On Learning Chinese

In this blogpost I like to record events and experiences which have left a lasting impression. It is for that reason that most posts are on important books I’ve read and on places I’ve travelled to. I have occasionally written on experiences unrelated to those topics, such as the passing of a good friend, or the excitement of learning how to start and tend a fire. In this blogpost, I’ll write about my experiences of learning Chinese. It is my 5^th language—Italian and English my first, and I learned French and Spanish later in life—and learning Chinese has been unlike the others for reasons I will now try to articulate.

 

While living in France and Spain, learning was accelerated by forming friendships with locals, many of whom could not speak English, and so in those countries, I never had to pay for language lessons. In contrast, learning Chinese while living in China’s economic capital, Shanghai, takes a great degree of conscious effort and investment because it is an international city where most can speak at least some English. For these reasons, it would be possible for me to live comfortably in the city without ever learning the local language (which is often the case among foreigners I meet). Of course, this would be unacceptable and something I would later regret.

 

I started learning on an app in November 2022, which involved 1 hour per day of listening to, and repeating, words and short sentences. Then, from late February to early May of 2023, I took a course at the university which entailed two 90-minute classes per week. During July and August of 2023, I paid for four 1-hour private lessons per week, a decision made because I spent that entire summer in Shanghai and had some extra time from not having to teach classes. And starting in September of 2023, I reduced the number of weekly classes to two, while practising several times a week with language exchange partners.  At the time of this writing (November 2023), I am at the HSK 3 level, which roughly corresponds with beginner-intermediate; I can now structure full sentences, and have conversations, about daily life—for example work, food, friends, weather, travel (while often making copious amounts errors in pronunciation and grammar).

 

As learners will inevitably discover, a unique feature of Chinese is the importance of tone. There are four, which roughly correspond with high, low, rising and falling. A change in tone of the same syllable produces a whole new meaning. This is one of the biggest hurdles for students because this structure is absent in other languages. Consequently, foreigners and especially Westerners must train their listening to spot patterns in shifts of tone, and developing this skill involves a lot of laser-focused listening and deciphering of the same sentences over and over again until the shifts can be detected.

 

It is also essential to train the tongue to pronounce sequences of sounds which do not exist in the other languages I speak. For example, 我们 可以从  中间这会条路, which translates to “ we can start from the middle of this road and go up,” is pronounced "wo men kè yi cóng zhöng jiän zhe tiao lu shang qu.”  Try saying that very fast!  These kinds of sentences are tongue twisters because the phonetic sequences are alien to foreign vocal chords.

 

Another important feature is that Chinese is a very context-based language which means that meaning is often derived equally from the specific situations rather than from the sounds emanating from the speakers mouth. For example,  差不多 is pronounced "cha bu duo", and in one context means “similar,” in another this same pronunciation means “ending.”

 

It is essential to learn the Chinese characters. This is something I wanted to avoid because of the extra work and difficulty. There are around 50 thousand, and so it would be impossible at this stage in my life to learn them all. I’ve been told that 1500 are used in 90% of text, and memorizing them is in principle doable, but still: I have a busy schedule and so there are limits to the amount of time I can devote to studying Chinese. Nonetheless, it eventually became unavoidable, for several reasons. One is that I sometimes need to type and receive text messages in Chinese. Of course, I can use the translator, and I often do, but I also would like to read and type Chinese without the aid of technology. Additionally, learning the characters allows for a deeper understanding of the language, which of course has value in its own right. As of this writing, I’ve memorized several dozen, and so can type and read simple messages like “where shall we meet?”, “at what time?”, “let’s meet at the library.” By next year, I hope, I’ll be able to read full paragraphs.

 

It is a very metaphorical and hence poetic language, which accounts for the countless axioms and pearls of wisdom often expressed in pithy form. An example is 一叶知秋, pronounced "yí yè zhi giù," which translates to "the falling of one leaf heralds the coming of autumn," but which means "a small sign can indicate a great trend." 

Moreover, so many words I’ve learned seem to be creative combinations of several separate concepts. One of my favourites is “enthusiasm” 热情 which combines the characters for "hot" and "emotion." 

 

Another charming feature is how Western names become sinocized. My own, Filippo, is 菲利波 and pronounced "fe li bo." Madrid is 马德里 pronounced "ma de li"

The Grand Strategy of the Roman Empire

In the Grand Strategy of the Roman Empire, Edward Luttwak makes several useful contributions to scholarship on international relations, and to readers interested in the underlying dynamics of imperial politics, past and present. A key claim is that the Roman empire can be usefully divided into three distinct stages, loosely corresponding with expansion, consolidation, retrenchment. Each phase reflected an imperial strategy with a distinct hierarchy of priorities conditioned by various factors including Rome’s unsentimental and materialist culture, the ebbs and flows of Rome’s enemies, especially Parthia in the South and the German tribes in the North, and by the “economy of force”—defined as the available resources, men and infrastructures, necessary to carry out Rome’s will. Remarkably, readers learn, this “grand strategy” occurred despite Rome not having maps, or indeed any official documents which outlined systematic thinking about international relations.

To sustain this argument, Luttwak relies on several assumptions which, in my view, are quite sound. Perhaps the most important one is that, in discerning patterns of Rome’s imperial policy, we need to pay attention to what Romans did more than what they said. Looking only at the latter, for example, would be misleading because Roman writers often spoke with highfalutin rhetoric about their empire as being the apogee of mankind, and destined to reign forever. In reality, Luttwak shows, Roman officials were very pragmatic and utilized various techniques to achieve the two main objectives for inhabitants of the empire, security and prosperity. It was the effective provision of these two goods which ensured the obedience of Rome’s subjects, and cost-benefit calculations occurred among them as well. When the empire provided these valuable goods at an acceptable price, the system was stable, but when Rome could no longer secure their provision, or could only do so at an unacceptably high cost, its days were numbered, which is precisely what occurred. 

In this blog post, I will outline Luttwak’s account of Rome’s imperial strategy while endeavouring to distil insights relevant to the dynamics of international security and, more generally, to patterns of imperial politics in the present era.

Three systems

Rome, as we know, was a republic from 509 BC to 27 BC, and officially became an empire after the civil wars which began with the killing of Caesar and which culminated with Octavian’s defeat of Anthony and Cleopatra. Luttwak’s story, then, begins when Octavian, later named Augustus, became Rome’s first emperor. The first system, categorized by Luttwak as “Julio-Claudian,” roughly lasted from 27 BC to 69 AD, and was characterized by expansionism. Military spending under Augustus, who reigned for 45 years, was roughly half of total expenditures, and major conquests included Britain, and parts of Germany until the defeat in the battle of Teutoburg which put an end to Augustus’s attempt to conquer the North.

Augustus 

A key objective was to provide security to the frontiers of conquered territories, a necessary condition for prosperity and Romanization. However, the methods used to provide these goods were not homogenous across the vast expanse of the Mediterranean. In some provinces, Romans settled and established direct political control. In others, Romans relied on the client system; this latter is extensively analysed in The Grant Strategy of the Roman Empire because of how it supports the book’s main thesis. Many local tribes were acutely aware of Rome’s awesome military strength, and especially its willingness to crush recalcitrant or disobedient peoples (most dramatically illustrated by the siege of Masada). Rome strategically utilized this armed suasion to establish client relations with some tribes: the latter could provide security at the frontier in return for autonomy and various perks including citizenship and subsidies. From Rome’s perspective, this was a much cheaper way of establishing rule than sending legions to settle and pacify local peoples, and it allowed the allocation of precious resources to more troublesome areas, especially in the Western part of the empire. The client system allowed a very favourable “economy of force”—that is, the relation between military inputs (soldiers, settlers, infrastructures necessary for transportation and taxation) and outputs (security of the frontiers). 

Another effective device for maintaining security with a favourable input-output ratio of material resources was demonstrated by the status of Armenia as a neutral and buffer state.  This small country was sandwiched between two ancient great powers—Rome and Parthia—who periodically fought for supremacy between 54 BC and 217 AD. These wars, of course, were costly, and so both parties had an interest in peace, and one of the ways they secured this was agreement over Armenia’s status. Luttwak elaborates on the special and systemic character of a buffer state. It cannot be a great power, otherwise it itself would threaten the security of its neighbours, but its geographical location can potentially be used by competing great powers to threaten rivals. By agreeing to strict and enforceable neutrality, it reassures its powerful neighbours and, in so doing, lessons the sense of insecurity which is often the catalyst to war (as we will see below, this has important implications for the war in Ukraine, which at the time of writing this blogpost remains unresolved). 

