RonranGlee Literary Scholarship

For my close reading essay, I’ve chosen excerpts from section 15 of Thus Spake Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietzsche. In this section, Nietzsche exposes the instability of moral values across cultures— not simply to argue that nothing has meaning, but to show that meaning is created through human evaluation. Rather than affirming nihilism, Nietzsche is pointing toward the necessity of becoming creators of values ourselves. Each excerpt will begin a new paragraph, followed by my close reading of the excerpt. Excerpt 1: “Much that passed for good with one people was regarded with scorn and contempt by another: thus I found it. Much found I here called bad, which was there decked with purple honours.” Nietzsche uses juxtaposition between different groups to destabilize the idea of universal moral truth. The contrast between “scorn and contempt” and “purple honours” is especially important. “Purple” suggests royalty, prestige, and reverence— meaning what one culture elevates to the highest status, another rejects entirely. By placing these extremes side by side, Nietzsche reveals that “good” and “bad” are not fixed categories, but products of cultural valuation. The phrase “thus I found it” reinforces that this is an observation, not a doctrine— he is showing, not prescribing. This challenges the reader to question whether their own values are inherent, or simply inherited. If values differ so dramatically across cultures, Nietzsche next turns to how those values are actually formed. Excerpt 2: “It is laudable, what they think hard; what is indispensable and hard they call good; and what relieveth in the direst distress, the unique and hardest of all,— they extol as holy.” Here Nietzsche links moral value to difficulty. The repetition of “hard” suggests that societies often equate struggle with virtue. What is “indispensable and hard” becomes “good,” and what is “hardest of all” becomes “holy.” This progression reveals how moral systems are constructed by elevating certain forms of behavior— often those that demand restraint, sacrifice, or endurance. The word “extol” implies active praise, suggesting that these values are not discovered but reinforced through collective approval. Nietzsche is not simply criticizing these values, but exposing how they are formed— through a shared agreement that difficulty itself is meaningful. Having shown how values are constructed, Nietzsche then examines how they are preserved and passed down over time. Excerpt 3: “To honour father and mother, and from the root of the soul to do their will”— this table of surmounting hung another people over them, and became powerful and permanent thereby.” Nietzsche’s phrase “hung… over them” introduces a powerful image of weight and dominance. The command to honor one’s parents appears virtuous on the surface, but Nietzsche suggests it functions as a structure of continuity, where past generations impose their values onto the present. The word “table” refers to a moral code, but something fixed and external— something handed down rather than chosen. By describing this code as something that “became powerful and permanent,” Nietzsche shows how such values sustain themselves across time. His focus is not limited to religion, but to any system that preserves authority by embedding it within moral obligation. If inherited values maintain their power in this way, Nietzsche next raises the question of how they can ever be changed. Excerpt 4: “Change of values— that is, change of the creating ones. Always doth he destroy who hath to be a creator.” This is one of Nietzsche’s most profound assertions: creation requires destruction. The phrase “change of values” is immediately tied to “the creating ones,” suggesting that new values do not emerge passively— they are made by individuals willing to break from what already exists. The word “always” is absolute, reinforcing that destruction is not incidental, but necessary. Nietzsche forces the reader to confront a tension— we often admire creation, but ignore what must be dismantled to make it possible. Here, he reframes the creator not as purely constructive, but as someone willing to challenge and overturn existing systems of meaning. Yet if creation requires breaking from the past, Nietzsche recognizes that most people are not naturally inclined to do so. Excerpt 5: “Older is the pleasure in the herd than the pleasure in the ego: and as long as the good conscience is for the herd, the bad conscience only saith: ego.” Nietzsche contrasts “herd” and “ego” through the language of “pleasure” and “conscience.” The use of “pleasure” is important— it suggests that conformity is not just enforced, but emotionally rewarded. The “good conscience” aligns with the herd, while the “bad conscience” is associated with individuality. This reversal reveals how moral systems condition people to feel guilt for separating from the group. The word “older” implies that herd instinct is deeply rooted, making individuality feel unnatural or even wrong. Nietzsche is exposing how morality operates psychologically, shaping not just behavior, but internal feelings of right and wrong. Given this tendency toward conformity, Nietzsche then changes focus from individuals to humanity as a whole. Excerpt 6: “A thousand goals have there been hitherto, for a thousand peoples have there been. Only the fetter for the thousand necks is still lacking; there is lacking the one goal.” Nietzsche emphasizes a lack of unity of the whole of humanity through repetition: “a thousand goals… a thousand peoples.” This suggests that every group creates its own system of meaning. The image of a “fetter for the thousand necks” introduces the idea of constraint— a unifying force that could bind all people under a single purpose. The absence of “the one goal” is significant. Nietzsche is not simply underlining this lack, but pointing to a deeper condition: humanity has not yet defined a shared direction. Rather than presenting this as failure, he leaves it open— as a problem still to be addressed. This absence leads Nietzsche to conclude the section with a question that turns the entire argument back onto the reader. Excerpt 7: “But pray tell me, my brethren, if the goal of humanity be still lacking, is there not also still lacking— humanity itself?” Nietzsche ends with a question that reframes everything that came before it. The phrase “my brethren” creates a sense of shared inquiry, but I believe the question itself is meant to destabilize the reader. If humanity has no unified goal, then what defines it? The pause before “humanity itself” gives the line weight, forcing the reader to confront the possibility that what we call “humanity” is incomplete. Rather than offering an answer, Nietzsche leaves the question open— suggesting that the task of defining humanity may fall to those willing to create new values.

Selected paragraph (Epictetus, Enchiridion, section 1, public‑domain translation): “Some things are in our control and others not. Things in our control are opinion, pursuit, desire, aversion, and, in a word, whatever are our own actions. Things not in our control are body, property, reputation, command, and, in one word, whatever are not our own actions. The things in our control are by nature free, unrestrained, unhindered; but those not in our control are weak, slavish, restrained, belonging to others. Remember, then, that if you suppose that things which are slavish by nature are also free, and that what belongs to others is your own, you will be hindered. You will lament, you will be disturbed, and you will find fault both with gods and men. But if you suppose that only to be your own which is your own, and what belongs to others such as it really is, then no one will ever compel you or restrain you. You will find fault with no one or accuse no one. You will do nothing against your will. No one will harm you, you will have no enemy, nor will you suffer any harm.” Essay My central thesis is that Epictetus is not merely drawing a boundary between what we can and cannot control; he is arguing that human dignity, moral responsibility, and inner freedom all depend on respecting that boundary. His aim is to relocate our sense of power from external circumstances to the inner life, and in doing so, he offers a practical path for living ethically and steadily in a chaotic world. At first glance, his opening lines sound almost obvious: “Some things are in our control and others not.” Of course this is true; everyone knows we can’t stop time, reverse aging, or legislate other people’s opinions. Yet Epictetus turns this common‑sense observation into something radical by insisting that the only things truly “in our control” are our opinions, pursuits, desires, aversions—in short, “whatever are our own actions.” Everything else—body, property, reputation, authority—belongs to the realm of what is “not in our control.” We may influence these things, but we can never own them in the same way we own our choices. This distinction cuts against our usual way of thinking. Modern culture teaches us to measure success externally: job titles, income, health, looks, social status. Epictetus relegates all of those to the second category—to the things that are “weak” and “belonging to others.” That is not because he despises them, but because he believes anything exposed to chance can never be a reliable foundation for a meaningful life. If my identity rests on a career, an image, or even the functioning of my body, then illness, layoffs, or public opinion can destroy me. By calling these things “slavish,” he means that dependence on them enslaves us to factors we can neither predict nor command. In contrast, he describes the things in our control as “free, unrestrained, unhindered.” Here he is reclaiming the idea of freedom. Instead of seeing freedom as the ability to do whatever we want, he defines it as mastery over our own will. Opinions, desires, and choices are truly ours because, in principle, no one can force us to think or value something without our consent. Of course, habit and pressure can make resistance very difficult, but the underlying claim is that within the realm of judgment and intention, we are sovereign. That is why for Epictetus the central moral project is training this inner power—clarifying our judgments, disciplining our desires, and aligning our actions with reason and virtue. The next part of the paragraph warns us what happens when we ignore this boundary. If we confuse externally conditioned things with those that are “free by nature,” we become chronically frustrated. We “lament” and “find fault with gods and men” because we expect the universe to deliver what it never promised. In modern terms, Epictetus is describing a cycle of entitlement and resentment: we demand that life guarantee us comfort, status, and admiration, and when it doesn’t, we blame everyone and everything. This is, in his view, the posture of an “ill‑educated” person—someone who has not yet learned where real power lies. What is striking is that he does not deny the reality of injustice or suffering. He knows that bodies get sick, that wealth is unevenly distributed, that reputations can be destroyed by lies. His point is not that these things do not matter, but that our deepest harm comes from surrendering our judgment to them. If I believe my worth depends entirely on public approval, then slander doesn’t just hurt my name; it collapses my identity. But if I see my core value as grounded in the quality of my character and choices, then others can injure my circumstances without penetrating that inner core. When Epictetus says that, properly understood, “no one will harm you,” he is using “harm” in a moral and spiritual sense, not a physical one. Harm is not whatever causes pain; harm is whatever corrupts the soul—whatever drags us away from wisdom, justice, courage, and self‑control. You can lose money without being harmed if you respond with integrity; you can gain power and be deeply harmed if you compromise your principles to get it. In this view, our greatest danger is not what happens to us, but how we choose to respond. This idea has profound implications for personal responsibility. If our ultimate good lies in our own actions, then we can never use circumstances as a complete excuse for vice. Conditions can explain, influence, and tempt, but they cannot force us to abandon our values. Epictetus is clear that some roles are heavier than others—poverty, disability, marginalization, or past incarceration, for example, place real burdens on a person’s path. Yet his teaching insists that even in those conditions, there remains a zone of freedom where we can decide whether to become bitter or better, selfish or generous, cowardly or courageous. That is where our dignity lives. At the same time, this doctrine can easily be misunderstood as a call to passivity: if externals are not “ours,” why bother trying to improve them? Epictetus does not say we should ignore bodies, property, or reputation; he says we should treat them as “belonging to others”—meaning they are on loan from the wider order of things. We can and should manage them responsibly, just as a steward manages resources for a household. The key is that our happiness does not depend on our success in managing them. We are called to play our part with diligence, but to hold outcomes with an open hand. In practice, this means that a person guided by Epictetus’s view can be both ambitious and at peace. They can pursue an education, a profession, or community leadership, not as a way to prove their worth, but as a way to exercise their inner capacities for reason and service. When obstacles arise—a failed exam, a denied promotion, discrimination—they may feel disappointment, but they do not interpret these events as proof of their own worthlessness. Instead, they return to the question: “What is still in my control here? How can I respond in a way that strengthens my character and benefits others?” Another important thread in the paragraph is the relationship between this inner freedom and our treatment of others. Epictetus says that when we keep the boundary clear, we will “find fault with no one or accuse no one.” This does not mean we ignore injustice or never name wrongdoing. Rather, he is criticizing the habit of blaming others for everything that goes wrong in our lives. When we recognize that our judgments and choices are ours, we can protest injustice without turning every disappointment into proof that the world is against us. We can confront wrongs while still acknowledging our own agency. This attitude fosters humility and charity. If I see my main work as governing myself, I am less likely to spend my energy micromanaging or condemning others. I become more patient with their flaws, knowing how difficult it is to master my own. At the same time, I am less vulnerable to manipulation, because my sense of value is not in the hands of those who praise or blame me. In this way, Epictetus’s teaching supports both personal resilience and healthier relationships: I can be firm without being harsh, compassionate without losing my own center. We can also see in this paragraph a blueprint for leadership. A leader who understands that only their own actions are truly theirs will focus on setting an example rather than on controlling every outcome. They will emphasize honesty, reliability, and fairness in their own conduct, trusting that these qualities exert an influence beyond formal authority. Such a leader does not promise followers that they can control everything; instead, they invite them into the same disciplined freedom: to do their duty as best they can and to accept results with dignity. This kind of leadership is especially important in communities facing instability, because it anchors people in something sturdier than shifting circumstances. Epictetus’s teaching is demanding. It asks us to relinquish some cherished illusions—the illusion that we can guarantee success if we just try hard enough, the illusion that our happiness depends on being treated fairly, the illusion that avoiding pain is the highest good. In their place, he offers a harder but richer path: to accept that we are not sovereign over the world, but that we are responsible for the quality of our own souls. This is not a one‑time insight; it is a lifelong discipline of re‑aligning our expectations and desires with reality. Applied to a modern student’s life, this paragraph might look like the following: recognizing that we cannot control whether our classmates respect us, but we can control whether we respect them; accepting that admissions committees, hiring managers, or scholarship boards may say “no,” but refusing to let that “no” define our sense of purpose; acknowledging that family obligations, financial constraints, or past mistakes limit some options, yet still committing to cultivate integrity, diligence, and compassion within those limits. The externals vary from person to person; the inner work is universal. Ultimately, Epictetus’s underlying meaning is that the path to a meaningful, honorable life does not run through dominating the world, but through mastering ourselves. Every time we choose to govern our reactions instead of our circumstances, we step into the freedom he describes: a freedom where no one can compel us to compromise our values, where no misfortune can force us to abandon our commitment to what is right. In a world that often rewards appearance over substance and power over character, his message remains both countercultural and deeply needed.

