Lost without words

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Apart from wreaking havoc across the globe, the COVID-19 crisis has spawned a host of new jargon, from expressions such as ‘social distancing’, ‘herd immunity’ and ‘flattening the curve’ to ‘PPE’ (Personal Protective Equipment), and ‘The Great Lockdown’. At the same time, a lot of the vocabulary that we have been using to describe our current situation has much older roots, in ancient Greek and Latin. A closer look reveals that we would be lost for words without these two ancient, yet remarkably enduring, languages.

Let’s start with the most obvious term. Long before the World Health Organisation (WHO) labelled this virus COVID-19, we knew it simply as ‘coronavirus’. Corona is Latin for a ‘wreath’ or ‘crown’ while virus means ‘poison’ or ‘venom’. When viewed under a microscope, this virus appears to have a corona, like the glowing, gaseous corona that surrounds the sun, hence ‘coronavirus’.

On 11 March the WHO declared the coronavirus outbreak a ‘pandemic’. This word comes from the Greek pan– meaning ‘all’ and demos meaning ‘people’. The word pandemic denotes a disease that is prevalent worldwide, whereas an epidemic, from the Greek epi– meaning ‘upon’ and demos meaning ‘people’, denotes a disease that affects mainly one community.

In response to the pandemic, we have witnessed ‘chaos’ and ‘panic’ buying. ‘Chaos’ is a peculiarly appropriate term for the scenes that took place in supermarkets worldwide with frantic shoppers, empty shelves and desperation to provide for one’s most basic needs. The term comes from the Greek khaos meaning a ‘vast empty chasm’ or ‘void’. It also refers to the primordial state of the universe. ‘Panic’ comes from the Greek panikos meaning ‘of or belonging to Pan’. Pan was the Greek god of shepherds, hunters and wild places. With the torso of a man, and the horns, legs and tail of a goat, Pan inspires terror and panic in those who encounter him. I am pretty certain that I saw Pan standing in the toilet paper aisle of my local supermarket a few weeks ago.

As rates of ‘transmission’ have increased, we have been warned to ‘isolate’ and to socially ‘distance’ ourselves from others. ‘Transmission’ comes from the Latin trans- meaning ‘across’ and mittere meaning ‘send’, so it is no wonder that we are being careful about what we send (and receive). ‘Isolated’ comes from the Italian isolato, which comes from Late Latin insulatus meaning ‘made into an island’, which comes from the Latin insula meaning ‘island’. ‘Distant’ comes from the Latin dis– meaning ‘apart’ and stare is to ‘stand’. To stand apart and create an island around oneself is a pretty neat summary of the Australian Government’s advised response to COVID-19.

As we now know, COVID-19 can cause ‘pneumonia’, a type of lung inflammation, so named from the Greek pneumon meaning ‘lung’. For some, this condition is ‘fatal’, from the Latin fatum, meaning ‘that which has been spoken, declared, predicted’. Others seem relatively ‘immune’ to the full implications of COVID-19. Paradoxically, the word ‘immune’ comes from the Latin in- meaning ‘not’ and munis ‘ready for service’.

Meanwhile, the desperate search for a ‘vaccine’ continues. If you tried to explain this to a citizen of ancient Rome, he would be a bit perplexed because vacca is the Latin word for ‘cow’ and vaccinus means ‘of or from cows’. He might scratch his head and hand you a cup of milk or a nice piece of farm cheese. It turns out that scientists in the late 18th century used the cowpox virus to treat smallpox, hence the term ‘vaccine’ from the Latin vaccinus.

As The Great Lockdown came into effect and national economies slow, it is hard not to view the situation as a ‘catastrophe’, from the Greek kata– meaning ‘down’ and strophe meaning ‘turning’. This year is being labelled a ‘disaster’, meaning (literally) a year ‘without a star to guide us’ from the Latin dis-, a prefix that expresses negation, and astrum meaning ‘star’.

Even in these unprecedented and difficult times, there is hope. Unexpectedly, this is reflected in the very terminology being used to describe it. The word ‘crisis’ comes from the Greek krisis meaning ‘decision’. This period is not only a turning point in history – it is also a time to make (good) decisions. Similarly, the word ‘cataclysm’ comes from the Greek kata- ‘down’ and kluzein ‘to wash’, hence kataklusmos ‘deluge or flood’. Floodwaters recede, deluges pass and the sun will reappear. We are going to get through this. Even the term ‘apocalypse’ isn’t quite as bad as it seems because it comes from the Greek apo– meaning ‘un’ and kaluptein meaning ‘cover’, so apokaluptein is ‘to uncover, reveal’. It remains to be seen what this situation will reveal about humanity: perhaps new and stronger bonds between individuals, communities and nations, perhaps a new commitment to the planet we live on, perhaps some revision of our values and priorities. For every act of selfishness we have seen or heard about, there have also been acts of kindness: a testament to the good in humanity.

Times like these prompt us to ask ‘what does it all mean?’ I may not have the answer to that question, but I am pretty certain that it all means something in Latin or Greek.

 

Header image: The Hippocratic Oath in Greek and Latin published in Apud Andreae Wecheli heredes (Frankfurt, 1595) (Source: Wikimedia Commons).

 

 

What use is Classics?

