So long, Starbucks

It is the end of an era, sort of. The Starbucks at Yonge and Bloor, the former location of Britnell’s book store, has permanently closed after 20 years of business. I was a regular, sometimes daily, client for around 13 years. The place had become part of my routine of going to the next-door Toronto Reference Library to work or study, and taking a break during the afternoon at the Starbucks while savouring my usual Tall Dark Roast (no room for milk). 

I had become accustomed to frequently seeing the wood-paneled walls and counters, the art deco floor and ceiling, the friendly hellos I was greeted with by staff who knew my order by heart, and the other regulars who were often there during the same time as me. Familiar places, like familiar faces, after a while, are taken for granted, which is another way of saying that we forget their transience and value. Until, of course, they are gone. 

Upon hearing that this particular Starbucks would close—a week before its final day of business—I reacted with incredulity and surprise, almost like a jilted lover who thought things were going well. What?!...No…why? The reason, I was told by staff—unsurprisingly for Toronto—is condos. A huge development will soon begin on that corner, and that Starbucks—my Starbucks—is one of the causalities. 

 

You will be missed

An impending termination of something valued that one thought would last indefinitely naturally triggers a flood of memories and emotions. There were the many first dates at that location, most of which led to nothing, but a few of which resulted in valuable and enduring relationships. There was the Saturday afternoon get togethers with my friends—pretty much every Saturday for 13 years—where we would talk and debate politics over coffee. There was the stupid argument with my teenage daughter in 2018 from which we have still not fully recovered. There was the regular drama of watching the staff struggle with drug addicts who would lock themselves in the bathroom to get their fix, while queuing patrons waited, annoyed and frustrated, to relieve themselves. 

Over the years, the routine of going to this Starbucks had generated contacts, experiences, and memories which became part of my life. While things hummed along, I was unconscious of this. Then it was gone, and it was at that moment that I realized that value accrues to things by merely lasting despite life’s oscillating rhythms and ruptures. Continuity within the context of change allows people and things to grow together, and in the process, become emotionally entangled. 

And this dynamic is more and more being lost as Toronto rapidly develops. As a native of the city, I have seen, experienced, and benefited from the rapid changes of the past 20 years. Who, for example, misses the grey and dour parking lots which used to scar the downtown landscape? Every now and then I have read articles about some old and valued restaurant or café about to close because of condo developments. But they remained abstractions, because I never patronized them. Besides, I am living in a new and comfy condo myself, close to downtown, which increases in value every year to boot. Stop whining!

Easier said than done. The closing of this Starbucks made me realize that change is not always necessarily good, that development comes with costs, even if they are not necessarily quantifiable. Now, it seems, change is so rapid, that fewer and fewer things develop that sense of specialness which occurs from mere continuity and regularity of contact. Everything is increasingly reduced to economic calculation and utility, meaning that, once things are no longer deemed profitable, they are whisked away, as it were, into oblivion, in order to make space for the next new and more profitable thing.

Meanwhile, I have found a new Starbucks just around the corner from the Toronto Reference Library. But it will take a long time, plus many joys and disappointments, before it becomes special.

A Review of Thomas Mann's "Buddenbrooks"

Thomas Mann’s Buddenbrooks tells the story of the eponymous family’s firm in mid-19^thcentury Germany, when this country, like its neighbours, was experiencing the political and cultural convulsions of the liberal and nationalist ideas unleashed by the French revolution. The main focus of the novel is decay and decline, which Mann skillfully examines at four levels—the individual, family, firm, and nation (i.e. Germany). In so doing, Buddenbrooks enlightens the reader on the processes that underlie the cycle of rise, peak, decay, and death that all living things must face, while connecting this pattern, as it transpired in the Buddenbrooks family, to the fateful political direction of their country. Germany and the Buddenbrooks, Buddenbrooks shows, moved in different directions: in the mid- to late- 19^thcentury, when the family’s decline reaches its final phase, Germany is industrializing and has accomplished its unification, consolidating is position as master of Europe. In terms of culture, however, Germany is regressing: Buddenbrooks highlights how, after unification, Germany takes a militarist and aggressive turn. Thomas Mann interweaves these complex dynamics while compellingly narrating the family’s demise; another, equally important, accomplishment is that the reader learns about some of the 19^thcentury cultural trends in Germany which would eventually culminate in the disasters of the 20^thcentury.

The Golden Age

The Buddenbrooks grain distributing firm began in the late 18^thcentury and rose to prominence because of the commitment and determination of the firm’s founder. By the time that the reader encounters the Buddenbrooks family, several generations have passed since the founding, their firm is successful and the family is very wealthy. They live in a large house adorned with exquisite furniture and expensive works of art, and have devoted servants attending all their needs. They are part of the merchant class not the bourgeoisie or the traditional aristocracy; but they straddle the divide between the latter two, displaying the conservative, religious, and provincial features of the nobility as well as the enterprising spirit of the bourgeoisie. The patriarch whom the reader encounters and who plays a major role in the first half of the book is Johanne Buddenbrooks, a man who embodies the mentioned characteristics while being almost a caricature of the stereotypical German: stern, devoted, sober, decisive, reliable, and predictable (Angela Merkel might fit this mold as well). 

The happy years

As the text proceeds, the story quickly arrives to the year 1848, when liberal and nationalist movements, influenced by the French revolution, quickly spread around Europe, particularly in Italy, France, and Germany. In the short term, they failed; conservative monarchies implemented some progressive reforms, but their regimes remained intact. In some countries, however, the events of 1848 unleashed forces which could not be contained. In France, for example, an enduring republic was finally established in 1870, while Italy’s unification in 1860 was accompanied with republican and liberal features. In Germany, in contrast, the protests of 1848 were a failure, and Buddenbrooks documents them in a scene at the provincial Senate, a chamber which preserved old feudal practices such as seats being determined on a hereditary basis. Johanne Buddenbrook is member, and during one sitting in 1848 the protesters crowd out in front of the Senate. They are mostly workers who demand better wages and a republican constitution. But when the Senators, including Johanne, come outside to confront the protesters, their authority is seemingly sufficient to disperse and demobilize them. The latter appear to be almost mechanically repeating slogans associated with the French revolution (Freedom! Democracy!), while the Senators’ authority appears to be deeply rooted in the fabric of the culture and society. There is a sense that the movement lacks genuine commitment to democratic ideals and would be happy if it achieved minor reforms which improved working conditions; it quickly fizzles out and the old aristocratic order is preserved.  

Johanne Buddenbrook is wealthy and enjoys the accoutrements of political power but it would be a stretch to say that he had an easy or happy life. His first wife, the one he genuinely loved, died while giving birth to his first son Thomas. He marries again but for reasons of compatibility, in this context meaning someone his family approved of, with shared socioeconomic origins and a large dowry, and who produced offspring which would ensure the continuity and success of the family firm. He has three more children with his second wife. 