Selected paragraph from Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, Book II, Chapter 1, translated by W. D. Ross: “Virtue, then, being of two kinds, intellectual and moral, intellectual virtue in the main owes both its birth and its growth to teaching (for which reason it requires experience and time), while moral virtue comes about as a result of habit, whence also its name (ēthikē) is one that is formed by a slight variation from the word ethos (habit). From this it is also plain that none of the moral virtues arises in us by nature; for nothing that exists by nature can form a habit contrary to its nature.” Thesis: In this passage, Aristotle argues that moral excellence is not an inborn trait or a sudden achievement, but a disciplined pattern of becoming; by distinguishing teaching from habit, he reveals that the deepest form of education is not only what the mind learns, but what repeated action trains the character to love, choose, and become. Aristotle begins with a division that appears simple: “Virtue, then, being of two kinds, intellectual and moral.” This opening matters because he refuses to treat goodness as one flat category. By separating intellectual virtue from moral virtue, he shows that knowing what is right and becoming the kind of person who does what is right are related, but not identical. Intellectual virtue belongs largely to the life of study. It grows through instruction, observation, reasoning, and time. Moral virtue, however, must be practiced in the self. Aristotle’s underlying meaning is that a person can be educated without yet being formed. A student may understand justice, courage, or patience as ideas, but understanding alone does not guarantee that those virtues will guide her behavior under pressure. His phrase “birth and growth” gives intellectual virtue an almost living quality. Knowledge is not presented as a possession that appears all at once, but as something born, fed, and matured. Aristotle does not dismiss teaching. In fact, he honors it by acknowledging that the mind needs “experience and time.” This phrase slows the reader down. Even intellectual excellence requires patience, repetition, and exposure to life beyond the classroom. A concept may be introduced in a lesson, but it becomes wisdom only when tested against experience. Aristotle suggests that learning is not merely the transfer of information from teacher to student. It is a gradual enlargement of perception. The deeper turn of the passage comes when Aristotle contrasts this with moral virtue, which “comes about as a result of habit.” The word “habit” is the hinge of the paragraph. At a surface level, habit can sound ordinary, like a routine done without thought. Aristotle’s use is more demanding. Habit is not mindless repetition; it is repetition that shapes desire. When a person repeatedly acts with courage, generosity, or honesty, those actions begin to train the soul’s instincts. The goal is not only to force oneself to do the right thing, but to become someone for whom the right thing becomes more natural. Aristotle’s moral world is therefore active. Character is not discovered like a hidden object. It is built through choices made again and again. His attention to language strengthens this point. Aristotle notes that “ēthikē” comes from “ethos,” connecting ethics to habit and custom. This wordplay is not decorative. It reveals that morality is rooted in formation. The word itself carries the history of practice inside it. By drawing attention to the origin of the term, Aristotle makes an argument about human development: our moral identities are shaped by what we repeatedly do, by the customs we inherit, and by the patterns we allow to become normal. Ethics is not abstract philosophy floating above life. It is the daily architecture of a person’s conduct. The final sentence adds an important safeguard: “none of the moral virtues arises in us by nature.” Aristotle is careful here. He does not say humans are incapable of virtue. He says virtue does not arrive already completed. This distinction prevents both arrogance and despair. If virtue were simply natural, then people born with it could feel superior, and people who struggle could assume they are permanently deficient. Aristotle rejects both conclusions. His view is more hopeful and more responsible. Because virtue is not fixed by nature, it can be cultivated. At the same time, because it is not automatic, no one can claim goodness without practicing it. The example he gives, “nothing that exists by nature can form a habit contrary to its nature,” clarifies his logic. A stone falls downward by nature; no amount of throwing it upward will train it to rise on its own. Human beings are different. We are not born with completed moral habits in the way a stone has weight. We are born with the capacity to be shaped. Aristotle’s underlying claim is that human nature is flexible enough for moral growth, but not so complete that growth happens without effort. This is where the passage becomes both philosophical and practical. It says that the self is neither entirely predetermined nor entirely invented. We begin with potential, then become through practice. This idea also changes how we should think about education. If intellectual virtue grows through teaching and moral virtue grows through habit, then education is incomplete when it measures only grades, scores, or technical knowledge. A truly educated person must also learn how to act under pressure, how to serve when no reward is guaranteed, how to lead without pride, and how to correct mistakes without losing purpose. Aristotle would likely argue that a school, family, team, or community forms people not only through what it says, but through what it repeatedly asks them to practice. That meaning feels especially relevant to leadership. Courage is not formed in the speech about courage, but in the moment a person chooses to speak up. Responsibility is not formed by admiring responsible people, but by returning to a duty when it becomes inconvenient. Compassion is not formed by believing kindness matters, but by making time for someone else when it would be easier to look away. Aristotle’s paragraph insists that the moral life is concrete. It is made in repeated decisions that may seem small until they become the pattern of a person. What makes this passage powerful is that Aristotle refuses shortcuts. He does not promise that virtue can be gained through intention alone. Wanting to be good is not the same as being trained toward goodness. At the same time, he also refuses the idea that character is closed. The person who has failed can practice differently. The person who lacks confidence can build courage. The person entering a new environment can become more disciplined, more generous, and more just through repeated action. Ultimately, Aristotle’s underlying meaning is that moral excellence is a practice before it is an identity. We become what we repeatedly choose. Intellectual learning may teach us what virtue is, but habit teaches us whether virtue has become part of us. In that sense, the paragraph is not only about ancient ethics. It is about every student, leader, athlete, volunteer, and citizen trying to become worthy of the work they hope to do. Aristotle reminds us that the future self is shaped quietly, choice by choice, long before anyone sees the result.

Selected paragraph: Bhagavad Gita, Chapter 2, verses 47 - 48, my working translation "Your claim is to action alone, never to its fruits. Do not let the fruit of action be your motive, and do not become attached to inaction. Fixed in discipline, perform your work, abandoning attachment, and remain even-minded in success and failure. Such evenness is called yoga." The Bhagavad Gita teaches that disciplined work gains moral value when a person gives full attention to the task before them without letting reward become the center of the self. This passage does not praise laziness or emotional distance. It asks the reader to work with care and accept uncertainty without letting outcomes flatter or wound the ego. It makes ambition quieter and more durable over time. That standard is harder than winning because it measures what I choose when no result can protect me from doubt itself. That lesson matters because college will keep testing my patience and intent daily. The first phrase, "Your claim is to action alone," begins with a limit. The word "claim" matters because it sounds legal, almost like a boundary drawn around human power. A person can claim effort. A person can claim preparation. A person can claim the choice to show up again after disappointment. The passage does not say that outcomes are meaningless. It says that outcomes are beyond ownership in the same way the weather is beyond ownership. We live with them and learn from them, yet we never fully possess them. That idea became real to me through machine learning before I had language for it. When I trained my first serious model on Kiva microfinance data, I wanted the numbers to prove that my work mattered. I cleaned loan records and watched the metrics change with each experiment. Some days, precision rose after one small fix. Other days, a model looked strong until I checked where it failed. The data kept reminding me that effort and result have a tense relationship. I could control how carefully I built the pipeline. I could not force the model to become useful or trusted simply because I wanted it to. That slow lesson mattered more than a clean leaderboard score because it taught me to respect the gap between intention and effect. The phrase "action alone" also changes the meaning of ambition. Ambition usually points forward, toward a future prize: admission or scholarships. I have chased those goals. I have stayed up with code and scholarship essays because I wanted doors to open. Yet the Gita suggests that ambition becomes dangerous when it makes the present task serve only as a ticket to something else. If I treat research as a way to decorate a resume, I stop seeing the borrowers behind the spreadsheet. If I treat tutoring as a leadership bullet, I stop hearing the student stuck on the error message. The action loses its honesty. The second sentence says, "Do not let the fruit of action be your motive." The word "fruit" is a simple metaphor, but it carries weight. Fruit grows after labor and waiting, under conditions no worker can fully command. A farmer can tend soil and water plants, yet weather and season still matter. By using fruit as the image for reward, the passage shows why outcomes can tempt us. Fruit is sweet. It is visible. It can be counted and displayed. Effort is quieter. Most of the work that changes a person happens before anyone sees it. This line also warns against making reward the inner reason for work. A motive sits deeper than a goal. Goals can guide. Motives shape character. When the fruit becomes the motive, the self starts leaning toward applause and comparison. I have felt that pressure during college applications and scholarship season. Each form asks for a clean version of life: awards and proof. There is value in documenting work, yet the process can make every activity feel like evidence for a judge. The Gita asks a harder question: would I still do the work if no one added it to a profile? My answer has not always been perfect. I remember helping as a teaching assistant for Folsom Lake College's machine learning bootcamp. A student had a Jupyter notebook error: "Found input variables with inconsistent numbers of samples." He looked embarrassed and insisted he had not changed anything. The quick route would have been to fix it for him and move on. Instead, we printed the lengths of X and y, then traced the filter and rebuilt the split. A few minutes later, another student asked what had happened. He turned his laptop and explained it himself. No metric could capture that shift. The fruit was his confidence, and I did not own it. Then the passage adds a second warning: "and do not become attached to inaction." This clause prevents the first half from being misread. If results are uncertain, a person may choose safety. They may say effort is pointless because outcomes cannot be controlled. The Gita rejects that escape. Detachment is not withdrawal. It is the condition that makes brave work possible. When a person no longer needs a guaranteed reward, they can act before certainty arrives. This part speaks to my family's immigration situation. As an H-4 visa holder, I have learned that some doors close for reasons unrelated to merit. Paid work and many scholarships can become complicated before anyone reads my qualifications. It would be easy to let that uncertainty become an excuse for inaction. Instead, I have built projects and searched for scholarships that fit my status. I do not control the policy landscape. I do control whether I keep working with the options available today. The next sentence begins, "Fixed in discipline, perform your work." The word "fixed" suggests steadiness, yet it does not mean being rigid. A disciplined person can change strategy without changing purpose. In machine learning, this distinction matters. When a model fails, discipline is not repeating the same training run out of pride. Discipline is checking the confusion matrix and accepting that the first design may be flawed. The work continues because the purpose remains. Discipline also connects the passage to close reading itself. A surface reading of the Gita might turn it into a slogan about ignoring results. A closer reading notices how many commands refer to action. The passage keeps moving through direct verbs. It gives no shelter to passivity. Its calm tone can hide how demanding it is. To work without clinging to reward means to keep showing up after rejection. It means to revise without self-pity. It means to care about quality even when recognition is delayed. The phrase "abandoning attachment" is the emotional center of the paragraph. Attachment is different from care. Care makes the work better. Attachment makes the ego fragile. When I worked on my microfinance model, care meant asking whether the features were responsible and whether borrower selection could become less biased. Attachment meant wanting the project to confirm that I was impressive. Care pushed me toward better questions. Attachment made every flaw feel personal. The Gita asks the worker to keep care and release possession. This distinction matters for technology because technical work can hide ego behind numbers. A model can have high recall and still harm people if the problem is framed poorly. A dashboard can look clean and still lead users toward bad decisions. If I am attached to the fruit, I may defend the output because it carries my name. If I am attached to the action, I can admit when the work needs repair. That humility is part of the discipline the passage demands. The final command is to "remain even-minded in success and failure." Even-mindedness is easy to admire and hard to practice. Success can distort judgment as much as failure. A publication or acceptance letter can make a person believe the latest outcome reveals their worth. A rejection can make the same person believe the opposite. The Gita places success and failure side by side because both can pull the mind away from honest work. Both create noise. I felt that noise when my research was accepted by Vanderbilt's Young Scientists Journal. I was proud because the project had taken real effort, and the recognition helped me believe I could contribute to applied machine learning. Yet after the first excitement, the same question returned: what does the work do for people? That question led me back to Kiva and to the goal of seeing whether my credit-scoring model could support borrower selection. Publication was fruit. The next action was improving the work so it could be used with care. Failure has taught the same lesson with a harsher voice. Rejected applications and visa limits can make effort feel invisible. During those moments, this passage does not tell me to pretend disappointment feels good. It tells me to keep disappointment from becoming the author of my next decision. Even-mindedness is not the absence of feeling. It is the refusal to let feeling take over the steering wheel. The last line, "Such evenness is called yoga," gives the passage its deeper meaning. In common use, yoga often refers to posture or exercise. Here, yoga means discipline joined with a trained steadiness of the self. The passage defines spiritual maturity through the way a person works. It does not separate thought from action. It does not let the reader hide noble values in private belief. Evenness must appear in the lab, the inbox, and the small choices no one praises. For me, this reading has changed how I think about impact. I want to become a machine learning engineer because I care about systems that help people at scale. That goal can sound large, yet the Gita pulls it back to daily practice. Clean the data carefully. Ask who may be harmed. Teach the student to debug instead of taking the keyboard. Write the follow-up email even when the answer may be no. Keep doing the next right task without turning every outcome into a verdict. That is why the line feels useful for artificial intelligence. Many people judge technology by the shine of the finished tool. The Gita asks me to look earlier, at the worker's state of mind during design. Was I patient enough to test edge cases? Was I honest enough to question a feature that helped accuracy while risking unfairness? Was I willing to slow down when a rushed answer would look impressive? These questions turn ethics from a final checklist into a habit inside the work itself. They make close reading practical because the same attention used on a sentence can be used on a system. The passage's underlying meaning is that work becomes cleanest when the worker stops trying to own the future. This is a demanding idea for a student standing at the edge of college, especially one trying to pay for Berkeley and build a career in artificial intelligence. So much feels tied to results. Scholarships matter. Grades matter. Opportunities matter. The Gita does not erase that reality. It asks me to live inside it without letting it consume my character. Close reading reveals the passage's balance. It limits human control, then commands action. It warns against reward, then warns against escape. It asks for discipline, then defines that discipline as evenness. The movement of the paragraph mirrors the life it recommends: step forward, release the claim to what follows, then steady the mind again. I do not read this as comfort. I read it as responsibility. If my claim is to action alone, then I cannot wait for perfect certainty or guaranteed recognition before I begin. I have to work where I stand for the people my work may serve. That is the kind of close reading I want to carry into college: reading texts closely enough that they change how I build, and building carefully enough that my actions become worthy of what I have read.

In this brief but striking statement, Plato reveals a profound truth about human endeavor: the foundation of any intellectual or moral undertaking determines the trajectory and ultimate integrity of the work itself. At first glance, the sentence might seem self-evident—beginnings matter—but its simplicity belies a deeper meditation on the ethical and philosophical responsibility that accompanies all acts of creation, whether in thought, art, or life. For Plato, the “beginning” is not merely a chronological starting point; it is the moral and conceptual seed from which the entirety of a project grows. A misaligned or poorly considered beginning jeopardizes not only the final product but the character of the creator, echoing the broader Platonic ideal that personal virtue and societal harmony are intertwined. When I read this passage, I imagine a sculptor shaping a statue from a rough block of marble. If the initial chisel strikes are hesitant, misguided, or careless, the sculpture may never achieve its intended form. The initial steps—whether in literature, philosophy, or self-cultivation—encode within them the values, discipline, and vision that the work will manifest. Plato emphasizes that beginnings are inherently formative, shaping the thinker as much as the work itself. In this sense, the text can be read as a call to intentionality: to approach each undertaking with clarity, mindfulness, and respect for the potential consequences that echo forward in time. Beyond individual effort, this statement has societal implications. Plato’s philosophical project in Republic concerns justice and the ideal organization of society. By foregrounding the importance of beginnings, he reminds us that the ethical education of citizens, the structures of governance, and even the narratives we embrace collectively are all rooted in their foundations. Societies that neglect this truth risk building upon unstable, unexamined principles, producing systemic injustices that ripple across generations. Thus, the “beginning” becomes a metaphor not only for personal growth but for civic responsibility: the initial ideas, habits, and values we cultivate as individuals contribute to the moral architecture of the communities in which we live. In the context of literary study, Plato’s assertion resonates with the act of close reading itself. Engaging deeply with a text requires attention to its initial words, structure, and underlying assumptions; these elements establish the lens through which meaning unfolds. A paragraph, a sentence, or even a single word can pivot the interpretive arc of an entire work. By observing and interrogating beginnings with precision, the reader gains insight not only into the text but into the mind of its creator, uncovering the latent ethical, philosophical, or aesthetic intentions encoded within the lines. Close reading, therefore, is a practice of attentiveness to origins—a discipline of recognizing the seeds that shape intellectual and emotional landscapes. On a personal level, I find that this passage encourages me to reflect on how I approach my own endeavors. Whether I am tackling an essay, a research project, or a personal challenge, I now consider my “beginning” with greater care: the questions I ask, the assumptions I examine, the principles I choose to guide my thinking. Plato’s wisdom illuminates the connection between intention and outcome, reminding me that thoughtful, deliberate beginnings cultivate not only excellence in work but integrity in character. Ultimately, Plato’s assertion transcends time, discipline, and medium. It invites readers to recognize the ethical and intellectual significance of how we start, whether in literature, philosophy, or life itself. By attending to the beginnings, we shape trajectories, influence outcomes, and cultivate virtue—not as an afterthought, but as the very first act of creation. In every endeavor, the beginning is both a promise and a responsibility, a reflection of the values we hold and the legacy we intend to leave behind.

