The work of Great Books students does not go unrewarded.  Each year the best of those papers submitted are chosen to be in the Great Books Review.  The following essays are those represented in the 1998-2000 Review. 

A Nietzschean Perspective on Knowledge
by James Herndon

Compulsions for Compliance: An Examination of the Motivations of Faith
by Mandi Walton

The Importance of Faith in Man’s Quest for Happiness
by Adam Ferrell

The Peacock and the Pollock: Images of Christ in O’Connor’s "The Displaced Person"
by Blake Couey

Reason and Morality: How Civil Society Frees Men from the Chains of Natural Inclination
by Kelly Cannon

Incongruous: a Paper Filled with Words about Silence as Encountered in Shakespeare's King Lear
by Shaun P. Kell

Bacon’s Secret Knowledge
by Emory Whitaker

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A Nietzschean Perspective on Knowledge
By James Herndon 

     "True knowledge," as Friederich Nietzsche postulated, "an insight into the horrible truth, outweighs any motive for action." Of course, Nietzsche is not credited with being the most optimistic individual in the history of the world; nevertheless, his insight into human nature, and its response to knowledge of the world is worthy of acknowledgment and recognition. Nietzsche's theory of the inhibition that is associated with true knowledge is an intriguing critique of the actions of Shakespeare's tragic hero Hamlet. However, Nietzsche's theory also provides a unique perspective in which one can engage the philosophical pondering of both Bacon and Descartes. Finally, his theory can provide an intriguing critique of John Donne's poem, "An Anatomy of the World: The First Anniversary." 
     The most obvious connection to Nietzsche's theory is with Shakespeare's story of tragedy, betrayal, and revenge -- Hamlet. Nietzsche's book, The Birth of Tragedy, references Shakespeare's famous character. Nietzsche believes that Hamlet, through his conversation with his father, gains knowledge of the 'essence of things.' Because Hamlet's father visits his son in a ghostly form, Hamlet gains knowledge of an after-life. Furthermore, his father's ghost informs Hamlet of the evil act that was committed against his father. In short, in one evening Hamlet gains knowledge of the essence of the world around him. He learns that the world that surrounds him is evil. 
     For Nietzsche, the evil that is present in the world is all too obvious. Consequently, understanding Nietzsche's theory requires an examination of his pessimistic ideology. Nietzsche would argue that any 'Truth' we could gain of the world would be knowledge of an 'out of joint' world. For Nietzsche, we are all just sheep being led around by a select few. Therefore, whenever Nietzsche believes someone has gained knowledge of the world, he believes that that someone has gained knowledge that one can do without. In Hamlet's instance, the negative nature of the truth is obvious to the reader. Hamlet is obviously surrounded by facts that would scare the normal human being. 
     The question then turns to whether Hamlet's knowledge of the world proves to be an inhibition to his eventual action. There are several happening in Shakespeare's famous play to lead one to believe that Hamlet was inhibited. The first sign, and by far the most obvious, is the slow and unenthusiastic way in which Hamlet goes about his ploy to gain revenge. When Hamlet first hears about the news of his father, he seems lethargic. When one compares the reaction that is given by Hamlet, to the news that his father was murdered, to that of Laertes, having learned that his father, Polonius, was murdered, one sees an amazing distinction. Hamlet's character is best defined by this lethargic reaction. Hamlet has no immediate response; he certainly does not seem enraged by the news, whereas Laertes' reaction lies on the other end of the spectrum of human reaction. Laertes reacts with anger and vengefulness. Laertes is ready to go to war against the individual that killed his father. With Hamlet, it seems that action is the last thing in his mind. 
     Hamlet's attempt to prove the knowledge of what the ghost told him also gives credence to Nietzsche's theory. Instead of reacting the way that any normal person would, or in this instance as Laertes does, Hamlet engages in an attempt to discover the knowledge for his self. The play that is put on by Hamlet is obviously centered on Hamlet's need to prove his father's murder. The intentions of the play are so that Hamlet will be able to witness the reaction of his uncle and stepfather, Claudius. However, Hamlet's true intentions are never mentioned. Nietzsche's theory seems to support the idea that Hamlet's play was not an attempt to prove Claudius' guilt. Instead, Hamlet's play could very well be an attempt to disprove the ghost. If Claudius does not react in a specific way, then it could be quite easy for Hamlet to assume that the ghost was not telling the truth. In other words, Hamlet's play was an attempt to disprove the knowledge that he had gained of the essence of things. In truth, Hamlet's encounter with the ghost should have been enough to convince him of his father's murder. For most individuals, an encounter with the after-life could easily convince someone of something, beyond any reasonable doubt. The ghost obviously lifted Hamlet's veil of ignorance. 
     Many would argue that Hamlet is not inhibited from acting. Hamlet, after all, does end up killing the people that are responsible for his father's murder. Nevertheless, a closer look seems to reveal that Hamlet was in fact inhibited from action. First and foremost is the fact that he never really attempts to take Claudius' life. In fact, Claudius is eventually killed by poison that he placed upon his own glass; Hamlet only acted because other people forced him to act. The only exception to Hamlet's inhibition to act is the murder of Polonius. However, Polonius' murder occurs in rage. Hamlet is confronting his mother and is shocked and enraged by the presence of a third individual. Polonius is killed instantaneously. Hamlet's attempt on Polonius’ life occurs when Polonius is behind a curtain. In other words, Hamlet had no real knowledge of who he is killing, or even for what reason he is doing so. Additionally, it can be argued that Polonius’ death is purely accidental. Hamlet obviously had no intentions of killing the old man, and only did so without knowledge of the outcome. Hamlet acts in rage, and therefore acted outside of his own intentions. Furthermore, because he acts without true knowledge of what he is doing, it can be said that he acts from beneath the veil of ignorance. In other words, it is one thing intentionally to kill a certain person; it is a very different act to kill someone in rage and without knowledge of who he or she really is.
     Hamlet is faced with the notion that it was up to him to make the eternal order of things right again. He is told that it was his duty to set right a world that is terribly out of joint. "Knowledge kills action," as Nietzsche points out, and for Hamlet, "action requires the veil of illusion . . . true knowledge, an insight into the horrible truth, outweighs any motive for action." Hamlet is the poster child for Nietzschean theory of knowledge as an obstacle to action.
     Nevertheless, Nietzsche's theory seems to have implications for several other people as well. An obvious example of a search for knowledge is found in Descartes' Discourses. Descartes is intrigued by the basis of knowledge that we as people have and use to formulate our beliefs and operate in our everyday lives. For Descartes, only a re-articulation of that knowledge base is a necessary step to be sure that every claim is provable. Turning again to Nietzsche’s theory, a questioning of Descartes' intentions seems in order. Why would anyone want to prove every aspect of knowledge that one has? Descartes explains himself in his third discourse when he says, "as I wanted to concentrate solely on the search for truth, I thought I ought to . . . reject as being absolutely false everything in which I could suppose the slightest reason of doubt, in order to see if there did not remain after that anything in my belief which was entirely indubitable (53)." However, Descartes never takes the necessary steps to explain his reasoning behind a very challenging and intriguing quest. Descartes says that he wants to concentrate on a search for truth, a very logical and humanly endeavor. Descartes then says that he finds it necessary to reject as absolutely false everything in the world that could suppose the slightest reason of doubt, while failing to explain such a step. Nevertheless, the question seems imminent. Why reject everything as absolutely false?
     Absent Nietzsche's theory, the answer to Descartes unanswered assumption seems distant and very unattainable. It certainly is not logical to reject things as absolutely false when the slightest doubt arises. If such an assumption were logical then it would necessarily be an infinitely regressive endeavor. The human mind is endowed with the ability to doubt anything and everything. Even Descartes’ final answer, "cogito ergo sum," can be doubted. He believes that what we think could be just as prescribed a notion of bias as any mathematical equation or scientific theory. There is no internal system of checks and balances to insure that what is actually occurring within individuals can constitute 'thinking.' Simply put, it is possible, even if unlikely, to find some level of doubt within Descartes’ final answer. Consequently, following Descartes’ analysis of rejecting everything with any smidgen of doubt as being absolutely false, Descartes’ final answer does not seem to be without its own flaws. So the question would still remain, why would anyone want to engage in a journey to deconstruct and reject everything?