The Fall

This generation of the family brings to the fore the main theme of the book, namely, decay and decline. The oldest, Thomas, inherits his father’s seat in the Senate, position of head of the family and firm, and deep sense of duty and commitment to excellence in these various domains. But he is also dour, obsessed with work, and contemptuous towards those who do not meet his standards. His younger brother Christian, meanwhile, is an artistic, free thinking, promiscuous, irresponsible, and charming social butterfly; clashes between him and Thomas are frequent in part because, as head of the family and firm, Thomas is tasked with micromanaging and authorizing deeply personal decisions such as Christian’s income, or whether his latest lover is a suitable partner for marriage. Under these conditions, fruitful cooperation between the siblings is impossible, and there is a kind of mutual contempt.  They lead very separate lives, with Thomas devoted to the firm and the Senate, Christian to the pleasures of life. 

Johanne also sired two daughters, Clara and Antonie. The former appears almost as a background character, and the reader learns little other than that she was deeply religious like her mother, marries a pastor, and dies young of tuberculosis. Antonie, in contrast, is one of the main protagonists in the narrative and plays a central role in some of the book’s main themes. Like Thomas, she is utterly devoted to the survival and success of the firm, and major decisions, particularly on love, are refracted through that lens. Partly for this reason, she is profoundly unlucky in love. Early in the book, she has two suiters, one an ostensibly successful business man, Grunlich, and another, Morten, is a student who was radicalized by the ideas of the French revolution. She falls in love with the latter in part because she is seduced by his intellect. The former, meanwhile, although handsome, cuts a rather pathetic figure with his faux chivalry and utter servility to Antonie. Johanne Buddenbrook prefers Grunlich because, it seems, he will be better for the firm, and Antonie, with a deep sense of duty to the firm and family, reluctantly obliges. This disagreement between Antonie and her father is a microcosm of the broader cultural clash convulsing Europe: Antonie is motivated by individual happiness which leads her to prefer Morten, while Johanne prefers she marry Grunlich because, in his own words, “we are not born to pursue our own personal happiness, for we are not separate individuals but links in a chain” which indissolubly are connected, and create obligations, to ancestors and future generations. Her decision to follow her father’s council (and by implication, his worldview) turns out to be a major deception (in both the English and French meanings of the word “deception”): Grunlich is a swindler who uses the Buddenbrooks good family name to build up financially ruinous debts. 

This fateful decision sets in motion the general pattern of her life characterized by repeated failed relationships. After divorcing Grunlich she has another failed marriage, this time to Permaneder, whom she also marries for compatibility not love. Her first and only love, meanwhile, remains in the back of the reader’s mind, in part because some passages hint at his possible reappearance, an effect which was clearly the author’s intention; when writing Buddenbrooks, Thomas Mann knew that many readers would crave redemption for the unlucky Antonie. But—and this is a spoiler—it was not to be. Morten enters her life in the early part of the novel and then disappears. Perhaps it was Mann’s way of conveying to the reader the failure of liberal and republican ideas in mid-19^thcentury Germany: ephemeral, shallow, and unenduring. Antonie’s life embodies the revolution’s failure in Germany in other ways. When she meets Morten and encounters republican ideas, she is convinced by them, and expresses these convictions frequently throughout the book. But her actions say otherwise, namely, an attachment to the material perks and privileges which accrue to her quasi-aristocratic class, and an utter devotion to firm and family that is, in practice, very conservative. Her disputes with her first husband were frequently about the lack of servants to manage the household; she is constantly preoccupied with the status of the family and firm (rather than, say, her compatriots); she is contemptuous towards her fellow Germans in Bavaria because of their Catholicism, slovenly habits, and lack of style. She is, in other words, a hypocrite par excellence: even while frequently professing belief in the egalitarian ethos of liberalism, her actions betray the elitist and privileged inclinations of her class. 

While disputes between Thomas and Christian, and Antonie’s failed marriages, are weakening the firm’s future prospects, Mann frequently reminds the reader about that other aspect of decline, namely, aging and death. As the story proceeds, the reader is reminded of the visible manifestations of this unavoidable process. When we are introduced to Madame Buddenbrook (Johanne’s wife), for example, she is not quite in the bloom of youth but is still beautiful, with glowing skin, thick and voluminous hair, and a style that accentuates these features. She reaches and then passes middle age, and Buddenbrooks reminds us that her skin has become dull, her hair and her lips have lost volume, and she has less curvature around her hips and thighs. Her graceful style and manners are unchanged but they cannot disguise the underlying frailty and decay which, among other things, makes her more susceptible to disease. Her demise occurs because of a pneumonia that, earlier in life, her robust constitution would have easily overcome. Thomas ages even quicker (perhaps because he was a workaholic, constantly stressed out, and a chain smoker). By the time he is in his late thirties, he has already lost his youthful appearance, enterprising spirit, and has become profoundly bitter and cynical. Antonie’s physical decline is much slower—the reader learns that, at age 50 she was still attractive—but her misfortunes in love mean that this is not translated into anything that ensures the survival and success of the firm. Clara dies young, and Christian is sickly from the get go; but even if he had the robust constitution of his father, his libertine sexual appetite and creative, free thinking, and artistic spirit make him unsuited for leadership of the firm. 

Had Germany experienced a successful liberal revolution, these dynamics might have been overcome by finding someone outside the family, based strictly on merit, to ensure the firm’s success. An outsider might have also been able to innovate so as to take advantage of the new opportunities afforded by the customs union (the pre-cursor to unification). But in the context of the Buddenbrooks family’s aristocratic and traditional society, only a male heir could preserve the family and firm. This, of course, made them susceptible to the lottery of life; one cannot choose the quality and character of offspring. And even the best efforts to shape and mold one’s children in accordance with one’s designs runs up against nature’s intransigent tendency to produce predetermined personalities which clash with parents’ expectations. Hanno, Thomas’s only son and hence the Buddenbrooks family’s only hope for an heir to take on the responsibilities of the firm, displays this clearly. His fragile health is an ominous sign, and as his adolescence proceeds, he does not display the attributes necessary to be a successful merchant and Senator, like his father and grandfather. He has little interest in the practical skills associated with buying, selling, investing, and managing clients, employees, and balance sheets; and he has little appetite for the classical education and public speaking expected of Senators. In one sense, he very much resembles his uncle Christian in that his natural inclinations are towards art and the abstract; this leads him to detest the attempts to force a role on him of which he is not suitable.    

Poor little Hanno not only did not fit the role in which so much hope had been invested. He was also completely out of place in the direction that his country, Germany, was heading. As mentioned in the introduction, the story takes place while Germany turns into Europe’s hegemon. The customs union imposed on 1866 creates a larger market for German firms; at the same time, the country is adopting the technology of the modern age and industrializing. With great power comes great responsibility, and Germany’s new position might have been used to consolidate liberalism. Instead, the country took a militarist turn. By the time Buddenbrooks reaches 1871, the year that Germany officially unified and defeated and humiliated France in a major war which consolidated its leadership of Europe, the firm and family are close to their final collapse. 