Thesis: In this brief but powerful line, Marcus Aurelius argues that true strength arises not from controlling the external world, but from mastering one’s inner responses. His underlying message is that peace and resilience are achieved by disciplining the mind to separate what we can influence from what we cannot, thereby freeing us from fear, frustration, and emotional turmoil. Essay: The Roman emperor and Stoic philosopher Marcus Aurelius condenses an entire worldview into the single sentence, “You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” At first glance, the line reads like a simple reminder to stay calm during stressful situations. However, a deeper close reading reveals that Marcus is presenting a radical philosophical shift: a redefinition of strength, control, and human freedom. He is not telling readers to ignore the external world, nor is he promoting passivity. Instead, he is teaching that the core of human suffering begins when we try to control what is fundamentally uncontrollable, and the core of human power begins when we recognize that our thoughts, interpretations, and reactions belong entirely to us. The first clause — “You have power over your mind” — is deceptively straightforward. Marcus is not claiming that the mind is easy to command. Rather, he is reminding the reader that the mind is the only domain in which control is possible at all. The word “power” signals agency, the ability to shape one’s internal world through discipline and awareness. For the Stoics, self-mastery is not a passive state but an active practice: choosing what meaning to assign to events, choosing how to interpret adversity, and choosing whether to be ruled by fear, anger, desire, or confusion. Marcus emphasizes that thoughts are not accidents; they are choices. He implies that we can cultivate mental habits just as we cultivate physical strength, through deliberate and repeated engagement. The next part of the sentence — “not outside events” — establishes a stark contrast. Marcus is drawing a boundary line that many people never realize exists. External events include everything beyond individual control: other people’s choices, unexpected hardships, loss, illness, disappointment, and change. By naming what we cannot control, Marcus exposes the root of much human frustration. We often exhaust ourselves emotionally by trying to manage circumstances we could never have prevented or predicted. This phrase reframes external reality not as the enemy, but as neutral ground—the stage on which we choose how to respond. Marcus’s underlying meaning is that strength is wasted, not gained, when directed toward trying to control what lies outside the self. The final line — “Realize this, and you will find strength” — serves as both a conclusion and a challenge. The keyword “realize” suggests that the truth Marcus is presenting is not immediately obvious. Many people go through life believing they can only be at peace if the world around them cooperates. Marcus argues that this belief is backwards. Strength is not something given by good circumstances; it is something discovered internally. To “find” strength is to reach it through recognition, not force. Marcus implies that strength is already within the individual, hidden by misunderstanding. The moment one understands the difference between the controllable mind and uncontrollable events, inner stability becomes possible. This distinction reveals Marcus’s deeper philosophical project: he is redefining strength as emotional and mental resilience rather than dominance or outward control. As emperor, Marcus Aurelius faced war, illness, betrayal, and constant political pressure. Yet his writings suggest that he believed the real battlefield was internal. A person who tries to command the external world will always be defeated, because the external world is unpredictable. But a person who commands their own mind cannot be defeated by anything outside themselves. Seen through this lens, the passage becomes a tool for navigating hardship. Marcus is not promising that life will be easy, nor is he saying that suffering disappears when one changes their mindset. Instead, he is offering a method for preserving dignity and purpose even in the midst of challenges. Recognizing what we can control prevents unnecessary emotional suffering. Recognizing what we cannot control prevents wasted effort and despair. This is the strength Marcus describes—calm, disciplined, and deeply grounded. The underlying meaning also involves personal responsibility. If the mind is the one thing we control, then we are responsible for how we handle our own thoughts. Marcus is subtly urging the reader to stop blaming the world for their unhappiness and instead examine their own internal landscape. Blame keeps us powerless; awareness empowers us. The shift from “the world is upsetting me” to “my interpretation is upsetting me” is transformative. It moves the source of strength from the outside world to the self. Marcus’s message also echoes a larger Stoic belief: the mind shapes reality. Two people can face the same event—loss, failure, rejection—and one may crumble while the other grows. The difference lies not in the event itself but in the meaning each person gives it. Marcus wants the reader to understand that perspective is the foundation of resilience. The world does not get easier, but the mind can get stronger. In the end, Marcus Aurelius is offering more than advice; he is offering a blueprint for inner freedom. When he says that strength is found by recognizing the limits of control, he is teaching the reader how to live without fear of the unpredictable. The world may be chaotic, but the mind can be steady. The world may bring hardship, but the mind can choose purpose. The world may take much away, but the mind can remain sovereign. Thus, the underlying meaning of this short passage is profound: true strength is an internal achievement, built through clarity, discipline, and acceptance. Marcus Aurelius invites us to stop searching for stability in the shifting world around us and instead cultivate it within ourselves. When we understand this difference, we not only find strength—we finally understand where our power truly lies.

Selected Passage: “It is not that we have a short space of time, but that we waste much of it. Life is long enough, and it has been given in sufficiently generous measure to allow the accomplishment of the very greatest things if the whole of it is well invested. But when it is squandered in luxury and carelessness, when it is devoted to no good end, forced at last by the ultimate necessity we perceive that it has passed away before we were aware that it was passing. So it is—the life we receive is not short, but we make it so, nor do we have any lack of it, but are wasteful of it. Just as great and princely wealth is scattered in a moment when it comes into the hands of a bad owner, while wealth however limited, if it is entrusted to a good guardian, increases by use, so our life is amply long for him who orders it properly.” — Seneca, On the Shortness of Life (Seneca, On the Shortness of Life, trans. John W. Basore) In this passage, Seneca argues that human life feels short not because time is insufficient, but because we fail to live it with intention; through close reading, I show that Seneca reframes time as an ethical responsibility rather than a natural scarcity, a view that illuminates both the philosophical depth of his Stoicism and the dangers of emotional or existential “waste”—a form of internal mismanagement I once experienced during a period of adolescent withdrawal. Seneca begins with a reversal so direct that it almost functions as a reprimand: “It is not that we have a short space of time, but that we waste much of it.” The clarity of the statement is striking. Instead of comforting his reader about the brevity of life, Seneca accuses them of squandering it. This rhetorical inversion establishes the philosophical thrust of the passage: time is not a natural limitation but a moral resource. Seneca reframes time not as something that happens to us but as something for which we are responsible. His language avoids abstraction; he does not speak of fate, cosmic order, or existential mystery, but of “waste,” “squandering,” “investing,” and “good guardianship.” These are terms drawn from economics, not metaphysics. Time, for Seneca, is a form of ethical capital. The economic metaphor continues when Seneca writes that life is “given in sufficiently generous measure” to accomplish “the very greatest things.” There is no hint of resignation in this claim. Instead, Seneca embeds a Stoic optimism: the universe has provided enough time for virtue, wisdom, and excellence. The problem is not shortage but mismanagement. This is reinforced by the contrast he develops between investment and dissipation. If time is “well invested,” it expands; if “squandered,” it contracts. Seneca suggests that temporality is psychologically elastic—its felt length grows or shrinks depending on the discipline of the person experiencing it. The most haunting sentence in the passage is perhaps the one that follows: “We perceive that it has passed away before we were aware that it was passing.” Here Seneca captures a universal human experience: the shock of belated recognition. This line is not merely descriptive; it is diagnostic. Seneca identifies a type of unconscious living in which a person is present in body but absent in attention. To be unaware that time is passing is, for Seneca, a form of self-neglect. It was this line—the startled realization that time has slipped away “before we were aware of it”—that resonated most forcefully with me. When I was around eight years old, I first experienced a strange, premature sense of nostalgia. Returning from a summer vacation, I suddenly understood that the days, the weeks, the months I had loved were irretrievably gone. This awareness deepened each year, slowly and quietly, until early adolescence, when it crystallized into what I now call my “ice-hearted period”—a time when emotion felt dangerous, when my awareness of mortality grew too large for my ability to process it, and when I tried, without meaning to, to numb my own interiority. Seneca’s words feel uncannily precise: I was not lacking time, but drifting outside of it, unable to feel its movement except as loss. Although my experience was emotional rather than moral, Seneca’s concept of “waste” becomes metaphorically apt: I was not “using” my own capacity for feeling; I was storing it away as though it were safer untouched. Reading Seneca now, I see how a human life can become shorter not through chronology but through disconnection. Following this emotional reflection, Seneca’s argument shifts back to the broader ethical terrain. “So it is—the life we receive is not short, but we make it so.” The moral weight falls on the verb make. Life is shaped not simply by events but by orientation, habit, and discipline. The phrase “we make it so” avoids fatalism; Seneca insists that agency, not circumstance, determines the lived experience of time. His continuing metaphor—comparing time to “great and princely wealth” in the hands of a “bad owner”—is especially revealing. Time, like wealth, has no intrinsic meaning; its value is determined by the character of the one who possesses it. A “bad owner” squanders both without understanding their worth; a “good guardian,” by contrast, increases life's value by intentional use. The final line—“our life is amply long for him who orders it properly”—anchors the entire passage in Stoic ethics. The verb order is central: life must be arranged, structured, and disciplined. In Stoicism, virtue is not spontaneous; it is cultivated through practice. Seneca’s metaphor suggests that disorder, distraction, and unreflective habit—not misfortune—are the true thieves of time. This is not a denial of suffering but a claim about the structure of inner life: meaning emerges not from the length of time given but from the quality of attention applied. Seneca’s underlying message, then, is that time is not a chronological fact but a moral project. It requires stewardship rather than surrender. We shorten our lives not by dying but by failing to live deliberately. And the only antidote is awareness: the conscious ordering of life according to one’s values. Returning to my own adolescence, I now see how my “ice-hearted period” reflected a form of internal mismanagement—not moral failure, but emotional paralysis. Seneca’s words illuminate the psychological texture of this state: a person may remain alive in time while drifting outside of its meaning. To “order” life, in Seneca’s sense, means not controlling events but directing attention, reclaiming presence, and refusing to become an absent witness to one’s own existence. In the years since, my passion for film and acting pulled me out of numbness and back into feeling. I began writing, directing, acting in, and editing my own short films—seven in total— embodying emotion, studying human behavior, and constructing meaning frame by frame. One of them won Best Short Comedy at a festival in Bucharest when I was seventeen, a moment that felt like the first tangible proof that creating was not just something I loved, but something that gave shape and purpose to my time. This sense of direction deepened when Milton Justice, an Oscar-winning producer and one of the most respected acting teachers in the world, told me he believed I was the most talented actor of my generation, comparing my expressiveness to Mark Ruffalo and Meryl Streep. That affirmation was not only encouragement; it was a philosophical shift. It made me understand, with new clarity, that my time has value precisely when I use it to pursue the work that awakens me. In Seneca’s terms, it was the moment I ceased to be a “bad owner” of my hours and began investing them with intention. Through my work, I learned that life expands when attention expands, and that purpose is the antidote to both emotional freezing and the quiet disappearance of time. Seneca’s passage, read closely, continues to guide me: time is not short, but sacred—and its true length is measured not in years, but in how deeply we choose to live them.