     Nietzsche's theory certainly provides a possible answer to the question. The major tenet of his theory is based on the notion that gained knowledge spurs nausea and inhibits action. For Nietzsche, knowledge becomes a negative thing, something to be rejected. In fact, if one were faced with notions of knowledge and 'Truth,' it would inhibit his or her ability to function as an individual being. In the case of Hamlet, we see that an individual will even take steps to disprove knowledge that is the source of the nausea and pain. Hamlet's play represents his attempt to disprove the knowledge that he had gained. Similarities can certainly be drawn between Descartes' Discourses and his attempt to deconstruct all knowledge of the universe, and Hamlet's play and his attempt to deconstruct the knowledge of his father's murder. However, the comparison is based on several assumptions that should probably be proven.
     The first characteristic that makes Hamlet the nauseated non-actor is his obvious displeasure with the world. Working from Nietzsche's perspective, he would want us to believe that everyone who gains knowledge gains a sense of displeasure with the world. However, Descartes displeasure is very obvious. "Looking at the various activities and enterprises of mankind with the eye of a philosopher," as Descartes explains, "there is hardly one which does not seem to me vain and useless" (28). He is obviously disappointed with the gains that humanity has made. Much like Nietzsche, Descartes asserts a level of pessimism when he discusses the world that surrounds him. Descartes even seems negative about his own life as he explains, "the only profit I appeared to have drawn from trying to become educated, was progressively to have discovered my ignorance" (29). Descartes’ pessimism fits perfectly into the occurrence that Nietzsche defines when he discusses the feeling that overwhelms individuals when they are confronted with their inability to cause true change. Just as Hamlet saw that he could not possibly change a world that is so out of joint, Descartes believes that all of his efforts are only counterproductive.
     Hamlet responds to his feeling of helplessness by failing to act on his emotions. When his veil of illusion is lifted, he responds with inhibition. Descartes responds to the lifting of his veil of illusion in a very similar way. Instead of continuing his educational and scientific pursuits, Descartes engages in a certain degree of inhibition. Furthermore, his deconstruction of all forms of knowledge is an attempt, much like Hamlet's, to disprove his own pessimism. Descartes’ rejection of all knowledge offers an escape to the world that is obviously depressing and inhibiting. If Descartes can truly gain the ability to reject all knowledge, then he also gains the ability to be motivated. In other words, if Descartes' veil is lifted, which nauseates and inhibits him, but he can prove that the things he sees as a result of the veil being lifted are nothing but lies, then Descartes has successfully placed the veil back over his head; he has regained the ability to be motivated.
     The rejection of all knowledge is not the only way that a person can regain the motivation that they had before the veil of ignorance was removed. Francis Bacon's philosophical pondering in his Novum Organum provides another means of rejecting all personal knowledge. Much like Descartes, Bacon has become frustrated with the advancements of humanity. However, whereas Descartes rejects all knowledge, Bacon believes that there are natural flaws in humanity that prevent its ability to gain true knowledge. For Bacon, the human ability to gain knowledge is limited by each human’s limited senses, for as Bacon explains, "the sense is doubly culpable: for it either forsakes us, or it deceives us . . .For the evidence and information given us by the sense has reference always to man, not to the universe; and it is a great mistake to say that the sense is the measure of things (22)." Bacon believes that humans, on their own, are incapable of understanding or gaining any sort of concrete knowledge about the world. However, Bacon's rationale is just as suspect as is Descartes’. If Bacon is able to reject all human senses as incapable of gaining true knowledge, and then he gains the ability to reject all knowledge, since all thought are based upon human sense, at least to some degree.
     Except for overwhelming pessimism, why would anyone want to reject all notions of human senses? The rationale could be one of a number of things. It is possible that Bacon believes that the sciences and human studies have been insignificant. This belief would be very unlikely for a man in Bacon's position. He, as a scientist and philosopher, obviously benefited from the gains that have been made possible through the use of the human senses. Furthermore, if this is true, then Bacon, like Hamlet and Descartes, is afraid of the reality that gained knowledge has made available to him. Thus, Bacon would be, just as Hamlet and Descartes, driven to nausea and inhibition through the unveiling of the world. Alternatively, Bacon believes that the gains made by humanity are significant and simply does not like or appreciate the gains that have been made. If this is true, then Bacon once again becomes an individual that is inhibited by his knowledge of the world. Bacon sees that steps are being made; it is just that the knowledge that he does gain scares him. He becomes nauseated when he becomes aware of the state of the world around him. Consequently, Bacon wants to reject the world around him, and blame it on human error.
     Many would say that Bacon is not driven to inhibition; in fact, Bacon is proposing a means of action. Nevertheless, Bacon's theory is based on the principle idea that knowledge should be rejected. Furthermore, Bacon's response is not one of optimism and action. In fact, Bacon's final response is the claim that we, as humans and thus bound by our own senses, will be unable to gain 'True' knowledge until we find a way to eliminate our own bias. Nietzsche's theory would postulate that Bacon's idea is to, "feel ridiculous or humiliating that they should be asked to set right a world that is out of joint." For Bacon, the only way not to feel 'ridiculous or humiliated' is to find a tool that eliminates our human bias from the equation. Nevertheless, there are certain acts that overwhelm a person, acts that not even Descartes' Discourses or Bacon's Novum Organum are capable of disproving or discounting.
     John Donne's poem "An Anatomy of the World: The First Anniversary" describes Donne's encounter with an act that provided him with knowledge that not even the greatest of philosophical pondering could question. The act in question is the death of one individual, Elizabeth Drury. For Donne, Elizabeth Drury represents something positive about the world in which he lives. For Hamlet, the chance that his father was not murdered, is his Elizabeth Drury. In other words, if Hamlet's father is not murdered, then there is still a positive thing that exists in the world. Donne's experience with Elizabeth Drury is more specific and more direct. For Donne, Elizabeth Drury is the veil of ignorance that allows him to see the world as a beautiful place. The loss of Elizabeth Drury provides Donne with insight into the horrible truths that exist in the world, or the horrible truth that is the world. Donne, in speaking to the world, recognizes that, "her death hath taught us dearly that thou art corrupt and mortal in thy purest part" (line 61-2). Elizabeth Drury's death opened up knowledge that the world is corrupt and evil, and as Nietzsche says, "insight into the horrible truth, outweighs any motive for action."
     For Donne, the knowledge of the evil in the world seems to do more than spur inaction and nausea. At a minimum, it certainly spurs feeling of nausea. Donne goes as far as to describe the world as dead and diseased, "for the world's beauty is decayed or gone" (line 249). Donne's reaction to his 'unveiling' is to claim that the entire world is dead. Unlike Hamlet, Descartes, and Bacon, who believe that with each individual the world has its problems, Donne, however, suggests that the entire world is affected by the decay that he has encountered in it. Thus, not only is Donne spurred to inaction, but also everyone is implicated by it, too. Every individual is encompassed with Donne's nausea and his feeling of inadequacy. For Donne, the world is dead, and we only have the ability to perform an autopsy. We certainly must understand that the world is too out of joint for us to set it right.
     From Nietzsche's perspective, the world is an evil place. In an evil world, gains in knowledge and attempts at finding 'Truth' have different implications than those same attempts in a world where everything is good. For Hamlet, Descartes, Bacon, and Donne, the world seems to be flirting with the line of being either horrible or perfect. Of course, each individual is very distinct and worthy of much deeper analysis in his or her own right; nevertheless, within all of them there is a sense of a gained knowledge. All four have reacted to their gained knowledge in separate ways. Hamlet is of course a mere literary character; thus, he represents an individual and human reaction to gained knowledge. The other three are real individuals reacting to a gained knowledge, and, for all three, there is a sense of displeasure with the ways of the world. Nietzsche's theory seems logical and certainly seems to apply to four individuals faced with a gained knowledge. Nietzsche said it best: "Knowledge kills action; action requires the veils of illusion: that is the doctrine of Hamlet, not that cheap wisdom of Jack the Dreamer who reflects too much and, as it were, from an excess of possibilities does not get around to action. Not reflection, no-true knowledge, an insight into the horrible truth, outweighs any motive for action." Knowledge of a scary world is a scary thing.

