Review of Edward Gibbon's "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire", Volumes 1 and 2

For years I have had a passion for learning about antiquity, especially ancient Greece and Rome. During the academic year, it is hard to indulge in this material because of other commitments. Hence the late summer is when I have the liberty to read more widely, and one of my goals for August 2017 was to read Edward Gibbon’s seminal text, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, before going to Paris on August 24th. It is a massive tome which requires a huge commitment, and I planned on reading it entirely—around 1400 pages, divided into six volumes. I only partly met my goal and was able to complete the first two volumes, which together are over 500 pages. The rest of the book will have to wait for the Christmas break or perhaps the summer of 2018.

           

Nonetheless, that which I read is astonishing in its scope, breath, and depth. On its own, the quality of the prose merits attention for its smooth flow, rich vocabulary, and nuanced expression of the events Gibbon describes. But that will not be the focus in this essay. Rather, I will explore some of the eerie parallels between ancient Rome and contemporary America, especially their shared political values, the rise to pre-eminence, and the corruption of institutions that either cause, or are the effect of, imperial decline. A separate but important theme of the first two volumes is the Orientalization and Christianization of Rome, changes that forever altered the moral and political fabric of the West (and the world). While these internal changes were happening, Rome was surrounded by barbarians—Germans in the North, Persians in the East—which ultimately brought down the empire, and this, too, for better and for worse, permanently and radically changed history. Lastly, The Decline and Fall’s detailed analysis of various Emperors provides lessons on what constitutes good leadership. Emperor Julian the Apostate, in particular, displayed the virtues associated with greatness and which are totally lacking among leaders in the present era.

Rome vs America

Rome began as a small city-state and became master of the known world, mainly via its conquests of all the territories around the Mediterranean as well as Britain. Thus the basis of its power was primarily military; however, its political values also mattered. Unlike Sparta and Athens, both of which had restrictive citizenship laws that ensured the racial purity of their peoples, Roman citizenship was open to conquered peoples in Asia and North Africa, many or most of whom embraced it, sometimes reluctantly, often enthusiastically, for the prestige that it conferred; Gibbon recounts how it was not unusual for foreign ambassadors in Rome to abandon their native land in order to become Roman citizens. Citizenship also offered opportunities for upward mobility: after becoming citizens, talented and tenacious individuals could reach the pinnacle of Roman power.

The most significant territorial conquests occurred when Rome was a republic; at their best, Rome’s republican institutions—Senate, magistrates, elections, Emperor—worked together, harmoniously and sometimes in tension, to produce a well-functioning representative political order. As the empire became wealthy and complex, different factions fought over the spoils, leading to civil wars and internecine conflict which terminated with the victory of Octavius (nephew of Julius Caesar). Octavius obtained the title of Augustus (“Holy One”), as well as dictatorial powers over the Roman world.  This event, therefore, also marks the official end of the Republic. Although republican institutions continued to operate, they were deprived of much of their authority, and ultimate power over the fate of entire peoples rested with the emperor and the army. A concentration of power, unsurprisingly, had a corrosive effect on the polity, and any story of Rome’s decline must begin here.

In particular, Gibbon recounts how the army became the supreme institution of Roman sovereignty, and possessed control over who would become emperor. The armed forces were divided into various orders, and the most powerful were the Praetorian guards, who controlled, among other things, the security of the imperial palace and the treasury. If the emperor denied their requests for, say, better pay, they literally could murder him and ensure a replacement that was more compliant. A striking example mentioned by Gibbon is the sorry fate of the emperor Pertinax, who replaced the vain and corrupt Commodus. After killing Pertinax, the army sold the imperial office to the highest bidder, and one of Rome’s richest citizens, Didius Julianus, purchased it. This was a mistake of epic proportions, even by the standards of the time; not only was Julianus unfit to serve such a complex role, he also had no control over the armed forces, who ultimately killed him as they did his predecessors. It was in this context that Alexander Severus, a successful Roman general of African extraction, entered the scene to save the empire. Severus’s bravery and military conquests against the Germanic barbarians, and his capacity and willingness to share the hardships of the meanest soldiers, made him a hero among his men. When he arrived in the city, his power over the armed forces was unmatched and he was crowned emperor. Historians are generally fond of Severus; he tried to correct the abuses of his predecessors, was friendly towards religious minorities, and redistributed resources to the poor. However, he was a despot who had no intention of reviving republican institutions. The power of the military only increased under his tenure, and in this sense he served to hasten Rome’s decline. Another example of Severus’s contempt of republican institutions was transferring power to his diabolical son, Caracalla, despite the latter’s manifest incompetence.