The last words my father spoke to me were a question: “Am I going to be okay?” His voice was faint, his hand trembling in mine. I wanted to say yes, but I couldn’t. His bone cancer had been misdiagnosed as arthritis, and by the time we learned the truth, it was too late. That moment shattered my world, but it also gave me a mission. I realized that while I could not control the tragedy that unfolded, I could control how I responded to it. This insight echoes Marcus Aurelius’ timeless words: “You have power over your mind, not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” This sentence is more than philosophy; it is a survival ethic. Through close reading, I discovered that Aurelius offers a roadmap for resilience, one that has guided me through grief, motherhood, and returning to school at thirty-eight. In this essay, I will explore the meaning of each phrase and show how this ancient wisdom has shaped my life and my purpose. “You Have Power”: Agency Amid Chaos The sentence begins with a direct assertion: “You have power.” At first glance, it sounds like a motivational slogan, but its meaning runs deeper. Aurelius reminds us that real power is not dominance over others or control of circumstances; it is mastery over ourselves. This truth became clear when life felt overwhelming: raising two children alone, one with autism, while grieving my father and struggling financially. I could not change those external realities, but I could choose my response: study after bedtime stories, ask for help when needed, and keep moving forward. That choice is where strength begins. Power, in the Stoic sense, means ownership of what is truly ours: our judgments, our decisions, and our attention. It also means recognizing limits. If we pretend we control everything, we set ourselves up for despair. Understanding this distinction has been my anchor in nursing school, where uncertainty and pressure are constant companions. “Over Your Mind”: Governing the Inner World Aurelius specifies the domain: “over your mind.” In Stoic thought, the mind is not just thoughts it includes judgments, attention, and desires. Impressions like fear or doubt arrive uninvited, but we decide whether to accept them. When I returned to school, the thought that I’m too old for this felt true. But close reading taught me to challenge that judgment: Beginning now is courage, not failure. That reframing turned anxiety into determination. Governing the mind is not about silencing emotion; it is about guiding it toward purpose. This principle has practical power. When an exam score disappoints, the ungoverned mind spins a catastrophic story: I’ll never succeed. The governed mind reframes: This is data. Adjust strategy. Seek tutoring. Try again. That shift from drama to data is the difference between spiraling and improving. “Not Outside Events”: Accepting Limits The next phrase, “not outside events,” sets a boundary. Illness, loss, and systemic obstacles are beyond our control. My father’s misdiagnosis was an outside event I could not undo. But I could transform grief into advocacy, pursuing nursing to prevent similar tragedies. This principle shapes my studies and my parenting: I cannot control every policy or outcome, but I can prepare documentation, learn, and persist. Boundaries do not erase sorrow; they organize it so energy flows where it matters. In healthcare, this boundary keeps attention on what a nurse can do: assess thoroughly, communicate clearly, educate patiently, and advocate when systems falter. Accepting limits is not resignation; it is liberation. It frees us from wasting energy on what cannot change and focuses us on what can. “Realize This, and You Will Find Strength”: Practice Makes Power Finally, Aurelius promises: “Realize this, and you will find strength.” Strength is not instant; it grows through practice. For me, realization meant habits: framing each day by what I can control, taking one small step when overwhelmed, and asking for help without shame. These habits turned chaos into rhythm. Strength is not the absence of hardship; it is the presence of steadiness amid hardship. It is the ability to keep moving forward when the path is steep and the outcome uncertain. In my life, realization was gradual: showing up for class after a sleepless night, scheduling therapy for my son, studying with rent on my mind, and sitting with memories of my father without dissolving into them. Each act rehearsed the truth of Aurelius’ sentence. Ethical Heart and Modern Relevance For the Stoics, virtue, wisdom, justice, courage, and temperance is the only true good. The mind’s power supports virtue; otherwise, it becomes cleverness serving the ego. This ethic translates directly into clinical care: - Wisdom in judgment: distinguish data from story. - Justice in equity: treat each patient as worthy of full attention. - Courage in advocacy: speak up when something feels “off.” - Temperance in self-regulation: keep tone and timing proportionate. Practically, this looks like asking, What would I want to know if I were this patient? then explaining with clarity and kindness, documenting details others might miss; persisting through bureaucratic friction without letting it erode respect. The virtue frame keeps the mind’s power aimed at service, not self-importance. Habits That Build Strength Realization becomes durable through habits. These practices support Aurelius’ insight: - Morning framing: Name what is within my control today; name what is not. - One small step: When overwhelmed, define the smallest next action and do it. - Name the story: Say the thought aloud, I’m failing; I’m too old, and test it against evidence. - Ask for help: Strength includes wise interdependence with peers, mentors, counselors, and tutors. - Evening review: Reflect on what went well and what to improve without self-condemnation. Across months, modest practices compound. Habits become character; character feels like strength, not because life has softened, but because response has steadied. A Vow Shaped by a Memory I carry a vivid memory: my father lying in a hospital bed, his once‑strong hand trembling in mine. In a soft voice, he asked, “Am I going to be okay?” I could not promise outcomes. I can promise a life that honors him. For me, Aurelius’ sentence has become a vow: - To govern my mind so I can be present to others. - To accept limits so I can act effectively where I have influence. - To translate grief into advocacy, study into competence, and fear into courage. - To be the kind of nurse my father needed, attentive, thorough, and unafraid to speak for the vulnerable. This vow steadies me when the day is long and the path is steep. It does not silence sorrow; it gives sorrow a direction. Conclusion Read casually, Aurelius comforts. Read closely, he commands: claim your domain, examine your judgments, practice acceptance, and tether your life to virtue. In my journey returning to school as a single mother after loss, this has been the difference between paralysis and progress, between despair and direction. By mastering the mind’s work and letting go of fortune’s illusions, we do not become invulnerable. We become capable: capable of learning deeply, caring fiercely, and persisting faithfully in building a better world one decision, one patient, one day at a time.

“You have power over your mind — not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” — Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book II In this brief yet profound passage, Marcus Aurelius argues that human freedom does not arise from control over circumstances, but from mastery of perception. The underlying meaning of this statement is not passive acceptance, but a radical redefinition of strength: true power lies in the disciplined governance of one’s inner life when the external world is hostile, unpredictable, or unjust. At first glance, Aurelius’ claim may appear simple, even comforting. However, a close reading reveals that he is not offering reassurance — he is issuing a demand. The phrase “You have power over your mind” is written as a declaration, not a suggestion. Aurelius does not say we might gain power, or that power will come with time. He asserts that this power already exists. The challenge, therefore, is not acquiring strength, but recognizing and exercising it. The second half of the sentence — “not outside events” — sharpens the contrast. Aurelius deliberately separates the internal from the external, creating a boundary that many people instinctively resist. Human beings are inclined to believe that happiness, safety, and dignity depend on events beyond their control: political stability, social acceptance, economic security, or the approval of others. Aurelius dismantles this assumption. By denying power over outside events, he is not diminishing human agency; he is redirecting it inward, where it is most effective and least vulnerable. The word “realize” is crucial. Aurelius does not say believe this truth — belief can be passive. To realize something is to internalize it through reflection and practice. This implies that strength is not emotional numbness or denial of pain, but a conscious mental discipline. Stoic strength does not eliminate suffering; it prevents suffering from ruling the self. In this way, Aurelius reframes adversity as a testing ground rather than an obstacle. The final phrase — “and you will find strength” — completes the transformation. Strength is presented not as dominance, force, or control over others, but as stability within oneself. This strength is discovered, not granted. It emerges only after the individual accepts the limits of external power and commits to inner responsibility. Aurelius suggests that resilience is not reactive; it is cultivated. What makes this passage enduring is its ethical demand. Aurelius does not excuse injustice or deny hardship. Instead, he insists that dignity survives even when conditions are cruel. The underlying message is that suffering does not automatically confer meaning — meaning is created through the refusal to surrender one’s inner autonomy. This idea challenges modern assumptions that trauma defines identity. Aurelius argues the opposite: identity is defined by response. Importantly, this passage is not a rejection of emotion. Stoicism is often misinterpreted as emotional suppression, but Aurelius’ emphasis on the mind refers to judgment, not feeling. Pain may occur, fear may arise, grief may persist — yet the individual still retains the ability to choose how those experiences are interpreted and integrated. The mind, in this sense, becomes a moral space where values are preserved even when circumstances deteriorate. Aurelius’ position is radical because it places responsibility squarely on the individual without cruelty. He does not promise rescue. He promises agency. The strength he describes is not dramatic or visible; it is quiet, steady, and internal. This aligns with the lived reality of people who endure prolonged instability, displacement, or exclusion. When external safety is absent, internal discipline becomes survival. Ultimately, the underlying meaning of this passage is that freedom is not granted by the world — it is practiced within the self. Aurelius offers no illusions of control over fate, politics, or fortune. Instead, he offers something more durable: the capacity to remain intact. In a world where circumstances often fail individuals, this philosophy insists that the self does not have to fail with them. This passage endures because it names a truth that is both sobering and empowering: when everything else is uncertain, the mind remains the last territory of sovereignty. To realize this is not to escape hardship, but to endure it without surrendering one’s humanity.

The Hidden Value in Aridity The Little Prince’s assertion, “What makes the desert beautiful is that it hides a well somewhere,” encapsulates a deeply human existential vision: beauty and meaning do not lie in the obvious but in what must be sought. This brief passage challenges a superficial perspective of the world, urging readers to uncover what is essential in the seemingly barren or empty. The desert symbolizes life in its rawest form, stripped of adornments and often perceived as inhospitable or purposeless. However, the Little Prince invites us to consider that even in this seemingly sterile setting, there is richness: a well, a source of life and renewal, is hidden beneath the surface. The underlying idea is that the effort to seek the invisible not only gives meaning to our existence but also transforms what once seemed empty into something full of possibilities. This thought is rooted in existentialist philosophy, which asserts that humans must actively construct meaning in a world that does not immediately offer it. The well represents hope and purpose, hidden but attainable through perseverance and faith. The act of searching itself gives value to our experiences, as it is not the discovery of the well that makes the desert beautiful, but the possibility of its existence. Saint-Exupéry is not merely describing the desert; he is speaking of the human soul. Our lives, like the arid landscape, gain depth and beauty when we accept that true richness is not found on the surface. In this context, the well becomes a metaphor for the hidden treasures within us, meaningful relationships, and truths revealed through time and introspection. Ultimately, the desert teaches us not to fear solitude or challenges but to embrace them as fertile ground for finding what gives our existence meaning. The Hidden Value in Aridity (Part II) The Little Prince’s assertion, “What makes the desert beautiful is that it hides a well somewhere,” also invites us to reflect on how we interpret beauty and purpose in our lives. In a society that often values the immediate, the visible, and the superficial, Saint-Exupéry reminds us that the most valuable things are rarely obvious. The desert, seemingly inhospitable and devoid of resources, becomes a symbol of those phases in our lives that feel empty or difficult to navigate. But, as the phrase suggests, these same phases can harbor unexpected possibilities. This perspective redefines our relationship with suffering, emptiness, and uncertainty: they are not merely obstacles to overcome but part of the path toward discovery and transformation. The well in the desert can be interpreted in multiple ways, each with philosophical resonance. From a spiritual standpoint, the well is a metaphor for the soul or the divine—a hidden source of strength within us, even when we are not fully aware of it. In mystical traditions, both Christian and Sufi, the search for water in the desert is a recurring image to describe the human longing for transcendence and a connection to something greater than ourselves. In this sense, Saint-Exupéry’s message resonates with the idea that, although life may be arid, there is always a source of life waiting to be discovered if we have the will to search for it. On a more practical level, the well symbolizes human resilience. Life is full of challenges that, like the desert, may seem endless and insurmountable. However, the author suggests that the key to finding meaning is not to lament the aridity but to search with hope for what can revitalize us. This perspective is profoundly optimistic: even in adversity, there is something hidden that can give us purpose. This optimism is not naive but active; it requires effort, patience, and faith that the search itself is valuable, even if it is not immediately rewarded. Moreover, this metaphor reminds us of the importance of perspective. The desert may seem empty if we only look at its surface, but for those who know where to search, it hides unparalleled richness. This also applies to our human relationships and the world around us: people and places that seem simple or uninteresting at first glance may harbor extraordinary depths. The act of searching—of digging beyond the surface—not only reveals the well but also transforms us, teaching us to see with new eyes. Finally, the passage can also be read as a commentary on the nature of hope. In a literal desert, the hope of finding water is what keeps a traveler moving forward, giving them the energy to persevere. In life, this same hope—the belief that something valuable lies beyond our difficulties—is what allows us to overcome moments of despair. But, as the Little Prince suggests, it is not just about finding the well; the mere belief in its existence transforms our experience of the desert. This invites us to reconsider how we define success and failure in our personal quest: perhaps the true achievement is not in the discovery itself but in the willingness to search. Thus, Saint-Exupéry’s phrase encapsulates a universal truth: the beauty of life is not in its ease but in its mystery. Like the desert, life is complex, arid, and often challenging, but its true wealth lies in the determination to seek the essential—the hidden—that, if found, can change everything.

Deciphering the Meaning Behind "Veni, Vidi, Vici" Julius Caesar’s phrase “Veni, Vidi, Vici” (I came, I saw, I conquered) is one of history’s most famous declarations of victory. At first glance, it appears to be a simple, direct statement of military triumph. However, beneath its brevity lies a complex interplay of rhetoric, psychological dominance, and political assertion. This essay will argue that Caesar’s phrase was not merely a factual account of his swift victory at the Battle of Zela but a deliberate assertion of his political supremacy, a demonstration of military efficiency, and a carefully crafted piece of propaganda aimed at consolidating his power in Rome. The underlying meaning of "Veni, Vidi, Vici" is rooted in its ability to project an image of invincibility, reinforce Caesar’s personal authority, and redefine the Roman understanding of leadership and conquest. To fully appreciate the weight of “Veni, Vidi, Vici,” one must examine its rhetorical structure. The phrase consists of three short, alliterative words, each a verb in the first-person singular perfect tense. This construction conveys not only the completion of an action but an air of personal immediacy. The use of three parallel verbs, all equally weighted, removes any sense of struggle or uncertainty. There is no mention of obstacles, no reference to strategy or hardship—only a swift and decisive triumph. This rhetorical choice serves to frame Caesar as an unstoppable force, a man for whom victory is as natural as existence itself. By eliminating details, he enhances the perception of his own efficiency and near-mythical prowess. Caesar’s audience, the Roman Senate and people, were accustomed to detailed war reports filled with accounts of prolonged sieges, strategic maneuvers, and challenges overcome. By contrast, “Veni, Vidi, Vici” offered no such details, breaking from tradition and setting a new precedent. This rhetorical sharpness was deliberate, as it minimized the role of chance or hardship in war, presenting Caesar’s leadership as the defining factor of victory. The implication was clear: where others struggle, Caesar simply wins. Beyond its rhetorical brilliance, “Veni, Vidi, Vici” functioned as a bold political statement. When Caesar sent this message to the Senate, Rome was in a state of turmoil. The recent civil war between Caesar and Pompey had left the Republic fragile, and many in the Senate remained wary of Caesar’s growing power. By presenting his victory in Pontus as effortless, Caesar reinforced the idea that his leadership was both inevitable and unmatched. The phrase also subtly undermined the Senate itself. In Roman tradition, generals returning from campaigns would seek approval from the Senate before celebrating a triumph, and victories were often presented as collective achievements of Rome rather than personal feats. By bypassing these formalities and framing his success in purely personal terms, Caesar sent a clear message: he did not answer to the Senate; the Senate answered to him. “Veni, Vidi, Vici” was not just a recounting of battle—it was a declaration of supremacy. While the phrase itself does not provide tactical details, it subtly communicates a key principle of Caesar’s military genius: speed. The Battle of Zela, fought in 47 BCE against Pharnaces II of Pontus, was won in a matter of days. Caesar’s ability to mobilize quickly, strike decisively, and conclude campaigns with remarkable efficiency set him apart from other Roman commanders. “Veni, Vidi, Vici” encapsulated this strategic advantage in just three words, reinforcing his reputation as a general who did not merely wage war but ended it swiftly. The psychological impact of such a phrase on both allies and enemies cannot be overstated. To Caesar’s supporters, it reaffirmed their faith in his invincibility. To his enemies, it was a warning—resistance was futile. The brevity of the statement itself contributed to its intimidation factor. Unlike a lengthy report that might invite scrutiny or debate, “Veni, Vidi, Vici” left no room for doubt or discussion. It was an assertion, not an argument. Caesar’s use of “Veni, Vidi, Vici” also signified a shift in the Roman concept of leadership. Traditionally, Roman commanders emphasized the collective effort of the Republic, attributing success to the virtues of Roman citizens and the will of the gods. By contrast, Caesar positioned himself as the central figure of victory, with no mention of Rome, the Senate, or his soldiers. This shift reflected the changing nature of power in Rome, as the Republic transitioned toward autocracy. The phrase foreshadowed the imperial model that would define Rome for centuries. Later emperors, including Augustus, would follow Caesar’s lead in crafting concise, authoritative statements that projected personal control over the state. In this way, “Veni, Vidi, Vici” was not just a record of one battle—it was a preview of the political future of Rome. The power of “Veni, Vidi, Vici” lies in its adaptability and timelessness. It has transcended its original context to become a universal expression of swift and decisive success. Its influence can be seen in political rhetoric, business strategy, and even popular culture. Leaders throughout history have echoed its sentiment, using similar structures to project authority and confidence. The phrase’s endurance speaks to its effectiveness as both propaganda and personal branding. Caesar understood that in politics and war, perception often matters as much as reality. By distilling his conquest into three simple words, he ensured that his victory and his legacy would be remembered not just in Rome, but throughout history. “Veni, Vidi, Vici” is far more than a boastful remark about a military victory. It is a masterful exercise in rhetoric, a political power move, and a statement of military philosophy. Through its brevity, it eliminates any suggestion of struggle, instead presenting triumph as an inevitable outcome of Caesar’s leadership. By framing his success as purely personal, it challenges traditional Roman notions of collective governance, paving the way for the autocratic rule that would define the Empire. And by conveying an air of invincibility, it reinforces Caesar’s place not just as a conqueror of lands, but as a shaper of history. In just three words, Julius Caesar encapsulated the essence of absolute power leaving a message that still resonates over two millennia later. Works Cited • Suetonius, Gaius. The Twelve Caesars. Translated by Robert Graves, Penguin Classics, 2003. • Plutarch. Parallel Lives: The Life of Julius Caesar. Translated by Bernadotte Perrin, Harvard University Press, 1919. • Goldsworthy, Adrian. Caesar: Life of a Colossus. Yale University Press, 2006. • Shotter, David. Julius Caesar and Rome. Routledge, 2005. • Everitt, Anthony. The Rise of Rome: The Making of the World's Greatest Empire. Random House, 2012.