Just a few months ago, we were sheltering inside our home waiting for toxic smoke to clear from the air and the threat of bushfires to pass. Now, we find ourselves sheltering inside our home watching the Covid-19 crisis spread its shadow across the globe. It has been a frenetic and worrying time: pulling the children out of school, setting up home offices, packing up workplace offices, watching the supermarket shelves empty, learning how to teach, work and study remotely.

As I sit down with a cup of tea to take a breath and read the latest tweets, I see the headline “Classics Will Not Save Us” (1). In the author’s own words, she writes about “the (limited) role of the Classics during this time, the instructive incomparability of the coronavirus, and the legacy of the East-West binary”. I read the attached article with interest. Judging by the comments on Twitter, the article has been welcomed. But Yung In Chae’s article raises more questions for me than it answers.

The main question being: what use is Classics in times like these?

I am reminded of a little story from long ago. A famous professor attends an important public meeting and is asked to interpret an omen. The professor is stumped and cannot think of an appropriate interpretation. He goes home, waits for nightfall, goes out into his garden and prepares a noose from which to hang himself. His slave intercepts him and berates him with the following words:

“Master, where is your philosophy? Where is your pride in your education? Where is your teaching about self-control? Have you become so slack-hearted and irresponsible that you rush toward death, ready to forsake all the pleasures of life by hanging yourself? Stop and think about it, master?” (2)

The point is that like the professor in the story, classicists (like everyone else) have found themselves suddenly in a crisis (and one for which our education gave us no explicit preparation). Nonetheless, we have a responsibility not to fall prey to the automatic reactions that this sort of crisis can provoke (and has provoked in many): the crippling despair, the supreme selfishness, the panic buying, the total loss of self-control, the slack-heartedness and unwillingness to take responsibility. We have to, as the slave in the story reminds us, draw upon and live by the precepts of the classical philosophies and teachings and precepts that we have spent so many years studying and writing about. Now is the time to stop and think, to be moderate, to not let fear dominate our rationality and our actions. We must put all of our self-knowledge into play and be the best we can be even as this crisis unfolds. Where our training and critical faculties fail us, we must be honest, and either adopt a policy of good sense or defer to the better judgement of others.

My second point is that we are not just ‘classicists’ – we belong to the wider discipline of the humanities. The Latin word humanitas is the key to unlocking an entire thought-world referring to ‘the qualities, feelings, and inclinations of mankind.'(2) If we are representatives of ‘humanitas’, as our professional titles attest, then we have a responsibility to strive to exemplify the best of humanity even amidst this crisis. How can we incorporate humane and gentle conduct towards others (humanity, philanthropy, gentleness, kindness, politeness) in all our dealings, whether with checkout assistants, work colleagues, call centre workers, schoolteachers, family members or those in profound need? Secondly, how can we demonstrate ‘mental cultivation befitting a person (liberal education, good breeding, elegance of manners or language, refinement)’? We must continue to teach, and model best teaching practice, to share our knowledge with others and keep learning.

I understand that it is incredibly irritating when classicists point out ‘banal equivalencies’ between this Covid-19 crisis and plagues of ancient times. But the comparison need not be banal. Death and plague were real, lived experiences for people in the classical world as much as this virus is a real, lived experience for people today. The peoples of ancient Greece and Rome were so intimately familiar with grief, loss and suffering that they have bequeathed to us some of the most poignant, touching and supremely beautiful testimonies of that grief, not only in their literature but in their art and sculpture.

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Marble grave stele of a little girl 

I have contemplated this funerary stele many times and it never fails to affect me. This depiction of a lost daughter is so sweet, and tender, and so utterly moving that it seems criminal to deny the experience of grief and loss lived by her parents and the commonalities between that grief and the grief of any parent, of any period in time, anywhere, for any reason.

Lastly, I want to add a word or two about unity (instead of disunity). One of the many extraordinary things about this crisis is the way in which this hideous virus is transcending boundaries. It pays little attention to the differences between East or West, young or old, rich or poor, employed or unemployed, first world or third world. Its primary motivation is simply to spread as far and wide as possible. The only way we will beat this virus is to look past divisions (especially artificial ones) and draw upon our common humanity – love and care for one another, consideration and thoughtfulness, watchfulness and mindfulness.

The last word goes to one of the great Classics – which turns out to be right on point:

“Come, save us all,

save all that is polluted by this death.

We look to you. To help his fellow-men

with all his power is man’s most noble work.”

Sophocles, King Oedipus (5)

 

Perhaps Classics does have some help to offer after all.

Stay safe and well everyone – best wishes to all.

Aesop’s fox.

References:

(1) Yung In Chae, ‘Classics Will not Save us’, E(i)ditorial March 2020: https://eidolon.pub

(2) Ch. 81-86, The Life of Aesop (transl. by L. M Wills in The Quest of the Historical Gospel, Routledge, 1997).

(3) http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.04.0059%3Aentry%3Dhumanitas

(4) https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/252890

(5) E. F. Watling (transl.), Sophocles: The Theban Plays, Penguin, London, 1953.

 

 

 

 

Reading the signs

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Can you see any bird?

By Phoebus, no! and yet I am straining my eyesight to scan the sky. 