The second system assessed by Luttwak in the Grand Strategy of the Roman Empire, called “Antonine,” lasted roughly from 69 AD to the 3rd century AD. Here, we see the fruits of the successful system built by Augustus and his immediate predecessors: shared prosperity and Romanization. During this period, Roman technology, culture, and wealth radiated outwards from the capital to the provinces and clients across the empire. The paradox of this development is that Rome’s enemies also adopted Roman knowledge and technology and, consequently, became more advanced in terms of political organization and military capacity. They now posed a greater threat than previously, when they were scattered and mostly illiterate barbarian tribes who often fought among themselves (divisions which Rome strategically exploited, of course). 

As Rome’s enemies became stronger, the cost of providing security to the frontiers increased, and the client system became less and less useful. Now, Rome had to commit more resources and especially soldiers, but also building extensive barriers which divided the empire from its enemies; Hadrian’s wall in Northern England is the most famous example. The economy of force was now less favourable in the sense that military inputs were directly proportional to military outputs. This system was sustainable, of course, as long as available resources permitted. But the crises in the third century including plague, internal strife, and economic recession put serious strain and began the process of the empire’s unravelling. 

This led to the third and final system in Luttwak’s framework, in which Rome was constantly on the defensive, because of the twin pressures of internal decay and decline and the increase in barbarian strength. Under these conditions, Rome could less and less provide the empire’s raison d’etre: security to citizens, an essential condition for their prosperity. Meanwhile, the capital still demanded payment of taxes to fulfil its fiscal needs. Here, the calculations of Romans especially in the provinces and frontiers were altered; their obedience and willingness to pay taxes depended on Rome’s provision of security and prosperity, and when it could no longer be provided at a reasonable price, they became more willing to accept the security provided by Rome’s enemies. The Western part of empire consequently slowly unravelled until its demise in the fourth century.

These three systems, argues Luttwak, reflected, as per the book’s eponymous title, “Rome’s Grand Strategy.” Many scholars may be sceptical about this argument, given the following considerations: first, the concept of grand strategy is a contemporary one, and it seems anachronistic to apply it to antiquity. Second, and related, is that there is little evidence in the narrative sources that Romans thought systematically about international relations in the manner posited by Luttwak. Third, Romans lacked maps which allowed them to precisely delineate their frontiers, an a priori essential condition for strategic thinking about imperial policy. 

Luttwak begins his response to these critiques by challenging common notions of strategy. For most contemporary readers, the concept conjures images of specialized officials in a capital’s headquarters engaged in elaborate and systematic theorizing about the various costs and benefits of different approaches; this eventually results in an agreement of the most optimal way to move forward, itemized in some official document which then guides decisions. Readers of the Grand Strategy are invited to consider a rather non-intuitive but plausible definition of strategy as a reflection of the decisions made during the struggle of adversarial forces, which is refracted through the lens of culture and constrained by the available resources. Applied to Rome, decisions about the provision of security depended on the character of her enemies; if they were strong and were a major threat, Rome would send the legions on the offensive and militarily crush them; if the threat was minor, such as border raids by small tribes, the client system was sufficient. 

Threats were interpreted through Rome’s pragmatic unsentimental, and materialist culture, where close attention was paid to the allocation of precious resources, and adjustments were made if required by circumstances. By looking at the changes in how Rome managed its frontiers, we can distil insights on the drivers of imperial policy, which reveals a calculating and systematic thinking which would be obscured if we looked only at the textual sources. To illustrate this tendency, Luttwak compares Rome to the empires of Alexander the Great and Napoleon; the latter two, unlike Rome’s, were very short lived-in part because of the egotistical expansionism of the two emperors. Alexander and Napoleon, both of whom sought glory and conquest as an end in itself, lacked the pragmatism that would have perhaps led to a greater sensitivity of the material costs and benefits of a particular action, and to better decisions on how precious resources could be optimally allocated in a way that ensured the security and hence stability of their conquests. 

Roman Emperors, of course, boasted and waxed philosophical about Rome’s eternal mission to civilize and rule mankind. The reality was rather different, which is why Luttwak invites readers to make conclusions about what Romans actually did more than what they said. This observation is sound and could usefully be applied to imperial politics in the present day. If one were to pay attention only to the official documents produced in Washington’s bureaucratic-military machinery, one may conclude that the capital’s policy is to spread liberty to all mankind. The reality is perhaps more prosaic: establish relationships with countries regardless of the regime, provided they support the empire’s goals. Moreover, although officials may develop official documents on strategy, decisions will always flow from the strength of adversaries. In the present system, for example, the rise of China, and Russia’s willingness to sacrifice blood and treasure to push back against NATO expansion, are interpreted through reigning cultural paradigm of decision-makers in Washington. Decisions on the management of the empire’s boundaries and zones of influence will also be conditioned by ideas on how to allocate scarce resources of military inputs (soldiers, infrastructures, etc). The clearest example of this was former president Barak Obama’s “pivot to Asia,” which aimed to redistribute precious resources away from the Middle East and towards the far East, and includes strategic use of Washington’s Asian allies (Australia, Japan), protectorates (Taiwan) and clients (Philippines), to counter the rise China. 

The example of Armenia’s status as a neutral and buffer state to keep the peace between Rome and Parthia has important lessons for imperial politics in the present era. As is outlined in the Grand Strategy of the Roman Empire, the benefits were manifold, including reducing the outbreak of costly wars between the two ancient great powers, and in so doing, allowing Rome to allocate more resources to more troublesome frontiers such as Britain and Germany. Readers cannot avoid seeing the uncanny parallels with the war in Ukraine. After the country’s independence from the USSR, it committed itself to strict neutrality, but this was overturned in 2014, when Victor Yanukovych was overthrown in a coup. It subsequently made a commitment to join NATO, a military alliance which is perceived as hostile in Moscow. Before Russia invaded in January 2022, president Putin proposed a return to neutrality, which, according to Jeffrey Sachs, was rejected by the US and subsequently Ukraine. It is for this reason that Sachs, and many other commentators, affirm that Ukrainian military neutrality, in the form a strict commitment to not enter NATO, is a condition for peace between Russia and the West. Evidently, such an outcome may be in Washington’s interest; if its goal is to contain or counter the rise of China, an optimal allocation of resources would include finding a peaceful settlement over Ukraine so that more can be allocated to the Asian theatre. 

It may seem remarkable that Romans could make the types of calculations assumed in the Grand Strategy of the Roman Empire without the use of maps, but Luttwak plausibly argues that they could establish their frontiers via other methods. In some parts of the empire, they built barriers which clearly established the boundaries of inside/outside, and Hadrian’s wall was the clearest example. Elsewhere, there were natural barriers which performed the same function, such as the Rhine and the Danube in Germany. Where there was a lack of barriers, natural or manmade, the names of local tribes or peoples, and their relationship to Rome (client, neutral buffer, settlement, etc) sufficed. Moreover, Rome’s elaborate construction of roads, on top of precise travel itineraries for travel and for official correspondence, added to their geographical knowledge. Together, these elements gave the imperial capital an abstract representation of the empire’s boundaries sufficient to make decisions adumbrated above.  

Ultimately, no amount of strategizing can overcome the twin dynamics of internal division and weakness, on the one hand, and the increased strength of geopolitical rivals on the other. But it can make the difference between the egoistical hubris of short lived empires and the longer lifespan of more pragmatic ones like Rome. 

Review of Mary Beard's SPQR

In 2023, I continued my practice of taking the extra time afforded by the summer break to read on the subject I have an enduring fascination with, ancient Rome. This interest developed in large part because of my regular travels to visit family in Italy since I was a kid, where I would often go to ancient Greek and Roman sites—some relatively well preserved—located close to my ancestral village in the province of Salerno (notably, Pompei and Paestum). The text selected for the summer of 2023 was Mary Beard’s SPQR: The History of Ancient Rome. It is a work of general history, and its chief value is that it brings to life many of the social dimensions that are neglected when, as is often the case, the discussion centers around the lives of emperors and their conquests. There are two elements I will focus on in this blogpost: the relative openness of Roman culture and citizenship, which distinguished it from other ancient civilizations, and the rise of inequality and corruption which was partly generated by this very openness—the increased wealth derived from incorporation of large swaths of territory and vast numbers of people, over time, became concentrated in fewer and fewer hands. 