Thematic Analysis Jeylon J. White College of Southern Maryland ART-1010-92905-Hist of Western Art I (A) Professor Narehood 10/4/2024 Abstract This essay explores the evolving representation of the human body in art and its reflection of cultural values across different times in history. Focusing on Andy Warhol’s “Monroe Diptych” as a modern depiction of celebrity commodification, the analysis contrasts this work with Polykleitos' “Doryphoros” from Classical Greece, the “Venus of Willendorf” from the Paleolithic era, and the “Seated Scribe” from ancient Egypt. Each artwork reveals distinct societal values: Greek ideals of physical perfection and harmony, prehistoric reverence for fertility, Egyptian emphasis on intellect and status, and modern society's detachment and objectification of the human image. Through these comparisons, the essay highlights how the human body serves as a canvas for expressing cultural ideologies, from reverence for beauty and wisdom to the commodification of fame. Art has long used the human body as a central subject to explore cultural values, social structures, and philosophical ideals. From prehistoric fertility figures to the glamourized depictions of modern celebrities, the body often serves as a review of a society’s priorities. Andy Warhol “Monroe Diptych”, a silkscreen portrait of the iconic actress Marilyn Monroe, offers a distinct contrast to classical representations by transforming the human figure into a commodified symbol of fame and media culture. This essay will examine the ways in which the human body is represented in art, using Warhol’s work as a modern comparison to the ancient “Venus of Willendorf”, Polykleitos’ “Doryphoros”, and the Egyptian “Seated Scribe”. These works reveal how the body can embody ideals of fertility, physical perfection, wisdom, and, in the case of Warhol, the detachment from individuality in the age of mass media. Polykleitos’ “Doryphoros”, also known as "Spear-Bearer," exemplifies the Classical Greek pursuit of ideal human proportions. The figure stands in a contrapposto pose, where the body weight is shifted onto one leg, creating a sense of dynamic balance and movement. The sculpture’s muscular form, meticulously sculpted, represents the Greek ideal of male athleticism and physical strength (McDermott, 1996). In ancient Greece, physical perfection was seen as a reflection of moral and intellectual virtue. The Greeks valued symmetry, proportion, and balance, not just in the body but in society and philosophy. The “Doryphoros” served as a physical manifestation of the mathematical ratios that Polykleitos outlined in his Canon, linking the human body to a broader concept of universal harmony (McDermott, 1996). The emphasis on idealized human form reflected cultural values of excellence and the pursuit of human perfection. The “Venus of Willendorf”, a small figurine dating back over 25,000 years, presents a markedly different depiction of the human body. Its exaggerated physical features emphasize fertility and reproduction. The lack of facial features suggests that the figure’s identity was less important than its symbolic function (Klein, R. G., & Edgar, B. (2002)). Scholars suggest that the “Venus of Willendorf” likely served as a fertility icon, reflecting the survival priorities of early human societies. In a prehistoric context, a healthy, fertile body represented continuity and prosperity, essential for communities reliant on reproduction for survival. The focus on bodily exaggeration suggests a reverence for fertility, contrasting sharply with later ideals of proportion and balance seen in works like the “Doryphoros” (McDermott, 1996). The “Seated Scribe”, a painted limestone sculpture from ancient Egypt, depicts a figure seated with a papyrus scroll, capturing a more realistic and less idealized portrayal of the human body. Unlike the godlike or royal figures in Egyptian art, the scribe is depicted with naturalistic features suggesting a figure of wisdom and status rather than physical perfection (Klein, R. G., & Edgar, B., 2002). In Egyptian culture, scribes held an important role as literate members of society who could record and manage information. The “Seated Scribe” body reflects the Egyptian emphasis on intellect over physical prowess. His preserved image immortalizes his status and the reverence for knowledge in Egyptian society, in stark contrast to the warrior-athletes of Greek art or the fertility idols of prehistory (Klein, R. G., & Edgar, B., 2002). This more individualized portrayal of the human body suggests that, for the Egyptians, social status and intellectual contribution outweighed physical ideals. Warhol’s “Monroe Diptych” uses repetition and bright, artificial colors to present the human body—specifically, the face of Marilyn Monroe—as a product of mass culture. The left side of the diptych shows Monroe’s face in vibrant hues, while the right side fades into black and white, with her image slowly deteriorating. The silkscreen process adds a sense of detachment, turning her image into a reproducible commodity (Ryan, T. R., 2015). In the 20th century, the commodification of the human body reached new heights with the advent of mass media and consumer culture. Warhol’s work, particularly in the “Monroe Diptych”, reflects society’s obsession with celebrity culture and the dehumanization of individuals into mass-produced icons. Monroe, once a living person, is reduced to a repeated, fading image, reflecting the ephemeral nature of fame (Osterwold, T., 1999). This stands in stark contrast to the cultural values seen in the other works discussed, where the body was often idealized or revered. Warhol’s commentary suggests a shift in how the human body is perceived—not as a vessel of perfection, fertility, or wisdom, but as a disposable product of consumerism. The representations of the human body in art offer unique insights into the values and concerns of different cultures. In Polykleitos’ “Doryphoros”, the human form is a symbol of physical and moral perfection, mirroring the Greek obsession with harmony and proportion. The “Venus of Willendorf” reveals a prehistoric reverence for fertility and survival, while the “Seated Scribe” emphasizes wisdom and social function over physical beauty. Warhol’s “Monroe Diptych”, however, marks a departure from these values, reflecting a modern world in which the body has become a product of mass media and commodification. Together, these works demonstrate the evolving role of the human figure in art and its power to communicate deeper cultural meanings across time. References Klein, R. G., & Edgar, B. (2002). The dawn of human culture. Wiley. The dawn of human culture : Richard G. Klein : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive Ryan, T. R. (2015). Andy Warhol, Marilyn Diptych. Smarthistory. Smarthistory – Andy Warhol, Marilyn Diptych Osterwold, T. (1999). Pop Art. Taschen. Pop art : Osterwold, Tilman : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive McDermott, L. (1996). Self-representation in Upper Paleolithic female figurines. Current Anthropology, 37(2), 227-275. (PDF) Self-Representation in Upper Paleolithic Female Figurines (researchgate.net)

Redefining Passion “I turned to my left with the confidence a child has running to his mamma when he is afraid or in distress. to say to Virgil: 'Not a single drop of blood remains in me that does not tremble--I know the signs of the ancient flame. ‘But Virgil had departed, leaving us bereft: Virgil, sweetest of fathers, Virgil, to whom I gave myself for my salvation. And not all our ancient mother lost could save my cheeks, washed in the dew, from being stained again with tears.” The Divine Comedy written by Dante Alighieri uses a first-person perspective to follow the Poet’s spiritual journey through Inferno, Purgatory and finally Paradise. Irish songwriter Hozier, inspired by the Comedy, released the song “Hymn to Virgil” in 2023. The song is written from Dante’s point of view, illustrating the relationship between the Poet and Virgil. Hozier hones in on the pain Dante endures just before he reaches Paradise as he must leave Virgil behind. Hozier’s “Hymn to Virgil” stresses the notion of platonic relationships having just as much, if not more passion than romantic relationships through his allusion to the Divine Comedy by incorporating themes of devotion, sacrifice and desperation within his piece. The Divine Comedy is made up of three canticles, Inferno, Purgatorio and Paradiso . The bond between Dante and his mentor, Virgil is established within the first canticle, Inferno, in which Virgil leads Dante through the nine circles of hell, teaching him about spirituality by contrasting the effects of sin with the peace found in virtue . Following the first canticle Dante and Virgil travel through Purgatory, a space divided into seven platforms, each representing one of the seven deadly sins. The journey prepares Dante for his assent to Paradise. However, before Dante leaves, he realizes Virgil is no longer with him, as he becomes trapped in Purgatory indefinitely due to his pagan beliefs. With Virgil forced to live in never ending pain and forced purification, Dante is left mourning his loss. Devotion can be described as an immense “loyalty and love or care for someone or something.” It is a common theme within “Hymn to Virgil” as Hozier continuously reinforces Dante’s devotion to Virgil in his writing. He writes “If I held in my hands everything gold could buy, I'd still not have a thing worth giving you” , emphasizing the love Dante holds for Virgil as even if he possessed all that the world had to offer, it would not equate to what Virgil deserves. This line establishes a pedestal to which Dante put Virgil on, showcasing his admiration and fondness for him. Further into the song another lyric reads “I wouldn't be seen walking through any door, some place that you're not welcome to.” This oath-like statement solidifies Dante’s loyalty as he promises to stand by Virgil, never associating himself with anything that fails to respect and praise him in the same manner in which he does. Dante’s unwavering devotion to Virgil is visible through Hozier’s use of declarations from him to Virgil. These declarations parallel to that of wedding vows, typically spoken between two individuals who share a romantic connection. This correspondence is intentional as the song illustrates how the promises and commitments between individuals can exist outside of romantic spheres. Devotion not only allows one to showcase their loyalty and love but also aids the formation of an altruistic bond. In extreme matters such as this, devotion can manifest into self-sacrifice, another theme adopted within “Hymn to Virgil”. Making a sacrifice is the action of giving “up something that is valuable to you in order to help another person.” Hozier makes reference to the sacrifices Virgil made for Dante by adding moments of reflection within his piece. The lyric, “You tell me the sun is shining in paradise, And I have to watch your lips turn blue” reminisces on the teachings of Heaven from Virgil to Dante while simultaneously recognizing that Virgil was not able to experience what he taught. Another line reads, “You stare at the faces smiling from somewhere warm, from some place the sunlight won’t come through.” Once again, the song acknowledges Virgil’s unfortunate situation as he witnesses the happiness of others while suffering from a forgotten place that not even the sun can reach. These quotes encapsulate the scale of Virgil’s suffering as he is stuck within a cold and dark place left with nothing but the view of those in Paradise. Virgil’s act serves as the ultimate sacrifice as he chose to help Dante after seeing his state of discontentment and daze , knowing he could not reside in paradise with him as he would become stuck within the confines of Purgatory. The compassion and empathy given to Dante by Virgil spans beyond that of couples as Virgil held the desire to relieve Dante’s suffering, even before knowing him personally. This aspiration to assist Dante marked the beginning stages of passion, which both grew to have. Virgil and Dante’s devotion lead to self-sacrifice, allowing Dante to reach Paradise ultimately changing his life for the better. However, this caused Dante to experience a newfound desperation as interpreted by Hozier. “A strong readiness to take any action, even extreme ones, to achieve a goal” stems from the feeling of desperation. The heaviness of Virgil’s situation weighed down the mind of Dante according to Hozier causing this feeling to build. The pre chorus and chorus of the song are sung multiple times creating repetition that intensifies its meaning. The pre chorus says, “I would burn the world to bring some heat to you” , openly admitting Dante’s willingness to sin even after experiencing the horrors of Inferno and meeting the Devil himself. The pre chorus serves as a response to Dante's claims in the chorus that “you are the reason I went through it, the only meaning as I knew it. And I can only do my best, I do not do this for myself.” Dante attributes his enlightenment and knowledge to Virgil as he was Dante’s motivation to persevere through the journey, serving as the reason for where he is today. Finally, the chorus concludes with the line “I’d Walk through Hell on living feet for you” , proposing Dante’s inclination to suffer if it meant paying Virgil back in any way. Suffering for the benefit of another is usually seen in romantic contexts as partners do all they can to ensure their significant other is happy . Dante exhibits his eagerness to allow Virgil to experience peace in the same way he has by going against his newfound morality. Letting go of what you believe in to benefit those you care about is an example of how intimacy and passion stretches further than just romantic relationships. By implementing themes of Devotion, Sacrifice and Desperation, Hozier creates a song that conveys the authentic passion and connection shared between Dante and Virgil. The piece confutes societal downplaying of platonic relationships, elevating their importance and the capacity in which they are talked about. By creating an aestheticized depiction of yearning in a non-sexual manner, Hozier is urging society to reconsider the way in which we belittle these relationships. By alluding to the relationship established within the Divine Comedy, Hozier introduced his audience to concepts that develop within romantic relationships as well as platonic ones.