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Compulsions for Compliance:
An Examination of the Motivations of Faith
by Mandi Walton

     "Do you still persist in your integrity? Curse God, and die" (Job 2:9). This fatalistic alternative to enduring the aftermath of misfortune is offered by Job’s wife subsequent to the utter ruin to which his life is subjected at the caprice of Satan, and her sentiments resound with hints of the erroneous notion that faith should cease when adversity commences. Actually, such epochs of tribulation may be the only instances in which the tenacity of an individual’s faith may truly be ascertained since these periods of anguish eradicate any fallacious impressions that bountiful rewards accompany faith. Often, the distinctions between a consistent faith and a selective, avaricious loyalty are skewed in times of prosperity, but, when misery ensues, the stark contrast between the two ideologies is blatantly evident. Since whimsical allegiance feigns true fidelity during eras of serenity, such ardor is often confused with unadulterated devotion; yet, such ephemeral loyalty diminishes at the advent of tribulation, revealing the selfish motivations that originally inspired this course of action. Nevertheless, faith is far less erratic than self-serving loyalty, and an authentic faith may be initially questioned, but may not be ignored. Accordingly, though certain doubts are likely to arise in the expression of faith, a concerted devotion overwhelms such apprehension and further dictates a surrender of individual will to God that often allows faith to lead a person to an unwanted physical or spiritual destination. Therefore, an example of the compelling nature of faith is evident in the Bible as Job laments, "Though he slay me, yet I will serve him," (Job 13:15) accentuating Job’s resolution to perpetuate his faith by remaining devoted to God despite his suffering. As exhibited throughout the book of Job, however, pretensions of faith may be marred by fallacious notions of entitlement, and these divergent perspectives of faith and of both the selfless and the selfish compulsions motivating the manifestation of devotion to God are effectively addressed in the wake of Job’s apparently inexplicable misery.
     "Shall we receive the good at the hand of God, and not receive the bad?" (Job 2:10). This insightful query is offered by Job to counter his wife’s assertion that he should denounce God in the face of overwhelming tribulation, and this probing inquiry further emphasizes the erroneous assumption that a relationship with God is a covenant of reciprocity that offers temporal rewards in return for nominal obedience and supposed devotion. Actually, in this scenario, Job is confronted with extreme misfortune that includes no hint of munificent compensation; yet, Job refuses to denounce God and perseveres in his faith though no explicable reason can be identified to explain his misfortune. Accordingly, Job tacitly affirms that his faith is not founded on utilitarian principles that require the execution of benevolent acts to ensure future individual compensation, but his continued allegiance to God in the wake of such anguish reiterates Job’s dedication to serving the Lord despite the potential benefits or the dire consequences. Moreover, Job seems to approach the entire episode of such devastating tribulation with an air of nonchalance because, after nearly losing all the relatives and earthly possessions he cherished, Job simply asserts that "the Lord gave, and the Lord had taken away" (Job 1:21). Hence, Job’s faith is enduring, even fortifying, and does not falter when he encounters disheartening grief, irrefutable proof that Job’s devotion is genuine and not the result of an ambiguous loyalty that persists only if retribution is offered for dedication and obedience to the Lord.
     Nevertheless, despite Job’s devotion to his faith, he experiences a period of momentary doubt after conversations with his friends, who incite him to evaluate the magnitude of his misfortune, and he then proceeds to question the cause of his distress and God’s role in the realm of human suffering. Initially, after thoughtfully analyzing his distress, Job becomes disheartened and accusatory, and he proceeds to curse the day he was born (Job 3:11), demonstrating a momentary lapse of his faith as he ponders the purpose of life if suffering prevails. Accordingly, as Job contemplates his anguish, he laments that God "set me up as his target" (Job 16:12), assuming a stance that blames God for mortal tribulations rather than accepts them as tests of faith that require renewed allegiance and stronger conviction from the Lord’s faithful remnant. Additionally, Job experiences the isolation that accompanies feelings of abandonment by God, and his concerns appear to be the natural reaction of any individual who is overwhelmed by the onslaught of extensive suffering when he was previously accustomed to prosperity. Therefore, Job ponders the validity of a faithfulness to a supposedly loving God who seems to allow Job’s sorrow to persist. As Job proclaims, "Your hands fashioned and made me; and now you turn and destroy me," (Job 10:8) he accentuates the apparent dichotomy between the two roles of God as a loving Creator and an indifferent observer that pervade human perceptions of the Lord, and these aspects of the Lord’s demeanor render life both unpredictable and enigmatic, a condition of uncertainty that initially appears contrary to Job’s faith. Ultimately, however, Job is able to reconcile the reality of human suffering with the expression of his faith as he asserts, "I hold fast to my righteousness," (Job 27:6) indicating his acceptance of mortal tribulation as a necessary component of life that bolsters and renews faith in the Lord by luring followers closer to God and rendering them more dependent on the dictates of the Immortal.
     Although Job questions his faith in the Lord in the wake of extensive disaster, he ultimately resolves to reaffirm his allegiance to God despite momentary doubts that transpired regarding the selectivity and necessity of suffering. Nevertheless, Job’s Deuteronomic friends present a divergent view of faith that depicts devotion to the Lord as a method by which rewards may be garnered through munificent deeds. These Deuteronomists fallaciously assume that a correlation exists between obedience to God and subsequent blessings, and, therefore, they also incorrectly suppose that manifested human suffering can only transpire as the retribution for sin. Accordingly, they all insisted that Job had somehow induced his own suffering by inciting God’s wrath even though Job was described as an individual who "was blameless and upright, one who feared God and turned away from evil" (Job 1:1). Consequently, then, Job’s situation inspired confusion for the Deuteronomists because the reality that a "blameless" man might suffer so extensively defied all the Deuteronomic notions of the benefits of faith in God and the conditions for punishment from God. Job further offers evidence to disprove this erroneous notion that anguish only occurs as a punishment for sin when he questions why many evil individuals do not experience profound suffering analogous to the trials that Job himself endured (Job 21:7). Thus, unlike Job, who was faithful to the Lord because his overwhelming religious devotion compelled him to express his dedication, Job’s friends who are Deuteronomists worship to avoid the consequences of dismissing or defying God rather than to exhibit reverence for the Almighty, an ideology that entrenches fallacious notions of entitlement through religious obedience. Hence, the ulterior motives of the Deuteronomists and the authentic compulsions of Job represent respectively both the selfish and the selfless aspects of faith that offer contrary notions of allegiance in the story of Job’s sorrow.
     Consequently, the Deuteronomic attitude that dictates obedience in expectation of ultimate rewards introduces a crucial concern that addresses the motivations that compel human behavior. Do humans serve God because he is God, or do they obey the Almighty due to the hope offered by a fleeting promise of ultimate rewards for devotion? Satan even addresses this crucial distinction between motives as he questions the tenacity of Job’s faith by inquiring of the Lord, "Does Job fear God for nothing?" (Job 1:9), which insinuates that Job’s faith, like that of the Deuteronomists, is not authentic and is only expressed in a concerted effort to ensure that rewards are acquired. Nevertheless, Satan is anxious to test Job’s faith, and Satan confronts God by proclaiming, "You have blessed the work of his [Job’s] hands, and his possessions have increased in the land. But stretch out your hand now, and touch all that he has, and he will curse you to your face" (Job 1:11). Accordingly, God accepts Satan’s challenge, and, though overwhelming anguish initially seizes Job and compels him to contemplate the importance and validity of his faith, Job ultimately rejects the religious philosophy of the Deuteronomists and establishes a new resolve of adherence to devotion that disproves Satan’s arrogant, yet erroneous, assertions that incited the original onslaught of sorrow that effectively tested and affirmed the faith of Job.
     Thus, although Job remained devoted to his authentic faith despite numerous opportunities to forsake his dedication to the Lord, many other individuals, like the Deuteronomic friends, perpetuate notions of entitlement that are masked beneath a semblance of faith. This apparent misconception that plagues humanity is the erroneous notion that individuals are to be compensated for cooperative compliance with God, as well as with their fellow humans, and such sentiments of entitlement are not unique to religion, but rather tend to pervade every aspect of human existence. Unfortunately, human nature usually avoids those situations in which obedience is not rewarded, or at least recognized, because selfish compulsions demand that personal benefits must accompany any noble action. Accordingly, individuals seem perfectly willing to profess their deference and dedication to the Lord, provided that adversity and anguish remain aloof. Thus, Job’s insightful observation about the arrogance associated with human notions of entitlement emphasizes the disheartening reality that the essential motivations underlying human behavior are founded on selfish attempts to earn favor or acquire recognition. Hence, such selfish compulsions inspire individuals, like the Deuteronomists, to worship God because of fallacious notions of the potential benefits involved rather than, like Job, to adhere selflessly to conceptions of faith and worship God simply because he is God.

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The Importance of Faith 
in Man's Quest for Happiness
By Adam Ferrell

     Blaise Pascal was born in 1623 and during his lifetime, he made great contributions to the fields of mathematics, science, philosophy, and theology. Although most probably recognize Pascal for his contributions in mathematics, his contributions to theology and religion are no less impressive. After having a profound revelation at the age of thirty-one, Pascal became a follower of the religious ideas of Cornelius Jansenius. His conversion to Jansenism proved to be very influential in his life, and he joined in on the attack against the theological ideas of the Jesuits. This attack motivated Pascal to write two of his most influential theological works: the Lettres Provincial and the Pensées . These two works achieved immediate success, even though Pascal published the Lettres anonymously and his Pensées were published eight years after his death. The Pensées , or "thoughts", are believed to be the groundwork for another work that Pascal intended to write called the Apology for the Christian Religion. Within the Pensées , the reader begins to discover the basic theological ideas of Pascal. Although the seventeenth century produced many ideas from strict rationalists, Pascal introduced a new type of theology and philosophy. He asserts that reason alone cannot serve to answer the eternal questions that face man. Pascal believes that reason is limited, and that man must combine reason with intuition in order to find truth. His theology emphasizes the importance of intuition that comes from the heart, and he shows in his Pensées how true faith, rather than reason, is the means by which man will truly achieve happiness.
     Although Pascal does criticize the rationalist thinkers of his time period, he does not deny that man is endowed with reason. In fact, he believes that the ability to reason is an obvious sign of man's greatness. Reason is what distinguishes man from the other animals. Pascal states:

If an animal did rationally what it does by instinct, and if it spoke rationally what it speaks by instinct when hunting, or warning its fellows that the prey has been lost or found, it would certainly go on to talk about matters which affect it more seriously, and it would say, for instance: "Bite through this cord; it is hurting me and I cannot reach it." (105)