The latter is related to my scholarly interests on the phenomenon of populism, which often represents a lower class uprising against the elites who benefit from expansion and openness to trade. As we will see, the fact that this pattern can be observed during antiquity, in a civilization dramatically different from our own, and in the present, highlights the recurring and structural character of certain political patterns: the geographical and economic expansion of great powers, followed by the unequal distribution of gains, and the resulting political opposition from those who do not benefit, or are disadvantaged, by the system.

Empire without End

Rome’s openness can be traced to its very beginnings, in 753 B.C. According to the mythology of the nation’s origins, it was founded by foreigners escaping hostile lands in the East (here we see echoes of America’s original settlers), and when Rome’s founding fathers, the brothers Romulo and Remo, announced the new polity, they welcomed rejects, refugees, and reprobates from other parts of the Italic peninsula (more echoes of America here, as displayed on the Statue of Liberty: “give me your tired, your poor…masses yearning to breathe free…the wretched refuse of your teeming shore”). Unlike in America, however, the polity was initially a traditional monarchy. It transitioned to the republican system of government in part because of the corruption of the king Lucius Tarquinius “the Arrogant.” The general assembly voted to replace the office of the king with that of the consoles—who had many of the same powers but were elected to serve 1 year terms. Now, power was divided between the Senate, composed of members of the aristocracy, and the consoles, elected directly by the people. The Senate and the People were Rome’s constituting elements, hence the appellation Senatus Populus Que(is) Rome, or SPQR, and title of the book under review. 

Consoles were magistrates who often came from the privileged classes, but they eagerly courted voters, giving the latter sway in political outcomes. Electoral campaigns in which candidates competed by making promises, replete with slogans displayed on busy streets, and tactics devised by professionals to increase the vote, were a regular feature. As recognized by the Greek writer Publius, the genius of this constitution was that it combined elements of democracy, aristocracy, and monarchy, leading to checks and balances which avoided excesses, created stability, emanating outwards and allowing Rome’s prodigious expansion, especially in the 2nd and 1st centuries B.C.

Another key feature was Rome’s conception of citizenship. It granted all the rights inscribed in Roman legislation, was gradually extended to vast numbers of people, and was a major instrument of social stability and power. Emblematic is the social war composed of disgruntled legionaries and slaves, in the early fist century B.C. Rome replied by granting citizenship to almost all inhabitants of the Italian peninsula. Stability was established by the decision to include them in the polity, rather than relying exclusively on military might. The highest expression of this policy occurred in 212 A.D., when the emperor Caracalla granted citizenship to the entire empire, which by then was vast: 65 million people, or 21% of the world’s population.  

One of the revolutionary aspects of this openness was that it separated citizenship from territory and blood relations. Unlike, say, in Athens, where citizenship was restricted to local inhabitants and their off-spring, who were believed to be connected to the land since time immemorial, Roman citizenship was an idea, or an identity, not organically tied to the city of Rome that could co-exist with local identities in a complimentary way; thus, for example, a citizen in a Roman province such as Egypt could consider himself Roman while speaking the local language (at the time, Greek), and practicing local customs. Along with other Roman technologies such as roads, aqueducts, and architecture, citizenship diffused Roman civilization around the Mediterranean and would set the stage for the entity we now call Europe and, eventually, the Americas.

Roman religion was also open, or, in the more contemporary verbiage, “inclusive.” There was no single religious book or document, or single god for that matter; there were multiple gods, and different ones were related to distinct peoples and/or their territories. For example, Jews believed in Jehovah, Egyptians in Isis, and Persians in Mithras, and few seemed to question the general idea that different people had different divinities. During Rome’s expansion, there was no attempt to extirpate local gods and impose those of the Romans. Subjects' and territories’ gods were incorporated into the empire’s pantheon. This occurred, in part, because for Romans, belief in gods was not connected to any concept of individual salvation or personal morality, nor was it that important as a theoretical question; rather, it was the social and practical functions of religion that mattered, such as participation in the sacred rituals and festivals which marked the calendar. (Here, we see echoes of the contemporary Catholic church, which not uncoincidentally has been key in preserving many aspects of the Roman legacy in the West).

This relative openness of citizenship and religion should not be conflated with liberalism as it is understood today. Rome, for example, was very militaristic, and this was manifest in culture, institutions, and practices. Romulo and Remo, the founding fathers, were believed to be offspring of Mars, the god of war. Democracy, understood as the right to vote, was granted to free (i.e. non-slave) males, in part because as soldiers they bore the brunt of Rome’s wars, and because wars often required majority approval. Women did not participate in the fighting at the time, which mostly relied on brute physical force and endurance rather than, as today, on technologies that have reduced the importance of face-to-face combat. Other conditions militated against more female participation: in a world without contraception, and where up to half of children died before their 10th birthday, the estimated birthrate, just to preserve the stability of the population, was 5-6 children per woman. Only the wealthy—a small minority—had slaves and servants to help with child-rearing and household labour.

There was never a clear separation of the military and the civil polity, and Roman generals made decisions on civil matters. The path to glory was success on the battlefield, and emperors sometimes participated in the wars they waged. Literature which suffused Roman society, like Virgil’s Aeneid, exalted the virtues of self-sacrifice in the pursuit of military success and territorial conquest. This book was widely read and studied and, according to Mary Beard’s SPQR, represented a cultural reference point which was shared among the Roman elite and the masses. Entertainment for Romans of all social classes included gladiatorial fighting between humans, and between humans and animals, to the death. There was no organized police force, and so many had to rely on themselves, or the powerful men of the families, for personal security; when they were insufficient, they relied on vigilantes, who of course were led by brutish men. 

Although relatively open by the standards of other ancient civilizations, legal equality did not exist. The major groups were the plebs (in today’s terms, the “people” or the “masses”), the patricians (or the wealthy) and slaves; the last were mostly European in origin (unlike the race-based slavery of the modern period). Greeks, for example, were valued as slaves because of their literacy, and often served as secretaries and other roles which involved mental work such as accountancy, letter-writing, or proof editing drafts of texts to be published by their owners; Germans were also highly represented among slaves in part because of Rome’s constant fighting on its northern frontier, and captured Germans were often brought back to Rome as slaves suited for physical labour. However, unlike in ancient Greece, where slaves had little chance to escape their plight, Roman slaves often became freemen and Roman citizens, because they could either buy their freedom, or the owner could grant it; some evidence suggests that up to half of slaves were freed this way.  Overtime, this contributed to Rome’s unique ethnic diversity and mixing (and which is still visible among the peoples of the Mediterranean).

Major conquests occurred from the third to the first centuries B.C. The entire Italian peninsula was subdued with the defeat of the Etruscans ad Sannites by 275 BC. Later, the famous Punic wars against Hannibal, and the eventual destruction of Carthage, gave Rome possession of Spain and North Africa, while Greece was conquered shortly after, in 168 B.C. Caesar conquered Gaul (modern day France) in 50 BC,  and Pompey consolidated Roman rule in Judea and Syria (Asia) during the same period. Egypt became a Roman possession after Octavius’s victory in the civil wars.  

The increase in territory and population led to an increase in the various sources of wealth. Not only the expropriation of natural resources (precious metals, building materials, grains), but also tribute from locals in either direct taxation, or in soldiers for the Roman army, and expanded commercial opportunities, especially luxury goods from the east. Much of this new wealth financed public projects, such as the still-astounding Colosseum and the timeless Pantheon, which transformed the capital city, giving it its majestic character which continues to dazzle millions of tourists every year. Privileged groups, often through corrupt dealings with authorities in the Senate and in the provinces, had better access to the wealth derived from the newly incorporated territories and peoples. The aristocracy used this wealth to build ever more palatial abodes (many still well preserved), and to purchase and consume more imported luxuries from the east. Meanwhile, many of the inhabitants of the city lived in squalor, or what today we would call shanty towns. Here, Rome was distancing itself from the martial and inclusive ideals of its founders, and from the Republican institutions which were supposed to give voice to the plebs. Many among the masses had fought in Rome’s wars and contributed to the empire’s expansion, only to return to their homes in the Italian peninsula without jobs, land, or the capacity to live a dignified life.