"The Second Coming" by William Butler Yeats: Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? Yeats’ Philosophies in “The Second Coming” William Butler Yeats spent much of his life constructing his philosophy, pulling from mythologies and religions, as well as, teachings of famous philosophers like Nietzsche. He practiced automatic writing, through which he believed he could tap into a collective unconscious, which he called the Spiritus Mundi. He presented many aspects of this philosophy in his poetry, especially in “The Second Coming,” much of which can only be understood through his book, A Vision, where he attempted to present his ideas in their entirety. Only through analyzing “The Second Coming” with his philosophical ideals in mind, namely Nietzschean philosophy and his theory of “The Great Wheel,” can the reader fully understand Yeats’ message. Disturbed by the atrocities of the First World War and searching for the root of humanity’s evils, Yeats turned to the Nietzschean theories of cyclical history and warring forces. Nietzsche believed in ewige Wiederkehr, or Eternal Recurrence, which holds that all life exists in a warring cycle of two opposing forces. Yeats expanded this idea to create his theory of the “Great Wheel” or “Wheel of Time,” a life cycle consisting of 28 phases coinciding with the phases of the moon. Yeats believed, as Nietzsche did, that each person was reincarnated. However, in his theory, an individual’s soul is cycled through each phase of the wheel, alternating every 2000 years between opposing epochs, which Yeats deemed the Primary and Antithetical ages. Stemming from Nietzsche’s theory of Apollonian and Dionysian forces, opposing forces of art and intoxication, Yeats utilizes the Primary and Antithetical to represent the conflicting motivations of humanity and account for mass tragedies. He believed these forces existed in both the personal state and as ages on the Wheel of Time. This further emphasizes his belief in a dominating spiritual realm that controls not only the universe but also the individual. Within the first four lines, Yeats introduces his idea of the spinning gyres and establishes his belief in a growing Primary force. Yeats believed the Primary and Antithetical forces manifested themselves in a person’s soul as spiral vortexes. The closer one was to the center, the more antithetical they were, and vice versa. The Antithetical, rooted in Nietzsche’s Apollonian, represents everything artistic and beautiful, while the Primary, the Dionysian, is the “dark” force, from which all life stems. These can more loosely be applied to the inner drives of self-control/aspiration and self-destruction. Lines one through four express these beliefs. Yeats says, “Turning and turning in the widening gyre / The falcon cannot hear the falconer / Things fall apart; the center cannot hold / Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world” (lines 1-4). Were the gyre turning toward the Antithetical, the falcon, representative of the individual and society, would be moving toward the falconer, an image Yeats uses as a representation of God and spirituality. However, in Yeats’ image, the falcon is separated from the falconer and this separation brings about anarchy. Within these first lines, Yeats establishes the focus of his poem: humanity’s separation from the Antithetical and the growing Primary force. Yeats believed the Primary and Antithetical forces embody two polarities on the Wheel of Time. Phase One, complete darkness, represents the beginning of the Primary period, and Phase 15, complete light, represents the Antithetical. Emphasizing his desperation during this destructive age, Yeats begins his second stanza with the exclamation, “Surely some revelation is at hand” (line 9). Given the events of WWI, it is understandable that Yeats felt his time was approaching the Primary age, an age where inner gyres become almost purely Primary, humanity falls victim to their base desires, and the world begins a period of self-destruction. In the Primary phase, Yeats believed, those who are more Antithetical, and therefore understand the dangers of Primary behaviors, are unable to act upon their moral “conviction” because they are surrounded by the Primary forces of others and the universe (line 7). This perhaps is his attempt to understand why people like himself could see the injustices of their world and be unable to change it. If the universe is contained in a predestined cycle of good and evil and each person is powerless in the scheme of their lives, then the evils of the world are not so much the fault of society, but more so part of the overarching plan of a divine being, and therefore not capable of being fully understood. In Yeats’ second stanza, he describes a spiritual vision he has of the coming Primary age, and, in doing so, outlines his overall philosophical claim. Through “a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi,” (line 12) Yeats sees an animal with the body of a lion and “the head of a man” (line 14) moving through the desert while “darkness drops again” (line 18). He questions what “rough beast…slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?” (line 22). In his poetry, Yeats often depicted the First Phase as a “beast” and utilized it as a symbol for death both in a metaphorical and literal sense. Here, he chooses to specify that the “beast” is a Sphinx. This is perhaps a reference to Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil, in which he used the myth of Oedipus and the Sphinx to introduce the Dionysian self. In this myth, the Sphinx would prompt a person with riddles and eat them should their answer be wrong. Nietzsche asks “Is it any wonder…that we should finally learn from this Sphinx to ask questions, too? Who is it really that puts questions to us here? What in us really wants ‘truth’?...Who of us is Oedipus here? Who the Sphinx?” (9). Nietzsche contends that though we believe ourselves to be Oedipus in our quest for understanding, we attempt to act as both. The universe is unknowable, yet we strive for an answer, therefore, we pose a riddle we, ourselves, can never solve. Nietzsche argued that one’s quest for full understanding was driven by the main motivation of the Dionysian force: a desire to exert control. In the first stanza, Yeats suggests, through the symbol of the falcon, that humanity has drifted from God. Here, he explains how. In attempting to gain control through full understanding, humanity has determined that their wisdom is equal to that of God in that they believe themselves capable of understanding a system greater and more complicated than they will ever be. This inflated sense of self leads people to act as if there is no higher being than themselves, so they engage in Primary behaviors, which leads to travesty, and separates them further from the Antithetical. Yeats further illustrates humanity’s separation from the Antithetical, specifically their separation from spiritualism, through the symbol of the “indignant desert birds” flying above the sphinx as it crawls across the desert. Though Yeats does not specify what species of bird these are, because he often used birds as symbols of the Antithetical age, the reader can assume that these birds are symbolic of the Antithetical age, as well. The lack of specificity is not concerning, though, as Yeats’ focus lies not in their species but in their indignance. They resent the Sphinx but do not attack it. Yeats writes that their “shadows,” not their bodies, “reel” around the Sphinx (line 17). Like the warring Primary and Antithetical ages, the birds are engaged in a battle with a force they cannot physically affect. In 1882, Nietzsche wrote his famous words, “God is Dead,” as a response to what he saw as the decay of Christianity and a rise in shallow materialism, a trend he believed would lead to mass self-destruction. Yeats, living amidst a post-war world, most likely saw Nietzsche’s warning as having come to fruition, choosing to symbolize this through the image of the Sphinx and its separation from the “desert birds.” Though at first Yeats’ poem may seem pessimistic, in actuality it is an admission of powerlessness, and therefore an attempt on Yeats’ part to find peace in his troubling world. Yeats hoped that others, as he did, could find solace in the idea of a predetermined cycle of time. Often referred to as “amor fati” or “the love of fate,” Yeats found a great sense of peace in knowing he had no control over his life. In his philosophy, there was no eternal death or destruction, only temporary phases on the Wheel of Time, which always shifted to periods of light. He could control nothing, but he saw the ever-shifting nature of life as a sign that he was part of something greater. Amidst all the turmoil of a Primary world where “things fall apart,” anarchy grows, “blood-dimmed tides” flow, and “rough beasts” lurk in the desert, Yeats chose to include markers of hope. Although the falcon drifts from the falconer, the falconer remains. Yeats says, “The falcon cannot hear the falconer,” implying that the falconer has not left and still calls to the bird, but it is too far to hear him (line 2). In a religious sense, this means that even though humanity has drifted from God, God has not abandoned them. In the aspect of the Wheel of Time, this emphasizes Yeats’ message that the Primary will not reign forever. This is also seen in his choice to overcast the image of the Sphinx with shadows of the “desert birds,” portraying the idea of a reigning Antithetical force amidst an approaching Primary age. Although Yeats believed the world was entering a dark Primary era, he also understood that this was part of the grand scheme of time and found solace in the belief that this was only a temporary phase on the wheel. “The Second Coming” is not a poem about destruction and death at the hands of a monstrous beast. It is a poem written by a man attempting to understand a post-war world who believed and found comfort in believing he was part of an eternal spiritual realm. Drawing on Nietzsche’s theory of competing forces and cyclical history, Yeats constructed a variation of these ideas around which he shaped his philosophy. He posited that each individual cycled through an eternal Wheel of Time, alternating every 2,000 years between dominating Antithetical and Primary forces. He believed that within the individual, these forces resembled spiral vortexes that remain in conflict, as they do at the societal level, which accounts for the evils and injustices of the world. Although he displays the darkness and dangers of the Primary age he also provides aspects of hope in the images of the falconer and the birds as symbols of the Antithetical age that will one day regain control. Yeats hoped that in his poem readers could find comfort in the idea of an uncontrollable eternal world that for every bad time provides a good one. In essence, “The Second Coming” is a poem about accepting one’s powerlessness and finding peace in the idea of a power greater than oneself with the understanding that death is not always the end.

Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book 1 Lines 1 - 88 (Translated by A.D. Melville): “Before the seas and lands had been created, before the sky that covers all, Nature displayed a single aspect only throughout the cosmos: Chaos was its name, a shapeless, unwrought mass of inert bulk, and nothing more, with the discordant seeds of disconnected elements all heaped together in anarchic disarray. No Sun as yet shone forth upon the world, nor did the waxing Moon renew her horns; nor was the Earth suspended in the air, balanced by her own weight; nor Ocean stretched to far horizons, as a world of sea. Land there was none, nor air, nor sky. The mass lay without form and shone without a light; no aspect of its essence could be seen; and each was hostile to the others’ kind, for in one body cold contended hot, and wet was dry, and soft was hard, and weightless substance strove with matter having weight.” Ovid’s depiction of the universe’s creation in Metamorphoses can be read as a metapoetic meditation—a self-reflective exploration of the poet’s role as a creator. The transformation of chaotic, disconnected elements into an ordered, harmonious cosmos mirrors Ovid’s poetic process of constructing his epic from a vast collection of myths. By juxtaposing natural creation with artistic creation, Ovid positions the poet as a divine architect, shaping chaos into meaningful form. At the core of this passage lies the image of Chaos, “a shapeless, unwrought mass of inert bulk.” This description of primordial disorder directly parallels the raw material of storytelling: myths, characters, themes, and ideas in their unrefined state. Like the discordant elements of Chaos—“cold contended hot, and wet was dry”—the poet’s source material is filled with tension, contradiction and contrasting narratives that must be resolved into a coherent structure. The poetic act, much like the cosmic act of creation, involves imposing order, balance, and clarity onto this formless mass. A.D. Melville’s translation highlights the tension between disordered elements: “discordant seeds of disconnected elements all heaped together in anarchic disarray.” This conjures the diversity of myths Ovid inherited, which in their unrefined state resemble seeds—raw potential waiting to be cultivated by the poet’s hand. The emergence of structure from Chaos functions not only as a cosmic process but also as a reflection of the Metamorphoses itself. Ovid’s epic spans vast narrative landscapes, from creation to the reign of Caesar Augustus, weaving hundreds of myths into a singular, unified tapestry. The eventual order that emerges in the passage—“each was hostile to the others’ kind” but is eventually balanced—mirrors the poet’s task: not to erase conflict, but to reconcile and organize it. Myths—gods and mortals, transformation and permanence, love and violence—are preserved in the Metamorphoses, framed in a way that reveals their interconnections and significance. Through this metapoetic reading, we also recognize Ovid as an innovator. By opening the Metamorphoses with the transformation of Chaos, Ovid aligns himself with divine creation, setting the stage for a work that will continue to explore transformation. This theme of transformation, mirrored in the description of Earth becoming “suspended in the air, balanced by her own weight,” reflects the precarious balance of Ovid’s project—uniting diverse myths into a cohesive narrative without collapsing under its ambition. In a performed reading of Metamorphoses, I found the interplay between voice and movement mirrored the text’s own process of transformation. As performers we began with the words on the page and constructed the work through physicality, we embodied Ovid’s creative act. Each transformation on stage—whether through gesture, expression, or vocal modulation—was a reenactment of the cosmic transformation described in the text. As Ovid transforms chaos into cosmos his language lends directly to performance, human’s ability to be transformative creatively across multiple mediums. The passage’s reference to the Sun’s absence—“no Sun as yet shone forth upon the world”—can function as a metaphor for poetic and artistic inspiration, emerging from darkness. As the world is illuminated through creation, the poet brings clarity to chaos, shaping it into a coherent whole. Ovid’s creation passage is not just a cosmological account but a metapoetic exploration of artistic creation. The transformation of Chaos into order mirrors the poet’s role in shaping raw material into a structured, meaningful whole. Through this process, Metamorphoses itself becomes a reflection of cosmic and human creation. Ovid’s work celebrates the power of art to impose meaning on a chaotic world, embodying the very act of transformation that it describes.