Around this time, little Hanno is an adolescent, and a significant part of the text documents his experience at school. Here, the reader observes some of the cultural dimensions of Germany’s failed liberal revolution. Hanno’s best friend is Kai, another whippersnapper with a noble lineage, and both display the artistic and free thinking qualities which are shunned at their school and, by extension, in the new Germany. During recess, while Hanno and Kai would recite plays or discuss music and art, the reader learns that their classmates almost all embraced a “crude virility”, expressing, in their gestures and activities, the new ethos of a “bellicose, triumphant, rejuvenated, Fatherland” (with a capital F). The school director, Mr. Wulicke, embodies, and imparts to his students, the spirit of service to the state, and obsequiousness to those in authority. Before unification, there was more—albeit limited—space for idealistic liberals. Now, Buddenbrooks shows, an authoritarian, militarist, and bellicose set of values reigned supreme which infused the nation’s culture.

Hanno would have thrived in a more liberal environment, where he would have been free to pursue individual happiness and his natural inclinations, perhaps becoming a musician like his mother. He was completely unsuitable in the new Germany, and this makes his early death from typhus somewhat bittersweet: as one of the only likable characters in the book, the reader wants him to thrive and succeed, but his circumstances—what with unrealistic expectations imposed on him to save the family business, and the failure of liberalism to take root in Germany—make such an outcome virtually impossible. Hanno’s early death also symbolizes the firm’s final and irreversible demise. And since neither Thomas nor Christian had other children, Hanno’s passing also meant the end of the transmission of the Buddenbrook family name to future generations. It is a rather ignominious end to what was, just a few generations prior, a relatively happy family with a successful business. The broader lesson is that nobody, not even those who reach the pinnacle of their endeavours, can escape life’s cruel vicissitudes over which they have little control. It is not only aging and death which will inevitably render their successes moot; we are also subject to the broader social, political, and economic trends which favour some and not others in ways that are not related to effort or talent. The Buddenbrooks’ family was destined to perish because it was not favoured by the lottery of life; and the firm’s demise was assured once Germany unified, industrialized, and militarized, trends which were also destined to have a devastating impact outside of Germany’s borders.  

Inhabitants of Ontario Should Beware of Temporarily Renting out Their Home

I am an academic and during the summer I often go overseas to conduct research. I also own my own home—a spacious one-bedroom condo close to downtown Toronto. The mortgage, condo fees, electricity, and taxes total about $1700 per month, and during past summers I have rented it to persons seeking short-term rentals. In the summer of 2019 I experienced a nightmare for two reasons: an irresponsible tenant and, more importantly, the tenant was protected by Ontario’s Residential Tenancies Act (RTA).

            
Before departing overseas, I advertised my place on Kijiji as four-month rental, from May 1^st to Sept 1^st. I received many queries and found someone who seemed to be responsible and who appeared to have a successful consulting business. We signed the agreement, and I jetted to Paris. On July 1^st, I did not receive payment in accordance with our agreement, and the tenant’s excuse was not having access to funds at their bank. They promised to pay on the July 5^th, and did not, and promised to pay again on the 8^th and did not. At this point, I realized that they were dishonest and did not keep their promises, and so I asked the tenant to leave.  They responded saying that they had a right to stay. Really? If a tenant in your home persistently lied and violated the terms of a written agreement, they could no longer stay, right? 
          
Wrong. After consulting a lawyer, I discovered that, in the eyes of the RTA, when I went to Europe I moved out of my home, and the tenant moved in, giving them all the rights inscribed in the legislation, while I was considered a landlord. In practice, this meant that they could stay despite not paying, and if the rent was paid, the tenant could stay indefinitely. To receive the rent I was owed, I would have to submit an N4, but to have the legal certainty that I could return home, I would also have to submit an N12, which is the procedure landlords use when they want their property for personal use. This was the case even though I just went to Europe temporarily to conduct research; I did not move out, and never intended to.
            
My lawyer told me that an alternative to an N12 was to pay the tenant to sign an N11, a document which confirms their consent to terminating the tenancy on Sept 1^st—that is, the date we had already agreed to. The tenant owed me two months rent, or $3400, and, in utter desperation, I offered to forgive that debt in exchange for signing the N11, which was accepted. And so happily I returned home Sept 1^st, but at a pretty exorbitant cost: two months of forgone rent, lawyer fees and the cost of returning to Toronto from Europe earlier than planned in order to deal with the mess. And this is on top of the anguish and stress of the ordeal.
            
Had the RTA not been applied to cases like mine, the problem would have been quickly solved: when they refused to leave I could have called the police, and my losses would have only been the forgone rent. But because of the RTA, I could not do this, and, even worse, I did not have legal certainty that I could return home on the date we agreed; consequently, I had to essentially bribe the tenant to respect the original commitment. Had they refused, I would have had to proceed with an N12, which would have been a lie because I would be pretending that I needed the property for personal use, when, in fact, it was my home; and the N12 could take several months, meaning, had I taken this route, I would have returned home in October or November, in the middle of the semester, when the last thing I need is to deal with the legal complications of the Landlord Tenant Board.
           
Hopefully, members of Ontario's provincial parliament will consider amending the RTA so that others do not have my experience. In the meantime, people in Ontario should think twice before temporarily renting out their homes while they are away.

Review of Michel Houellebecq's "Serotonin"

Serotonin is the second novel I have read by Michel Houellebecq. The first, Soumission, perfectly demonstrated his penchant for telling controversial and outrageous stories, in that case Islam’s gradual and largely peaceful conquest of France. Serotonin continues this provocative approach with the story of Florent, a 46 year-old man who finds that he has reached middle age with little to show for it other than a series of failed relationships and a rather dull job at the ministry of agriculture. Like many people in developed countries who find themselves in similar situations, Florent tries to resolve his malaise with anti-depressants which artificially produce the hormone Serotonin (hence the book’s title). Although they help him function in the sense that after taking them he can get out of bed, eat breakfast and shower, they do not resolve his existential crisis. The underlying meaning of the book is that this medicalization of despair is ultimately a symptom of a much deeper disease, namely civilizational decadence and decline induced by social and economic liberalism. Of course, Houellebecq does not explicitly state this thesis; rather it is implicit in the story and particularly the characters, including Florent’s friend Aymeric, a farmer who is harmed by free trade and decides to revolt, and for which he pays the ultimate price. Although the text is ultimately full front assault on liberalism, it does not provide a viable alternative to this political order; yet there are hints in the text that Houellebecq’s ideal society is Sparta.

The great polemicist

 Frustration with Sexual Freedom

The book begins when Florent is in his umpteenth relationship, this time with Yuzu, a Japanese woman who, at 26 years-old, is two decades younger than him. Like many foreigners in Paris she comes from a well-off family who is able to finance her studies and living expenses abroad. She is attractive, worldly, educated, and displays the deference and respectfulness inculcated by Japan’s traditional culture. Many middle aged European men might be delighted to have a girlfriend like Yuzu, and Florent’s recounting the relationship suggests that it was initially enjoyable, particularly during the phase when sexual attraction is most intense. By the time the reader encounters them, they already stopped frequently sleeping together, and the relationship continues through inertia and economic necessity rather than love and commitment. Things go downhill one day when Florent opens her email account and finds that she is an amateur porn actress; in one of those typical Houellebecq scenes which shock and provoke the reader, Florent downloads some of the videos of her getting gangbanged and having sex with animals (a dog, to be precise). These videos are described in detail and leave an indelible mark on the incredulous reader.