The Gracchus Brothers: Ancient Populists

This led to a feeling of betrayal among many Roman citizens and laid the groundwork for candidates to office who promised justice. In Mary Beard’s SPQR, two are extensively assessed: Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus, brothers and war heroes in the wars against Carthage who were outraged by the conditions of the plebs, especially those who had served Rome. Their lives were extensively documented and hence we possess a considerable amount of information about them. Both would be considered “populists” in today’s political lexicon. Their enemies were mostly the aristocratic interests defended by Senators (or, in the language of contemporary populists, the “corrupt elite”). Of the two, Gaius was perhaps the most radical, and proposed reforms to benefit the plebs  which included anti-corruption measures, restrictions on application of the death penalty, redistribution of fertile lands, and publicly funded and distributed grains (here we see echoes of many left-wing Latin American populists).  Other proposals included granting citizenship to greater numbers of inhabitants of the empire, which of course would increase the numbers who would be beneficiaries of the rights adumbrated above. This last proposal, in particular, highlights how the “people” were not understood in the exclusive and nationalist sense; rather, they included those without Roman citizenship but who were victims of exploitation, which was a violation of the norms upon which Rome was founded. 

Gaius won two elections as representative of the plebs, and out of the mentioned proposals, the distribution of grains remained for centuries, and as far as we know, did not have any equivalent elsewhere in the ancient world. The other elements of his agenda never saw the light of day, or were short lived, in part because Gaius was murdered by the aristocratic elements threatened by this populist program. 

This clash between Rome’s poor and the aristocracy was also evident in the more celebrated and known civil conflict in the 1st century B.C., that between Pompey and Caesar. Together with the wealthy Crassus, Caesar, and Pompey collectively ruled Rome via the office of the Triumvirate, but as ever, eventually had a falling out and this sparked civil conflict. The main contenders were Pompey and Caesar, and factions aligned with one or the other fought across the empire. Popular history has cast their conflict as a dispute about democracy and dictatorship, which culminated in the ides of March, when Caesar was stabbed to death in the Senate shortly after being declared dictator for life. Senators, it is widely believed, were defending the republic against a tyrant. Mary Beard’s SPQR highlights another dimension: Caesar was a quasi-populist, promoting reforms similar to those of the Gracchus brothers, such as the redistribution of lands, which threatened the interests of aristocracy, and it was partly for this reason that the available evidence suggests Caesar was loved by Rome’s masses. Pompey’s social base, meanwhile, was more represented among the privileged classes, and his death in Egypt heralded a victory of the Caesarian faction, an intolerable outcome which ultimately led to Caesar's assassination.

The republic, contrary to the pretensions of the perpetrators, was not restored after the assassination, and the civil conflict between the two factions continued. Now, it manifested as the conflict between Caesar’s adopted son, Octavius, and Mark Antony, who was seduced by one of Caesar’s former lovers, and mother of one of Caesar’s children, the Queen of Egypt Cleopatra. They initially shared power in the Triumvirate, but disputes about the empire’s spoils, and about who was Caesar’s legal heir, led to fighting. Octavius’s forces prevailed in the famous battle of Actium, and the humiliated Mark Anthony and Cleopatra fled and eventually committed suicide. 

Octavius became Rome’s first official emperor, now known to us as Augustus. Republican institutions still formally existed but they were emptied of substantive power; authority for most major decisions resided in the office of the emperor. Putting an end to the civil wars, and centralizing authority, however, established the conditions for stability and a new golden age. Augustus ruled for 50 years, and during that time invested heavily in public works, while trade expanded across the empire. Homogenization proceeded apace, but not because of a conscious policy similar to France’s missione civilatrice 17 centuries later. It was rather the movement of people, ideas—especially citizenship and education—and goods which helped to radiate Roman civilization across the its vast territories. 

As ever, this golden age was temporary, in part because many of Augustus’s successors—most notably, Nero, Caligula, Commodus—were either incompetent or meretricious. Increased wealth, and bad leadership, inevitably led to disputes about the distribution of the spoils. Meanwhile, Rome’s enemies gathered strength. This combination of internal division, and external threat from the now better organized and more numerous Germans, was ultimately fatal.

It was under these conditions that Christianity emerged on the scene. It was in one sense rather populist in that it challenged the "establishment" and elevated the moral purity of the poor and excluded. On the other hand, it did not participate in public life, and had beliefs which violated the Roman moral code. Partly for this reason, Christians were persecuted, as Romans viewed their beliefs as a threat to the moral order. SPQR cites the scholar Pliny the Elder to illuminate how authorities viewed this strange new sect. One element that was puzzling to the Romans was that the Christian deity was not organically tied to any territory or people; it was rather for all people and all time, which implied the utter rejection of all other gods. While Romans exalted the pleasures of this world and of the flesh, Christians viewed them as corrupting and an abomination and looked forward to the happiness of the next world. For this reason, Roman authorities went to great lengths to extinguish Christianity. Very few would have predicted what actually occurred: Christianity would become the official religion of the empire, spread across its territories and replace paganism, and eventually spread to all humanity when Europeans, almost 1500 years later, began to colonize the entire planet. 

This is one of the biggest social scientific puzzles of all time, and SPQR does not provide a definitive answer, but it does highlight that Rome’s expansion and openness were necessary conditions for the spread of Christianity. Roman trade, roads, currency, and institutions ensured frequent movements between the farthest parts of the empires, which at the extremes represented vast distances: from Hadrian’s wall in the West (modern day Northern England) to Syria in the East. Proselytizers from Judea, where Christianity was born, often travelled to the capital, and from there, ideas spread to other parts of the empire. And as the empire was falling apart in the 3rd and 4th centuries, where wealth and stability was replaced with foreign invasion, chaos, and poverty, Christianity’s profession of the evils of the world resonated more and more. 

Overtime, this led to revolutionary overturning of the moral order. A deeper and more extensive analysis of that will have to wait for a future blogpost, where I will review the work of the historian Tom Holland, who has extensively documented Christianity’s revolutionary impact, and the way it still manifests in secular guises on questions related to human rights, equality, and democracy. Before then, by the end of this summer, I’ll post a review of Edward Luttwak’s The Grand Strategy of the Roman Empire, which focuses more on foreign rather than domestic policy, and which I am presently reading.

Initial Impressions of Shanghai

I arrived in Shanghai in mid-February 2023. In this blogpost, I will record my initial impressions of the city and its culture, while making some tenuous connections to the experience of living and working in China.

Many Americans, British, Italians, Germans, Russians, and other Western expats live and work in Shanghai, and some have settled semi-permanently. A profile of the typical expat is that they are either a teacher/professor (like me), or in business, between 30 and 50 years old, and as befits the city they live in, very cosmopolitan. They organize many activities, such as book clubs, art and philosophy discussions, or talks on contemporary and topical matters. I was invited to give a talk at one of the these events on the subject of populism, which I did, and about 45 people attended—mostly expats but also Westernized locals. 

Participating in these activities has been a goldmine of intellectual growth and social enrichment for several reasons. First is that often, the subject is China, allowing me to deepen my knowledge about this ancient, complex, and fascinating civilization. Many of the participants in the mentioned events are Chinese, while others are foreigners and, unlike me, have lived here for a long time, speak the language fluently, and some have deeply assimilated via marriage and family; this gives them unique perspectives and insights. Second is that I have been able to connect with like-minded individuals and have a semi-social life in the city. After a long day of work, participating in one of the events organized by the expat community in Shanghai provides highly valued meaningful connection and conversation.

In other non-English speaking cities I have lived in—in Paris and Madrid, for example—I have almost always connected with locals rather than expats, in part because, by the time I arrived, I had basic or inter-mediate conversational ability in the local languages (I have recounted those experiences here and here). And I now have a good level of French and Spanish in no small part because of the intense learning accrued during periods of full immersion in France and Spain. This time it’s a little different mainly because when I arrived, I knew very little Mandarin. I started learning the language on an app very recently, and by February of this year I could communicate some simple sentences, while my listening skills were basically zero. I have continued to learn the language using the same app and taking weekly classes at the university, and although progress is slow, it is easily one of the most fascinating and enjoyable aspects about living in Shanghai. I can now communicate the essentials, for example, when shopping, and each advance, however little, is gratifying. I hope to obtain conversational capacity in a year, and perhaps by then, I will be able to participate in local activities in Mandarin rather than in English. At that point, a deeper assimilation will be possible. 