The stories that grace the pages of the famous book of Genesis contain well-known details, passages, moments, images, and terms that have become ingrained in the minds of countless people. As children, many become familiar with the iconic lines of the text, from the opening statement, "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth," to His mighty command, "Let there be light," as well as the powerful tales of Cain and Abel, as well as Noah's ark. Yet, one such name, found in the sixth chapter of this holy text, is often overlooked despite holding profound importance. In Genesis 6:4, an unassuming word reveals an aspect of the legend that radiates immense value and knowledge: "The Nephilim" (Genesis 6:4, Page 27). Although this term bears a certain subtlety, when studied and understood, it can reshape the reader's interpretations of several chapters, raise new theological ideas buried within the text, and uncover the theme regarding God's love for His children. Many people hear the story of Noah's ark at a young age and learn how God became angry with the wickedness of humanity, flooding the Earth as a result. This event is often received with confusion and anger as it presents God in a dark and unfamiliar way. Readers will typically question God's reaction and ask why He would kill His creations. This tale leaves a sour and bitter taste in many mouths as readers search for answers to why God would turn on His beloved children. Although Genesis is a human interpretation of God's acts in the form of parables, many value the messages and lessons they hold and believe there is truth to them. With this in mind, it is understandable that some readers would feel pained and betrayed by God's willingness to murder His creations. Some interpret God as a 'control freak' or a 'toxic parent' who wants His children to grow as He envisioned them and will ensure success no matter the cost. Whether you believe this or not, this action taken by God raises several burning questions. Why would God kill all of humanity over the mistakes of a few? Why did He not start over from scratch, erasing and replacing His creations? Why did He not use His power to cleanse the souls stained with evil? All of these questions are reasonable to ask and will leave most readers scratching their heads in confusion. Except the answer was staring them in the face, hiding in plain sight: the Nephilim. Although many argue the identity of the Nephilim, the term in Hebrew translates to "fallen ones," likely referencing beings who have come down from where God dwells. A widely accepted theory is that they are the offspring of fallen angels and women. To fully understand the Nephilim, one must explore the fallen angels from which they came. The fallen angels, who are also commonly referred to as demons, are those who once served God but sinned and turned against him in support of Satan. As punishment for their betrayal, God exiled them from Heaven to Earth and Hell, where they became servants of Satan and dwelled amongst humanity. According to the book of Genesis, "the sons of God [came] to bed with the daughters of man who bore them children" (Genesis 6:4, Page 27). The differences in the origin of the men and women in this passage indicate that human women, who were born from man, did have children with fallen angels, who are consistently called "sons of God." Considering the identity of the fallen angels, one can reasonably assume that they are individuals bearing evil and sinful intentions, intentions they could pass on to their offspring. The identity of the Nephilim is a topic readers could skim over, easily ignoring the weight and importance they hold and leading them to misinterpret God's actions and motivations to flood the Earth. Some may argue that God was cruel in His punishment of banishing the angels who disagreed with him. However, the deeper meaning behind God's reasoning can be found long before the flood, back to the rise of Satan. One reason God's decision to flood the Earth is so perplexing and frustrating to so many is due to His sudden change in character. Genesis establishes God as a loving and caring Father who loves His children, humans and angels alike, which results in quite a shock when He decides to destroy nearly all He created. However, God is not the controlling or toxic parent many have come to believe He is, but the complete opposite. The Creator gives His children complete freedom over their choices, as seen in Adam and Eve's tale, as they choose to betray God and listen to Satan. All humans and angels have the decision to join Him in Heaven or to go with Satan to hell, yet the choice made by the angels is far more permanent. When angels made their choice to follow God, some freely chose to serve Satan, who, at the time, was an angel who craved power. These angels openly turned against God and would not be welcomed home, as was made clear to them beforehand. Humans, on the other hand, live their lives and will face God in the end, but will have the same choice as the angels who came before: to stand with Him and repent or to turn against Him and join Satan. God's decision to give His children free will and choose to leave or stay with Him in Heaven emphasizes His love for His children, something readers might miss without knowledge of the fallen angels and the Nephilim. God's decision goes deeper when looking at Noah, who "found favor in the eyes of the Lord" (Genesis 6:5, Page 28). It was not God's intention to completely destroy the Earth, as shown through His request that Noah, "two of each thing you shall bring to the ark to keep alive with you, male and female they shall be (...) two of each thing shall come to you to be kept alive" (Genesis 6:13, Page 29). God had the power to destroy His creations and start again, but He chose to place His faith in one of His children to give the mortal life He created another chance and allowed them to live on after the flood removed the Nephilim. This effort on God's part highlights His love for His children, something readers could easily miss or misinterpret without fully understanding the Nephilim. Looking at the combined information, one can gather that the Nephilim are the product of human women and fallen angels who chose to follow Satan and embrace evil and sin. The Nephilim are beings who lived amongst humanity, spread wickedness, and posed a threat, corrupting many humans and damning them for eternity. With this in mind, God's choice to destroy what He had created holds a greater weight and sorrow. The flood was not a frantic act of control, nor one driven by rage, but a pained and solemn choice made out of love. God's decision was an attempt to spare the lives of His children who dwelled on the Earth, as well as those to come. He wanted to save their souls from a fate of torture and sin and sacrificed their mortal lives in exchange for their eternal ones. The importance of the Nephilim in Genesis is something too many readers gloss over, as it results in misinterpretations and false assumptions that change the intended meaning of tales like Noah's ark. Through this misunderstanding, many readers may feel pity for the Nephilim and humanity as a whole or ignore their existence altogether while feeling anger and confusion toward God's actions to flood the world He created. The understanding of the Nephilim changes the entirety of the tale, through which one can discover the meaning, power, and extent of God's love for His children and how far He is willing to go to save them.

An Interpretation of “Wulf and Eadwacer” By Sarah Ray It is as though my people have been given A present. They wish to capture him If he comes with a troop. We are apart. Wulf is on one isle, I am on another. Fast is that island set among the fens. Murderous are the people who inhabit That island. They will wish to capture him If he comes with a troop. We are apart. Grieved have I for my Wulf with distant longings. Then was it rainy weather, and I sad, When the bold warrior laid his arms about me. I took delight in that and also pain. O Wulf, my Wulf, my longing for your coming Has made me ill, the rareness of your visits, My grieving spirit, not the lack of food. Eadwacer, do you hear me? For a wolf Shall carry to the woods our wretched whelp. Men very easily may put asunder That which was never joined, our song together. Lēodum is mīnum swylce him mon lāc gife; willað hȳ hine āþecgan gif hē on þrēat cymeð. Ungelīc is ūs. Wulf is on īege, ic on ōþerre. 5Fæst is þæt ēglond, fenne biworpen. Sindon wælrēowe weras þǣr on īge; willað hȳ hine āþecgan gif hē on þrēat cymeð. Ungelīce is ūs. Wulfes ic mīnes wīdlāstum wēnum hogode, 10þonne hit wæs rēnig weder ond ic rēotugu sæt, þonne mec se beaducāfa bōgum bilegde, wæs mē wyn tō þon, wæs mē hwæþre ēac lāð. Wulf, mīn Wulf! wēna mē þīne sēoce gedydon, þīne seldcymas, 15murnende mōd, nales metelīste. Gehȳrest þū, Ēadwacer? Uncerne eargne hwelp bireð wulf tō wuda. Þæt mon ēaþe tōslīteð þætte nǣfre gesomnad wæs, uncer giedd geador. The Modern English translation is by Richard Hamer, A Choice of Anglo-Saxon Verse (1970). The Old English version is from The Exeter Book of Old English Poetry, published in 1933 with some introductory chapters by R. W. Chambers. The screenshot was taken from Peter S. Baker’s peer-reviewed article, “The Ambiguitiy of ‘Wulf and Eadwacer’” (1981). The word “wulf” in line 16 was highlighted by me. Ancient texts can be confusing due to their lack of context, and the Old English poem “Wulf and Eadwacer” is no different. It is an intriguing poem precisely because very little is known about exactly when it was written (it is found in the Exeter Book from about 975 A.D., but could have been penned prior to that), who wrote it, and what story is being told within it. But from the cryptic verse, the thin line of a story can be drawn. The story I propose is this: Wulf and the female narrator were lovers from warring tribes before he had to go into his current hiding place, on an island separate from her and her people who want to kill him. Then she had to marry Eadwacer, and the wolf referred to at the end of the poem is actually the man Wulf, who has come and stolen away the child of the narrator and Eadwacer. One of the first facts of the poem that can be discovered is that the narrator is a woman. We can tell this because, aside from the narrator’s relationships with men, the Old English word reotugu has an adjectival ending that denotes the gender of the speaker as female. This fact is mentioned in the poem’s preface in The Norton Anthology of English Literature (2018), where I first read Hamer’s translation. As this detail, crucial to understanding an already complex poem, is hidden from the reader until line 10, the poem must be read several times and examined as a whole in order to get the fullest meaning possible. (This is a work that especially merits rereading!) While the female narrator is not named, there are two male names in the poem: Wulf and Eadwacer. As the narrator has different reactions towards both of the names (grieving for Wulf, and making sure Eadwacer can hear her before saying that their child will be taken away), it makes the most sense that these names refer to two separate men. The first nine lines, when taken together, indicate that Wulf and the female narrator were lovers from enemy tribes. Phrases in the poem, from the narrator’s people “wish[ing] to capture” Wulf, to the mention that they “are apart”, to the female narrator’s admission that she has “grieved… for… Wulf with distant longings” all support the idea that they were together at one point, and want to be now, but can’t (lines 2, 3, and 9, respectively). These two groups the narrator belongs to – the tribe she is a part of and the couple she and Wulf are (or were) together – represent a pull between the often-opposing forces of duty and love. But duty seems to win out, as the next part of the poem focuses on her relationship, and possibly marriage, with a “bold warrior” (line 11). This line makes the most sense in reference to Eadwacer, even though he is not mentioned by name until line 16. The bold warrior is definitely someone other than lone Wulf, because the narrator was sad that Wulf was gone when “the bold warrior laid his arms about [her]” (line 11). And the only other man named in the poem is Eadwacer. His name also literally means “property watcher” (both his and Wulf’s name meanings are given in the poem’s Norton Anthology preface). After Wulf left or had to go into hiding from the narrator’s tribe, the narrator must have had to marry Eadwacer, someone acceptable in her own tribe. And wouldn’t a property-watcher, like a shepherd, try and keep dangerous “wolves” away from the property, perhaps including his wife? I posit that the wolf referred to in line 16 of the poem is actually Wulf, the man that the female narrator longs for who has been referred to throughout the poem. After all, the Old English version of the poem has “wulf”, spelled the same as the man’s name, written for what is translated in Hamer’s version as “wolf” So the fact that his name is quite literally the word for a wolf , which was often a symbol of an outlaw, supports the idea that Wulf is the one referred to in line 16 and that he is in hiding from the woman’s tribe or clan. Since the wolf is carrying the child away, it makes sense to call the child a whelp, especially since it denotes a sort of helpless state. And if the narrator seems to not care as deeply for Eadwacer as she does for her former lover or her child, that makes sense, if she did not want to marry Eadwacer in the first place, as evidenced by the mixed feelings of “delight… and also pain” she has in regards to him (line 12). The mention of a child also brings up the question of whether the “whelp” is the offspring of the narrator and Wulf or of her and Eadwacer. But the idea that the child is Eadwacer’s makes the most sense with the (albeit muddled) timeline in the poem, for if the child was conceived when the bold warrior “laid his arms about [the female narrator]” that would have been when Wulf was already gone, as has been previously established. And if it is Eadwacer’s child, it makes even more sense that a jealous Wulf would come to steal, and perhaps kill, it, for a disastrous end seems to be spelled for the whelp, and it is unlikely that Wulf would want to inflict that on his own child. So if we take “wolf” in line 16 to mean Wulf the man, then we must also take the “wolf coming to steal the child” part as the more logical idea that Wulf is coming to get his revenge on Eadwacer, and, perhaps, the female narrator too. The last lines of the poem have the narrator stating that “Men very easily may put asunder / That which was never joined, our song together” (lines 18 – 19). This could potentially refer to Wulf or Eadwacer. Does the narrator mean her relationship with Wulf, which was (we can assume) not joined in marriage, or the relationship with Eadwacer, which wasn’t joined by mutual love or an emotional connection? It could be argued that Hamer’s translation invites more confusion than is actually there, as it translates wulf in line 16 as “wolf”, which some people (including the writers of the poem’s Norton Anthology preface) take to mean a literal wolf. Of course there is not a good way in Modern English to represent the symbolism present in the Old English with Wulf’s name being spelled the same as that of the animal, but it could at least be written as wolf/ Wulf in the translation, so as to show the possibilities of the word’s meaning. Thanks to the Old English version of the poem, it can be deduced that the wolf referred to in line 16 is actually Wulf. Further examination of the text leads to the notion that Wulf and the female narrator were lovers from opposing tribes, that Wulf went into hiding, the narrator had to marry Eadwacer, and that at the end of the poem Wulf comes to carry the child of the narrator and Eadwacer to the woods. However, none of this is clear or readily apparent from a surface-level reading of the text. It still isn’t perfectly clear after hundreds of years of scholars researching and studying old writings. These ambiguities of the poem, which act as signposts that point the reader in various directions but do not clear the fog in order to get there, are what makes it such an interesting poem to discuss from a literary standpoint.

“Sonnet 141” In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note; But ‘tis my heart that loves what they despise, Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote; Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted, Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To any sensual feast with thee alone: But my five wits nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man, Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be. Only my plague thus far I count my gain, That she that makes me sin awards me pain. The Elizabethan era, marked by many social, political, and cultural changes, which shaped Shakespeare's perspectives on love, relationships, and societal norms with its revival of classical learning and emphasis on humanism. “Sonnet 141,” written by English playwright and poet, William Shakespeare, reveals the intricacies of emotions and insights in relation to the complexities of love. Mostly known for composing plays, Shakespeare had also crafted 154 sonnets. This particular composition uses devices such as paradox, metaphor, and personification to convey the narrator’s revelation of conflicted love. Shakespeare’s poetic narrative invites readers to understand the internal struggle of loving someone, despite knowing all their flaws and dishonesty, and the conscious mind versus the unthinking heart. The central figure for “Sonnet 141” and sonnets 127 through 152 has been speculated to be someone previous literary experts have called “The Dark Lady.” With her identity unknown, there have been many rising questions about her that will remain unsolved, although many have theories. Three main hypothesized women have come up repeatedly throughout the studying of the Dark Lady sonnets. Some have thought her to be Sir Philip Sydney’s sister, the Countess of Pembroke; while George Bernard Shaw believed she was Mary Fitton, one of Queen Elizabeth I’s ladies in waiting. Another speculation is that she was the mother of his supposed illegitimate child named Henry Davenant. Through personification, Shakespeare illustrates how the narrator feels so deeply for someone he has deemed detestable. The third quatrain underscores this, as the narrator acknowledges, “But my five wits not my five senses can/ Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee” (Shakespeare lns. 9-10). Is it the heart that is foolish, or rather the holder who is foolish? It was written this way to portray that the narrator did not have control over what he feels for her, therefore, he is of no blame for falling under her spell. The narrator not being able to hold himself accountable also means that his mind is weak and inferior to the strength in love he feels in his heart. According to the narrator in “Sonnet 140,” it is seen that his love for her is based on an intense fixation when the narrator expresses, “For if I should despair I should grow mad,/And in my madness might speak ill of thee;” (Shakespeare lns. 9-10) he highlights the profound depth of his feelings. The narrator’s love for the Dark Lady seems to almost drive him mad with obsessiveness and insanity as she seems to not reciprocate his feelings. This further implies how he still is battling with his heart over the lack of control of his mind and emotions. Paradox, a key factor for many Shakespearean pieces, plays out in this writing as well; when the narrator states, “In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,” and later contradicts his statement by saying, “But tis my heart that loves what they despise,” (Shakespeare lns. 1, 3). In the next few lines, the narrator goes on to express all of the Dark Lady’s distasteful flaws and his feeling of offense in her presence, attributing it to the interaction of his five wits (imagination, common sense, instincts, fantasy, and memory) and five senses (taste, touch, smell, sight, and hearing). All of his senses are pointedly telling him that she is detrimental to his life, yet he cannot leave her be because wherever she goes, his heart will follow. Another contradictory pair would be in the couplet towards the end of the fourteen-lined set where the narrator expresses his dilemma, “Only my plague thus far I count my gain,/That she that makes me sin awards me pain” (lns. 13-14). As per Helen Vendler, author of The Art of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, this couplet is a reference to Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, where Eve encounters sin and subsequently leads Adam to follow. The narrator employs this to align with his toxic longing for the woman he loves, illustrating how she entices him towards sin and furthering the concept of conflicted love. Although, during the 16th century it was seen as weak for a man to feel vulnerability because it was a sign of femininity. Shakespeare metaphorically articulates the narrator’s sentiments by declaring, “Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted,”(ln. 5) by painting a vivid picture of the narrator’s displeasure with the Dark Lady’s voice and the words she speaks. This metaphor emphasizes not just a physical revulsion but also a profound emotional tension between the narrator and the Dark Lady. The portrayal of ears being “not delighted “ suggests that the communication with the Dark Lady fails to bring any joy or satisfaction to the narrator. Examining Shakespearean sonnets reveals that this sonnet almost entirely follows the same pattern as per most of his works, utilizing iambic pentameter and the rhyme scheme of “abab cdcd efef gg.” However, the difference in “Sonnet 141” are the instances where the lines diverge from the norm of iambic pentameter. “Nor are mine ears with the tongue’s tune delighted, / Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited” (lines 5,7), where the narrator shows is taste with her words. This intentional deflection disrupts the established rhythm, mirroring the internal, emotional chaos. Analyzing the significance of “Sonnet 141,” it becomes apparent that Shakespeare searches into the intricate dynamics of conflicted love, reflecting the poet’s exploration of emotions within the Elizabethan era’s societal transformations. The sonnet captures the struggle between reason and passion, encapsulating the narrator’s inability to control his intense feelings for the Dark Lady. The identity of the Dark Lady adds an air of mystery to the narrative, with various speculations regarding her, reinforcing the timeless curiosity surrounding Shakespeare’s sonnets. The utilization of paradox, metaphor, and personification enhances the portrayal of the narrator’s internal conflict, showing the enduring power of love despite the acknowledgment of its flaws. The couplet’s allusion to Adam and Eve adds a biblical layer, suggesting that the narrator’s love, although leading him to sin, becomes a source for illness and reward. Through these literary devices, Shakespeare invites readers to delve into the complexities of love, making “Sonnet 141” a moving reflection of the enduring human experience.