Aristophanes, Birds, 263-4

Ordinarily, our garden in Canberra is a veritable aviary. The early mornings are filled with a chorus of tweeting and cooing as fairy wrens, blackbirds and crested pigeons send their notes into the sweet morning air. Depending on the season, we are accustomed to seeing flocks of cockatoos, parrots and rosellas, squawking and streaking across a clear blue sky. In the evening, the magpies always take a stately walk across our lawns until the currawongs swoop in for a last minute meal. One Saturday morning, we watched a young kookaburra feeding on lawn grubs and swinging on our swing! We still talk about the night we saw a majestic and rare powerful owl in our back garden.

I am not a trained ornithologist but I am a friend of birds – birds delight me and remind me that although we humans think we are so clever, we remain chained to the earth. As the ancient Greek playwright Aristophanes says, birds are so much closer to the heavens than we are. They have a better perspective than we do and they have extraordinary memories and powers of intelligence:

Weak mortals, chained to the earth, creatures of clay as frail as the foliage of the woods, you unfortunate race, whose life is but darkness, as unreal as a shadow, the illusion of a dream, hearken to us, who are immortal beings, ethereal, ever young and occupied with eternal thoughts, for we shall teach you about all celestial matters; [690] you shall know thoroughly what is the nature of the birds, what the origin of the gods, of the rivers, of Erebus, and Chaos; thanks to us, even Prodicus will envy you your knowledge.

Aristophanes, Birds 685-90

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Today is the second day of hazardous and toxic air in Canberra. The air quality rating is 3045 – a rating of 200 is deemed to be hazardous. We have been told to remain indoors with doors and windows closed, not to venture outside and to purify our own air with whatever means are available. I haven’t been outside today, nor have my children. I can’t imagine how choking the air must be for those that have to be outside.

When I woke at 5am this morning, the sky was blood red. As the sun rose, it shifted to orange, golden, and then a dusky, murky grey. The sunlight was being filtered through a thick layer of smoke. It was eerily quiet. No cheerful bird song, no flocks winging their way across the sky. Just an empty and desolate grey outside.

The smoke has blown into Canberra from the fires raging on the South Coast. This stretch of coast was beautiful and it is home to so many kind and gentle souls. That stretch of coast was also my childhood playground in summers long ago and a favourite spot for our recent family holidays. I know each beach like the back of my hand. Settlements have now been burnt to the ground, from north to south, east to west, right up to the low scrubby plants that dot the sand dunes. Some of the smoke has also come in from our beloved snowfields in the other direction, ordinarily a place of relief from the Summer heat, they too are burning as I write. Birds and animals are dying all around us in their thousands. Evacuees are huddling in Canberra, anxiously awaiting news about their homes and properties.

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For centuries, the ancient Greeks interpreted bird signs as omens of good fortune or misfortune. Zeus is depicted with the eagle, a symbol of his power and authority; Athena with the owl, a symbol of wisdom and insight. Ancient Greek people would consult bird omens before making any important decision – only if the omens were favourable would they proceed. The ancient reliance on augury is well represented in some of the oldest Greek texts we have:

Happy and fortunate the man who knows all these things and goes about his work without offending the immortals, interpreting bird signs rightly and avoiding transgressions. 

Hesiod, Works and Days 822–28

A bird had appeared to them as they were eager to advance, a high-flying eagle, skirting the army on the left, holding in its talons a monstrous blood-red snake, alive and still writhing. Nor had the snake given up the fight, but it twisted back on itself and struck the eagle gripping it on the breast by the neck; and the eagle in sharp pain dropped it to the ground, so that it fell among the throng, while with a loud cry he soared away on the currents of air. The Trojans shuddered when they saw the gleaming snake lying among them, a portent from almighty Zeus.

Homer, Iliad XII 200–08

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In January 2020, the bird omens, if you choose to read them as such, are not good. The bushfire crisis has caused immeasurable devastation to humans, wildlife, property, infrastructure and land. We will be living with the consequences for a long time to come.

I recently read a blog post from a survivor on the South Coast. Taking a walk along a desolate and ash-strewn beach, he counted dozens of dead birds before turning back in despair and horror. These birds had tried to escape the flames and smoke of the burning forest, only to be caught in turbulent air currents out at sea, thrust down into ashen waters and washed up on a deserted shoreline.

The common Australian magpie, an icon of Australia, has learnt to mimic the sound of a fire engine siren. Whilst some are amazed at the magpie’s intelligent mimicry, others (including myself) are horrified by it. How many sirens does a bird need to hear before it forsakes its own natural birdsong?

As birds drop dead out of the sky, giant man-made bird-like machines are being sent into the sky to dump water on fires, drop off satellite phones and supplies, evacuate people from remote areas, and monitor fire conditions. This is the best we can do – trying to navigate the smoke-filled skies ourselves in efforts to save whoever and whatever we can.

In my own backyard, we keep the children’s wheelbarrow filled with water for the few birds that are still with us. The bird visitors look exhausted and desperate. A honeyeater sits with its beak open, wings spread, panting as it tries to shelter from the 44 degree heat; skylarks flutter down briefly and then disappear again; a noisy myna bird is unusually quiet; and an ominous black crow dives through the smoke to steal a drink.

There is no subtlety in the signs that are appearing before our eyes. This country is genuinely in crisis. If this is a sign of things to come, it is a portent of disaster. Time will tell if our so-called leaders are intelligent enough to read the signs and to change accordingly or whether, as Aristophanes says, we all prove to be “creatures of clay as frail as the foliage of the woods”.