At this point Florent is already out of love with Yuzu, but he is still upset about the betrayal, particularly because he finds that the videos were filmed the year before, that is, the period when he thought that the relationship was at its peak. He ponders how he should respond and decides to murder her. When Yuzu returns, he will propose that they have a few drinks, and when she is drunk he will throw her out of the window from their 30^thfloor apartment. He changes his mind only because he is afraid of going to jail and being raped by other inmates (not, um, because of the immorality of murder). Plan B is to leave everything—Yuzu, their apartment, his job—and disappear while trying to start a new life.

Florent inherited his parents’ estate, and this allows him to live without working. He finds a cheap motel and settles in, but his depression has worsened. Not only is he sad and pessimistic all the time, he has difficulty getting out of bed and showering. He visits a doctor who prescribes Captorix, the latest generation of anti-depressants, which help him function, but at the cost of losing all sexual desire or even the capacity to have an erection. 

As the story proceeds, the message becomes clear: it is society that is sick, and not depressed people. The target—unsurprisingly from Houellebecq—is liberalism (understood philosophically). But unlike Marxists, who only attack economic liberalism, or conservatives, who critique the social kind, his target is the whole package of individual freedoms which characterize contemporary society.  His frustration with sexual liberalism becomes evident when Florent reminisces about his past and introduces the reader to his series of failed relationships. One in particular is Clair, and he decides to reconnect with her after his break-up with Yuzu. They meet for dinner, and he discovers that she is in a similar situation as him—single and frustrated after having many failed relationships, and in a job she does not like. Even worse, he finds that she is profoundly self-absorbed. There is no real conversation during their meal, rather there is a monologue as Clair endlessly discusses her problems while not showing any interest in Florent’s life. A few bottles of wine nonetheless loosens them up and they go home together, but Florent is on anti-depressants which prevent him from having an erection, despite her best efforts to stimulate him. He tells her about the medication, and this is when, for the first time that evening, she actually becomes curious about his life.

Only one of his girlfriends gave him genuine happiness. She was not French, (perhaps unsurprisingly, from Houellebecq’s perspective), she was a Dane, and they met at Cite Universitaire, a place where non-nationals mingle and develop relationships. It was a period in their lives when optimism about the future reigned supreme, and both seemed destined for promising and fulfilling careers—she as a veterinarian, and he an engineer for the agricultural sector. They lived together and spent Christmas with each other’s respective families. This happy union lasted five years, and ended because Florent cheated on her. Even worse was that, from Florent’s perspective, the betrayal was rather meaningless. There was no emotion involved, and it occurred with someone who was much less attractive than Camille, while he was drunk and out with friends; the other woman happened to be there, and alcohol and a bit of sexual desire did the rest.

Perhaps countless relationships end this way, but in this case it occurred with the only woman who genuinely made Florent happy and with whom he could envisage spending his entire life. By the time the reader learns about Camille, Florent is in the pit of despair mentioned above, and he decides to look for her. He discovers her veterinarian office and stalks her, waiting for that perfect moment to make an encounter. But his plans for their getting together again are disrupted when he sees her with a small child, meaning her commitment to her son may compromise her devotion to Florent. At this point, Florent descends into madness: he plans to kill the baby, and rationalizes it by reminding the reader that males in other species frequently kill another’s offspring when mating. Why can’t humans do the same? Happily, he comes to his senses at the last minute and fails to carry it out.

Victims of Free Trade

Aymeric was Florent’s friend during their university years. He is of aristocratic lineage—one of his ancestors fought with Richard Lionheart during the attempt to recapture Jerusalem—and inherited land that for centuries was transmitted to each generation. After his studies, Aymeric married someone from his social class, and they had two children. They make use of his inherited land to produce goods for the agricultural sector, meaning his interests are now tied with those in the rural and peripheral areas of the country.

Florent decides to visit him, and by then Aymeric is in bad shape. His glamorous wife met a dashing pianist and moved to London with him, bringing their two children along. This separation is devastating, and Aymeric deals with it by consuming copious amounts of alcohol and marijuana. Meanwhile, cheaper products from poorer competitors, like Ireland, Poland, and India, cause economic pain to him and his employees. Protectionist barriers are slowly being removed, and hence farmers are left to themselves to respond what they perceive to be unfair competition. Serotonin emphasizes the human and social side of these economic developments—the need to give up heating the house in order to reduce daily expenses, family conflicts, the loss of dignity created by unemployment. Aymeric needs to find other ways to raise money to live, and decides to capitalize off intra-European tourism. One of his guests, Florent discovers, is a German pedophile who travels to France to satisfy his lust for little girls. Sensitive readers will be shocked by the scene when Florent discovers the videos of a 12 year-old girl performing fallatio on a middle-aged German tourist, in part because the reader knows that these things actually occur in the real world.

Aymeric’s attempt to find alternative sources of revenue is insufficient, and his business is rapidly deteriorating. The same is true for others in his community who work in the same sector. They meet and engage in "consciousness raising" and discover their shared pain, and its source, namely, the French state which has sacrificed the interests of farmers on the altar of free trade and European integration. The farmers decide to revolt, and these scenes solidify Houellebecq’s reputation for having the ability to capture the nation’s pulse and predict the direction in which it is going: the yellow vest protests, a revolt of the periphery against the elites in Paris, began just after Serotonin was released. Parallels are clearly there, particularly the class-based nature of the protesters, who come from those groups which have experienced economic decline and economic insecurity. Targets are also the same: free trade, European integration, and the classes which benefit from these economic developments. 

Back to the farmers’ revolt in Serotonin: the confrontation turns violent, in part because of the despair of the farmers. Florent witnesses the protests and sees Aymeric’s face up close; he notices that Aymeric, for the first time in many years, seems happy. One reason may be that he is taking action rather than submitting to his distress. He also has very little to lose at this point—he has lost his wife and children, and is near bankruptcy; paradoxically, this gives him the freedom to take more risk, including risking his life during the faceoff with the French security forces. Readers expecting a happy ending, such as the protests effectively changing the direction of French politics, will be disappointed: Aymeric and many of his comrades die in a firefight with the police.

If not liberalism, than what?

Florent’s series of failed relationships leads to a major depression, and he deals with his despair by taking anti-depressants. As the book proceeds it becomes clear that their widespread use is a symptom of wider disease that is civilizational in character, namely, sexual freedom, the general lack of commitment and the desire for individual pleasure. Each failed relationship adds another layer of frustration, which accumulates and encrusts itself like the detritus slowly covering a barren landscape. Some are lucky to find stability, love, and commitment, but many end up middle aged and disillusioned. And not even the seemingly privileged classes are immune to these dynamics, as demonstrated by Aymeric; his aristocratic lineage did not protect him from the devastation of losing his wife and children. The latter’s despair was worse than Florent’s because he was also the victim of economic liberalism, in this case, free trade and European integration, which financially ruined him. Rather than turning to anti-depressants, Aymeric used alcohol and drugs, and only when he revolted did he once again have a glimpse of the happiness that was quickly extinguished by the repressive French state.