Severus

One of the key lessons from these events is the fatal tension between, on the one hand, Empire and the concentration of power and/or wealth, and on the other republican or democratic institutions. Democracy is perhaps more manageable and durable in smaller and more homogenous communities where power and wealth are distributed more equally. As a society’s economic and political power increases, these goods are unequally distributed, and become concentrated among specific groups who then have a stake in the perpetuation of the status quo. Increased wealth, territory, and population also creates more complexity, and complexity, whether in nature or among humans, creates pressures for more hierarchical decision making. These two pressures—inequality and complexity—more and more lead to the concentration of power and hence decision making in particular institutions or among specific groups of people. A consequence is that democratic institutions become pantomimes.

We can now begin to see some of the parallels between Rome and America. Both were expressions of political ideals that in many ways were revolutionary. They embraced republican institutions and rejected the system of monarchy which reigned supreme elsewhere. Another was the inclusive, or non-ethnic based, conception of citizenship. Just as peoples all over the world clamour for American citizenship in part because of the prestige associated with it, and in part because of the opportunities it affords, ancients everywhere wanted Roman citizenship for the accrued benefits and status. In both, individuals from marginalized groups could, through talent, effort and tenacity, reach the apex of power. And, of course, both went from being relatively small and homogenous polities to becoming rich and diverse world empires.

A striking similarity is the corrosive effect of empire on democratic institutions. In 1961, Dwight Eisenhower gave a famous speech warning of the threat posed by the military industrial complex. Not coincidentally, this era was America’s golden age, when it enjoyed unmatched military power as a result of its victory in WW2. This victory, plus the Cold War, led to the creation of industries with an interest in America’s imperial governance around the world. And as these industries became larger, they used their resources to sway the media and representative institutions. Recent events only prove the perspicacity and prescience of Eisenhower. Some of the loudest defenders of American intervention are the agencies and groups which directly benefit from these policies. And, like their Roman ancestors, they almost always defend their imperialistic policies in the language of universal justice.

This leads to the obvious question: will America share Rome’s fate and collapse? The parallels adumbrated above suggests so. But there are also important differences which should caution against predictions of America’s inevitable fall. Rome, unlike America, was surrounded by fertile and warlike barbarians, especially Germans in the North. As Rome’s internal rot deepened, more and more it became unable to protect itself against Germanic invasions. In contrast, America is protected by two large oceans that militate against any foreign invasion, and it shares borders with Mexicans and Canadians—two very unthreatening peoples. Thus as America’s internal corruption proceeds, there will be no barbarians to invade Washington to hasten and complete the final collapse. Much more likely is the continued gradual transfer of global power to Asia, and especially China, which, short of some cataclysmic calamity, will continue apace. Another possibility is that some visionary leader will come to power and reverse America’s decline; but Rome’s example suggests this is unlikely. As will be expounded below, Rome had several virtuous and visionary leaders, like Julian the Apostate, who aimed to revive and re-establish the greatness of their country. But they ultimately failed, suggesting that, once the rot of inequality and corruption sets in, it cannot be reversed.

The Transformation of Rome's Civilization

When Rome reached the apex of its power, it was predominantly a pagan society. One of the immensely valuable aspects of The Decline and Fall is its textured account of pagan civilization; the book almost transports the reader into the personal world views of Rome’s pagan inhabitants. Pagans could be very tolerant, but not through conscious effort. Rather, it was because paganism lacked a single and unified system of rules, beliefs, and texts. Gods were everywhere—from the movement of celestial bodies, to the operation of human appetites, even within single households. Thus, unlike their successors, Romans did not believe in the existence a single religious truth and hence they did not feel a need to proselytize when Rome conquered a people; a conquered peoples’ gods were integrated into the fabric of the Roman empire. This produced a kind of universal religious tolerance, but it was not based in any developed theory about “rights”; it rather flowed from the largely unquestioned pluralistic metaphysics of paganism. However, Gibbon reminds the reader that paganism’s tendency towards religious accommodation coexisted with bizarre and outright cruel superstitions. One of the tasks of Roman pagan priests was to discern the will of the gods on major political questions. They did this by interpreting things like the movements of birds, or the entrails of sacrificed animals. The decisions of emperors and senators on important questions of state, questions with life and death implications, would then be influenced by these interpretations. Another constitutive aspect of Roman-pagan civilization was the fusion of religious and political institutions; the separation that Western peoples now take for granted was utterly absent. Thus, for example, the Emperor was also often the Supreme Pontiff, the latter referring to the office that governed religious affairs. Pagan Romans did not believe that every human was created by, and in the image of, a supreme and benevolent God, and hence they lacked any idea of the existence of universal human dignity that could restrain human cruelty. Consequently, Roman fathers had the legal authority to murder their entire families; Roman parents often murdered their own children, mainly for reasons of poverty; and, of course, Romans enjoyed the spectacle of watching criminals being torn to pieces by wild beasts in the colosseum. 