Pascal, then, agrees with the rationalists in so far as man is naturally endowed with reason, and without it, man could not be considered to be human (111). Reason, however, is not the only method that man can use to know things. Man has available to him three different ways in which to acquire knowledge: the senses, the mind, and the heart. These last two methods seem to be the most important to Pascal. He asserts that man has a dual nature. Man is endowed with reason, and he is endowed with intuition and instinct. Pascal states:

We know the truth not only through our reason but also through our heart. It is through the latter that we know first principles, and reason, which has nothing to do with it, tries in vain to refute them. (110)

Pascal also states that instinct and reason are signs of these two natures (112). It is a special combination of these two natures that allows man to discover truth and happiness.
      Pascal's major problem with rationalist thinkers such as Descartes is that they overlook the importance of intuition. They assert that in order to know something, one must discover it using reason and reason alone. Pascal asserts that intuition is in fact more important than reason. He states:

For knowledge of first principles, like space, time, motion, number, is as solid as any derived through reason, and it is on such knowledge, coming from the heart and instinct, that reason has to depend and base all its argument. (110)

Therefore, Pascal asserts that man discovers first principles through the heart by intuition, and reason is necessarily based on those first principles. He asserts that many might question the principles derived through intuition simply because many of them might not be able to be proven through reason. This does not mean that they are not true. On the contrary, it shows just how limited man's reason actually is. He states:

We know that we are not dreaming, but, however unable we may be to prove it rationally, our inability proves nothing but the weakness of our reason, and not of the uncertainty of all our knowledge, as they maintain. (110)

Pascal does entertain one of the skeptics' strongest arguments, which is that since certain things can only be known through intuition, one cannot be sure that those principles are true except through intuition (131). For example, Pascal asserts that "there is no certainty, apart from faith, as to whether man was created by a good God, an evil demon, or just by chance, and so it is a matter of doubt, depending on our origin, whether these innate principles are true, false, or uncertain" (131). He also gives the example that apart from faith, man cannot be sure that he is dreaming or awake. One might ask then, what is man to do in this condition? Pascal asserts that whatever man does, he must not doubt these certainties simply because they cannot be proven by reason. He states, "No one can go that far, and I maintain that a perfectly genuine skeptic has never existed. Nature backs up helpless reason and stops it going wildly astray" (131). Unlike Descartes who doubted everything until he could prove those things using reason, Pascal believes that being skeptical is not the proper method for man to follow.
     Pascal arrives at the conclusion that there are simply some truths that must be discovered intuitively without the aid of reason, simply because those truths are outside the grasp of human reason. He states:

Let us then concede to the skeptics what they have so often proclaimed, that truth lies beyond our scope and is an unattainable quarry, that it is no earthly denizen, but at home in heaven, lying in the lap of God, to be known only in so far as it please him to reveal it. (131)

Pascal continually asserts that without intuition, man will never arrive at the true and good and will never know his true nature. He states that the philosophers will never arrive at the truth simply because they rely solely on reason. Pascal emphasizes the idea that the proper use of reason involves knowing when to "doubt, to affirm, and to submit" (170). In order to fully succeed in acquiring truth and happiness, man must necessarily learn when and how to apply his reason. Pascal never states that reason should be overlooked in all matters. He still maintains that reason has use, even in such matters as religion. He states:

If we submit everything to reason our religion will be left with nothing mysterious or supernatural. If we offend the principles of reason our religion will be absurd and ridiculous. (173)

It seems that the hardest part for man is finding the balance between the two extremes of excluding reason altogether and only affirming those things that reason can prove.
     Finding this balance between reason and intuition is the first step that one must take in order to achieve happiness. Pascal believes that "all men seek happiness" and that "there are no exceptions" (148). Why is man continually striving to achieve true happiness? Pascal asserts that it results from the fact that there was once a time when man existed in a true state of happiness. That time, however, has long since passed, and man has fallen from that state of happiness into a state of wretchedness. Pascal states:

What else does this craving, and this helplessness, proclaim but that there was once in man a true happiness, of which all that now remains is the empty print and trace? This he tries in vain to fill with everything around him, seeking in things that are not there the help that he cannot find in those that are, though none can help, since this infinite abyss can be filled only with an infinite and immutable object; in other words by God himself. (148)

An important part of Pascal's idea of man's wretchedness is the doctrine of original sin. Since Adam sinned in the Garden of Eden, every person since that fall from grace can only hope to fill the void that was created. In order to do so, Pascal states that one must turn to God and believe faithfully in Him through Jesus Christ. Pascal believes that the true religion will reveal to man both the greatness and wretchedness of his nature, and it will also provide the proper means by which man can achieve truth and happiness (149). That "true religion" for Pascal is Christianity.
     Not only must one recognize both his wretchedness and his greatness before he can achieve happiness, but it is also necessary that one know Jesus Christ. Pascal states:

Knowing God without knowing our own wretchedness makes for pride. Knowing our own wretchedness without knowing God makes for despair. Knowing Jesus Christ strikes the balance because he shows us both God and our own wretchedness. (192)

Pascal considers Jesus Christ to be the mediator between God and man, and consequently the source of man's happiness. This is another reason why Pascal criticizes the metaphysical proofs of God. He asserts that these metaphysical proofs, even if they were not "so remote from human reasoning," would only serve to enhance one's pride (190). They fail to reveal to man his wretched state and his need to know Jesus Christ. 
     Pascal uses the metaphor of an individual member of a whole body to describe the relationship between God and man. He states that in order for the individual members (man) to be happy, they must first have a will and make it conform to the body (God) (370). Pascal believes, "to be a member is to have no life, no being and no movement except through the spirit of the body and for the body" (372). Pascal states further of the individual member, "but in loving the body it loves itself, because it has no being except in the body, through the body, and for the body" (372). Pascal emphasizes the dependency that every individual person has upon God. Man will never be able to provide happiness for himself. One must not attempt to make himself his own center and attempt to seek happiness on his own. This is what Adam attempted to do and God consequently punished him for it (149). Pascal teaches us that we must submit to the rule of God and love Him because in doing so, we actually love ourselves.
     Pascal's theology found in his Pensées consists of the idea that man is endowed with both reason and intuition and that both of these qualities are necessary in arriving at truth and happiness. Reason alone will not satisfy man's desire to exist in a state of happiness. He also believes that intuition, without reason, will cause religion to become "absurd and ridiculous" (173). Simply because some truths cannot be proved by reason does not mean that those truths are unattainable. It simply shows that reason is limited in its ability to arrive at the truth. Therefore, the proper means for finding truth and happiness consists in a proper balance of both reason and intuition. Furthermore, Pascal asserts that in order to know God, man must first know Jesus Christ. He is the mediator between man and God, and he is the source of man's happiness. For without knowing Jesus Christ, any attempt to prove or discover God is futile and results only in inflating our pride. The relationship between God and man can be compared to the relationship between the parts of the body and the whole of the body. Without the body, the parts are useless and lifeless. All attempts made by man to acquire truth and happiness without the help of God are useless and in vain. It is only through God, or the body, that one can arrive at truth and happiness. Pascal believes that faith and trust in God is the answer to man's quest for happiness and truth. Without the assistance of God, man will continually remain in his eternal state of wretchedness.

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The Peacock and the Pollock: Images of Christ in O’Connor’s "The Displaced Person"
Blake Couey

