cannot know Him. His true glory is a mystery to our limited existence, and will remain a mystery until the Great and Terrible Day of the Lord, when we shall stand in His sublime presence. Even in the light of His Word, our view of the Divine is clouded. Priest and king of the order of Melchizedek, Almighty Creator and helpless Nazarene infant, high priest and sacrificial lamb. Our Lord is a Lord of inscrutable contradictions. Christ Himself is a mystery. The Eternal Being, the omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent Lord takes on our human frame. As confounding as His birth can be to human reason, His death is just as mystifying. A murderer is spared, and the Prince of Life is slain among criminals, only to conquer death by means of death.

How can our minds comprehend the ineffable quality of your true nature? Apophatic expression is our only course. We may not always be able to comprehend who you are, O Lord, only who you are not. Unlimited, unmeasured by time, unchanging, unending, and unknowable to the limits of the human mind. You are above light, yet you named light in the beginning. You are boundless and formless and impalpable and invisible.

The Lord is my Savior and my Captor. You looked on the broken state of your doulos, O Lord, you heard my cry from the depths of my own degradation. Who can comprehend your mercy and grace? You, who would send your only Son to pay the price for your people, those who destroyed and deformed your perfect creation. Glory and Honor and Power and Might be to God and the Lamb forever, Amen!

Special thanks to St. Paul and the alpha privative.

-Steve McGladdery

Intense Training

On a fine night fairly recently, I was having a conversation in which I recounted my experience in American train travel. It remains one of the worst things I have experienced to date, and that includes traffic tickets, losing pets, and falling off my roof. The trip itself was spectacular, but I will never board an American train again unless forced to do so at gunpoint. And even then I’d have to think about it. Let me give you an idea what I mean. Imagine sitting in a cramped tube, surrounded by curious odors, poorly circulated air, screaming children, and a group of people that could easily have just walked out of a Sartre play. Even if you bring books and other diversions, you can only sit in that seat for so long.

Then comes your next problem. If you don’t want to be in your seat, you only have two other options: a dining car which is usually closed, or the bathrooms. The less said about these the better. But the train bathrooms, as horrific as they are, are nothing when compared to what you find at the stations. I recall that when I went to college at Grand Valley, I was unsure about putting my bag on the floor of that bathroom. When I was at Union Station in Chicago, I didn’t even want the soles of my shoes to touch that floor. I’m not typically squeamish or fastidious, but even I have my limits. But at least the rest of the station was mildly impressive; left over from a time where train travel wasn’t a joke. The state of modern rail travel in America is best represented by the Grand Rapids train station on Wealthy. It’s basically a single room between the parking lot and the track. Not even a single Amtrak representative.

The underlying issue about American rail travel is that the freight companies actually own the rails. So when there is freight traffic coming through, those pesky human-filled trains are shuffled to the side so that the important stuff can get through. This turned my 15 hour prison sentence into over 18 hours. The only mildly interesting event on that entire trip was that during a routine immigration check in Rochester, NY, someone on the train was arrested. But it was clear that they don’t want you on their trains, and they let you know it. They make it quite clear that you’re just taking up space they could be using to ship things. When I was in France, I basically had to stow away on one of their trains in order to reach Paris with my tour group. I entered France huddled in the corner of the baggage car. I still consider it a more positive experience than traveling in a regular seat on American rails.

I should say that it wasn’t solely being imprisoned on the stifling trains. It is a very strange group of people that makes regular use of the rails. Some of them were very pleasant. On the way home I was across the aisle from a very pleasant elderly couple that took great delight in humiliating me by means of puzzles. The less said about this the better. Even taking into consideration the nicest of passengers, the best trains are the quiet trains. On the final leg of my journey, the train was relatively deserted. I was able to put my feet up, gaze out the window, and even sleep a little. Then I met Tim.