The orientalization of Rome took two main forms—the importation of pomp and luxury from the Persian court, and the spread of Eastern religions, especially Christianity. Here, following Gibbon, I will focus on the latter because it was much more consequential. In one of the more fascinating parts of the text, Gibbon explicates how intellectual trends were propitious for the spread of Christianity. Elite ancient Romans often traveled to Athens and were schooled in the ideas of classical Greece, especially Aristotle and Plato. A key metaphysical difference between the two philosophers was whether the most important element of reality was that which could be perceived directly by the senses, or whether sense perception gave us access to the surface of some deeper reality only accessible through reason. Plato defended the latter, and Neo-Platonists in Syria and Egypt endlessly speculated about the nature of this underlying or hidden reality. For some, it was some sort of non-material substance, for others, an all-powerful deity.  It goes without saying that the Christian emphasis on an all-powerful God with generative, creative, and moral force fits better with the Neoplatonist philosophy, and hence when that religion entered the scene, it found a ready audience among many pre-eminent philosophers.

Gibbon identifies other causes of Christianity’s ultimate triumph in the Roman world, but two in particular are worth discussing: the zeal derived from its Jewish origins and the pure and austere morals of Christians. Gibbon's account of the ancient Jewish nation is not, to put it mildly, very flattering to the sensibilities of modern readers. Unlike other peoples, ancient Jews, Gibbon says, obstinately refused to integrate into Roman civilization. He also says, compared to other groups in the Roman empire, they were inclined to fanaticism and insularity. One of Christianity’s innovations was to create a new religion with a fanatical devotion to a single and universal truth but without the insularity associated with ancient Judaism. The Christian message was open to all, regardless of class, race, or any other arbitrary category. Women were particularly disposed to Christianity because it imposed monogamy and outlawed homosexuality—meaning that their husbands could not engage in the common practise among married Roman males to have multiple partners, including with women and beautiful young boys. Slaves, too, found Christianity appealing, since it offered them a dignity and elevation that paganism did not.

A major difference between pagan and Christian worldviews was that the former emphasized the present while Christians looked forward to the world to come, which would usher in an era of eternal life and justice to replace the evils of contemporary society. In practise, this meant that primitive Christians (i.e., those present from the death of Christ to roughly the 3^rd century AD) did not recognize the supreme value of Roman power, nor did they participate in Roman social intercourse, meaning they often neglected to be of civil and military service to the empire. Gibbon makes the obvious point that this was not conducive to Roman strength; if anything, it undermined Roman power and introduced an element of weakness: if all Romans neglected to serve the empire, how could it defend itself against its barbarian enemies? Accordingly, unlike other religions, Christianity was persecuted by Roman authorities, and Christians received brutal punishment for their unwillingness to renounce their faith. This approach backfired. Many pagans were converted to Christianity because they admired the bravery and the courage of Christian martyrs who would rather be beheaded or torn to pieces by beasts in the colosseum than renounce their belief in Christ. Official Roman persecution of Christians finally ended with the famous Edict of Milan decreed by Constantine, which gave Christians the liberty to practise and spread their faith unhindered by Roman authorities. Shortly after, the conversion of the masses continued apace, but the conversion of Roman elites represented the irreversible triumph of Christianity. Constantine was Rome’s first Christian emperor, and as soon as Christianity obtained political power, it went from being the oppressed group to the oppressor. The Roman Catholic Church was favoured by the authorities, while pagans were marginalized and persecuted. Gibbon reminds the reader that we should not exaggerate the extent both of the pagan persecution of Christians, and the subsequent Christian persecution of pagans. In the first instance, he calculates that, at most, about 2000 Christians were martyred by Roman authorities, meaning many, many more were able to continue their devotion unmolested. And Christian authorities preserved many of the most valuable aspects of classical and pagan civilization, including Greek philosophy and architecture, demonstrating that they did not aim to completely extinguish the elements of the pre-Christian world.

Lessons on Leadership

The internal and external causes of Rome’s decline were mainly structural, and hence independent of particular leaders. Yet the quality, or lack thereof, of particular leaders was not insignificant. Gibbon extensively analyzes all the emperors in the time period that he covers, and there is insufficient space to mention all of them in this short essay. Accordingly, I will aim to shorten the list, and impose some structure by dividing them into three categories: Extremely bad, somewhat bad, and very good. Doing this allows me to distill lessons from The Decline and Fall on what constitutes good leadership.