Liberals (in the philosophical sense) will be aghast at this thesis that social and economic freedom lead to disappointment and despair, and will critique Houellebecq for focusing only on the costs and not the benefits. For every Aymeric, there is perhaps a Claude or a Jean who has benefited from the new economy—perhaps by creating a successful start-up which caters to the needs of the tourist industry. Economic change is a fact of life, they say, and it is best to profit from it rather than complain. It would seem, however, that these views resonate in the big cities, like Paris (or London), which have been the main beneficiaries of the liberal order. The widespread popularity of Houellebecq’s books suggest that their views do not prevail.

What is the alternative? On this, Serotonin is much less clear. There are sections which give some hints, for example, when he says that traditional parties ignored the plight of French farmers, and only the French Communists and the Rassemblement National were sympathetic to their plight. But these two ideologies—Marxism and ethnic nationalism—are logically incoherent, and thus reconciling them is not plausible. There seems to be implicit nostalgia for a pre-liberal past, but which one? My reading of Serotonin is that Houellebecq’s ideal society was Sparta: martial, unified, and duty-based; where risk, danger, and heroism were valued; and where social action was determined by the good of the collective not the freedom of the individual (this is unsurprising, since another French critic of liberalism, Rousseau, essentially endorsed the same vision). If Houellebecq’s prescience is confirmed by future events, the end of liberalism may mean the return to Sparta, and future historians may identify him as one of the intellectuals who predicted or ushered in these fundamental changes. 

Review of Edward Gibbon's "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," Volumes 5 and 6

This summer I finally finished reading the last two volumes of Edward Gibbon's timeless text Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. I made the commitment to read the entire book in 2017, but its length and density prevented me from finishing it in one shot; I therefore had to divide the six volumes over three summers, and completed the first two in 2017, the third and fourth in 2018, and in August 2019 I finally completed volumes five and six. Volumes 1-4 emphasize the events which contributed to, or characterized, Rome’s fall, particularly the Christianization of the empire. The last two focus on the rise of Islam and its existential battles with Christendom, the apex of which were the Crusades. The rise and fall of the Moguls, and the triumph of the Ottomans, also receive extensive analysis in these sections. 

Each empire and civilization is unique but from Gibbon's detailed analysis one general pattern stands out: the role of rare and extraordinary individuals in permanently transforming human history. This blog post will focus on that theme with particular attention on the Prophet Mohammed, Charles the Hammer, Peter the Hermit, Genghis Kahn, and Mohammed the 2^nd, all of whom impacted human history in ways which are still being felt, from the borders which divide civilizations to the character of political orders in Europe and beyond. Decline and Fall ends on a realist and sombre note, namely, that the triumph of empire and civilization ultimately parallels the achievements of individuals—ephemeral, vain, and destined for the graveyard—which raises questions about why men would expend so much effort for the attainment of power and domination. Gibbon does not provide an answer to that fundamental question but Decline and Fall’s bird’s eye view of a large sweep of human history suggests that it is a universal trait which is independent of culture, epoch, or geography. 

The Purple goes East

In the fourth century, the Roman capital was transferred to Constantinople. The Papacy remained in Rome but the Western part of the empire was in a state of secular decline. Eastern Rome, or Byzantium, became the seat of imperial and political power. This geographical and cultural separation led to the development of national differences. Eastern Romans spoke Greek, while those in the West spoke Latin, and their separate legal and educational institutions produced divergent interpretations of Christianity. A dramatic example emerged in the eighth century, when Greeks realized that believers, by worshiping images and relics, had insensibly reintroduced paganism and had strayed from the austere and pure faith of the founders. To reverse the tide, Byzantine Emperor Leo banned the practice, but the Latins refused to obey this injunction. Believers in Italy—and this does not surprise me—were particularly outraged at this attempt to ban the use of sacred images, and with the Roman pontiff’s support they threatened to invade Constantinople. The decision was eventually reversed but it was perhaps the opening salvo in more divisions to come which would culminate in the historic schism of 1054. 

As Gibbon outlines in previous volumes, when Christianity emerged on the world scene it was led by individuals motivated by ideals rather than lucre or political power. This was one of the secrets of its success; many were converted precisely because of the pure morals of the first Christians, which represented an alternative to the decaying state of Rome’s pagan civilization. Its inclusiveness made it attractive to society’s lowest members; by declaring faith in Christ the slave and the emperor were, at least of the metaphysical and moral levels, equal subjects’ in God’s kingdom. Christianity was eventually corrupted by its own success, particularly its reaching the summit of temporal power. At this point, the papacy’s influence extended across vast territories, and the pope’s consent was necessary for the assumption to the imperial office. Consequently, the Vatican—as in all other realms of politics—became a site of human avarice, pride, ambition and intrigue. We should not be surprised that some of the worst rose to the top. Gibbon cites the example of Pope Marozia (A.D. 890-937), who turned the Lateran palace into a school for prostitution and whose rapes of virgins and widows deterred women from visiting the tomb of St. Peter. 

 

Gabriel's visit to Mohammed

Islam emerged in the human pageant when Christianity was far from the ideals of the founders, and the Roman world was already divided. Gibbon devotes much space to the Prophet Mohammed because his distinct qualities help explain how a faith which emerged in an obscure corner of Arabia led to the creation of one of history’s dominant empires. Pre-Islamic Arabs were, like pre-Christian Romans, pagans; in part because of their fierce devotion to national independence, they were one of the only peoples who had not been subdued by either the Romans or the Persians. But they maintained trading relationships with both empires, and this exposed them to foreign ideas, particularly monotheism. One individual who was influenced by these ideas was Mohammed, who was the offspring of two prominent and wealthy Arab tribes: the Koreish and the Hashemites. The early part of his life was rather uneventful, but on A.D. 610, at the age of 40, Mohammed received a visit from the angel Gabriel who brought from heaven a resplendent and jewel studded silk version of the Koran, which he proceeded to recite to the obscure Arab. The Koran was uncreated and eternal; its fundamental message was the unity of the God, the necessity of submitting completely to God’s law, and the absolute interdiction of representations of the deity, subversive ideas which challenged the Christian idea of the trinity and their worship of images and idols. 

Had Gabriel visited an average individual, this event might have been lost in the dustbin of history, and Islam would never had been born.  But Mohammed was extraordinary; according to Gibbon, he was a very good looking man, “with a commanding presence, a gracious smile and piercing eyes, a capacious and retentive memory, and a rapid and decisive judgement.” 

The first converts were his wife, servants, and cousin. A major milestone was the conversion of some of Mecca’s most illustrious citizens. At this point, Mecca’s power structure, and particularly his tribe the Koreish, accurately saw the new religion as deeply subversive, and tried to extinguish it, forcing Mohammed and his companions to escape to Medina. During the chase, two tribesmen from the Koreish confronted Mohammed, but the latter’s life was spared; here Gibbon helpfully reminds the reader that “the lance of an Arab might have changed the history of the world.” But Mohammed arrived safely in Medina, and there, the people were seduced by the purity of his message and by the charm of the person delivering it. After their conversion, the people of Medina made Mohammed their prince; this was a pivotal moment because Mohamed went from being a preacher who employed the tools of persuasion to a statesmen with the coercive powers of government. Meanwhile, the Koreish continued their campaign to stamp out the new religion and tried to conquer Medina. Mohammed led the fight and was severely wounded, but the Koreish were not yet defeated. They surrounded the city and an unexpected storm overturned and destroyed the tents in their camp, creating chaos and leading to Mohammed’s triumph. He returned to his native Mecca and subdued it; the people converted and declared the prophet to be their leader. Now, Mecca and Medina were united under Mohammed’s rule.