Help for Fire Service: https://www.rfs.nsw.gov.au/volunteer/support-your-local-brigade

Help for Wildlife: https://www.rspcansw.org.au/bushfire-appeal/

https://news.yahoo.com/australian-magpie-mimics-siren-firefighters-203517926.html

Images:

1. Australia fires create plume of smoke (independent.co.uk)

2. A Roman relief depicting the eagle of Zeus abducting Ganymede (Source: Wikimedia Commons)

 

Resilience and Greek myth

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The stories, myths and fables of ancient Greece are a living tradition, continually being retold, adapted and renewed.

In the podcast that follows, I discuss what ancient Greek myths reveal about the concept of resilience. I explore the endurance of human suffering in Euripides’ Herakles, a mother’s adaptation to grief and loss in the myth of Demeter and Persephone, and Prometheus’ defiance in the face of physical torture.

Although these stories are dramatised and involve semi-divine or divine characters, they remain deeply relevant to human experience: the Greek gods and demigods were anthropomorphic deities after all, and they exhibit human traits in an amplified form. In these ancient Greek myths, we find powerful and poignant illustrations of suffering and resilience.

There is a lot of discussion these days about the need to cultivate resilience, in our children, in our outlook on life, in our workplaces and in our communities. But what exactly is resilience?

The American Psychological Association (APA) defines resilience as “the process of adapting well in the face of adversity, trauma, tragedy, threats or significant sources of stress — such as family and relationship problems, serious health problems or workplace and financial stressors. It means “bouncing back” from difficult experiences.” It is not the same as being impervious to stress. It is the capacity to recover and adapt following a stressful event.

Resilience research indicates that each of us has the ability to build and cultivate resilience by means of particular behaviours, thoughts and actions, such as the following:

  • making realistic plans and carrying them out;
  • drawing on support from close relationships and a social network;
  • maintaining positive self-regard and self-confidence;
  • utilising communication skills and problem-solving abilities;
  • cultivating a sense of hopefulness and meaningfulness in life.

In the Greek myths I have chosen, we can find illustrations of these resilience-building sorts of behaviours, thoughts and actions.

Herakles engages in a process of self-discovery through suffering – fully coming to terms with his human side and recognising his vulnerability to forces beyond his control. Herakles finds a way to ‘endure life’ with the help of his close friend Theseus, who in turn, enables him to take decisive action in the present and to look to the future with hope.

Demeter never gives up on the hope of being reunited with her abducted daughter and eventually that hope is realised. Demeter also embarks on a spiritual path, finding meaning and purpose in life and establishing her cult known as the Eleusinian Mysteries. Ultimately, she learns to accept change and the inevitable cycle of decay and renewal as emblematised by the cycle of the seasons.

Prometheus, despite being subjected to physical torment, remains defiant and committed to his actions in helping humanity. He refuses to surrender his sense of self-worth, and in this sense, he remains intellectually and emotionally free despite his physical bondage.

These myths are powerful examples of resilience-building in action. Furthermore, these myths evince a sophisticated understanding of human nature and point to some fascinating parallels with modern resilience research. The fact that these stories are set in a mythic context does not make them any less relevant to our daily lives. In fact, they are tremendously moving and inspirational.

Here’s the podcast (with thanks to Evana Ho and the ANU College of Arts and Social Sciences):

 

Header image: Marble Head of Herakles, 1st century AD

(https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/252932)

American Psychological Association: https://www.apa.org/helpcenter/road-resilience

 

Flying fox

Coimbra

Aesop’s Fox, suffering from an acute attack of ‘flying shame’, asks the thorny question: “What is the future of conference travel in academia? Can we really afford it, financially, environmentally and personally?” Then she turns to Aristotle for help… 

1. It’s (a) flying shame

In a world that is now defined by high levels of internet connectivity, and a university sector that is often characterised by little or no travel funding, I can’t help wondering about the long-term viability of conference travel in academia. Does it make sense for an academic to travel to the other side of the world to deliver a forty minute paper to an audience of fifty, or a twenty minute paper to an audience of fifteen, in a conference that might last only three, four or five days?

Let’s consider the financial cost involved in a fourteen day trip to attend two conferences on two separate continents. If you are flying out from Australia, as I must, the airfare alone is very likely to exceed allocated travel funds (if your University bestows them), which leaves a gaping great hole as far as accommodation costs and conference registration fees are concerned. I am fortunate to have a supportive university and the opportunity to apply for extra funding if needed but, if that were not the case, I would be looking at some pretty hefty outlays before the trip and a relatively small refund come tax time. Despite reduced travel distances, it is much worse for my European colleagues who advise me that they get no conference travel funding from their institutions at all and have to scrounge together the costs of attending just one conference a year from meagre (often sessional) salaries.