Students of history are very familiar with the roster of very bad Roman emperors, especially Nero, Caligula, Caracalla, and Commodus. All were inexperienced and egotistical youths who lacked a mature conception of the common good to guide major decisions. They detested Rome’s republican institutions, and exploited the state for personal gain. As Rome burned or was severely weakened, they surrounded themselves with yes-men who would flatter their prejudices rather than provide objective and honest advice. Gibbon is particularly contemptuous of Commodus. According to Gibbon, “every sentiment of virtue and humanity was extinct in his mind. He valued nothing in sovereign power, except the unbounded license of indulging his sensual appetites.” Gibbon adds that “he was the first of Roman emperors totally devoid of taste for the pleasures of the understanding…from his earliest infancy, he had an aversion to whatever was rational or liberal and a fond attachment to the amusements of the populace such as the circus and the combats of gladiators…the servile crowd whose fortune depended on their master’s vices applauded these ignoble pursuits.” Imaginative readers of The Decline and Fall might recognize a parallel between Commodus and Donald Trump.

Those emperors in the “somewhat bad” category had many redeeming qualities even if their vices were sufficiently harmful to prevent them from entering the pantheon of great leaders. They include Aurelian, Alexander Severus, and Diocletian. All helped to vanquish, at least temporarily, Rome’s internal and external enemies. They were talented and rose to power through demonstrated excellence rather than privilege. Severus was North-African and some surviving images of him suggest that he was non-white, putting a lie to the notion that Barak Obama was history’s first non-white leader of the world. Severus demonstrated talent on the battlefield against Germanic barbarians, and his willingness to share in his soldiers’ hardships during long marches inspired his men and made him a hero. Nonetheless, as mentioned above, Severus was a depot who was contemptuous of republican institutions. Gibbon also devotes much space to Diocletian, who also had humble origins: his parents were slaves. He rose to prominence because of his successful campaigns against the Persians, and his conquest of Egypt—Rome’s last major territorial expansion. Gibbon says that Diocletian “had a vigorous mind, improved by experience and the study of mankind…he submitted his own passions to the interest of ambition”. He reigned for 20 years, which in itself is evidence of success when we consider that many of his predecessors and successors died violently after very short periods of rule. But Diocletian also is associated with two changes that hastened or were symptoms of Rome’s decline. One was the orientalization of the court. When Rome was a republic, it was animated by the values of humility and equality, even at the highest levels. Emperors, for example, were considered ministers, and sat with Senators as equals. During this period, it was not unusual for Roman emperors to mix with the masses and interact with citizens in a humble manner. Diocletian changed the dress, language, and comportment of the imperial office. Following Persian practises, he wore sumptuous robes of silk and gold, had his subjects refer to him as “our Lord”, and required that they fall prostrate in front of him as a way to express adoration for the divine emperor. Diocletian also divided the empire into four parts, which ultimately created the perpetual separation between the Eastern and Western territories.

We now turn to the great leaders, in particular Trajan, Hadrian, the two Antonines, and Julian the Apostate. All were loved by citizens and soldiers alike because, in different ways, they displayed the virtues of bravery, wisdom, humility, the love of learning, discipline, empathy, and self-negation for the common good. Although they could not prevent Rome’s decline, they perhaps temporarily reversed or slowed it down. All demonstrated excellence in their endeavours—whether in the form of enlightened domestic policy which established the conditions for prosperity, or by defeating or subduing Rome’s external enemies. Julian the Apostate merits extra attention because Gibbon analyzes him in a detailed and extensive manner. He was raised as a Christian, but his independent spirit was not compatible with the complete devotion and submission associated with early Christianity. At a young age, he went to Athens, and there, in the Academy, he grew to love the classical learning and pagan mythology of ancient Greece. Rightly or wrongly, he grew to believe that the major cause of Rome’s decline was the spread of Christianity, and hence that the only way to revive the splendor of Rome was to return to the gods of the Fathers of the Republic. Unsurprisingly, then, Pagans celebrated his ascension to the throne, while Christians were aghast, and for good reason: with Julian as emperor, the former could look forward to the return of their ancient privileges, while Christians dreaded the revival of the persecutions they had recently experienced.