These events go far in explaining three sources of Islam’s success: Mohammed himself, the simplicity and seductiveness of his message, and military success in defeating those who were determined to destroy it. Gibbon emphasizes the unique genius of Mohammed, as well as his leadership qualities. He cites one of his companions who observed Mohammed preaching and said: “I have seen the Caesar of Rome and Chrosoes of Persia but never did I behold a king among his subjects like Mohammed”. Secondly, practicing the faith was rather simple: accepting a simple formula (the unity of God and Mohammed as his prophet), prayer, fasting, and alms for the poor and indigent. In so doing, the slave, the servant, and the captive became the free and equal member of the Islamic community. This equalizing aspect elevated the weak and humbled the strong (at least initially).  Third, when Islam faced existential threats from those who wanted to perpetuate the pre-Islamic status quo, Mohammed’s sword and the bravery of his followers saved the new faith, a triumph which allowed him to return to his native Mecca seven years after his escape. An important lesson was learned which would play a major role in his successors subsequent conquests: “The defense of religion by the sword”, said Mohammed, “is the key to heaven and is more avail than two months of fasting and prayer.” 

Another reason for Islam’s success was external to the religion, namely, the weakness and division of its main contenders. The first in Mohammed’s sights were the Romans. He sent an emissary to the Roman emperor Heraclius to invite him to accept Islam. After the emissary’s murder, the decision was made to invade Palestine. The fierce and redoubtable Omar, Mohammed’s companion and second caliph, easily conquered the Holy Land and established the caliphate, ensuring Muslim rule of the holy city of Jerusalem for the greater part of the following 1400 years. Next in the cross hairs were the Persians, who were weakened by divisions and exhausted from their wars against the Byzantines. Omar ordered the invasion and by A.D. 652 the Sassanid empire was no more.

Divisions began immediately after Mohammed’s death, which still reverberate today. The main dispute was on the selection of his successor. One faction wanted Ali, Mohammed’s cousin to be the next caliph on the dynastic principle that Mohammed’s bloodline should be the main determinant. The other faction was more democratic and wanted the selection of the Caliph to be determined by vote. This dispute was temporarily supressed by the fierce and redoubtable Omar, who became Mohammad’s immediate successor and the second Caliph. The followers of Ali rejected Omar’s decision and the dispute turned violent, sparking a civil war. Fourteen centuries later, the dispute has still not been resolved and the animosity between the Shiites (Ali’s followers) and Sunnis (Omar’s adherents) remains one of the key fault lines of the Islam world.

Despite these divisions, Mohammed’s successors carried out successful campaigns and notable conquests include Egypt, Syria, and Spain. The last was meant to be a beachhead for the conquest of Europe in its entirety, including Rome, the capital of Christendom. Muslim commander Abdalraman amassed an army for this purpose, and had he succeeded, Gibbon says in one his memorable lines, “the interpretation of the Koran would now be taught in the schools of Oxford, and her pulpits might demonstrate to a circumcised people the sanctity and truth of Mohammed’s revelations.” Abdalraman’s designs failed because of the actions of a remarkable Frenchman of the Carolingian line, Charles the Hammer, grandfather of Charlemagne (the emperor who would eventually unite the Christendom). The Hammer confronted Abdalraman’s army in the centre of France, between Tours and Poitiers. Six days of fighting in this historic battle were inconclusive, and Islam’s armies still had the potential to triumph, but on the seventh day, Muslims were crushed by the strength and stature of Charles and his men, whom, says Gibbon in one of his poetic lines, “with stout hearts and iron hands asserted the civil and religious liberty of their posterity.” 

Meanwhile, Muslims founded a successful and wealthy caliphate in Spain. Like other conquered peoples, Christians of Spain were invited to accept Islam, but if they preferred to preserve their faith, they had to pay a tax; in return they enjoyed freedom of conscience and religious worship, although this toleration coexisted with discriminations including the requirement that they ride on donkeys (not horses) and restrictions on building churches. Jews, meanwhile, were rewarded by the new administration in part because they preferred Muslim to Christian rule, and consequently assisted in the establishment of the Caliphate. Spain became the seat of the Omayyad dynasty, and industry and commerce flourished under their rule, as demonstrated by a construction boom which included 900 public baths, 600 mosques, 200 thousand houses, and 70 public libraries with 600 thousand manuscripts.  A similar pattern occurred in the capitals of the other Muslim dynasties, like the Abassides in Baghdad, who used their immense wealth to collect the treasures of Greek science, translate them into Arabic, and make them available to scholars by building public libraries. 

We can now begin to see parallels between Islam and Christianity. As Islam became powerful and wealthy, it more and more distanced itself from the pure and austere ideals of Mohammed and his companions. Leaders were now concerned with wealth, luxury, and the pleasures of life, rather that the martial and austere virtues practiced by the founder. Factionalism developed, and although the initial divisions between Shiites and Sunnis did not prevent Islam’s successful conquests, by the 8^thand 9^thcenturies they hindered further triumphs. Gibbon recounts the Abbasside dynasty which successfully conquered Sicily, and which used this territory to launch raids against Rome. Local emirs in Sicily soon asserted their independence from Baghdad and rejected the Caliph’s authority. Had Islam been united at this point, they might have successfully used the island as a beachhead to capture Rome and the entire Italian peninsula; this might have fatally weakened Christianity and led to Islam’s universal dominion. 

Meanwhile, a young, virile and martial nation, the Turks, arrived on the scene, and eventually replaced the Arabs and the Byzantines as masters of the East. They easily conquered the decaying and feeble Byzantine territories of Asia Minor (modern day Turkey). Their conquests included the holy city of Jerusalem, and their rule, says Gibbons, was brutal. Under Arab dominion, minorities, including Christians, were protected and had free access to their sacred sites, such as the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. After the Turkish conquests, Christian pilgrims were assaulted, persecuted, or killed, while sacrilege against churches was common. This set in motion a train of events which would culminate in an existential clash between Islam and Christianity, the Crusades, and in this instance, we see once again how the actions of a remarkable man can change the course of history.

Peter the Hermit

 

Peter preaches to the crowds

In the middle of the 11^thcentury, a diminutive and unsightly monk from Amiens, France went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. By then, Turks had ruled Jerusalem for 20 years, and Peter the Hermit was outraged by his experience—not only did he witness the sorry state of local Christians, he himself was a victim of violence. But unlike others he possessed, says Gibbon, “the vehemence of speech which seldom fails to impart the persuasion of the soul.” On his return to Europe he preached about the evils of Muslim rule and the necessity of recapturing Jerusalem to crowds in churches, on the streets, and highways, and his listeners were convinced of the righteousness of the cause. Among the people who heard the message was Pope Urban 2^nd, who, like Peter the Hermit, was a native of France. Urban subsequently summoned a conference to discuss the matter. Bishops from across Christendom attended, including the Greeks, the main victims of Turkish domination. At the conference Byzantine emperor Alexis Commenus warned fellow believers that Constantinople, the capital, would be next to fall if action was not taken. 