One unexpected discovery is how technologically advanced Shanghai is, particularly its transport, communication, and financial infrastructure. I take the metro and train frequently, and both are hyper-modern, very clean, always on time, very cheap and relatively easy to use. For example, a return ticket from Shanghai to Suzhou—a distance of about 80 kilometers—on a high-speed train that travels at almost 300 kilometers per hour costs the equivalent of about 8 euros. Travelling the same distance in Europe on a high-speed train would cost double or triple that. Meanwhile, a single trip on the metro is equivalent to less than a dollar—here, the cost is similar in European cities, but not in Toronto, where one trip costs more than 3 dollars. 

The high-speed trains I frequently use are marvels of human engineering that are so integrated into the city’s quotidian fabric, that they have become banal to locals. I have a vivid memory which illustrates this. One early morning I was on the train to Suzhou. As it arrived, I and other passengers got up and formed a queue and waited to get off. We started moving towards exiting the train, and as I approached the exit looking straight ahead, in front was the outline of the train’s sliding door, which divided the interior of the train, with its white walls and artificial light, and outside the train, where the soft rays of the morning sun were reflecting on the surfaces of the platform’s shiny grey marble floors. At that moment, on the other side of the platform, directly in front of me, another train—which didn’t stop at Suzhou—raced by travelling at over 200 kilometers an hour and made a kind of high-pitched swooshing sound. Between me exiting the train, and the racing train in front on the other side of the platform, were other passengers blithely looking at the phones. I was awestruck by what for me was a most extraordinary scene was, for the rest, hardly noticeable.  

In Shanghai, the digital infrastructure is far more advanced than in other cities I have lived in. Because all payments can be done digitally, it is in effect a cashless society. Although cash can still be used, and sometimes still is by senior citizens or tourists, in practice, most payments are made with a QR code on your phone directly connected to your bank account, including for large and small transactions. This system is much more efficient than what I am used to, and this was recently brought home to me when I had to make a payment to Whirlpool Canada from China (I owed them some money for servicing the washing machine in my Toronto apartment). To pay them, I had to call during their open hours (somewhat tricky while in China’s time zone), and when I did, I was put on hold for 10 minutes. I finally spoke to someone and had to give him the invoice number plus credit card information, and this information needed to be communicated slowly and sharply to ensure it was correctly received. The entire process took 20 minutes. With the payment system in China, Whirlpool would have sent me a QR code, I’d scan it with the payment app, and then I’d receive a text message with the electronic receipt; the transaction would have lasted 5 seconds at most.  

Apps are used for countless other activities, from going to the library, to using the metro and the public biking system. Cycling in Shanghai has been an interesting experience. Like other forms of transportation, it is very cheap and accessible, and the public bikes can be found on most streets. So, for example, when leaving my building, there are always available bikes in front. I scan the QR code on the bike with the app on my phone, the bike unlocks, and off I go to visit a friend, or go shopping; there is no time limit, and when reaching my destination, I can leave the bike, and then follow the same process when returning home. It is very different using public bikes in Toronto and Paris; in both, there are 30-minute time limits for each ride, meaning one must find a bike station within 30 minutes otherwise they are charged additional fees.  

Biking in the city has been quite the experience because of how crowded it is. Shanghai has around 25 million residents, and many work downtown, close to where I live. During rush hour, large numbers of bikes, cars, and pedestrians are competing for relatively little space. It is partly for this reason that often there are officers at major intersections. Traffic lights can be insufficient to properly regulate the flow, leading to jams, and at these moments, officers help by telling some to stop, others to go. This is mostly a problem for car drivers; although the streets can also be crowded with bikes, there is always enough space for them to move forward, in part because most streets have large bike lanes, and in part because when the bike lanes are full, it is easy to zig-zag into the car lanes or even onto the sidewalk (while scrupulously avoiding pedestrians). Watching a scene like this—hundreds of people moving on bikes on a small street full of cars—an external observer may perceive chaos, but as a cyclist in Shanghai, I can confirm that beneath the surface there is an underlying harmony, where bike-riders compete for space while respecting others doing the same, producing generally accepted implicit rules. So, for example, the rule that those who want to race ahead can go onto the car lane is pretty much respected by everyone—cars and bikers alike—even though it is not formal or written. It basically emerges from practice. Another is that cyclists and pedestrians can cross a red light if there are few cars, while this would be unacceptable for an automobile, which always must respect traffic lights. It is these implicit rules which form an emergent order and which minimize accidents on crowded and superficially chaotic streets.

A common scene in Shanghai

As can be surmised from the above, in Shanghai one is almost completely dependent on their phone. This raises a number of tricky practical issues, as the following will attest. One day in late February, as usual, I had plugged in my phone at the university to ensure a full battery for my return home. At the end of the day, I unplugged the phone, and went to the train station, and discovered that it had not charged (perhaps it was not plugged-in well, or the outlet malfunctioned). I had a brief and mild panic as it dawned on me that I would not be able to access the metro in Shanghai, or take a cab, or use a bike, any of which would be essential to reach my place from the central train station. Of course, I could go on foot, but I would not be able to use Apple maps, an essential tool for a newly arrived foreigner in a sprawling city like Shanghai. I walked around the Suzhou train station looking for an outlet and could not find one. It then occurred to me that I could plug the phone to my laptop, which still had a full battery; this gave the amount of battery power needed to get home. In other cities I have lived in, nothing remotely similar has ever happened, because, of course, I was never so utterly dependent on my phone. It was a lesson that advanced digital infrastructure brings convenience and efficiency but also creates fragility of the kind that occurs when value—defined as the essentials, not only in the monetary sense—is concentrated in a single place. 

Then, of course, there are the ethical quandaries, as this system gives immense power to authority to control its citizenry. On this a few comments based on my short experience in the country may be worthwhile. For the vast majority of people I have encountered, locals and foreigners, this does not seem to be a problem, perhaps because they are law-abiding. Second, and relatedly, through my conversations with many Chinese, it becomes clear that the authorities enjoy a very high level of legitimacy. Perhaps this is rooted in Confucian culture, which, unlike the individualist Western one, still places a high value on respect for all types of authority (parents, teachers, the state, elders). It may also be rooted in the sense that the government functions well in terms of providing order, security, and the conditions of economic growth; this is the implicit social contract upon which the government’s legitimacy depends. 

The older part of the Bund

A few final comments on the unique architectural landscape of Shanghai, which combines multiple influences. Right in front of my building, for example, there is a Buddhist temple that is a reconstruction of the one that was built there almost 2000 years ago, and later destroyed. It bestrides modern the skyscrapers that characterize Shanghai and that are the fruit of the economic boom which began after China’s opening in 1978. Moreover, many European empires that colonized Shanghai have left their architectural mark, most notably the French and the British. 

Shanghai's iconic skyline

One of the more charming neighborhoods is the French concession, which contains many houses and buildings of the same style found in Paris. Meanwhile, the British influence is more widespread, and can be especially seen in the Bund, the area with Shanghai’s iconic skyline. On one side are towering buildings, some reaching 100 stories, which at night are brightly lit with playful neon colours, creating an almost psychedelic impression, as if one is completely immersed in some virtual reality video game. On the other side, there are much smaller brick and marble structures built by the British in the early 20^th century, the kind that can be seen in other former-British colonies or in Britain itself. They, too, are brightly lit at night. Walking along the Bund, one cannot help but be struck by this juxtaposition of buildings; some embody China’s colonization and humiliation by foreign powers, while facing them are towering skyscrapers, grand and imposing and seemingly saying:  we are now in charge.

The Strange Fascination and Primal Pleasure of Fire

As I am typing these words, I am sitting on a balcony in the old family house in Italy near the city of Salerno. It is on a hill 400 meters above sea level and faces the Mediterranean Sea. Directly in front of the balcony there is a garden which includes an orange tree which has borne delicious fruit since before any living member of the family can remember. It is late-December and so the air is cold by Southern Italian standards—at night it can go down to 6 or 7 degrees, and during the day between 11 and 15, but when the sun is shining, as it is now, the rays provide sufficient warmth to be outside in a t-shirt. 
 