The environmental costs are real too. I was recently told about a site called ‘ShamePlane’ which helpfully informs me that every time I fly from Canberra to the United States, I am responsible for the loss of 7.8 square metres of Arctic Ice, and every time I fly from Canberra to London, 0.6 square metres of Arctic Ice (clearly, I should be prioritising Europe!). Not to mention all the plastic waste I accumulated as a passenger on those flights, all the aeroplane food I wasted (because it was mostly inedible), all the water bottles I emptied, all the transport services I used at my final destination, all the water I wasted having longer than usual showers at the hotel: the list goes on…

Then there is the personal cost. Like so many other early career academics around the globe, I finished a hectic semester of teaching, immediately started exam marking and then succumbed to illness (in this case a very bad bout of Influenza A). I had a week to nurse my family back to reasonable health, finish writing two conference papers and get myself travel ready. It wasn’t ideal. I seriously considered cancelling my travel plans. My husband looked at with me concern and trepidation as I wheeled my bags to the door. When I flew out, I was not contagious but still heavily congested. If I took a bad turn or contracted another illness, I would be on the other side of the world, alone and very ill indeed. It was a risk. As for the home front, the costs there should not be overlooked either: two young children left missing mummy, a husband left with all the household responsibilities whilst trying to manage his own tight work deadlines, and then there is just the simple and awful reality of being apart.

Some academics have said to me that it is simply absurd to travel so far to attend a short conference. Others have told me to go on as many trips as possible!

So what are the alternatives? Option 1. I have seen conference papers delivered by Skype but there is something terribly off-putting about them. Rather than listening to a flesh and blood speaker, we end up ‘watching’ a grainy image of a speaker (usually the speaker’s forehead, or a very tired looking speaker because of the time difference), reading a paper to a screen for forty minutes. Nothing could be less ‘real’ or captivating.

Option 2. I could have emailed my conference paper to a trusted colleague and asked them to read it aloud to the conference delegates on my behalf. I have heard this done once and, to be honest, it too was awful. Even a trusted colleague cannot be expected to have practised the paper, or to know the topic intimately, or to do full justice to the paper in delivering it. At best, it will be a fairly bland recital of someone else’s words (and let’s be honest, it is a pretty big ask of a trusted colleague).

Option 3. Another option is simply to preference local conferences. This is difficult to do if you happen to work in a specialised field (as most of us do) and most of your colleagues work on other continents. The chances of developing international networks are reduced and opportunities to ‘tap into’ current developments in global scholarship are lost.

Option 4. No travel at all. Not really an option – conference attendance is still a major part of the peer feedback process as well as evaluation of academic performance.

Given the expectations of my line of work, I’m left suffering from an acute sense of ‘flying shame’. Consciousness of my enormous carbon footprint is gnawing away at me and there are too many competing professional obligations to warrant giving up conference travel altogether. What to do? Aristotle to the rescue…

2. Aristotle on shame

Anyone needing an antidote to ‘flying shame’ simply needs to read a good dose of Book 4 of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. In that book, Aristotle expresses the (rather surprising) view that shame is NOT a virtue:

The feeling of shame is not suitable to every age, but only to the young. We think it proper for the young to feel shame, because as they live by feeling they often err, and shame may keep them in check; and we praise young people when they are ashamed, though no one would praise an older man for being shamefaced, since we think he ought not to do anything of which he need be ashamed.

For indeed the virtuous man does not feel shame, if shame is the feeling caused by base actions; since one ought not to do base actions (the distinction between acts really shameful and those reputed to be so is immaterial, since one ought not to do either), and so one never ought to feel shame.

Shame is a mark of a base man, and springs from a character capable of doing a shameful act. And it is absurd that, because a man is of such a nature that he is ashamed if he does a shameful act, he should therefore think himself virtuous, since actions to cause shame must be voluntary, but a virtuous man will never voluntarily do a base action.

It’s a rather messy and puzzling passage in some respects and probably not Aristotle at his most lucid. He seems to be saying that 1) shame is a good and proper feeling in a young person, 2) shame is not a virtue because it is more of a fleeting feeling than a state of being, 3) that the virtuous need not feel ashamed about anything because they never do anything wrong anyway and 4) that it is rather absurd for the base man to feel ashamed because that would suggest that he imagines himself to be virtuous, which is clearly not the case.

If Aristotle is right and shame is just a fleeting feeling, rather than a virtue as such, I’m sure I’ll get over it pretty quickly. Given my age (by ancient world standards) it is remarkable that I can still feel shame and, to put it bluntly, Aristotle seems to be saying that shame doesn’t really do anyone much good if they are not good to begin with. So am I off the hook? Not quite. Reading Aristotle’s words in context, it may be more accurate to say (as Raymond suggests) that shame, even as a feeling, still holds an important place for Aristotle but (like everything else for Aristotle in the realm of ethics) it must be felt in the right way, at the right times, about the right things, and to the right extent.

3. Restoring the balance

To restore balance to my intense feelings of ‘flight shame’, it remains to consider the positives and benefits of academic travel.

On the up side, I can honestly say that the conference travel I have done has been a) as economical and efficient as possible and b) enormously beneficial for me professionally. The feedback from peers has often been incredibly insightful and helpful to the development of my ideas and approaches. Many of the most interesting and important discussions have taken place outside of the seminar rooms: in the corridors, at morning teas and lunches, and at conference events. Connections with other scholars have led to joint projects and joint publications. The personal and professional connections I have made with colleagues overseas will, I hope, last a lifetime and continue to be highly productive, collaborative and positive. In my experience, there really is no replacement for face-to-face contact and this is something the digital age has, I think, proven rather than disproven.