Julian the Apostate

These biographical features of Julian are interesting but they are not the source of his greatness. Rather, it was Julian’s many talents and his complete devotion to the good of Rome even at the cost of his own comfort and well-being. Julian became emperor not because of personal ambition; in fact, he likely would have preferred to spend his life in the Academy of Athens. He was called, as it were, to the office after the death of Constantius (Constantine’s son) created a vacuum and the need for enlightened leadership to address Rome’s myriad external and internal problems. The army and the people selected Julian, and after consulting with the gods, Julian reluctantly accepted the throne. He endeavoured always to connect authority and virtue, and was always motivated by the well-being of Rome. When he was not governing, he devoted himself to the cultivation of his mind through deep, intensive, and solitary study. He abhorred the oriental despotism introduced by Diocletian, and refused pompous titles like “Our Lord”. His power and authority gave him access to all the pleasures and riches of the empire, and yet he was chaste, slept on the floor, and ate the same foods as the lowest-ranking Roman soldiers.

Julian displayed that unique and rare combination of being a brilliant intellectual and possessing the strength, courage, and talent of an outstanding soldier. When the Persians threatened Rome, Julian marched, on foot, at the head of the legions, to the front lines to fight them directly with his men. Reliable accounts attest to Julian’s battlefield valour: he would charge directly into groups of Persian soldiers, slaying many while dodging arrows. Tragically but also heroically, Julian met his end while fighting the Persians. His last words have been recorded for posterity:

“Friends and fellow-soldiers, the seasonable period of my departure has now arrived, and I discharge, with the cheerfulness of a ready debtor, the demands of nature...I die without remorse, as I have lived without guilt...Detesting the corrupt and destructive maxims of despotism, I have considered the happiness of the people as the end of government. Submitting my actions to the laws of prudence, of justice, and of moderation, I have trusted the event to the care of providence. Peace was the object of my councils, as long as peace was consistent with the public welfare; but when the imperious voice of my country summoned me to arms, I exposed my person to the dangers of war, with the clear foreknowledge that I was destined to fall by the sword. I now offer my tribute and gratitude to the eternal being, who has not suffered me to perish by the cruelty of a tyrant, by the secret dagger of conspiracy, or by the slow tortures of lingering disease. He has given me, in the midst of an honourable career, a splendid and glorious departure from this world; and I hold it equally absurd, equally base, to solicit or to decline the stroke of fate. This much I have attempted to say; but my strength fails me, and I feel the approach of death. I shall cautiously refrain from any word that may tend to influence your suffrages in the election of an emperor…I shall only, as a good citizen, express my hopes that the Romans may be blessed with the government of a virtuous sovereign.”

Julian’s extraordinary example suggests timeless lessons about what constitutes good leadership. His actions and behaviours were motivated by the singular drive of restoring Roman greatness; indeed, he gave his own life for this cause. The talents that the gods bestowed on him were not exercised in the pursuit of personal pleasure, wealth, or power. His conscious refusal to satisfy his appetites and to instead cultivate virtue in the service of Rome is indicative of a complete self-negation, or a lack of desire for his own glory and prestige. His own natural appetites were subsumed to a cause greater than himself, and his willingness to experience real hardship, struggle, and ultimately to die for this cause, when instead he could have chosen not to, suggests a real and genuine commitment. Julian’s example is striking when comparing him to most of today’s political leaders. They would never risk their personal wealth, privilege, or safety to a greater cause. Many of today’s leaders make decisions that have life and death consequences for others, but they have no skin in the game and hence when things go wrong, they do not pay any real price. Julian, in contrast, was willing to risk, and ultimately lost, his life for the greater good of Rome.

Meditations on losing my luggage

 I try to live a spiritual life, meaning that, to the best of my ability, I aim to supress the baser parts of my nature and avoid egoism, anger, resentment, fear, and contempt. This aspiration has been tested the past two weeks because, for the first time in all my decades of flying, an airline (Aer Lingus) lost my luggage. The purpose of my travel has accentuated the ordeal. I am not on vacation; rather, I flew to Coventry (UK) and then to Trento (Italy) for academic purposes, and will be in Europe all summer. Thus the luggage contained the essentials for a long academic trip, as well as the clothing that I have meticulously selected and accumulated over the years. Aer Lingus’s customer service has only made things worse. Over the past two weeks I have called them repeatedly, and they seem to be utterly helpless; their assistance amounts to politely telling me that they are working on it, they are sending messages to the airports where the luggage might be stored, yada yada yada…at this point, almost two weeks after they lost it, I have become a bit resigned to the fiasco, but this sense of resignation is at times mixed with anger and sadness. As often happens with emotionally intense experiences that disrupt familiar patterns and routines, I have reflected on its deeper meaning.