I am here during the Christmas holidays, and will stay until mid-January, after which I will fly to Shanghai to take on a new teaching position. While in Italy I am staying in an old family house, where my mom, as well as my maternal grandad, were born and raised. There is no modern heating, and so for warmth while indoors I have to light the fireplace. My routine has been to do that early in the morning immediately after rising, at around 6 AM, and then spending the entire morning in front of the glowing flames working on the various projects which need to be completed. In this blog post, I will reflect on this new routine with a particular focus on the strange fascination and primal pleasure of fire. 

Look Mom, I can do it on my own!

I have been coming to this old house in Southern Italy almost every year since I was a little boy, mostly during the summer. The last time I was here in the winter was perhaps 12 years ago, and at the time it never occurred to me to use the fireplace, in part because during the day I’d be at my uncle’s apartment, which has all the accoutrements of modern life, such as gas heating and wifi. And so I only slept in the old family house, and thick blankets provided sufficient warmth at night. This time, I am spending much more time in it, as when needed I can connect to the internet via my mobile phone, and I can consequently spend the mornings in blessed silence working in front of the fire. 

 I am almost 45 years old, and never properly lit a fire until this winter. When I first tried, I clumsily placed a large log on some crumpled paper and assumed that, after lighting the latter, the former would quickly go ablaze. Hah! How wrong I was, and how humbling it was for someone with a PhD to be unable to carry out a most simple task which ensured the survival of our ancestors.  My uncle showed me the proper method of 1) placing a large log near the back, 2) positioning smaller logs on top but in a way which allowed space for the oxygen to fuel the flame, 3) place highly flammable paper below the smaller logs, and 4) continuously feed the paper until the smaller logs burned autonomously. It took 3 or 4 attempts to get it right, and when I did, I felt a huge sense of accomplishment, similar to the feeling of riding a bike for the first time without training wheels or external support. 
 
Since then (at the time of writing, about two weeks ago), I have been lighting the fire every morning, and am struck by how enjoyable the process is. As ever, I have reflected on the reasons for this effect, and have arrived at several potential conclusions. 
 
The first is the sense of relief from the warmth. Just as, when one is hungry, eating food is immensely enjoyable, when one is cold the onset of warmth is pleasurable. It is a primordial pleasure associated with survival, and so in this sense likely activates the most primitive part of the brain. Perhaps this explains the sensual, almost unconscious aspects of attraction to the fire, that feeling that it is pulling me closer, demanding my attention and care independently of will or of the more rational and cognitive faculties.
 
The fire stimulates almost all the senses, particularly touch, sound, sight, and smell. Lighting the fire, like trying to seduce a potential lover, takes effort and action, trial and error, for the tinder to turn ablaze, but the process continues even after this crucial first part is accomplished. Tender care is required to keep the blaze going so that it continuously emits that satisfying heat: logs must be repositioned, for example, to go closer to the flame. Meanwhile, the fire exudes a soft light which dances on the surfaces of whatever object is facing it, mingling an orange glow with shadows as they dance to the rhythm of the throbbing heat consuming the logs. The smell of wood burning is pleasant, while the light whooshing sound, as if inhaling deeply, of the climaxing flame, and the crackling sound of the consummation of the wood, is first intense, then soothing and relaxing. At a certain point, the fire reaches a kind of stable equilibrium, whereby it is mostly autonomous, and here, I am able to concentrate more on my work; but in the background, the heat, sounds, lights, and smells are creating a very pleasant ambiance.
 
Another discovery is that lighting, tending, and sitting by the fire is a quasi-spiritual experience. I have been doing mindful meditation for years, and one of the key purposes is to train one’s mind to live in the present moment. The reason is that much mental stress, as well as anxiety and depression, arise in part because of the tendency to obsess about things that happened in the past, or to fear things which may happen in the future. It follows, ipso facto, that when we live in the present moment, we are less likely to pointlessly ruminate over things we have no control over, and calmness, tranquillity, and even a sense of freedom are the result. The fire can achieve a similar outcome if only because the simultaneous simulation of the senses in the present moment militates against obsessing about the past or future. It reminds me of being on the beach in Tulum, Mexico, in the winter of 2021-2022, during sunrise, as the soft heat of the rising sun and the light salty wind gently touched my skin, the sound of the waves splashing the shores, the sand beneath my feet, combined to help me perceive and feel the moment with an intensity which made me oblivious to anything outside of it. 
 
The fire has a spiritual meaning in another sense. While observing the flames as they consumed the wood, I was struck by a sense of being in the presence of a powerful primal force with the transformative power to give and destroy life. This element allowed our ancestors to survive in the cold, and to cook meat, which further contributed to human’s prodigious expansion across the earth. The lack of fire for heating and eating ultimately could be a question of life or death. At the same time, the very heat which provides so much comfort and upon which life depended could quickly and mercilessly turn everything of value, including life itself, to ashes. Countless lives perhaps have been lost to fire, as have innumerable forests. And then, as if through magic, this process of destruction generates new life. The ashes from the flames can become fertilizer to grow more and healthy vegetation, which then go on to feed more people, which increase in numbers, and so on, in a never ending cycle of destruction and birth which characterizes all organic life. In our comfortable Western lifestyles, in which we deny or purposely forget the reality of death, it is easy to ignore this primal fact of nature. And yet for some unexplained reason the simple act of lighting and tending the fire forced me to face this reality and reminded me of why the ancients either worshiped fire or attached deep religious significance to it. 
 

Closeness to nature, then, is one of the main benefits of my stay in the old family house in Southern Italy during the winter of 2022-2023. While here, I have spent mornings in front of the fire, which starts to flicker out about 9:30 AM. At this point, I go and sit on the small balcony on the second floor and take in the warm rays of the rising sun, the same sun which nourishes the plants which feed the planet’s population, including me, or which, in other contexts, may cause heat waves with deadly consequences. I go from one source of warmth, the fireplace, to another, the sun, both primal elements of nature, both givers and destroyers of life.

Review of Thomas Mann's "Death in Venice"

Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice tells the tale of Gustov Von Aschenbach, a middle-aged and successful German novelist during the early 20th century. Aschenbach’s works are widely read, among general audiences but also in schools as pedagogical tools to teach the techniques and methods invented by masters of the art. As a consequence, Aschenbach has a successful career with a materially comfortable, even affluent, existence, with multiple homes, each for a different season, and servants to attend to his needs. And yet he experiences what today many would call a mid-life crisis. In his early 50’s, already widowed, and deeply unsatisfied with the elements which weave the fabric of his life—the routines, surroundings, frequent contacts, work and leisure habits. While out for a stroll in this gloomy state, he spots a foreign looking man who evokes the idea that he needed a foreign adventure to free him from his emotional and spiritual cul-de-sac. Exotic food and a hotter climate, a beach from which one can soak up the sun and bathe in the warm waters of the Mediterranean—these, thought Aschenbach not unreasonably, would help lift his spirits and bring back his zest for life. 

The rest of the plot revolves around this adventure. He takes the train to the coast, and from there, goes to Italy via passenger ship. Perhaps representing an omen of his coming misfortunes, on the ship the food was horrible, the quarters uncomfortable, and among the passengers there is a group of performers composed mostly of young men, but among this group is an inebriated old man who tries to hide his age using various articles—his hat, glasses, hair, etc. His attempt to fit in, as it were, could not efface the sagging skin, wrinkled hands, brown or missing teeth, and other signs of the passage of time, of decay and decline, which, as we will see, is a major theme in Death in Venice.

There are two key events in Venice which seal Aschenbach’s fate. The first, and most important, is the presence of another guest, a statuesque and gorgeous Polish boy of 14 years old named Tadzio, a member of the aristocracy, who is vacationing with his family. Aschenbach almost immediately becomes infatuated with him. This fateful—and ultimately fatal—attraction was almost nipped in the bud because, shortly after arriving, Aschenbach decides to leave Venice as he found the stifling summer heat intolerable. When he arrives at the train station, he discovers that the hotel mistakenly sent his luggage to another destination, and so as fate would have it, Aschenbach remains in Venice.