     In The Hungering Dark, one of his collections of sermons, Frederick Buechner comments on the nativity of Christ: "Those who believe in God can never in a way be sure of him again. Once they have seen him in a stable, they can never be sure where he will appear or to what lengths he will go or to what ludicrous depths of self-humiliation he will descend in his pursuit of man . . . [It is] just where we least expect him that he comes most fully" (Buechner 13-14). Flannery O’Connor would have liked that interpretation. She called her native land of the South "the Christ-haunted landscape," and that same quality of Christ-hauntedness characterizes her work. Probably none of her stories contain so many or such unexpected images of Christ as "The Displaced Person," the tale of Mrs. McIntyre and her relationships with a motley crew of farmhands. In the story, a peacock—the lone male survivor of a once numerous flock—and Mr. Guizac—a Polish refugee working as a farmhand—become Christ figures to Mrs. McIntyre although she would rather be rid of them both. These characters embody Christ to her through their qualities of beauty and displacement, offering her a redemption that she does not want but desperately needs.
     The peacock is the first figure to whom the reader is introduced in "The Displaced Person." The opening paragraphs contain a description of the animal: "The peacock stopped just behind her, his tail—glittering green-gold and blue in the sunlight—lifted just enough so that it would not touch the ground. It flowed out on either side like a floating train and his head on the long reed-like neck was drawn back as if his attention were fixed in the distance on something no one else could see" (O’Connor 194). O’Connor herself loved peacocks, and that feeling is evident in her description of the bird. From this description, one quickly realizes the beauty of the animal—the dazzling array of colors in its tail and the perfect symmetry of its body. One also notices the bird’s intelligence—its ability to see what others cannot. Despite these characteristics, its owner, Mrs. McIntyre, has little use for and attaches no value to the animal: "’And you can understand this: when the peachicken dies there won’t be any replacements.’ She kept the peacock only out of a superstitious fear of the Judge in his grave. He had liked to see them walking around the place for he said they made him feel rich" (217-218). The Judge, Mrs. McIntyre’s first husband, presumably recognized the beauty of the bird; his ownership of a creature so beautiful understandably made him feel wealthy. His widow, on the other hand, views the animal only as a nuisance—"Another mouth to feed . . . I don’t like to hear them scream in the middle of the night" (198) —and keeps it only out of a sense of obligation to her husband’s memory. Her inability to see the peacock as anything more becomes the first indication in the story that something is amiss with her soul.
     Much like the peacock, the character of Mr. Guizac soon outlives his usefulness to Mrs. McIntyre. Physically, he possesses little beauty: "He was short and a little sway-backed and wore gold-rimmed spectacles" (195). Nothing about his appearance proves striking. The amount and quality of work he produces, however, are remarkable. His efficiency is nothing short of beautiful: "She and Mrs. Shortley had driven to the back field to inspect what he had harrowed the day before. ‘That’s been done beautifully!’ Mrs. McIntyre said, looking out over the red undulating ground" (207, italics added). The farm begins to thrive as a result of Mr. Guizac’s diligence. Despite the quality of his labor, though, Mrs. McIntyre becomes uncomfortable with his foreignness. She allows her other farmhands to convince her that he is taking advantage of her, until she finally resolves to fire him: "’Mr. Guizac is not satisfactory . . . He’s extra,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t fit in. I have to have somebody who fits in’" (225). Her shortsightedness prevents her from accepting the good that Mr. Guizac offers, as is also the case with the peacock. Again, this inability points to a spiritual deficiency— specifically, to a lack of compassion. Mrs. McIntyre insists, "I don’t have any obligation to him. My obligation is to the people who’ve done something for their country, not to the ones who’ve just come over to take advantage of what they can get" (229). Her world is too small; she cannot open herself to any creature, human or fowl, that does not fit in her ready-made hierarchy. The peacock will not stay quiet at night, and Mr. Guizac does not speak her language; consequently, they are not her responsibility, and she has no place for them or the redemption that they offer.
     Unlike Mrs. McIntyre, Father Flynn, the old priest, recognizes the beauty in both the peacock and Mr. Guizac. Upon his first visit to the farm, the bird fascinates him, and on subsequent visits he remains enraptured by it: "The cock stopped suddenly and curving his neck backwards, he raised his tail and spread it with a shimmering timorous noise. Tiers of small pregnant suns floated in a green-gold haze over his head. The priest stood transfixed, his jaw slack . . . ‘Christ will come like that!’ he said in a loud gay voice and wiped his hand over his mouth and stood there, gaping" (226). Later in the same passage, he compares the peacock’s fully displayed tail to the miracle of Christ’s transfiguration. The priest knows no category of beauty in which to place this amazing bird save that of Christ himself. He also connects Mr. Guizac to Christ. Clearly, this connection results from a conversational misunderstanding; because the beauty of the peacock has reminded him of Christ, he mistakes Mrs. McIntyre’s references to Mr. Guizac as a reference to Christ. Nevertheless, the connection proves valid:

"He didn’t have to come in the first place," she repeated, emphasizing each word. The old man smiled absently. "He came to redeem us," he said and blandly reached for her hand and shook it and said he must go. (226)

In her selfishness, Mrs. McIntyre can only see the peacock and Mr. Guizac, and for that matter Christ, in terms of the nuisance they have become; Father Flynn, whose world has been enlarged by his faith, can see them in terms of the good that they offer.
     Mrs. McIntyre, of course, has no more use for Christ than for the peacock or Mr. Guizac, and for the same reason—he could not possibly fit into her closed understanding of the world. The priest’s recognitions, consequently, are completely lost upon her, fully revealing her spiritual incompetence. "As far as I’m concerned," she later tells Father Flynn, "Christ was just another D.P." (229). This metaphor of displacement applies equally to Christ, the peacock, and Mr. Guizac. As the farmhand Shortley explains the term, "It means they ain’t where they were born at and there’s nowhere for them to go—like if you was to run out of here and wouldn’t nobody have you" (199). The peacock is a relic of a bygone age, while the Pole is a survivor of a foreign tragedy, and in that displacement they are both Christ-like figures. Except for the priest, nobody will have them—certainly not Mrs. McIntyre. In a place marked by ugliness and sterility, a creature of beauty like a peacock and a person of efficiency like Mr. Guizac must necessarily be out-of-place, but that very out-of-placeness enables them to become redemptive figures. They do not fit into Mrs. McIntyre'’ neatly arranged world precisely because they offer her that which she does not have, and their offer makes her uncomfortable because it reveals her spiritual poverty. So it was with Christ, who with his heavenly origin could never "fit in" on a sin-scarred Earth. In the words of Papa Joe, "He came to lead us out of a bondage we could not see into a freedom we did not want." The world knows only one response to Christ figures, whether the setting is first-century Palestine or twentieth-century Georgia—they must be eliminated. Mrs. McIntyre resolves to do just that.
     She never has an opportunity to dismiss Mr. Guizac, however; he dies in an equipment accident first. Like the crucifixion, this death becomes somehow redemptive for Mrs. McIntyre who witnesses the accident. O’Connor describes her emotional reaction to the event: "She was too shocked by her experience to be quite herself. Her mind was not taking hold of all that was happening. She felt she was in some foreign country where the people bent over the body were natives, and she watched like a stranger while the dead man was carried away in the ambulance" (235). Overwhelmed by the horror of her experience, which she cannot possibly fit into her prefabricated scheme yet cannot dismiss like the peacock or Mr. Guizac, she herself becomes a displaced person, a foreigner or a stranger. She finally allows her closed world, which is several sizes too small, to be shattered. Sadly, the shock proves detrimental to her health. She becomes an invalid and is forced to sell her farm. O’Connor concludes, "Not many people remembered to come out of the country to see her except the old priest. He came regularly once a week with a bag of breadcrumbs, and, after he had fed these to the peacock, he would come in and sit by the side of her bed and explain the doctrines of the Church" (235). Perhaps, though, her decline is not tragic. Unable any longer to continue the futile pursuit of wealth that has consumed her life, including her three marriages, perhaps she is for the first time free to become truly herself. How appropriate, then, that her only companions are the old priest, who proclaims to her the doctrines of Christ, and the peacock, one of the figures through whom Christ himself has redeemed her in spite of herself.

Works Cited

• Buechner. Frederick. The Hungering Dark. New York: Seabury Press, 1969.
• O’Connor, Flannery. "The Displaced Person." The Complete Stories. New York: Noonday Press, 1971. pp. 194-235

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Reason and Morality:  How Civil Society Frees Men from the Chains of Natural Inclination
by Kelly Cannon

     Throughout history, men and women have made the conscious decision to tie themselves together in the bonds of government, leaving behind the freedom of the state of nature for the comforts of a civil society. Rousseau commented on this phenomenon stating, "Man was born free, and he is everywhere in chains" (49). Why do men prefer these "chains" of government to their natural state (Rousseau 49)? In The Social Contract, Rousseau outlines his hypothesis:

I assume that men reach a point where the obstacles to their preservation in a state of nature prove greater than the strength that each man has to preserve himself in that state...Since men cannot create new forces, but merely combine and control those which already exist, the only way in which they can preserve themselves is by uniting their separate powers in a combination strong enough to overcome any resistance... (59-60)

To justify a specific social contract, the Constitution, Alexander Hamilton argues in a like manner when he explains that "a Firm Union will be of the utmost moment to the peace and liberty of the States as a barrier against domestic faction and insurrections" (37). While freedom from oppression seems a valid incentive to take part in a civil society, a social contract also allows individuals to free themselves from their own selfish desires and inclinations in that it allows for the unfettered use of reason and adherence to the principles of morality.
     Living in the state of nature, one must yield to those who are stronger, but "the strongest man is never strong enough to master all the time," making even the rank of "the strongest" a precarious status to hold (Rousseau 52). Without a civil state, man is virtually enslaved to those who are physically and mentally superior. While a man in the natural state has complete freedom to act in any manner he wishes, he does not have freedom from the seemingly unjust acts of others who are simply acting out their own desires.
     Humans living in the state of nature are not only enslaved by outside forces, but also by their own appetites and cravings. "Man's first law is to watch over his own preservation" (Rousseau 50). While "no one, not even the meanest villain . . . when presented with examples of honesty and purpose, of steadfastness . . . and of sympathy and general benevolence . . . does not wish that he might also possess these qualities," people are trapped by their propensity for behavior which is self-serving in nature (Kant 55). These malevolent ambitions are not desirable, and the villain may wish "to be free from such inclinations which are a burden to him," but still they remain an inescapable guiding force in the lives of all men (Kant 55).
     Why do men turn from reason and morality in the state of nature? Reason holds no place in this state. "There is . . . one end that can be presupposed as actual for all rational beings . . . and this is happiness" (Kant 26). The use of reason is so far removed from happiness that it might even be said to impair the potential for happiness. As Kant illustrates, instinct is the more natural tool to secure happiness than reason:

Now if that [organized] being's preservation, welfare, or in a word its happiness, were the real end of nature in the case of a being having reason and will, then nature would have hit upon a very poor arrangement in having the reason of the creature carry out this purpose. For all the actions which such a creature has to perform with this purpose in view, and the whole rule of his conduct would have been prescribed much more exactly by instinct . . . (8)

In the state of nature, when an individual's sole purpose is self-gratification, instinct proves the obvious choice over reason as a mechanism for achieving the goal.
     Furthermore, the use of reason to create a system of moral values proves worthless in the state of nature where others may or may not adhere to a similar system of beliefs. While Rousseau believes there to be "a universal justice which springs from reason alone," he also perceives "the laws of natural justice, lacking any natural sanction" to "benefit the wicked and injure the just, since the just respect them while others do not do so in return" (80-81).
     Fortunately, reason does have a place in civil society. Rousseau eloquently expresses his belief that joining a civil society promotes reason:

The passing from the state of nature to the civil society produces a remarkable change in man; it puts justice as a rule of conduct in the place of instinct, and gives his actions the moral quality they previously lacked. It is only then, when the voice of duty has taken the place of physical impulse, and right that of desire, that man, who has hitherto thought only of himself, finds himself compelled to act on other principles, and to consult his reason rather than study his inclinations. (64)

Once an individual is released from the invisible chains found in the state of nature, he is free to pursue the greater happiness found with reason. "The moral law is valid for us not because it interests us... but, rather, the moral law interests us because it is valid for us as men," and with the guarantee of preservation inherent in civil society, one may fulfill one's interest in moral law without fear of those who are so entrapped by their desires that they may not join in the intellectual feast that is reason and morality (Kant 60).
    The value of reason should not be interpreted as unerring, nor should a civil society, even a society that approaches perfection, be perceived as the ultimate end of dissension, because "as long as the reason of man continues fallible, and he is at liberty to exercise it, different opinions will be formed" (Madison 43). "Wise and good men" will be seen "on the wrong as well as on the right side of questions," and we may not always be sure "that those who advocate the truth are influenced by purer principles than their antagonists" (Hamilton 2). It is rare that decisions for the community are made fully removed from the personal sphere (Hamilton 2), and if the personal desire of an individual is also the best choice for the community as a whole, it is a rare occurrence which will most likely not occur again (Rousseau 69). "It is a just observation, that the people commonly intend the public good. This often applies to their very errors," comments Hamilton, who believed it to be a "wonder" that men make rightful decisions as often as they do (363).
     On the other hand, when a person makes a decision which will affect the social body as a whole, that person realizes that not only will he or she personally be affected by the decision, but also friends and family members, a reality which often sobers many radical ideas (Madison 291). Other times, two polar radical views counteract one another, as Rousseau observes: "From the deliberations of a people properly informed . . . the great number of small differences will always produce a general will and the decision will always be good" (73).
     "If men were angels, no government would be necessary" (Madison 262). Unfortunately, men are not angels, but the creation of a social contract allows an individual to grow, through reason and morality, more like an angel than if left in the state of nature. It is this freedom that makes the social contract, once realized, truly inseparable from human nature.

Works Cited

• Kant, Immanuel. Grounding for the Metaphysics of Morals: On a Supposed Right to Lie because of Philanthropic Concerns. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1999.
  Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. The Social Contract. New York: Penguin, 1968.

• Wills, Garry, ed. The Federalist Papers by Alexander Hamilton, James Madison and Jon Jay. New York: Bantam, 1982.

• Hamilton, Alexander. "The Federalist No. 1." Wills 2-5.

• ---. "The Federalist No. 9." Wills 37-42.

• ---. "The Federalist No. 71." Wills 362-366.

• Madison, James. "The Federalist No. 10." Wills 42-49.

• ---. "The Federalist No. 57." Wills 289-294.

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Incongruous: 
a Paper Filled with Words about Silence as Encountered in Shakespeare's King Lear
Shaun P. Kell

      I get quite a bit of Milton by osmosis in my apartment. Blake and I have been in the habit of bouncing ideas off of one another since we first met, and even this semester, when I am so busy with the after school program and he is so busy with the Honors project, we have not abandoned our tradition. Since a great deal of his ideas have been inside the framework of his Milton studies, I have heard so much of Milton that I am probably the most Milton-literate person who has never read any Milton. One quotation I really have liked has been the one in the Areopagitica when he says that Spenser is a better teacher than Scotus or Aquinas. It strikes me as true, though perhaps I am in no position to know, having read any of those authors no more than I have read Milton. It strikes me as true because I believe, as I am told Milton did, that we learn more from watching exemplars as they get life right or wrong than we do from someone telling us, beginning from First Principles, how life ought to be constructed. That is not to say that philosophy is not important, but Hegel and Gustavo Gutiérrez both say in differing ways that it ought to happen at sunset, after living in the world all day.
     So I say that King Lear is a better teacher than Descartes and Bacon and Hobbes and Machiavelli. A philosopher is apt, and very likely forced, to say that which is consistent with his or her argument. An example of this tendency is the God of Descartes; he does not believe in God, but he needs God so that he can justify the physical world. Shakespeare, on the contrary, tells us something about the poetic way of speaking in Edgar's excruciating final lines: "The weight of these sad times we must obey, / Speak what we feel and not what we ought to say" (5.3.325-326). Why, then, is King Lear a more useful work than Leviathan? Shakespeare knows that to speak what we feel is far more important. This paper is not a whiny cry that we should all escape the realism of Akademia and run to the barley fields to gaze into the eyes of our respective lovers. It is more a plea that we learn from Shakespeare that silence is often the only appropriate response in the face of the stunning horrors and joys of our lives.
     What is it that Edgar says? He does not actually say much. There is not much that he can say that is sufficient to do justice to the tragedy that we have just witnessed. The "good guys" in this play all seem to be in touch with the power of silence. Edgar, during his masquerade as Poor Tom—which is, in itself, a form of silence—meets his blinded father, and must become his guide. Gloucester, like Oedipus, in his blindness can see more than he could with his eyes, and he admits as much. One of his hard-bought insights concerns the black meaninglessness that he sees in his own life: "As flies to wanton boys, are we to th' gods, / They kill us for their sport" (4.1.36-37). Gloucester has lost all hope. Edgar says, "How should this be? / Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, / ang'ring itself and others. / Bless thee, master" (3.1.37-39). Of course, all that is said in a tone that Gloucester can hear is the final blessing; the rest is an aside. Edgar hides behind his feigned madness so that he can avoid having nothing to say at all. In silence, Edgar regards his wretched father, in this scene and as Gloucester jumps off of the false cliff at Dover. The old man is aware of no person other than himself at this point, and Edgar knows that no words are enough to pull him out of his despair.
     Cordelia, too, finds silence to be the only way to respond to her father. When Lear and Cordelia have been captured, she tries lame comfort lines at first. "We are not the first / who with best meaning have incurred the worst" (5.3.3-4), says Cordelia, before she asks to see those who are, she thinks, her conquerors. The old King stands this perception on its head, though. They will sit in prison, happily, laughing and hearing "poor rogues / Talk of... who loses and who wins" (5.3.13-15), and other such frivolities. The truth is that the one who wins is the one who can see that winning is somehow less important than togetherness. Cordelia is silent. Perhaps she knows that they will not be together in the way Lear expects. Perhaps she thinks he is mad. Perhaps she knows that there is simply nothing she can say. Her silence is far wiser than her words, and she certainly knows it. She has known it from the beginning, though. Even in the beginning, as she knows that her turn is coming to put her love on her sleeve and her heart in her mouth, she says, "what shall Cordelia speak? Love / And be silent" (1.1.63-64). Such silence is deeper than words. In contrast to the discursive and the inductive methods that philosophy employs, which proceed by stringing together words beside words, Cordelia seems content to sit in silence with her love.
     Kent silences Edgar in the final scene. Edgar, Kent and Albany have watched the King carry Cordelia onto the stage as the afflicted man screams, "Howl, howl, howl, howl! Are you men of stones: / had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so / heaven's vault should crack" (5.3.259-260). The words of the others in the room are barely whispers beneath the storm of Lear's grief. They are furtive and nearly meaningless, except to show the men's awe when confronted by the scene to which they are as much witnesses as the audience. Their feelings are expressed by Kent's response to Lear's proclamation that he is welcome, "Nor no man else" (5.3.292). No human is welcome here, none besides Lear and Cordelia. The scene escalates until Lear dies, and Edgar calls lamely and incongruously, "Look up, my lord" (5.3.314). Kent quietly admonishes him to be stop talking: "Vex not his ghost: O let him pass!" (5.3.315). There is no reason to speak to the King anymore. All that is left is for the survivors to watch him go.
     The lack of silence in some characters often equals a lack of wisdom. In some ways, it is a dependency on words alone that begins Lear's downfall. When Cordelia's reply to his request that she tell of her love in prosaic fashion, like her sisters is "Nothing" (1.1.89), he cannot see that love may be other than prosaic. In this first scene, Lear is so bent on making others silent that he may be heard and obeyed unconditionally that he will not hear the protests of those who seek to defy him in his own best interest. He is never silent until, at last, when the silence of death overtakes him, he is made a true king, and all others are finally silent before him.
     Often, wisdom and compassion and empathy and respect are best conveyed by silence. Those in the play who have no wisdom, no compassion, no empathy, and no respect holler and screech as they tear one another apart. This is not always the case, though. Edmund is sinisterly quiet for much of the play. The Fool, perhaps the wisest character in the play, is never without words to say, and pithy words, at that. That fact, perhaps the most beautiful part of King Lear, is that there are no clear-cut distinctions and there are no easy categorizations. It is also in that beautiful ambiguity that the play most resembles life. Part of what we can learn from Shakespeare is that often the best of our well-crafted words will never do justice to life, since words, too, are ambiguous, and are often too facile. Lear teaches us by resembling life, not though careful lines of argument, since Shakespeare uses his words to create images that evoke emotionally and spiritually overwhelmed silence from us, rather than to create arguments. The only overwhelmed silences in the philosophy that we read are the silences of Simplicio as he realizes that he has lost the argument.
     Shakespeare knows that the reality that he is trying to get at is elusive at best, and incomprehensible more often than not. That is why he intrigues us so. He cannot explain it, and he does not even try. What he does do is miraculously reconstruct it in ways that we know are mere representations, but we can hardly believe it is so because it seems so real; and in those representations we somehow learn more fully what it means to be human. It is perhaps for that reason that I am a theologian and not a philosopher, though sometimes the distinction is blurred beyond recognition. I know that there is more to life and the reality that lies beyond and above and beneath life than easy categories or facile syllogisms might indicate. There is something about human existence that is mysterious and divine. When and if we ever encounter that mystery, be it directly, or in masterful representations, we are forced to silence, or we risk mindless babbling. When and if we ever encounter divinity, directly, or in the face of others, we must fall silent, or find ourselves, like Edgar, spouting maddened "bless you’s".