An apt reaction

First, a few thoughts on the nature of loss. Objectively speaking, I have not really lost anything significant, since the things that matter most—health, work, loved ones—are still in excellent shape. Everything in that luggage can be replaced, whereas losing the things previously mentioned can be devastating and scarring. I was reminded about the nature of REAL loss last week when I discovered that a childhood friend named Lucia, the same age as me (39), died of cancer, leaving behind a husband as well as a child who will grow up without her mother. Intellectually it is easy to grasp that, in the grand scheme of things, losing money, or things that can be replaced with money, is relatively insignificant. And yet this easily grasped and simple truth does not automatically translate into positive emotions. Rather, when I reflect on losing my luggage, I feel frustration, anger, and contempt towards Aer Lingus; I begin scheming on how I might take legal action against this badly run company for causing seemingly earth shattering problems—such as not having my favourite shirt, or the book I need to reference, or those brand new Aldo shoes I bought for the trip.

I have also reflected on the anonymous and de-personalized character of economic activity in the modern age. In previous economic systems (and still within small communities), economic exchanges were tied to personal relationships. Thus one’s baker and clothes vendor might also be married to your friend, or a third cousin. The customer is not simply an agent treated instrumentally according to the calculation of profit. Rather, they are persons with needs and vulnerabilities; they may be potential romantic partners, relatives, or friends; and their well-being is closely tied to an intricate web of relationships among members of the community. Thus an economic exchange was not simply selling a good. It was also a link in a complex chain of value which transcends mere financial profit and loss. Exchanges with large corporations, on the other hand, can have the feel of interacting with faceless bureaucrats in a distant capital who administer a colonial territory. There are no emotional ties between seller and buyer, and hence the distress of the latter carries no meaning or significance to the former. Rather, when things go wrong—such as, say, when one’s luggage with valued personal items is lost—there are procedures to follow that, it is hoped, will resolve the problem. When these procedures work, distress is reduced. When they don’t, as in my case, the situation becomes all the more frustrating because representatives of the company are helpless. They cannot leave their cubicles and personally search for your valued items, nor can they transfer funds to reimburse you. All they can do is follow the rule book even when the rules are clearly not working.

The point is not to condemn industrial capitalism and wax poetical about earlier economic forms. Taken to its logical conclusion, this would imply that we were better off in hunter and gatherer groups, when economic agents were closely related through ties of blood, reciprocity, and obligation. Emotional ties may have been strong within tribes, but few would conclude that their economic activities were therefore better (although these past few weeks, I have come close). But one can appreciate the blessings of the modern economy, such having the choice to fly across the Atlantic in less than half a day, while recognizing some of its downfalls, such as the unaccountable, faceless, nameless, anonymous, and depersonalized administrative apparatus of large corporations which are hapless to resolve issues that create serious difficulties for customers. Of course, the liberal (in the philosophical sense of the term) might say, I can vote with my wallet and take my business elsewhere. That’ll show em! Well, not exactly. This option works only when many customers are experiencing the same problems and all decide to signal their displeasure by purchasing the goods of a competitor. I suspect that the luggage of most Aer Lingus passengers arrives at their destination, and hence the frustrations of a small portion of clients is insufficient to produce real accountability. The market mechanism, therefore, works only when a critical threshold is passed. Before then, there is a wide margin for errors; meanwhile accountability remains elusive for those on the receiving end of these mistakes.

If only!

I’d like to conclude this post with some reflections on what I began with, namely, the difficulty of practising spiritual principles while experiencing the frustrations of losing one’s luggage. As many gurus might say, when experiencing difficulty, it is useful to remind oneself to be grateful for the good things in life. Generally this is probably good advice, since, objectively speaking, losing things that can be replaced with money is not really a big deal. And yet—yet—loss is relative. Thus, for example, the fact that I am in pain when stumping my toe is not lessened by the knowledge that thousands are dying in civil wars. Correspondingly, the stress of losing my luggage through no fault of my own is not necessarily reduced because I am acutely aware of still possessing the things that, when lost, cannot be replaced. Therefore, frustration in itself is not abnormal, provided it is placed in its proper context. 

The spiritual guru might also say that resentment against a faceless corporation is ultimately pointless, and that forgiveness is key. Point taken, although I’ll never fly Aer Lingus again.