A Fatal Attraction

While there, his obsession for Tadzio only deepens, perhaps because it is never consummated, nor is the attention equally reciprocated. Aschenbach sees Tadzio frequently in the hotel restaurant and on the beach, and in the latter location, he could focus on the perfectly picturesque proportions of Tadzio’s exposed youthful body. There are a few fleeting moments when it appears as if Tadzio notices he is being watched and reciprocates the attention, and, of course, the infatuated Aschenbach imagines that perhaps the boy feels the same way. But the skeptical reader could just as easily conclude that Tadzio was motivated by mere curiosity, and that even if he were gay, attraction to the aging Aschenbach was perhaps not the motive for the momentary glance. 

In one scene, Aschenbach sees Tadzio up close and notices that there are signs of sickliness—he has fragile not gleaming teeth, and anemic skin. Below the surface of Tadzio’s godlike beauty, therefore, was a very different and ominous reality. 

The city of Venice has a similar dynamic. In some of the more beautiful passages of the text, the reader encounters vivid descriptions of this unique city’s splendors and wonders—its zigzagging canals pass by medieval buildings with Greco-Roman columns, Arabesque windows, and Byzantine cupolas. This beautiful landscape is enriched by the tourists from all over the world filling the streets and alleys, adding colour to the local population of hot blooded and passionately expressive Italians. But the reader soon discovers that there is a Cholera outbreak in Venice, and that the corrupt authorities were reluctant to reveal the truth about it because it would devastate the tourist industry. Aschenbach suspects something is awry, particularly when he notices public health officials disinfecting public spaces, and the streets slowly emptying, but locals respond to his inquiries with lies, saying it’s a routine measure. Finally, he discovers the truth from—perhaps not surprisingly—an Englishmen who works as a customs official in the city. The disease, which spreads through water and leads to an excruciating death among a staggering 80% of the infected, arrived via boat, and officials’ attempts to stop the epidemic were an utter failure. Aschenbach himself contracts the disease and eventually dies while sitting on the beach staring at the object of his obsession. 

This ignominious outcome, of course, could have been avoided had Aschenbach left Venice earlier, as he had wanted to. The reason for staying, as mentioned above, was that his luggage was mishandled, but the text makes clear that this was not determinative. Aschenbach nudged fate in his preferred direction, or did not resist fate when it accorded with his wishes. For example, one reason for his luggage being mishandled was that he wanted to stay in the hotel just a bit longer to capture a few more glimpses of the beautiful boy, even though there was a car ready to take him and his luggage to the train station where the train would soon be departing; at this moment, he instructs the hotel staff to send his luggage to the station, while he would arrive shortly after. When he finally arrives, he discovers that his luggage was mishandled, but he still could have boarded, and waited for his luggage at the next destination. Instead, with the boy at the forefront of his mind, he chooses to stay in Venice with the excuse, or rationalization, of his missing luggage. When the fateful decision to not board is made, his sense of relief is palpable, because now it would mean he could continue to indulge his puerile fantasies in Tadzio’s presence.

A connecting theme in the subtext is decay or rot beneath the visible or superficial beauty. This is not surprising, given that another classic by Thomas Mann read by my book club, Buddenbrooks, has similar themes (my review of that book can be found here). Below the surface of Aschenbach’s affluent life, and successful career, one discovers depression and deep dissatisfaction; under Venice’s strikingly beautiful fairytale like façade, there is a raging epidemic which kills by, among other things, starving the body of necessary fluids, and a corrupt administration unwilling to be honest about it; and, of course, the godlike and statuesque beauty of Tadzio only temporarily hides the underlying anemic disposition which was a manifestation of poor health and, at least at the time, predicted an early grave. The major truth that Thomas Mann seemingly wants to impart—in my view successfully—is to look below the surfaces, as appearances are deceiving and misleading; a little probing almost always reveals a darker, menacing, reality which afflicts all living things, whether they are humans, cities, or societies—decay, rot, disease, fragility, and death. 

This review would not be complete without a few lines on the aesthetic quality of Death in Venice. On this point, all the members present at the book club meeting agreed that the text is beautifully written, much more than, say, is the case with Buddenbrooks. Not only is the prose poetic while rendering the scenery visually stimulating; there are many lines which provoke deep thought. For example, while sitting on the beach, Aschenbach reflected on his love the sea as it satisfied:

“the desire to take shelter from the demanding diversity of phenomena in the bosom of boundless simplicity, [and conveyed] a propensity for the unarticulated, the immoderate, the eternal, for nothingness. To repose in perfection is the desire of all those who strive for excellence, and is not nothingness a form of perfection?”

This line stuck out for me and for other members of the book club, as it is emblematic of the prose as it appears throughout the text—flowery, poetic, philosophical, but also very beautiful. It was partly for this reason that all members rated Death in Venice very highly. Sadly, it will be my last book club meeting for a while, as I will soon be going overseas to start a new teaching position, and may not be back in Toronto until the Spring or Summer of 2023. In the meantime, of course, I will continue to read the classics and post my reflections on this blog.

Review of Gogol's "Dead Souls"

In September of 2022 it was my turn to host a book club meeting, which meant I had the privilege of selecting the book. I chose Gogol’s Dead Souls because it was given to me as a gift by a former student with whom I have kept in touch over the years, and I felt morally obligated to read the book; of course, I was also looking forward to reading another classic by a 19th century Russian author, given how much I have enjoyed reading the work of his contemporaries such as Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Pushkin. As usual, while reading the text I underlined important passages and commented in the margins, mostly with the aim of discovering a connecting thread or an overarching theme which would provide me with a general impression upon which I would base my evaluation. 

That’s not what I discovered in Dead Souls. There is a main plot (see below) and a key character, but his adventures and exploits do not seem to convey a deeper and singular truth; in this blogpost, therefore, I will briefly summarize the plot, and highlight the jumble of themes to which it is connected, which appears to be a rickety assemblage of contradictory elements about Russian identity and Russian society in the mid-19th century. Adding to the sense of general lack order—but not necessarily lack of artistic quality—is Gogol’s strange writing style, in which the story does not unfold in a chronologically logical sequence of events. Rather, there are several detours and multiple twists and turns. Throughout the text, moreover, Gogol periodically seems to engage in a kind of Freudian free association directly with reader, as if in the process of writing, there arose sudden and urgent needs for cathartic releases which spontaneously found their way onto the text and which remained in the published version.

Russia: A Riddle, Wrapped in a Mystery, Inside an Enigma 

The context of the story is early 19th century Russia, and it revolves around the personage of Chichikov, who is on a mission to purchase dead souls, by which it is meant serfs who had died but who still existed on paper for the purposes of paying taxes. Landowners were obliged to pay taxes on their serfs, and the census was done infrequently; in the interim, between officials’ collection and updating of information about estates in the realm, many serfs died, while the owner was obligated to pay taxes on the assumption that they were capital generating agricultural value. When the reader meats Chichikov, he or she knows nothing about him other than the fact that he is trying to purchase the title to the dead serfs. The reader accompanies Chichikov as he meets various landowners and tries to convince them to make the sale for the lowest price, and they, as well as the reader, suspect it is a swindle with some nefarious purpose. Nonetheless, they have an incentive to make the transaction, given they are paying taxes for non-physically existing serfs. 

Halfway through the text, Chichikov accumulates 400 dead souls, but the reader is left hanging, as it were, about the overall objective. Is it simply to get rich? The suspicions of the townsfolk only add to the general uncertainty. They suspect he needs it as capital and as part of a scheme to seduce the beautiful daughter of the town’s governor; others suspect more sinister and supernatural motives, such as Chichikov being Napoleon in disguise. To contemporary readers this may sound ridiculous but it actually reflects the fact that Dead Souls was written in 1842, that is, in the shadow of the French invasion and occupation of Russia, which was a historically and nationally defining moment of cosmic importance, perhaps comparable to September 11th, 2001 for contemporary readers. These events tend to produce bizarre narratives and interpretative schemes about the significance of what occurred, which tend to reappear particularly in novel situations which do not fit into general patterns. 