It started innocently enough. He asked to use my cell phone. I saw no harm, so I went ahead and let him use it. What I didn’t know at the time is that this gesture essentially creates the drunkard’s equivalent of a wookie life-debt. For the remainder of the journey he constantly remarked (in full voice) what a great person I am, how there are so few good people left in the world, how he hadn’t seen the friend he had just called in ten years, and so on. I conversed pleasantly enough with him, despite his fairly extreme intoxication. I also wondered to myself whether I was quite as entertaining when I was gassed. Even if I went back to my book, he would still sit in his seat mumbling loudly. Here is an excerpt from my travel log, in which I recorded his rambling: “TEN YEARS…mumble mumble…friends…I done bad things, but I’m still good…mumble…TEN YEARS!!” He went on like that for a good while, all in a slightly comical Boston accent.

I allowed him the use of my phone once more, but this time he walked off with it. I figured we were all trapped on this train, so I could go back to my book without worrying about him running off with it. A bit too much time passed. I only have so many free minutes, so I went to the lounge car to reclaim my phone. I arrived just in time to witness Tim being expelled from the lounge for being drunk and obnoxious. I purchased some wine (Helpful Hint: Train wine is bad), and returned to my seat, reclaiming my phone along the way.

A little while later he shouted over that I should call his friend and remind him to bring the beer. Imagine my shock. I was reluctant, but I guess I was feeling altruistic (or maybe I just wanted him to be quiet), so I phoned up this complete stranger and reminded him about the beer on behalf of my new inebriated friend. After another hour or so of awkward responses to Tim’s ramblings (including quoting Emerson), I reached my final destination at long last. With a grateful shudder I vowed never to travel on American railways again.

 

-Steve McGladdery

Come Fly With Me

The other day I received an unusual e-mail that was related to my ongoing job search. To fully understand why this happened, I will first say that in my Monster.com profile, I indicate that I have some moderate familiarity with Greek and Hebrew. They did not allow me to specify ancient Greek or ancient Hebrew, but since I am immensely proud of my work with those ancient languages I pretty much tell anyone who will listen. And some who won’t listen. But I digress.

The message I received was an urgent e-mail from a certain airline looking for flight attendants. I thought sure, plenty of travel, probably descent pay and benefits. Why not? But as I read on, I noticed that they were specifically looking for flight attendants who spoke Hebrew. After some consideration, I came to the conclusion that they probably didn’t mean Old Testament Hebrew. I figured that unless they catered to rabbis, I would be of no use to them. But then I, along with a couple close friends, began to speculate on what an ancient Hebrew flight would be like.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, this is your High Priest speaking. Any minute now we’ll be taken skyward in a whirlwind of fire, so please fasten your seat belts. We’ll be traveling at an altitude of 50,000 cubits, and should be reaching our destination on the third hour of the fifth day. Meal service will begin in a moment; we will be serving unleavened bread and the flesh of an unblemished lamb, and it is meant to be enjoyed with staff in hand and belt fastened. If you do not want a meal, smear lamb’s blood on the overhead compartment and the flight attendant will pass over your row.

“A flight attendant will be coming by with a beverage rock in a moment, please feel free to strike it with the rod of your choice depending on preference. A quick word to our coach passengers, please refrain from entering the sacred tabernacle divided from you by the curtain. Or first class. At such an intrusion, you will be struck down immediately. Also, please deactivate all electronic devices. Such an offense would cause the anger of the pilot to wax hot against you, and result in your immediate exile.  Those of you still boarding, please enter two by two.”

Also, it has been brought to my attention that there is a Steve McGladdery who made the British news for joyriding in an ambulance. If you don’t believe me, Google it. All I will say is that you can’t prove it was me.

 

-Steve McGladdery

Greek Things: Spell Check Has a Stroke

Just about every student is at least vaguely familiar with the story of the Greeks sacking Priam’s proud city. It was a lengthy siege that ended with Odysseus’ plan to infiltrate the city in a giant wooden vessel shaped like a Trojan. But many are somewhat unfamiliar with the Epic Cycle, which was essentially a collection of Homeric fan fiction. Even less well known than the existence of these epics is their content. Along with the successful sacking of Troy as well as all the homecomings, readers will also find the various and little known failed plans to breach the city’s walls. The giant horse was by no means the first plan.