There is a lot of talk these days about ‘connection’. But what does it really mean? To me, it’s about getting a feel for other people’s warmth and openness, their willingness to discuss different ideas and approaches, their playfulness and creativity, their professional courtesy and consideration of others. If I find people with these qualities and attributes, I know immediately that I can work with them, through the rigorous process of collaborating, publishing, even co-authoring, across countries and continents. Happily, I have found such people – but I would never have been sure of these connections if we hadn’t met eye to eye (or as the Europeans say, ‘shared food together’).

That being said, I am very conscious about the costs of my travel. If I can do it more efficiently I will. I fly economy. If I can recycle or minimise waste, I try to do so. When overseas, I try to use public transport as much as possible and prefer to walk or ride a bicycle rather than use taxis or buses. I will never use all fifteen towels (!) provided by the hotel, I eat local food (often vegetarian) and try to buy locally made products as gifts.

I know in my heart that these small measures are not going to restore that block of Arctic ice but every little bit helps, right? My family life has benefited from me returning with renewed health, vigour, inspiration and stimulation. And I haven’t stopped trying to be environmentally aware just because I have returned home. As part of my efforts to offset the costs, I am obliged to do a lot more walking, riding, recycling, double-sided printing, eating local and eating vegetarian if I am going to ‘pay’ for my academic travel. As for the flying shame, I may not shake it off entirely, and in a way, it is reassuring to know that I am still capable of feeling shame (maybe I’m not that old after all!). I can only hope that I fulfil Aristotle’s expectations of feeling shame in the right way, at the right time, about the right things, and to the right extent.

Image:

The University of Coimbra

Links:

https://shameplane.com/

Text extracted and adapted from Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics (transl. H. Rackham) available online at: http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/

Article by C. Raymond, ‘Shame and Virtue in Aristotle’: http://www.pgrim.org/philosophersannual/37articles/raymond-shame.pdf

 

The loser’s speech

What do you say to a crowd if you have just lost a general election? Even worse, if it was an election that punters predicted you would definitely win. Does it have to be sombre, awkward and pathetic? Let’s take a look at the options.

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As the tide of the federal election recedes, and we find ourselves wandering along a bleak coastline littered with tattered election flyers, how-to-vote cards and mounds of post-election analysis and critique, I have been a little surprised by the positive commentary on Bill Shorten’s concession speech. He has been praised for admitting his disappointment, for eschewing anger and congratulating his opponent, and for signalling hope in the future. Fair enough but let’s be honest too: he looked utterly devastated, he couldn’t deliver his speech off the cuff, he came across as insincere, he was boring and he rattled off a long list of slogans from the Labor campaign in an ‘oh so weary’ voice that made me think: ‘did this guy ever deserve to win?’

Granted, it was a tough night for Labor. Really tough. But a leader is meant to lead, not just in mind and action but in spirit. It is in moments of crisis and defeat that people turn to a leader for guidance, hope, purpose and resilience. I’m not saying Shorten should have transformed himself into Polyanna, but he could have made more of his final moments in the limelight. Let’s consider some of his options.

  1. Slam it

Anger is an easy option but it is rarely advisable. You can’t show anger with the electorate (even if you feel it) because as Aristotle helpfully says, ‘the angry man must always be angry with a particular person, not with mankind in general’. Of course, you can slam your opponent, and deliver your good wishes to your opponent and their family through gritted teeth, reminding them that it’s devastatingly hard work in public office, but it won’t change the fact that you lost. It is not classy and it will not be respected. It will confirm the views of those who voted against you and make them hate you even more.

Shorten did a pretty good job of concealing his anger. Score: 4/5.

  1. Reframe it

You can reframe your defeat as temporary, insignificant or not a loss at all. You have to be careful with this approach because it can come across as denial (and everyone can see through that). The intention is rather to reframe the loss as a) an event that has not destroyed all the good work you have done in the past and b) an event that has not destroyed your hope for the future: see, for example, Abbott’s 2019 line: “I’m not going to let one bad day spoil 25 great years”, or Rudd’s 2013 reframing of Labor’s loss as an opportunity to reform the party and its leadership. Hope is important, and it’s inspirational, and it’s just about all you have left once you’ve hit the bottom of the barrel (as the myth of Pandora illustrates so well) so emphasise HOPE.

Shorten said he was hopeful – he just wasn’t convincing. Score 2.5/5.

  1. Polyanna it

There are positives to be found in every situation, even defeat. You can focus on the extraordinary loyalty and support of the people you work with. You can focus on your achievements and your pride in those achievements. You can focus on the values and principles you stand for and the importance of those principles. You can point out that you have not shied away from the difficulties of the contest (Keating’s 1996 line, “I’ll tell you what, folks, not once did I tackle and take on a second-best option” and Tony Abbott’s 2019 line “I would rather be a loser than a quitter”). Find the positives and work with them.

Shorten tried to be positive but he looked and sounded miserable. Score: 1/5.

  1. Laugh it off

Humour in a concession speech is extremely important and it can be a potent weapon. For a loser to use humour in their concession speech proves that that person is able to rise above defeat, to see the bigger picture and to engage with the audience. If the humour is sensitive, truly witty and delivered with positivity, it is irresistible and makes everyone regret that that person is about to depart from public life. Here’s a reasonable example from Anna Bligh, 2012, after commenting in her concession speech that it was her son’s 19th birthday: “At this time, nineteen years ago, I was in labour. And this campaign has been a bit like that, but it’s been five weeks longer!” And here’s a bad example from Kevin Rudd, 2013, after thanking Penny Wong for all her great work: “Rarely, Penny, do South Australians get that welcome up here. Mind you, I’m married to one” (cue awkward hug with wife).