In Dead Souls, the relatively recent French invasion is frequently connected to a theme about the nefarious influence of France and Western Europe on Russia’s supposedly more morally pure culture, a pattern which is still visible almost 200 years later (more on this below). In several scenes, the reader encounters soliloquies about the glories of Russian feudalism, and how attachment to the land, and closeness with nature, helps to forge the best of elements of Russian character. This is juxtaposed with the enervating and spiritually shallow consequences of liberal ideas emanating from the West and particularly France, ideas that many Russians themselves attempted to export to the motherland. Here, there are echoes of Tolstoy, who also posited an existential clash between Russia and France (my review of Tolstoy’s War and Peace which touches upon this theme can be found here).

But—and here is one area where the text is very contradictory—Dead Souls also highlights the corruption at the heart of the Russian system which is what ultimately pressured Chichikov to carry out his big swindle. The first clue is that the authorities continued to tax peasants even after they had died; this inefficient bureaucracy gave owners an incentive to sell them to Chichikov. The second is the development of financial instruments which created opportunities to use peasants, even dead ones, to generate revenue. What is more, Dead Souls highlights how even those who were well off, and did not need more wealth, were driven by ambition and avarice to increase profits, and this often involved greasing the wheels of the system in one way or another, via bribes, or intrigues, or cheating. In other words, another lesson of Dead Souls is that Russian society was corrupt from top to bottom. A consequence of this corrupt system is those without the fortune to be born in well-to-do families must cut corners to get ahead, and so Chichikov’s swindle was not out of place; indeed, it was in many ways, less harmful than other scams frequently occurring. After all, he did not steal any peasants. All transactions were mutually voluntary, and he was helping landowners to lighten their tax burden, which was in any case based on non-existing peasants. He used the title to generate capital which would ultimately be used in actual productive investment which would generate more revenue for public coffers, and which allowed Chichikov to be a good husband and father. In fact, with the help of the capital generated via the dead souls, he gets married, has 11 happy and healthy children, and lives comfortably as a noble on his estate.

Where, then, is the crime here? Perhaps the question mark is precisely the point—there is no straight answer, leaving much ambiguity about what Gogol’s purpose his, or whether he even wrote the book with a broader purpose in mind.

It is midway through the text—and not, as I would have expected, at the beginning—that Gogol paints a portrait of Chichikov which gives some biographical clues about other potential motivations for the big swindle. Gogol tells the reader that Chichikov’s parents belonged to the nobility “but whether to the ancient or the personal nobility God only knows.” He had a sickly mother and a cynical, bitter father, neither of whom showed him much love. From his father Chichikov learned “your friend and comrade will cheat you, and in adversity he will betray you, but money will never betray you.” In school he was taught by violent and cruel teachers, and the one exception, a loving and inspiring instructor, died young. Chichikov eventually becomes a bureaucrat and is presented with opportunities to get rich via accepting bribes. As most others in his position are doing it, so does Chichikov, and he eventually amasses a considerable amount of wealth, but because of a petty dispute with a colleague, he loses most of it. This leads to an existential crisis: “why do I exist? Why has misfortune overwhelmed me? Who cares about his duties nowadays?...I have not plundered the widow…why do others thrive while I descend as food to the worm?” Part 1 of the book (there are 2) ends on this note, with the reader finally having some of the personal details which help to understand Chichikov’s motivation.

In book 2, we learn that Chichikov gets caught for his crimes, and is imprisoned. He is now facing the possibility of execution and has an epiphany which leads him to realize that ambition and avarice have led to his predicament. He pleads with God to save him, promising that he’ll change his ways. At this point, the reader expects some divine intervention leading to Gogol’s release, and his renouncing the material seductions of the world while going to live in a monastery, perhaps becoming a saint. Chichikov is indeed saved, but by the machinations of lawyers and the payment of bribes; perhaps it shows how God works in mysterious ways, or that the corruption which led to Chichikov’s demise also saves him from an early death. In the final section of the book, the reader encounters Chichikov as a member of the nobility, and the main scene is a summit or meeting of the feudal aristocracy. Here, the reader discovers that not only are his aristocratic peers corrupt; some are worse and have been accused of theft and murder. 

Gogol’s Perplexing Prose

It would be worthwhile to briefly reflect on Gogol’s strange writing style, which is of a kind I cannot recall encountering elsewhere. Calling some of the elements a “technique” suggests a strategy with an ultimate purpose, but it is not clear to me that that’s what Gogol is doing. For example, in chapter 6 of book 1, the reader is suddenly and unexpectedly treated to a soliloquy about aging:

“…Now I approach every strange village with indifference, and glance indifferently at its tasteless exterior; it is displeasing to my cold gaze: that which would, in former years, have called forth a lively movement in the muscles of my face, laughter and endless remark, is no longer amusing to me; it now slips by me, and my motionless lips preserve an interested silence. Oh, my youth! Oh, my youth!”

This harangue is written in the voice of Gogol and not that of Chichikov or any other character of the book; it appears utterly disconnected to what preceded it, and when it ends the reader is abruptly re-introduced to Chichikov’s quest to purchase dead souls. It is as if, in the process of writing, Gogol spontaneously wanted to momentarily deviate from the story to speak directly with readers.  One encounters this frequently in the text, as at the beginning of chapter 7, when the reader is offered some Freudian associations about the nature of happiness, reflections which do not flow, logically or sequentially, from the content which preceded, and ends with Gogol exclaiming “to my tale! To my tale! Away with the wrinkle which has intruded itself on my brow, and the dark gloom on my face! Let us fling ourselves with…and observe what Chichikov is doing.” And the story resumes. Or on pg. 238, when Gogol ponders if “it is very doubtful whether the hero of our choice [Chichikov] has pleased the reader,” and on pg. 261, “there still lives in the author’s mind the invincible conviction that readers might have been pleased with this same hero, with this very Chichikov.” 

I am a political scientist by training and so I do not have the expertise to theorize this literary approach, but I can speak to the effect, which is that it creates a sense of weirdness, or that it is discombobulating. At the same time, it leads to a sense of directly communicating with the author, which in a strange way induces the impression that he is telling a true story about a real flesh and blood human being who lived at this moment in history. If this is the purpose—and it’s a big if—I admit it is very effective in helping to blur the boundaries between fact and fiction, story and reality, a novel and a documented history. 

Another possibility is that this effect is purely unintentional as the writing style reflects Gogol’s disordered and unstable mind rather than any strategic literary genius. After all, he did suffer from mental illness and died very young. 

Finally, Gogol’s Dead Souls can also be read as a kind of anthropological treatise on the content of the Russian soul. There is plenty of content on this theme, and, like much else in the text, it is contradictory (perhaps because national identities inevitably are). Over here, we are told “Russians do not like to die in bed,” over there, that “a Russian man is capable of anything and can adapt himself to all climates.” In one scene we learn that “Russian ingenuity only makes itself known in cases of emergency,” and in another, referring to the character General Betrishchev, “good qualities and a multitude of defects, as is usual with Russians, were mingled in a sort of picturesque disorder. In decisive moments he displayed magnanimity, valor, wisdom, unbounded generosity, caprices of ambition, petty personal touchiness.” Elsewhere, we hear that “a Russian man is a lost being. You want to do everything and can do nothing.”

What to make of this jumble of observations? One plausible hypothesis is that Gogol spent half his life abroad, and in fact Dead Souls was written while he sojourned in Italy. As is often the case, distinctive national traits become visible when one encounters and lives among foreigners. As the proverb goes, it is through others that the self is discovered, and this is no less true between groups than it is among individuals. 

In the text Gogol’s repeated assertions on the character of the Russian soul bestride the content on Russian identity which is connected to an existential cultural chasm between Russia and the West. At the time, it was the ideas on progress and equality emerging out of the French revolution which did not sit well with Russia’s glorification of the land, romanticisation of ruggedness, its religious rootedness, and morally pure pastures. In the 21st century, the vocabulary has changed, but one can still detect this clash in the conflict between the West and Russia, when Westerners disparage the country as backward and authoritarian, while Russian leaders, mostly notably Vladimir Putin, warn against importing the West’s moral decay, decadence, and hedonism.  The fact that this clash continues, almost 200 years after Dead Souls was written, highlights that one of the benefits of reading the book is to deepen one's  historical knowledge about trends which have been present for centuries and which re-emerge in the human pageant under new guises and banners.