Lust and Violence in Emile Zola’s "Thérèse Raquin"

Emile Zola’s Thérèse Raquin is significantly different in tone and content from my book club’s previous selection (Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin). The latter was based mainly on feudalist-era courtship rituals and the joys and disappointments of love, whereas the former revolves around an adulterous affair, a brutal murder, and an unsettling exposure of humans’ animal nature. More broadly, the text aims to show the potential for, and associations between, lust and violence which people are susceptible to given the right circumstances. Zola aims to present and analyze this aspect of human nature in a strictly scientific not moralistic manner, or in his own words “the way a surgeon approaches the patient on the operating table”. In this the book falls short; despite Zola’s attempt to be a scientific investigator of humans’ dark side, the book oozes religious metaphors and moral lessons throughout. Nonetheless, he does succeed in providing the reader with a gripping narrative full of unexpected twists which make the text quite the page-turner. This quality, plus the relatively simple plot and short length (about 200 pages), ensured the relative ease of finishing the book (some readers may even get to the end in one sitting).

The story takes place in mid-19^th century France, and Thérèse Raquin is the main character. She is half-French and half-Arab, the offspring of a French officer and an Algerian woman who met and copulated in one of the Empire’s North African colonies. Both her parents die when Therese is a toddler.  She must therefore go and live with her aunt Mme Raquin and the latter’s son (and Thérèse’s first cousin) Camille, a sickly and egoistical child smothered with love and devotion by his mother. Despite Camille’s unhealthy disposition and vulnerability, he and Mme Raquin live a cloistered life of bourgeoisie comfort and serenity, characterized with simplicity, tedium, repetition, and monotony. Thérèse’s nature is not suitable for this existence; she needs adventure, nature, excitement, exploration, danger, movement, risk, and passion. But economic necessity means that her needs, which are felt at the primal and visceral level, are unmet, causing untold misery and rage which she suffers in silence. Despite the immense inner anguish and turmoil, Thérèse is docile and therefore obeys the rules of the household.

As a young adult her fate takes a turn for the worse when Mme Raquin decides that Camille and Thérèse, first-cousins who were raised as siblings, should become husband and wife (in the 19^th century it was common practise for first cousins to marry). Like so many other events in the book, the scheme is born from selfish and ignoble motives: Mme Raquin fears for Camille’s well-being after she dies, and is desperate to ensure his needs will be met when she can no longer care for him. Thérèse would be perfect because, Mme Raquin believed, she and Camille grew up together and she actively helped tending to the needs of sickly young boy. What could possibly go wrong? It was right for Camille and God would ensure the rest. The reader, of course, can see the folly of Mme Raquin’s decision, since they were wholly unsuitable as lovers. Thérèse felt no attraction towards the sick, soft, sensitive, and puny Camille, while he felt little desire beyond those of the simple and monotonous activities of the petit bourgeoisie: work, reading, sleeping and eating. And even if there hypothetically existed some small degree of suitability between them, Camille still did not make a desirable partner because he was what today we would call “a spoiled brat”. His mother’s smothering love and devotion to his every need meant that he never really developed the independence of spirit and emotional maturity which are essential to healthy and fulfilling romance.

This unfortunate context sets the stage for the main event of the book. During the first year of their loveless and monotonous marriage, Laurent, Camille’s old friend, enters the picture. Laurent is, at least physically, what we might call an alpha-male: tall, muscular, confident, healthy, and aggressive, in other words, everything that Camille is not. He is a frequent visitor to the Raquin household, and is well liked by the entire family. Mme Raquin develops a motherly affection for Laurent and Camille enjoys his company. Meanwhile, Thérèse (unsurprisingly) develops an animal lust for him. Given Thérèse’s passionate nature and unhappy marriage, there is a sense of inevitability to her feelings. As a docile and inexperienced female, she cannot act on them, but when Laurent decides to initiate the affair by brutally and aggressively kissing her, she cannot resist and surrenders entirely to her desire. After one of their love-making sessions, Thérèse tells Laurent:

I used to wait for you to come, and I would walk around your chair so I could pick up your breath and rub my clothes against yours. It was as though your blood was sending waves of heat towards me as I went by, and this sort of burning mist that wrapped around you drew me and kept me beside you, much as I tried, inside me, to break away….”