When a direct assault proved ineffective, it was left to the Achaean lords to devise another means of gaining access. In the Aethiopis, Agamemnon has the idea that if they cannot get past the wall, then perhaps they can go over it. So in a grand display of Ancient Greek ingenuity, he invents something that most scholars agree was some early form of the pogo stick. The heroes gain as much momentum as they can across the plain, and in a final effort make a great bounce toward the city. It seems they needed either more spring or less city, because they collide with the wall with a comical noise¹. The Achaeans were beaten, but not defeated. Because not long after, Odysseus received his long awaited delivery from representatives of the island “Akmeos.” In his autobiography, Heinrich Schliemann expounds on an episode from the Ilias Mikra in which Odysseus dons sandals apparently enhanced with some sort of rocket propulsion. He and his men construct a wooden ramp, and off he goes. Having been launched by his rocket sandals, Odysseus soon realizes the ramp sent him pointed right at the wall. Holding up the appropriate “Yipes” sign², Odysseus prepares for the poet’s elegant description of the result: On Odysseus-shaped crater in Troy’s proud battlements.

Most of the other failed attempts come to us from the Iliou Persis. It included such events as Agamemnon disguising himself as a harem girl in order to charm his way in, Nestor pretending to be delivering pizzas and/or singing telegrams, and the armies of Achaea surrounding the city and singing “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” all the way through³. Having been defeated on all of these reckless attempts, Odysseus then planned for something much more subtle.

“Hey, Priam!”

“…What is it?”

“We have a present for you.”

“Really? What did you bring for me?”

(Slyly) “Ohh, I don’t know…you’ll have to come out and see it.”

“Can’t you just tell me?”

“No, you have to come out and see it. Trust me, it’s great.”

Naturally it failed. There was also an attempt to deliver Diomedes inside a giant birthday cake, but when the Trojans discussed the matter and discovered it wasn’t anyone’s birthday, they were suspicious. They brought it inside slowly and cautiously. Things seemed to be going well for the Greeks, but then the Trojans decided to cut the cake. It loses something in translation, but all scholars are struck by the image of a frosting-covered Diomedes running for the gate. Apparently they could hear his screams clear across the city.

I hope this discussion has been illuminating for you. Many stories have been told, and many have been lost, but one thing is certain: Giant horses and rocket sandals last forever.

1Splat.

2Uipos

3This was the earliest form of disco.

Poor Steve, 2007: An Almanack for the Year of Christ 2007

First, I offer my congratulations. You are reading Kai Ta Loipa, and nobody can stop you. Second, I humbly present to you the following list of proverbs, Steveisms, and food for thought. They are more or less designed only for your enjoyment, and any actual wisdom or utility is purely coincidental.

You can squat on a pitbull, but it won’t get you any rhubarb pie.

A dog on a tractor casts no shadow.

He who laughs last is slowest.

No meal is balanced without “cheez” and “froot.”

Beer is fleeting, but the toilet trough will always refill.

It’s not over until the referee goes missing.

The right of way belongs to the largest engine.

A snake with a parachute will spit on the weasel.

Out of the bed and onto the floor, 50 yard dash to the bathroom door.

Over the gums and through the lips, look out stomach…here we go.

When walking down the highway of life, try not to get stabbed by hitchhikers.

All I ask is a tall ship, and a regulation shuffle board court on the main deck.

 

The wise man does not leap frog over a porcupine.

 

A fast burning fuse looks very much like a slow burning fuse. Use caution.

 

If it ain’t broke, you’re not trying.

-Steve McGladdery. (That’s not a proverb. That’s my name.)

Shameless does not even begin to describe this plug

Grimace says buy strange merchandise…

Riddle Wrapped in a Grimace Inside a Mystery

When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for certain questions to find immediate answers, it falls upon the diligent and the studious to seek such answers as quickly and efficiently as possible. The question that plagues us is one that has been snapping at our heels for the past few decades. That question, of course, is as follows: What the snap is Grimace? Any child of the late 80s and early 90s knows immediately to what/whom I refer. Grimace was the large, purple, pear shaped sidekick to Ronald McDonald in the McDonaldland ad campaign of that time. This character, shrouded in mystery, is the only of those creatures for which there is no explanation.