Humour can be a very effective tool if you can truly rise above defeat. Remember to wave down at your opponent from your happy little cloud of laughter as you drift up and away into the sky.

As for Bill, no jokes this time. Score: 0/5.

5. Work the crowd

Emotions run high during concession speeches. The audience has been waiting for hours for the speaker to arrive. They desperately want to boo the opponent and they desperately want to clap their leader. This sort of audience should never be ignored. It is crucial to engage. Look them in the eye and talk to them as people, as friends, as loved ones, as supporters. Whatever you do, don’t ignore them, don’t wave at them to be quiet, and don’t fail to interact with their heckling. One of the best heckles came in Keating’s 1996 concession speech and he lapped it up: “You can take the boy out of Bankstown, but you can’t take Bankstown out of the boy!”

Shorten’s score: 1/5.

  1. Keep it brief

There is nothing worse than adding poor time management skills to one’s list of attributes as a loser. Stay long enough to thank everyone you really need to thank. Say something meaningful. Remind them surreptitiously how great you are and that they have made a big mistake and then DEPART. Graciously, charmingly, with a smile, and with one’s head held high.

Shorten’s score: 1/5.

Yes, folks, it is possible to deliver a good concession speech. Maybe next time, ScoMo, what do you say?

 

Dr Sonia Pertsinidis teaches ‘Rhetoric: the art of persuasion in the ancient and modern worlds‘ at the Australian National University in Canberra, Australia.

Image: Yahoo News Australia

 

Pythagoras

What does Pythagoras have to do with the moon?

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This year marks the 50th Anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing. To commemorate this remarkable technological achievement, the Australian National University is currently hosting a series of lectures exploring the moon through the ages (Works that Shaped the World: ANU Discovery Series 2019).

I was recently invited to present a lecture in the series. I chose to speak about the mysterious Greek philosopher Pythagoras and his theory of the music of the spheres, that is, the theory that each planet and heavenly body emits a sound as it travels through space and that these sounds combine to produce harmonious music.

What would Pythagoras have made of the moon landing? What would he think about his name being ascribed to an impact crater on the north-western rim of the Moon? What would he make of our efforts to hear the ‘sounds’ of planets or to transmit music into space?

Join me for a voyage of discovery, starting in the sixth century BC and ending in the present day, exploring the life and ideas of Pythagoras: a truly remarkable, multidisciplinary and unconventional thinker:

With thanks to the ANU for permission to reproduce the recording (which starts at 22:28).

Recommended reading:

Christoph Riedweg, Pythagoras: His Life, Teaching and Influence, Cornell University Press, 2005.

Sarah B. Pomeroy, Pythagorean Women: Their History and Writings, Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013.

Image: bust of Pythagoras, Capitoline Museum, Rome. Source: Internet Commons.

The art of listening

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The art of listening is in perilous decline. Bombarded by information from all directions, with a swirling mass of issues competing for our attention, and a constant stream of messages, notifications, news items and tweets filling our eyes and ears, the modern person scarcely has time to stop and listen, let alone listen carefully.

What might be a cure for this modern malaise? Public readings. I suggest this because of a recent experience. On Friday night last week, I watched an audience ‘tune in’ to a public reading of Homer’s Iliad. Fifty or more visitors were comfortably settled into the ANU Classics Museum, surrounded by cabinets brimming with beautiful antiquities, and they were listening. They were both captivated and moved. Why? Firstly, because this was a recitation from a great epic poem telling the climactic story of Achilles killing the Trojan prince Hektor. Secondly, because this recitation was being artfully delivered in ancient Greek and English by a group of dedicated students.

In antiquity, an audience would have sat for three days and nights, listening to a professional bard recite the entire 15,000 line epic from memory from beginning to end. No doubt, there would have been moments when audience attention lapsed or when breaks were required but I have no doubt that the audience was listening: they would have been paying close attention not only to the story but how it was being told. How do we know this? Because Homer’s epics were a foundation stone and reference point for ancient Greek culture and society (to not know Homer, or only know one line of Homer, was to be ‘uneducated’) and even to alter one line of an epic poem was a cause of great controversy.

Watching a modern audience being ‘read to’ is powerful. People were concentrating, following the storyline, soaking up the imagery and the poetry, relishing the drama and the beauty of the language. For a moment, a group of strangers were unified by a common experience, and for the readers too, the experience was a powerful one. The magic of oral storytelling, a tradition that is thousands of years old, filled the room and the audience responded warmly and positively to the experience.

Public readings are wonderful for community building and social bonding. It draws us out of our individual thought bubbles and puts us back into contact with each other. To attend a public reading involves tacit consent to put aside other distractions, to stop for a while, and focus on a shared and marvellous experience. So many texts benefit from being read aloud and performed. Recitation forces us to slow down and focus, whereas private reading so often involves skimming, fast-tracking or phasing out.

We need to re-learn how to listen, to ourselves and each other, and to listen with care and attention. Ancient societies have given us a precedent and a means to do this: all we need is a place, a time and a willing presenter.