The first crusade was called at Clermont in front of thousands of believers, who in return cried “God wills it!” In the year 1099, Christians recaptured Jerusalem, 460 years after Omar’s conquest, and engaged in promiscuous slaughter: 70 thousand Muslims were massacred, while harmless Jews were burned alive in their synagogue. Leading the fight were Latins of French and Germanic origin, and after their victory they quickly set up a new regime which discriminated, not only against Muslims and Jews, but also Eastern Christians, whom, the Latins believed, were heretics and schismatics. The Latins’ persecution of their Christian brethren, it turns out, was a fatal mistake; when Saladin reconquered Jerusalem in 1187, he enjoyed the assistance of oriental Christians who preferred Mohammedan over Latin dominion. 

The recapture of Jerusalem was perhaps among the most dramatic event of the Crusades, but this religious war was much broader. At least 7 crusades were called, over a period of four centuries. They were directed against Muslims, but in some instances Eastern Christians were also targets. Every spring and summer saw a fresh batch of soldiers willing to leave everything they adored to march thousands of miles under the banner of the cross. On the way, they sometimes died of famine or disease, or they pillaged and massacred innocent victims, including Jews and other Christians. The call to arms unified the Latins, from Italy to Scotland, despite differences in culture and language. “Europe” as an identity that transcends nations, was born by the Crusades, an identity that was clearly religious in character. 

The legacy of these events continues to reverberate today, and one in particular stands out: large numbers of Europe’s martial aristocracy were wiped out by the campaigns, and the weakening of this class fatally undermined the feudalism, the social order they presided over. As feudalism declined, property rights for peasants expanded, leading to increases of production and commerce. And political authority was transferred from the feudal barons to powerful monarchies which were embryonic nation-states. Hence two core features of the modern world—capitalism and the nation-state—were the unexpected and unintended consequences of this existential clash between Christendom and Islam.

In part because of the importance of the Crusades in transforming history, scholars have extensively debated its causes; realists would argue that they were caused by those factors that explain every other war, namely, the universal human drive for conquest, material resources, power, and domination. Constructivists would impute symbolic or ideational factors, particularly religion. Gibbon did not use the language of realism and constructivism (concepts which did not exist in his time), but he would squarely fall in the latter camp, and he makes a rather convincing case. Palestine, Gibbon says, could add nothing to the strength and safety of the Latins, and hence the exorbitant costs were not justified. He calculates that six million Europeans participated, and many were members of the aristocracy who sold everything in order to finance a two-thousand-mile voyage to recover a tomb (or the Church of the Holy Sepulchre). Religious ideas mattered in other ways. Gibbon documents how this practice led to an oversupply of houses and the collapse of property prices; consequently, other sources of funding were required, and one in particular was the indulgence, i.e. for a sum of money or for committing to the campaign against Islam, Christians could expiate their sins and avoid eternity in hell. This promise of absolving sins went far in raising revenue and in mobilizing fighters, and Gibbon aptly says that “the cold philosophy of modern times is incapable of feeling the impression that was made on a sinful and fanatic world.”

Genghis Kahn

The Mongolian conquerer 

The Crusades were ultimately a failure, and Islam re-established its dominion over the Holy Land; they tolerated Greeks but ordered all Latins to leave. But neither Muslims nor Christians were any match for the ferocious Mogul hordes which descended from Mongolia and destroyed everything in their path; Gibbon compares their rapid conquests to the “convulsions of nature which have agitated and altered the surface of the globe.” The most notable was Genghis Kahn, an illiterate man with 500 wives who subdued China by surrounding and starving 90 cities, including Peking. In his vast empire, he established a system of perfect monotheism and religious toleration which was way ahead of his time, although a hierarchy between his own nation and the conquered peoples remained. Moguls had the duty to bear arms for the defense and expansion of the empire, while subject peoples were engaged in essential menial labour. Within 68 years of his death Genghis Kahn’s successors conquered almost all of Asia, including Muslim possessions, and large parts of Europe. One Mogul in particular stands out: Timour, who conquered Persia, Georgia, Russia, India, Syria, and Asia Minor. Aleppo and Baghdad were both razed to the ground by Timour, and even more shockingly, he created pyramids of severed heads to satiate his thirst for blood and to instill terror in the hearts of his enemies. 

Moguls eventually converted to Islam and assimilated into the civilization of their subjects; their decline led to the rise of the Ottomans. Gibbon dates the beginning of this empire on 1326, when they conquered Prusa (in modern-day Turkey) from the Greeks. Their campaigns against the Byzantines were successful in part because of the military institution of the Dervish: after the Ottoman’s successful European conquests, young male captives of the Bulgarian, Serbian, Bosnian, and Albanian nations were educated by Ottomans to be faithful Muslims and loyal to the Ottoman chief. According to Gibbon, ethnic Turks were excluded from civil and military honours because Ottoman leaders preferred to recruit “the hardy and warlike” Europeans. The Dervish went on to play an instrumental role in successful Ottoman conquests, including of Constantinople, which permanently erased the Roman Empire off the face of the earth.

Islam had first targeted Constantinople in A.D. 674, only 46 years after Mohammed’s escape to Medina, but it was one of the few cities which successfully resisted, in part because after Islam’s conquests Roman refugees fled to Constantinople and valiantly defended the independence of their imperial capital. By the early 15^thcentury, the Ottomans had taken large swaths of Greek territory and had almost surrounded Constantinople; this city was a prize that they could not long resist. The wealthy and pusillanimous Byzantines were able to purchase their independence with an annual tribute of 30 thousand crowns of gold. Nonetheless, they recognized that it was only a matter of time before walls of their sacred capital would be breached by the Turks, and the Byzantines appealed to the Latins for assistance. Under these circumstances, Pope Eugenius organized a synod in Florence to unite the Greek and Latin churches. An unexpected and transformational consequence of this synod was that Greeks travelling to Florence brought with them the philosophical treasures of their ancient ancestors. They were written in the original Greek, in Gibbon's words, “a musical and prolific language that gives a soul to the objects of sense and a body to the abstractions of philosophy.” In Florence, and particularly among the Medici’s, this reignited the passion for the learning of the ancients; consequently, Florence became the centre of the renaissance which would eventually culminate in the rise of modern science.