The other inhabitants of McDonaldland make much more sense. Mayor McCheese, for example, is the cruel dictator who rules and administrates this place. Since the commercials mention no legislative or judicial bodies in McDonaldland, we can assume that his authority is total. He is the Benito Mussolini of McDonaldland. Even if you don’t like him, he made the burgers in the Hamburger Patch grow on time. Ronald McDonald, of course, is the figurehead. He is the symbolic, yet powerless patriarch of McDonaldland. He may well also be some sort of religious icon to the fry kids, though much of this is kept quiet. Speaking of the Fry Kids, they represent the sullen youth of McDonaldland. Instances of graffiti and minor vandalism in McDonaldland can typically be traced back roving gangs of fry kids.

The true and organized crime of the area, however, can all be traced back to one man. I speak, of course, of the Hamburglar. Even the offenses of Al Capone, Jesse James, and Carmen Sandiego were slim when compared to this striped brigand’s unquenchable lust for purloined sandwiches from the Hamburger Patch. His only use to this otherwise healthy society is as a cautionary tale; the utterance of the words “Robble, robble” is enough to send even the boldest fry kid cowering in fear. When the characters were streamlined, an effort was made for the Hamburglar to appear less sinister, and merely a misguided soul struggling with kleptomania. Despite his eccentricities, he was tolerated and warmly accepted by the benevolent Ronald McDonald. But, as a learned colleague of mine once said, “You can take the Hamburglar out of the hood, but you can’t take the hood out of the Hamburglar.” So true.

There is another character almost as mysterious as Grimace, though slightly less inscrutable. I speak of Birdie the Early Bird, the only female in McDonaldland. She is the Mork of the clan, descending to McDonaldland in a giant egg. It is once again Ronald the Magnificent who shows love to the egg, and out comes our friend Birdie, who makes her contribution to society as a pilot.

Now that we have briefly reexamined the major inhabitants of McDonaldland, we come to the primary topic of this article. Who/what/why is Grimace? We can establish that he is not the female, childhood, criminal, or governmental element of this society. The only insight we are given into the nature of this enigmatic figure is that he does have some Irish ancestry. To advertise the Shamrock Shake, we were introduced to Uncle O’Grimacey, the shamrock-clad shillelagh-bearing uncle of Grimace, straight from the Emerald Isle. Other than that, we are given no helpful information.

One possible explanation that was suggested to me was that he represents some sort of round, purple minority in McDonaldland. But this seems unlikely upon further reflection. He may also represent some sort of warrior class. With Grimace and his kind, Mayor McCheese makes war on the Burger King’s kingdom, and the sovereignty of the Dairy Queen. Perhaps he addicted the Grimaces to the fruits of the Hamburger Patch, and demands military service in return for their daily fix. We might also consider that his purpose is contingent on that of Ronald McDonald, as Grimace is often seen with him. This opens the possibility of Grimace being some sort of religious zealot or disciple, present not only to protect his Anointed One, but also to act as intercessor between the people of McDonaldland and Ronald.

Whatever the purpose of this character might be, we can be certain that Grimace teaches us all at least one valuable lesson: If you are tall and pear shaped, do not wear purple.

 

 -Steve McGladdery

In Res Ipsas: Theological Allegory in the Divine Comedy, Part 1

by Chris Van Buren

For readers of La Divina Commedia, exegetical preoccupations are as richly varied as the epic universe embodied in the work itself. Like the Commedia, they are multivalent, problematic and complex, especially given that Dante is elsewhere such a thorough auto-critic of his own writings. Indeed, the degree to which readers laud the work’s genius is proportionate to the critical discord over how even to begin interpreting it. We wish a Virgil would guide us through its labyrinthine structure, philosophical encyclopedism and complex narrative modes. Even situating Dante properly at the intellectual confluence of classical and Christian civilization (the Eagle and the Cross; the pagan and the sacred) only amplifies our task by demanding of us the expertise of medieval theologians, philosophers and poets. If, however, we were to reduce these concerns to their primary critical essence, we would be left with a single question: how did Dante understand allegory (more correctly, different senses of allegory) in relation to the extensive cosmos which his poetic impulse propelled him to create? By extension, why is the Commedia so ostensibly distinct from other medieval or Christian allegories, so startlingly physical, historical, and real? The Commedia, after all, has much more the color of the prophetic Old Testament than the mental battle of Christian virtues in Prudentius’ Psychomachia or the purely intellectual personifications in Lorris and Meun’s Le Roman de la Rose.