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Bacon’s Secret Knowledge
Emory Whitaker

     Francis Bacon was frustrated with the status of learning in the 17th century world. It was his belief that the mechanical arts had greatly advanced while philosophy had been stagnant since the time of Aristotle. Advancements in navigation had enabled men to discover new worlds, resulting in the shattering of previously held beliefs. The development of printing enabled ideas to be dispersed quickly throughout civilization. The world seemed on the brink of a new age, but Bacon felt that the prevailing old philosophy of the peripatetics was not only inadequate to take men forward into this new age, but was vain, empty, and useless.
     To develop a new philosophy Bacon felt that it was necessary to categorize knowledge and to analyze how well each branch of knowledge had been developed. This was the theme of his Proficience and Advancement of Learning Divine and Human.. In this work Bacon recognized that there are certain types of knowledge that have a secret nature. Some of it is secret in the sense that it is forbidden to man (God's secret will). Other types (knowledge of nature) are hidden, but discoverable. There is even the type of knowledge that is coded (parables) so that only the wise may discover it. After identifying the different types of secret knowledge that Bacon presents, we will explore the question of why this theme is so pervasive in his writing.
     It is very evident from Bacon's writings that he is a Biblical scholar and well-versed in Christian doctrine. The theme of God's secret will appears frequently in his work. He emphasizes that man can never know God's will by rational means, but more than this, it is a secret knowledge of a very special type. It is off-limits to man's inquiry, and there is punishment involved with any attempt to trespass there. Adam and Eve were driven out of the garden because they sought to discover the forbidden knowledge of good and evil. While Bacon rejected the philosophies of Plato and Aristotle, he believed that there were great truths to be found in the ancient Greek myths. In his Wisdom of the Ancients, Bacon gave his interpretations of the coded messages contained in these myths. Prometheus was severely punished for his attempted rape of Minerva, an act which Bacon interprets as an attempt to acquire divine wisdom through sense and reason. From such attempts, says Bacon, always follow "laceration of the mind and vexation without end or rest." (Wisdom 753)
     Let us attempt to follow Bacon's breakdown of the different types of knowledge and see where secret knowledge is involved in each case.

The knowledge of man is as the waters, some descending from above, and some springing from beneath; the one informed by the light of nature, and the other inspired by divine revelation. The light of nature consisteth in the notions of the mind and the reports of the senses; for as for knowledge which man receiveth by teaching, it is cumulative and not original; as in a water that besides his own spring-head is fed by other springs and streams. So then according to these two differing illuminations or originals, knowledge is first of all divided into Divinity and Philosophy. (Advancement 346)

     In exploring the branch of knowledge classified as Divinity, Bacon explains how man's reason is involved. "So that we are to obey [God's] law though we find a reluctance in our will, so we are to believe his word though we find a reluctance in our reason" (Advancement 477-8). He goes on to express the sentiment that it is more worthy to believe than to know because the latter is involved with the senses, but the former with the spirit. Divinity is based on the word of God, not upon the "light of nature." This rule not only applies to the "great mysteries" of God such as creation and redemption, but also to moral law.
     But reason is not entirely absent in Bacon's idea of Divinity. He says that even though the "light of nature" cannot aspire to the greater perfection of moral law, it does apply in two cases.

The one, that which springeth from reason, sense, induction, argument, according to the law of heaven and earth; the other that which is imprinted upon the spirit of man by an inward instinct, according to the law of conscience, which is a sparkle of the purity of his first estate. (Advancement 479)

     Even so, the use of reason here is only sufficient to "check the vice", not to "inform the duty." The latter is obtained only by revelation from God. Reason plays a far greater role in Divinity in another sense. Once we have our basic principles given to us by God's revelation we use our reason to develop secondary principles. Bacon uses the analogy of a chess game: The rules are given to us by God; we use our reason to decide how we will move.
     Although reason does have a place in Divinity, Bacon emphasizes over and over again the secret and unknowable nature of God.

In Divinity many things must be left abrupt and concluded with this: "O the depth of the wisdom of God! How incomprehensible are his judgments, and his ways past finding out!" (Advancement 484)

     Bacon is specific in pointing out four facets of God's knowledge that "no man attains to know." They are the mysteries of the kingdom of glory, the perfection of the laws of nature, the secrets of the heart of man, and the future succession of all ages. Some special attention needs to be given to the second of these. Since we will see later that it is Bacon's goal for man to have a thorough understanding of nature, what is he saying is the unknowable here? For a better understanding we should look at Bacon's interpretation of the fable of Cupid (the Atom).

For the summary law of nature, that impulse of desire impressed by God upon the primary particles of matter which makes them come together, and which by repetition and multiplication produces all the variety of nature, is a thing which mortal thought may glance at, but can hardly take in. (Wisdom 730)

     Man can discover an unlimited number of things about nature and make great use of this knowledge, but some things about nature, such as how it was created, will always be secret knowledge. This, however is secret knowledge of a different type. It is not forbidden, it is simply beyond man's finite grasp. Bacon warns against two improper ways of involving nature in one's search for knowledge. One is to try to find the truth of all natural philosophy in the Bible, and the other is to try to discover God's will in the study of nature.
     Returning to our list of four unknowables, we find a different and interesting aspect of secret knowledge when we examine Bacon's explanation of the last two items. He tells us that when Christ responds to questions asked of him in the Bible, his answers seem strange because he is responding to men's thoughts instead of their words. (Man cannot keep knowledge secret from God.) Also, what we read in the scriptures does not relate to just one particular time, but to "the succession of all ages." He is essentially telling us that if we are to interpret scripture correctly, we must know the code. A certain wisdom is required to obtain the secret knowledge that is contained there. "I do much condemn that interpretation of the Scripture which is only after the manner as men use to interpret a profane book" (Advancement 487). This phenomenon of presenting knowledge in a way that allows only certain people to obtain it was clearly important to Bacon and will be further examined.
     Bacon's presentation of the type of knowledge that he calls "Divinity" seems to indicate that he was profoundly influenced by the concept of God's secret knowledge. This overpowering feeling of the unknowable surely affected his development of a new philosophy. We will look for clues as to how this takes place as we continue.
     Bacon's second part of knowledge, Philosophy, is further divided into Divine philosophy, Natural philosophy, and Human philosophy.
     He defines Divine Philosophy to be the knowledge of God that can be obtained by the study of nature. This is not the secret knowledge that was referred to earlier, but since this knowledge is knowable and pertains to God, it is necessarily limited. The type of knowledge about God that is obtainable from a study of nature relates to his power, providence, and goodness, not his will. Bacon warns again against trying to verify points of faith through the "light of nature" by recalling the fable of Jupiter and the golden chain:

That men and gods were not able to draw Jupiter down to the earth; but contrariwise, Jupiter was able to draw them up to heaven. So as we ought not to attempt to draw down or submit the mysteries of God to our reason; but contrariwise to raise and advance our reason to the divine truth. (Advancement 350)

      Natural Philosophy (the study of nature) was the area of knowledge for which Bacon had the greatest hopes for advancement. He quotes Democritus as saying, "That the truth of nature lieth hid in certain deep mines and caves", but he feels strongly that this is hidden knowledge that can and should be revealed. Bacon also uses a quote from Salomon, "The glory of God is to conceal a thing, but the glory of the king is to find it out," to point out that God seems to delight in hiding his works, and there is no greater honor for a man than to discover them. This is emphasized in his interpretation of the fable of the Sphinx (Science) when he says: "For the command of things natural, -- over bodies, medicines, mechanical powers, and infinite other of the kind -- is the one proper and ultimate end of true natural philosophy" (Wisdom 757).
     Are there any limits on this type of knowledge? As we saw earlier, man is not capable of knowing "the summary law of nature", but Bacon indicates that knowledge of nature is open-ended: "there is no danger at all in the proportion or quantity of knowledge" (Advancement 265). Bacon does say, however, that there should be limits on the quality of knowledge, stating that charity is the "corrective spice" that prevents knowledge from having "some nature of venom or malignity" (Advancement 266).
     Bacon never gives an example of knowledge that should be off-limits because of its poor quality. He gives his approval to knowledge of witchcraft, evil spirits, poisons, and various instruments of death and destruction. It seems clear that when he says that we should avoid knowledge that has venom or malignity, he is referring to our use of the knowledge, not its nature.