 

The end of Rome

Unity between the Latins and the Greeks was declared at the Synod, and in exchange for Latin military support, the Greeks promised obedience to Rome. But upon hearing the news the patriarchs of Jerusalem and Alexandria were unwilling to let go of their orthodoxy and obey the Latins, who they perceived to be heretical. They denounced their representatives who went to Florence, and the latter broke the vows made to their Latin brethren; consequently, the historic schism, which would fatally weaken the Greeks, remained, and at the worst possible time: Ottomans would soon be led by the ferocious Mohammed 2^nd, who Gibbon aptly calls “the great destroyer.” Unfortunately for the Greeks, Mohammed 2^nd was unsatisfied with his predecessors’ agreements with the Byzantines, and he was determined to finally bring Constantinople into Islam’s dominion. The city’s surrounding thick walls were one reason for the difficulty of accomplishing this task, and the caliph found a solution: he hired a Hungarian engineer to construct the largest canon ever produced. It took several months, hundreds of men, and many trials and errors, but when complete it could launch a 600-pound projectile, and not even Constantinople’s walls could withstand its force.

The memorable siege transpired on April 6^th1453. Before this fatal event, large numbers of inhabitants fled to Italy, but those which remained fought valiantly for 40 days, in part because of the courageous example of the last emperor, Constantine, who fought and died on the front lines. After the walls were breached, many Greeks fled into the Holy Saint Sophia, and hoped for a miracle, but heaven was deaf to their entreaties. The Turks stormed the church and the Greeks surrendered; many of them were subsequently sold into slavery, while young and pretty females ended up in the Caliph’s harem. Shortly after, the Ottomans turned the Saint Sophia into a mosque, and, because of Islam’s interdiction of images and idols, they removed all visible manifestations of the deity, including statues and the cross. They also washed away the priceless and irreplaceable Byzantine mosaics which adorned the walls. The Turks then marched to the Byzantine imperial palace, which for centuries housed one of the world’s most powerful men who ruled over a vast empire, and found that the pusillanimous Greeks had already abandoned this imposing structure. At this moment, says Gibbon, Mohammed 2^ndcould not help reflecting on the vicissitudes and transience of human greatness. His own life would confirm this observation. After the fall of Constantinople, Mohammed 2^ndhad his sights on Rome, and he very well may have succeeded had he not died prematurely from illness at 51 years old. 

The final lessons of Decline and Fall

Decline and Fall took Gibbon 20 years to write, and during this period he was utterly devoted to the project, rather than, as most of his peers, to the pleasures and responsibilities of love and family. Posterity is eternally grateful for this sacrifice, since Gibbon has produced a timeless text that leaves an indelible mark on the reader, for several reasons. One is the wide learning that seeps through every page. Decline and Fall is a work of history, but Gibbon is a product of another time, when intellectuals were expected to master many languages and disciplines; consequently, his deep knowledge of foreign languages, religion, anthropology, geography, philosophy, the classics, and even economics shines throughout the text. When juxtaposed with the hyper specialization of intellectuals today, many of whom only know English and almost nothing of civilizations outside their own, the depth of Gibbon's work is all the more dramatic. Another remarkable feature is Gibbon's objectivity, which is evident in the way that he praises and criticizes in equal measure. Early Muslims are praised for their bravery, and the simplicity of Islam is recognized as being more consistent with reason and nature than other religions. But Gibbon also reminds readers that Mohammed was a man, with all of men’s defects, particularly pride. He also asserts that Islam’s union of the political and religious offices is one of the main reasons for its eventual stagnation; had these spheres been more autonomous, a critical spirit would have developed, and it might have been Islam, not Europe, which gave birth to modern science. Byzantines receive similar treatment: Gibbon praises them for preserving the treasures of antiquity, but he is also clearly contemptuous of their inability to build off these great works rather than, say, endlessly debating metaphysics and theology. He also implies that their downfall was a merited consequence of their pusillanimity and their renouncing the union with the Latins.

With his signature beautiful prose, Gibbon helps the reader to distill patterns which are universal to human nature and to political order. One is the importance of rare and extraordinary individuals who permanently transform history in ways that cannot be foreseen without the benefit of hindsight. Islam’s success depended largely on the person of Mohammed, whose charm went far in convincing the Arabs to embrace the new faith. Had Mohammed been killed by his tribe, the Koreish, history would have unfolded very differently, but as fate would have it, he was destined to triumph over his enemies and consequently Islam became one of the world’s dominant political and cultural forces. Charles the Hammer’s defeat of Abdalraman in France prevented Islam’s conquest of all of Europe; had another, less remarkable leader, led the fight, Islam might have prevailed, all of Europe would have been subdued, and the first European to sail to America would have brought Mohammed’s revelations rather than the gospel. It is questionable that Europe would have been roused out of its lethargy and disunity if not for the persuasive powers of Peter the Hermit, and had the Crusades not occurred, feudalism might not have collapsed and ushered in the world of capitalism and nation states that we know today. And finally, the emergence of Mohammed 2^ndon the world scene ensured the fall of Constantinople and permanent extinction of the Roman Empire, leading to the rise of the Ottomans; the provinces of this empire were destined to become the nation states in today’s Middle East. 

The empires and civilizations Gibbon discusses show other patterns, particularly regarding cycles of rise and decline. In all cases there is an early period when the founders of a movement display a purity of thought and action, motivated by ideals and conviction which seduces others to join the cause and which is a major source of strength; success contains within it he seeds of its own destruction, since followers soon dispute the distribution of the spoils, and particularly the commanding heights of political power. This factionalism is not always fatal, but when combined with wealth and luxury, often signals the early stages of a decline. Leaders become more concerned with the comforts of the palace or the harem; inequality increases between them and their subjects; inevitably, while these weakening trends proceed, other movements rise which will soon replace them, and they, too, will eventually succumb to the same vices which destroyed their rivals and will also eventually end up in the graveyard of history. 

The drama of this cycle is captured by Poggius, the learned servant of Pope Eugenius (A.D. 1430), who observed the Roman ruins in the city and reflected that 

The hill of the Capitol, on which we sit, was formerly the head of the Roman Empire, the citadel of the earth, the terror of kings; illustrated by the footsteps of so many young triumphs, enriched with the spoils and tributes of so many nations. This spectacle of the world, how it is fallen! How changed! How defaced! The path of victory is obliterated by vines, and the benches of the senators are concealed by a dunghill. Cast your eyes on the Palatine hill, and seek among the shapeless and enormous fragments the marble theatre, the obelisks, the colossal statues, the porticos of Nero’s palace: survey the other hills of the city, the vacant space is interrupted only by ruins and gardens. The forum of the Roman people, where they assembled to enact their laws and elect their magistrates, is now enclosed for the cultivation of pot-herbs, or thrown open for the reception of swine and buffaloes. The public and private edifices that were founded for eternity lie prostrate, naked, broken, and the ruin is more visible from the stupendous relics that have survived the injuries of time and fortune.”

Gibbon does not ultimately provide an answer to the puzzle of why men pursue imperial glory even though it is destined for the graveyard. On this subject, we can conjecture that Gibbon might give the final word to the Omayyad Caliph Abdalraman, who reigned over a wealthy and powerful empire and who died peacefully in his bed. After his death, a diary was found in his closet which says:  

I have now reigned above fifty years…beloved by my subjects, dreaded by my enemies, and respected by my allies. Riches and honours, power and pleasure, have waited on my call…in this situation, I have diligently numbered the days of pure and genuine happiness: they amount to FOURTEEN [emphasis in original]. O man! Place not thy confidence in the present world!