[This blog is dedicated to the ten wonderful students who participated in the global festival of ancient literature known as the Festival Européen Latin Grec, which was celebrated on Friday 22 March in the ANU Classics Museum. Bravo and long live Homeric poetry!]

Image: Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, A Reading from Homer, 1885 (Philadelphia Museum of Art).

 

The work/life balancing act

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There are mixed opinions about being an academic and a parent and, as far as I can tell, there are more negative stories out there than positive ones. In this light-hearted blog, I outline five reasons why it is great to be an academic and a mother.

  1. The world of a child

A child’s perspective on the world is always fascinating but a child’s perspective on the world of academia is even more wonderful. Just last year, we brought our four-year old daughter along to my book launch. She expressed her deep disappointment that contrary to expectation, there was no official countdown as part of the launch. It seems that she expected the Play-School Rocket Clock and for the book itself to be launched into space. She was not at all impressed with the speeches and the champagne but the tasty canapés might have made up for it.

Four months later and I was heading off to Germany to present a conference paper. For the next ten days, every aeroplane that was spotted in the sky was confidently identified as ‘Mummy’s aeroplane’, even if it was only a Qantas flight to Townsville. Strangely, now that I have returned, every aeroplane that is sighted is still referred to as ‘Mummy’s aeroplane’ even if I am not on it.

  1. Children think only about the short-term

Children are excellent motivators because they focus entirely on the present and the immediate future. Rather than planning the year ahead, or the next five years as we must do for our performance reviews, my children expect my academic article to be completed tomorrow, my second book to be published this week and the outcome of my grant application to be announced within the next month! In this sense, children make impossible-to-please supervisors. Nevertheless, their perspective reminds me that time is short and that focus and diligence is key.

  1. Children ask the hard questions

Children are renowned for asking hard questions and awkward ones too. The least desirable ones have to be about giving birth, but there are some beauties about work too. A classic example is: ‘Mummy, if you don’t get that teaching award, can we still go to the coast?’ or ‘Mummy, that’s not the most important thing to us right now’, or ‘Mummy, if you don’t go back to work tonight, will you lose your job?’ All of this is great preparation for teaching. If I can confidently answer a question from my five-year-old, I’m pretty sure I can tackle any question a twenty-year-old throws at me.

  1. Children keep adults grounded

My children get far more excited about the large, brown cardboard packages that arrive on our doorstep than the long-awaited publications within them. They immediately turn their minds to thinking about how to transform that box into something marvellous: a new toy, a new prop, a new backdrop for play. It reminds me that there is no end to a child’s creativity and that that same creative spirit is part of my own work.

Children are always listening – even when you think they aren’t (this is a warning, folks). My husband and I were in the midst of a discussion about a difficult person we know. The children were up to their usual antics and we were quite sure they weren’t following our mutterings until my daughter turned to me and very confidently said (with all the wisdom of Socrates): ‘Mummy, you can’t change people’. Of course she is right.

    5. Children make wonderful bookmarks (double entendre fully intended)

In the early years of school, I can guarantee that there will be a continuous supply of remarkable drawings to laminate and transform into bookmarks. Sharks, mermaids, dancing girls, stars, rabbits, personal messages and spirograph drawings all grace the pages of the scholarly books in my office. It is a never-ending source of delight to discover these little gems in the course of a day.

I suppose, to put it simply, children really do help you to keep your place, know your place and stay in place – just like the colourful little bookmarks they make.

[This blog is dedicated to my children, to all of the parents/academics out there and to the year ahead. A warm welcome back to all of my readers. Aesop’s Fox wishes you a happy, healthy, balanced and productive 2019.]

Image:

The new look rocket clock designed by artist Shaun Tan (ABC TV: Play School)

https://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/drive/rocket-clock/8411648

The crisis of rhetoric in Australia

No one would be surprised if I said that there has been a serious decline in the quality of public speech and debate in this country.

The vast majority of our political representatives are poor orators, clinging to repetitive catchphrases instead of logical arguments, punching out slogans and crude invective instead of engaging in reasoned debate, and tossing out cheap puns and wordplays instead of cultivating wit and wisdom. Who could blame the Australian public for tuning out?

The thinking public is right to disregard much of current public discourse as ‘mere rhetoric’, that is, language designed to have a persuasive or impressive effect but which is often regarded as lacking in sincerity or meaningful content (Oxford English Dictionary).

Yet the very existence of the expression ‘mere rhetoric’ suggests that another type of rhetoric is possible: genuine, meaningful, persuasive and effective rhetoric. This is ‘real’ rhetoric in its original form as developed in classical Greece.

Up until the early twentieth century, the ancient art of ‘real’ rhetoric was widely taught in schools and universities as part of an education in classics. Since that time, the study of ancient rhetoric has declined and, arguably, this has resulted in a corresponding decline in the quality of our public discourse.

In the past, the study of ancient rhetoric involved learning how to construct different types of arguments, devising different forms of appeal based on logic, ethics or emotion and learning how to arrange material logically and persuasively. Students then went on to study the great speechwriters of the classical past such as Demosthenes and Cicero, as well as great speeches of the modern era. This practical training cultivated great speakers as well as attentive and discerning listeners.

A broad reintroduction of the ancient art of rhetoric into the school and university curriculum would have deep, long-lasting and positive effects. In the present political climate especially, we need to be finely attuned to faulty arguments, false premises and deceptions of all kinds.