. . . I would address one general admonition to all-that they consider what are the true ends of knowledge, and that they seek it not either for pleasure of the mind, or for contention, or for superiority to others, or for profit, or fame, or power, or any of these inferior things, but for the benefit and use of life . . . (Organon 15)

     In the further development of Natural Philosophy Bacon comes to some conclusions that seem to be based, at least in part, on secret knowledge. After criticizing Aristotle for mixing theology and philosophy (the result being an "heretical religion and a fabulous philosophy"), he analyzes Aristotle's four causes. Bacon says that the material and efficient causes should be classified as physics and that the final and formal causes should be classified as metaphysics. He indicates that the study of final causes has wrongly diminished the importance of material and efficient causes. Bacon feels that these last two causes need to be fully developed if man is to have a good understanding of how nature works. The material and efficient causes are knowable, while the final cause could sometimes be identified with God's secret will. If progress is to be made in the study of nature, we need to be "digging in the mine", not "pulling on the golden chain." Bacon's concept of Human Philosophy has many divisions, but I will only deal with those parts which give some insight into the issue of secret knowledge. One of these is the study of the nature of the mind or soul. Bacon says that man can do more than he has in this study, but that it must ultimately be bound by religion since the soul is not made up of the type of matter found in the rest of nature, but was "immediately inspired from God." This is another example of knowledge forever hidden from man's reason.
      Human Philosophy also deals with the issue of man's prejudices and superstitions (Bacon's "enchanted glass"). Bacon says that these "idols of the mind" fall into two categories; those imposed from without and those that are innate. It is interesting to note that, in this context, the hidden nature of the knowledge being sought is just as much a function of the seeker as it is of the knowledge itself. Unless some remedy is found for the "idols" the knowledge being sought will remain hidden and secret.
     Superstition, philosophical doctrines, and improper demonstrations are some of the examples that Bacon gives of idols imposed from without. He indicates that these idols can be evicted from the mind, but doing so is very difficult. The innate idols (Idols of the Tribe) cannot be eliminated, but Bacon says that his method of complete induction in the study of nature is the way to unlock the secret knowledge that these idols would otherwise keep hidden.

I found the most interesting part of Human Philosophy dealing with secret knowledge to be the issue of men withholding knowledge from other men. Under what conditions is this proper? Does Bacon see an analogy here with knowledge kept secret by God? What are we to think of the method of conveying knowledge that Bacon refers to as "Enigmatical and Disclosed?"

The pretence whereof is to remove the vulgar capacities from being admitted to the secrets of knowledges, and to reserve them to selected auditors, or wits of such sharpness as can pierce the veil. (Advancement 405)

     There seems to be a sort of elitism at work here. Are there some people who are not deserving of knowledge? Is there a danger in sharing knowledge with all? Does Bacon see the secret knowledge of the wise to be in the same relationship to the minds of the "vulgar" as the secret knowledge of God is to the mind of Bacon? There is other evidence of this elitism. "A wise man if he contend with a fool, whether he be angry or whether he laugh, shall find no rest" (Advancement 448). Bacon follows this saying by advising wise men to avoid confrontations with men "lighter" than they. The consequences of such confrontations are seen more fully when Bacon describes the nature of the "Idols of the Marketplace" which are "the intercourse and association of men with each other." He says that this association occurs by discourse, and that the words involved in such discourse are "imposed according to the apprehension of the vulgar." These words "plainly force and overrule the understanding, and throw all into confusion..." (Organon 49). Bacon seems to be implying that one obstacle that can keep knowledge hidden or secret is associating with people of inferior intelligence. To clear this obstacle one must stay within the confines of a select group. What is required to be a member of this group? Intelligence, certainly, but wouldn’t Bacon also require that members of this group agree with him about the proper use of knowledge?
     In the fable of the Sphinx (Science), Bacon describes how she propounds "certain dark and perplexed riddles." This is good example of the Enigmatic and Disclosed method of conveying knowledge that is mentioned above. He makes the idea even clearer when in the same fable he refers to Science as being "the wonder of the ignorant and unskillful" (Wisdom 756).
     Bacon’s New Atlantis is his description of a Utopian society. In this work, we see the scientific community of Bensalem (the House of Salomon) not only withholding its exquisitely advanced knowledge from other nations, but from the ordinary citizens of Bensalem as well. We are told that the members of Salomon's House take an oath of secrecy not to reveal those discoveries that they have agreed should not be published. Some of these secret discoveries are even withheld from the king. What is the reason for this? Would these discoveries be dangerous in the wrong hands? Would they be unappreciated? Could it simply be arrogance that causes this secrecy? Bacon doesn't say, but what we saw earlier seems to point to a we and they mentality that expresses itself in an exclusiveness that is more than merely intellectual.
     We have examined Bacon's use of secret knowledge from several different vantage points. Can we now answer the original question of why this theme was so pervasive in his work? I have no concrete answers, but I will offer some conjectures.
     Bacon was an extremely intelligent man who was able to grasp concepts more quickly than his associates. As a young man he may have had the vision that one day all knowledge could be his. I think that Bacon had great difficulty in accepting the Christian doctrine that there were things about God's will unknowable through man's reason. That he repeats this concept so often in his work almost makes it seem that he is trying to convince himself. God's secret knowledge seems to be an obsession with Bacon that manifests itself in other areas of his philosophy as well.
     The same intelligence that gave Bacon difficulty with the unknowable made him realize that not all men had the same mental capacities as he. One can imagine that he was speaking from experience when he warned the "wise man" not to confront the "fool." Bacon did not believe that his new philosophy was for everyone. There is a theme of exclusivity in his writings that is especially clear in two places. One is the scientific society of Salomon's House in the New Atlantis. The other is found in The Refutation of Philosophies, when the speaker is addressing a group of "some fifty men ... all of mature years ... all bearing the stamp of dignity and probity." There is "secret knowledge" involved here, knowledge that can only be grasped and appreciated by an exclusive group. This group has the power to interpret the riddles of the Sphinx; lesser humans should not cross her path.
     Bacon seems to have had a fascination with puzzles and games of discovery. I imagine that his superior intelligence made him quite adept at these recreations. He compares natural philosophy to a pleasant game in which God hides the secrets of nature and man discovers them. Having invented his own secret code (cipher), he points out that the best of these should remain secret to anyone who doesn't have the key, but still emphasizes the importance of "discipherers" saying that "the greatest matters are many times carried in the weakest ciphers" (Advancement 402). Bacon says that Daedalus' Labyrinth was "in respect to art and contrivance, excellent and admirable," but he praises him even more for inventing the "clue" that enables men to make their way safely through the maze. When he says that "the universe to the eye of the human understanding is framed like a labyrinth" (Organon 12), it seems clear that he considers nature to be the ultimate puzzle for mankind, and his method of complete induction to be the key for uncovering its secrets.
     Finally, there is a fourth factor that probably affected Bacon's view of secret knowledge. This was the experience that he had in court intrigues and politics. Keeping knowledge secret was quite often the pragmatic thing to do. To be successful one needed to develop the skill of knowing when to be secret and when to be open. Bacon seemed to have developed this skill quite well, and he had to consider it an important part of knowledge.
     The four factors listed above are not unrelated. Observing the pragmatic nature of secrecy in politics might well have influenced Bacon to form the idea of a closed society of scientists. It is only the members of this society who have, thanks to Bacon, the "clue to the labyrinth." One wonders how Bacon intended to insure that members of this society possessed the "corrective spice" of charity so that they would properly use their vast wealth of knowledge. His description of Salomon's House helps me understand his concept of this exclusive group. As I read through the long list of what the scientists there had accomplished I am struck by the fact that their power seems god-like.
     Perhaps Bacon does see the scientific community in his new age as a society of demi-gods. As such, this society works toward the benefit of mankind, but, like the Deity, some of its knowledge must remain secret.

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