With this affair, Thérèse finally found an escape from the emotionally stifling confines of her existence. But, as often happens, unintended consequences occur. What began as a passionate affair becomes a maddening and obsessive love which induces desperation about the unsustainability of their situation. They want to live together as husband and wife so that they can fully enjoy each other, but Camille stands in the way. And this is where their animal lust transforms into the equally animal-like desire to kill the obstacle to the fulfillment of their desire. Laurent, as the stronger and more conniving party, develops a scheme to make it look like an accident, and takes the lead in executing the plan. The three of them go on a boat ride, and Laurent pushes Camille off the boat knowing that the latter cannot swim and will surely drown, while Thérèse looks on, distraught but fully acquiescing to the crime. When they return to the shore, they convince the authorities, friends, and crucially Mme Raquin that it was a horrible accident, and that Laurent even tried to save Camille. This deception allows them to proceed with their usual lives— Thérèse as Mme Raquin’s adopted daughter, and Laurent as the well-liked family friend and frequent visitor. In order to allay any suspicion, they decide to wait at least 18 months before marrying, and Laurent’s clever shenanigans ensure that the engagement seems natural and beneficial for all involved, especially Mme Raquin who will be able to live out her final years surrounded, and tended to, by her loved ones.

But then comes another unexpected twist: the murder seems to have calmed their sexual lust for one another. In fact the beastly, overwhelming, and obsessive sexual desire dissipates entirely. Without it, the whole point of the murder is meaningless; they killed Camille so that they could satisfy the uncontrolled need to fully give themselves to one other. They are unable to unravel their plans to elope, and after eighteen months, they proceed with the marriage hoping that the lull in their lust is temporary and that it will fully return in the marriage bed. They could not have been more wrong; after the officiation of marriage, rather than marital bliss, they experience a descent into unspeakable misery and madness. Camille’s ghost, metaphorically as it were, enters the marriage bed and creates an invisible but insurmountable barrier between them. A lack of desire soon turns to mutual loathing, hatred, and disgust, forcing them to recognize not only the pointless of the crime, but, particularly for Thérèse, its sinfulness. And this is where the religiosity and moralism of the story become unambiguous.

In the introduction, I mentioned Emile Zola’s stated aim in writing Thérèse Raquin, namely to analyze the dark side of human nature using the approach of the scientist rather than the moralist. He only partially succeeds in this endeavour, especially in the section on the animal like attraction between Thérèse and Laurent. She was an attractive and passionate young female in a deeply unsatisfying marriage to her sickly first cousin, while he was an available and willing alpha-male. The strong chemistry seemed to be beyond their will to resist, and when they finally sleep together it induces a maddening obsession for more, leading to unrealistic expectations of eternal bliss. The association between this animal-type lust, obsessive physical desire, and the potential for violence, also is amply accounted for in human affairs, and Zola does an excellent job in elucidating the underlying psychological mechanisms that drive these tendencies. But one cannot ignore the moral lessons in the text that have little to do with science. The most obvious is the consequence of the crime, especially the deep sense of regret and descent into madness, the continual presence of Camille’s ghost, and the very religious belief that following one’s primal needs, rather than tradition or some abstract moral rule, leads to disaster.

Other non-scientific aspects of the book emerge when Thérèse and Laurent make various attempts to escape their despair. Laurent rediscovers painting and finds that he is actually talented, and yet to his horror he also finds that all his works are unconsciously and involuntarily producing images that resemble Camille, which only increases his insanity. Both Laurent and Thérèse also turn to adultery and to drink, and both find that it only provides a temporary reprieve. The religious implication could not be more obvious: they could not escape from the reality of their crime because the immorality of it is woven into the very fabric of reality. Therefore, there was no escaping it except through death, and death would occur in one of three ways. Either they confess and face the guillotine, murder each other, or commit suicide. The first path required the courage to face the truth, confess, repent, and leave the rest in God’s hands. But both are full of fear, and in one last desperate and futile attempt to escape reality, they secretly, and with almost perfect synchronicity, decide to murder each other.  Their plots are discovered simultaneously, at the moment before the dirty deed was supposed to take place, foiling their plans. Rather than face the full horror of their crime and its consequences, they commit suicide together.  

As in all classical tragedies, there is a sense of inevitability in this final act of desperation. It was ultimately the outcome of circumstances that each had little control over, namely Thérèse’s unhappy marriage and monotonous bourgeoisie life, the animal-like chemistry between her and Laurent, and her consequent inability to resist his advance. When this turns into an all-consuming and obsessive love, Camille is the obstacle to its fulfillment and becomes the object of murderous hatred. If humans were only animals, there would be little reason to presume that the crime would represent an obstacle to their wishes. Nature, after all, is indifferent to the killing sexual rivals. But the book suggests otherwise; in the realm of human affairs, morality is inscribed in the very fabric of nature, which means that ultimately they could not escape their immoral conduct. Keeping it secret, or trying to escape the consequences with alcohol and sex, only made things worse. The only solution to their immoral conduct, then, was to reveal the truth and face the consequences with honesty and courage, while the alternative was an ignominious death. A fire and brimstone priest could not have expressed it better.