Yet, while this is clearly the most pressing critical question, it is also the most difficult to resolve. Dante seems to tease us, when at the arrival of the monstrous fiction of the fraudulent Geryon, he promises to present clearly to us that which our thoughts are dreaming: an allegory, but one which remains subsequently all too unclear.[1] Hollander, developing Auerbach’s intuition, was bold enough to claim that no one has read the Commedia correctly for hundreds of years.[2] For whether it is Dante’s rather mechanical contemporary critics (Virgil as Reason and Beatrice as Theology); the Platonizing Renaissance (when, incidentally, the titular “Divina” was appended); or Mandonnet’s reductive, if not absurd, Thomistic gloss, readers have often obscured significant interpretative layers present the poem’s design. If what Hollander means by reading correctly, though, is resurrecting Dante’s intentions, then there are further limitations: Dante was almost impossibly well read, had a synthetic mind, and was not simply a poet or a metaphysician, but as Eliot suggests in the Clark Lectures, the most poetic of the metaphysicians.[3] What is worse, Dante’s most explicit discussion of allegory is marred by an unfortunate lacuna.[4]

Nonetheless, Hollander and Singleton’s contribution-in suggesting that Dante’s Commedia is an imitation of God’s writing, a type of emulated Scripture-brings us far closer to any dream of a dominant allegorical format in the poem than previously imagined. Our purpose here will be to substantiate and qualify this claim, that the Commedia is anchored in the four senses of scriptural exegesis and that the mimetic realism of Dante’s narrative triggers the figural and pattern driven impulse of Christian allegorical interpretation. Certainly Dante availed himself of other allegorical possibilities; but the structure of the Commedia is predominantly an allegory of theologians, not an allegory of theology or a moral fable in Christian clothing. Dante, we will suggest, erects a literal stage out of the afterlife so that his autobiographical mystery play might unfold within it. Interpreting the work thus means applying typological patterns to Dante’s journey narrative, which is also, according to A.C. Charity, the narrative of every Christian actualizing the ritual of conversion.[5] We will further attempt to make these theoretical considerations manifest themselves (as an exemplum manifests a virtue) by showing their coherence in Dante’s addresses to the reader in Inferno 9 and Purgatorio 8, episodes traditionally conceived of as purely poetic allegories. “A te convien tenere altro viaggio,” declares Virgil to the Pilgrim; and though this road is less opportune, reader, may we be brave enough to guide you through the darker regions of criticism.

4th of July, 2007

by Chris Van Buren

A white Greek temple is already dead,
has lost its purple soul – stripped by: wind:
but the heaping, blanched monumentality,
these, National Archives, columned up into cerulean
New World air, despite curled
Corinthian desires,
are a [comfort],

a House containing its own body,
the Constitution of its scaffolding,
make marble bedrock of Our winded thinking
(to form a more)(perfect Union)

So the flags roll down the column-spines

and this old man Archivist, wan pallid red cheeks, Mnemosyne,
this 4th, before the holy of holies, lord,

would declaim the speech of
[Inalienable Things]

And the pressing tenor of his gravel
throat rising to the pitch of what he conjures, here,
he says, created, he is shouting now – equal -

*

when above, the three blackhawks, their blades

cutting through the sound, flew over, in parade (the Archivist

mute though) over us (furious speaking) they fell upon and swooped over

the tympanum of our beliefs,

*

Whitman:
“To-day, ahead, though dimly yet,
we see, in vistas, a copious,
sane, gigantic offspring.”

o greybeard – in our whited tombs,
full of dead men’s bones, but not yours,

your Body in leaves, how we are transmuted -

NOTES
“To-day, ahead…” from Whitman’s Democratic Vistas
“whited tombs” (Matthew 23:27), where Christ denounces the legalism of the Pharisees