The Iliad: “Now you cannot bring yourselves to save him, though he is only / a corpse, for his wife to look upon, his child and his mother / and Priam his father, and his people, who presently thereafter / would burn his body in the fire and give him his rites of burial. / No, you gods; your desire is to help this cursed Achilles / within whose breast there are no feelings of justice, nor can / his mind be bent, but his purposes are fierce, like a lion / who when he has given way to his own great strength and his haughty / spirit, goes among the flocks of men, to devour them. / so Achilles has destroyed pity, and there is not in him / any shame; which does much harm to men but profits them all. / For a man must some day lose one who was even closer / than this; a brother from the same womb, or a son. And yet / he weeps for him and sorrows for him, and then it is over, / for the Destinies put in mortal men the heart of endurance. / But this man, now he has torn the heart of life from great Hector; ties him to his horses and drags him around his beloved companion’s / tomb; and nothing is gained thereby for his good, or his honor. / Great as he is, let him take care not to make us angry; / for see, he does dishonor to the dumb earth in his fury.” (Homer 498, 35-54) The Resolution of Achilles’ Menis Homer has begun the epic of the Iliad with the theme of anger. Even deeper than anger though, this epic is a tale of Achilles’ menis, a destructive wrath comparable to that of a god. From his anger with Agamemnon and his poor leadership, to his rivalry with Hektor, and finally to the death of his beloved Patroclus, it all culminates into a beautiful show of aristeia, the display of a warrior’s excellence. And according to every other instance of aristeia in this tale, this should be enough to end menis. However, in this selected paragraph, it begs the question: why does Achilles’ aristeia never fully satisfy his menis? Homer chooses instead, for Achilles to keep parading Hektor’s body, and to host games to display his prowess, only for Priam’s visit to Achilles to finally end the tale of his anger. Within this paragraph though, the gods state themselves that Achilles’ path is not one of a typical hero. Achilles’ menis is because he has attempted to become a god, an immortal himself as a mortal, and in doing so, can only have his menis satiated by a touch of humanity. The entire epic stems from the consequences of Achilles attempting to act as an immortal as a mortal. The beginning opens with Achilles’ attempting to prove he’s greater than Agamemnon’s ruling. Because Agamemnon is the leader though, the only role higher than that that Achilles sees fit is that of a god. Part of this is a result of his hamartia, or fatal flaw being hubris, or excessive pride. Achilles refused to let Agamemnon be seen as a clear victor, and relented that “never now would he go to assemblies where men win glory, never more into battle … though he longed always for the clamor and fighting” (Homer 88, 490-493). However, this obsession with becoming a god eventually manifests itself so much so that by the end he is attempting to overcome an entire River God himself without understanding the very concept of mortality. He no longer wants to understand the concept of humanity, and that is his very own downfall. This epic follows the format of Aristotle’s tragedy. As stated in chapter six of his book, Poetics, “Tragedy … is an imitation of an action that is serious, completely, and of a certain magnitude … in the form of action, not of narrative.” In this definition, the “certain magnitude” he is referring to is always death, which can be seen in the Iliad as Patroclus’s. Additionally, Aristotle has also provided an order of plot actions, entitled the Main Action, Reversal and Recognition, and then Reversal Action. Here, the Main Action is the original, “good” intent of the main character. Within the Iliad, this would refer to Achilles’ original intent to surpass Agamennon’s rule to save his people from the famine and war. He even goes so far as to request his mother, Thetis, wish to Zeus that “ if perhaps he might be willing to help the Trojans, and pin the Achaians back against the ships and the water, dying, so … that Atreus’ son wide-ruling Agamemnon may recognize his madness, that he did no honor to the best of the Achaians'' (Homer 80, 408-412). However, this promise comes to turn against him in the form of Reversal and Recognition which is “a change by which the action veers round to its opposite” (Aristotle) and a change from ignorance to knowledge” (Aristotle) respectively. What’s important to note is that this change must be brought by the character’s own error of their hamartia. For Achilles’ — although brought by his intentions to become a god — specifically manifests itself during the height of battle between the Achaians and Trojans, when instead of going out himself, chooses to act as a god. Just as Athena sent out Diomedes in chapter give, he sends out Patroclus in his armor, his blessing, to exact his agenda. Not only does Zeus refuse “to let [Patroclus] come back safe out of the fighting” (Homer 358, 252), but Apollo is sent out to specifically disarm Achilles’ armor, which is nowhere near the power of a real god, before granting it to Hektor. What ultimately causes the recognition paired with the reversal of Patroclus’s death is that Achilles himself was what caused Patroclus to get killed. The very promise he made to his mother meant that by abandoning the Achaians, Zeus had no choice but to kill Patroclus to make Agamanenon recognize his madness. By sending out Patroclus and acting like a god, he disrupted the very fate imbalance and forced these consequences onto Patroclus with no ways to protect him. Therefore, once this rears round to the Reversal Action, Achilles’ menis is redirected towards the Trojans instead. He must return to gain back his armor, his godliness to avenge Patroclus. In doing so, he has lost all sense of humanity — “Achilles has destroyed pity, and there is not in him any shame; which does much harm to men but profits them all” (Homer 498, 44-45). Achilles believes that the only form of godly grief is anger and revenge, for only that will bring Patroclus back. Unfortunately, as seen from this excerpt, even the gods themselves are helpless to fix it. However, the reason why his aristeia, his revenge is not enough to satiate his menis is because this is not actually a full aristeia. Homer presents the first example of an aristeia as Diomedes’ flurry of violence on the battlefield in Chapter Five. Although it is clear that this was a display of a warrior’s excellence, what Achilles’ fails to understand is that this was only brought by a blessing from Athena — a fusion of god and mortal. In fact, this fusion is so powerful that it was even enough to overcome Ares himself, as “Diomedes of the great war cry drove forward with the broken spear; and Pallas Athena, leaning in on it, drove it into the depth of the belly where the war belt girt him” (Homer 169, 855-858). This has been seen time and time again with others’ aristeia, for only with this blessing does the hero have enough power to overcome all the soldiers. Achilles’ on the other hand, lacks a piece of this. It can be argued that Achilles is lacking a god’s blessing, but moreso Achilles is actually lacking humanity. Because Achilles has proceeded with the belief that he is equivalent to a god, that is all he is in this moment of aristeia. What makes it different though is that the gods have designed for humans to deal with grief through resilience, not by exacting revenge. Achilles, like it or not, is ultimately human. As stated by Priam in the final moments of the epic, “such is the way the gods spun life for unfortunate mortals, that we live in unhappiness, but the gods themselves have no sorrows” (Homer 511, 525-526). However, Achilles, because he believes he can be an immortal, does what gods do and unleashes this aristeia in hopes that it will bring Patroclus back. Instead of satiating his menis though, it only adds to it. What he really needs is human resilience and acceptance rather than utter rage. That is what’s missing from resolving his menis, and why it is Priam’s connection of father to killer, human to human that satisfies his grief. Achilles is not the hero of this story. Achilles is the tragedy of gods’ devastation manifesting into a human mind. From his beginning request to the gods, to that very result cultivating in the death of his most beloved, to his shattering truth that he has invoked this and does not have the power to return him, Achilles’ hamartia is the centerpiece of this tragedy. The selected excerpt illustrates the very aftermath of his aristeia and the gods’ reactions. However, when looking deeper into why this rage continues, Achilles is no longer even mortal. His menis is, and has surpassed even godly tidings, and just exacting revenge on Hektor is not enough. Homer shows that the catharsis from this tragedy is not from Achilles’ self-inflicted downfall. Instead, it is that the tale of men becoming god, and men’s hamartia, can only be soothed by humanity’s touch itself.

Thou Blind Man's Mark By Sir Philip Sidney Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare,Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scattered thought ;Band of all evils, cradle of causeless care ;Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought ; Desire, desire ! I have too dearly bought,With price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware ;Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought,Who shouldst my mind to higher things prepare. But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought ;In vain thou madest me to vain things aspire ;In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire ; For virtue hath this better lesson taught,—Within myself to seek my only hire,Desiring nought but how to kill desire." From the first line of the Thou Blind Man’s Mark, the poet establishes an interesting yet ambivalent view of desire. He speaks from personal experience in this poem of warning, explaining the dangers of seeking desire based on his experiences pursuing love.While he appreciates the enjoyment of being in love and pursuing desire, he also scorns desire as a malicious entity that preys on the minds and hearts of fools. He argues that anyone that allows themself to fall into the trap of desire is a fool, who will pay for desire’s ware with his sanity. His opinion of desire is quite interesting due to its moderately contradictory nature; his views of desire contradict each other, creating the complex point of view illustrated in the poem. The poem follows the blueprint of the Shakespearean sonnet pretty closely, using a quatrain-quatrain-quatrain-couplet stanza structure and an ABAB BABA BCCB CC rhyme scheme, which is unusual given the type of sonnet it is. The sonnet form also makes sense due to the basic situation of the poem, which quickly becomes clear. The poet establishes his poet and addressee in the first line of the poem: the addressee is “thou,” which is directly addressing desire personified, and the speaker is likely a man who has experienced the scorn of desire and warns readers against it. Desire is personified into a living entity, becoming the object of the poem. This personification of desire allows the poet to characterize desire as the sinister force he does. It also allows the metaphors used to seem more realistic and understandable when applied to desire as an entity rather than an abstract idea. Without the personification of desire, the meaning of the poem would be shallow and less clear. This initial instance of personification allows the rest of the figurative language and meaning of the poem to be illustrated excellently and for the imagery to be vivid. Several times throughout the poem, the speaker describes desire as a trap: “thou fool’s self-chosen snare” and “thou web of will.” These descriptions evoke imagery of a trap and a spider web, both of which imprison prey, much like the poet argues that desire imprisons fools and bring them madness. The spiderweb specifically evokes an image of a spider waiting to consume its prey which is trapped in its web. In this case the spider is desire and the prey is a fool who has succumbed to desire’s seduction, allowing himself to lose his mind in pursuit of love. This poem, however, describes the snare and web as self-chosen, meaning that the fool who fell into it, whether knowing the risks or not, chose his own fate of imprisonment. In the pursuit of desire, fools will pay “with price of mangled mind” for desire’s “worthless ware,” Meaning that those who pursue desire will lose their mind in search of its “worthless ware” which is likely love. The poet argues that those who fall prey to desire’s traps do it foolishly but knowingly, as if they are aware of the consequences but too foolish to preserve their own sanity rather than seek love, which, itself, is apparently worthless. Like many traditional poems, this one has a shift, which comes after line 8. Before the shift, the poet describes a variety of things, including the personification of desire and the extended metaphor of fools and traps. Before the shift, the poet talks about the effects of desire on others and the consequences of pursuing it. After the shift, however, he describes his own experiences seeking desire as vain and dangerous. He describes the vanity of desire’s “worthless ware,” as well as his ruin which desire sought to bring about. This is similar to the line regarding paying for love with one’s sanity: the poet was almost ruined by his pursuit of desire. In addition, the choice of the word “vain” is in itself quite complex. While the obvious use of the word is to reinforce the idea that the ware desire peddles is useless, which was stated in no uncertain terms earlier in the poem. However, the use of the word vain could have a second meaning: that desire itself is vain and the pursuit of love is to polish one’s image, which contributes to the foolishness of falling into desire’s trap. Not only is love worthless, but it also exists only to improve a person’s image. This sudden switch to anecdotal evidence gives the argument of the poem credibility. The poet probably pursued love himself and was scorned only to later cope with this by arguing that love is worthless and costs one’s sanity, in order to come to terms with the fact that he was unable to achieve it. After the shift, he abandons “objective” logical argument in favor of anecdotal evidence, which makes his opinions credible and believable. The poem’s base structure contributes to the complexity of the poet’s view of desire. The poem is written as a Shakespearean sonnet, with a quatrain-quatrain-quatrain-couplet structure. It has some variation from the traditional shakespearean sonnet, but the goal of using the sonnet structure is clear. The fact that the poem is a sonnet is ironic because of the poem’s meaning. Sonnets are usually written as love poems for a specific individual that the poet has intense feelings for. However, this poem has quite the opposite meaning: the poet is scorning desire as a malicious creature and the ware it offers, which is love, as useless. This is of course ironic because the meaning of the poem completely contradicts the expectations of someone reading a sonnet, because a poem that seems to be meant to illustrate the poet’s love for someone is instead being used to illustrate his disdain for love in general. In addition, the addressee of the poem is ironic for its structure. The poem is addressed directly to desire, which itself is an example of an apostrophe because it directly addresses an abstract idea. Instead of addressing the object of the poet’s desire, the poem addresses desire itself. Instead of conveying the love the poet has for the addressee, this poem conveys the deep resentment he feels toward the idea of love because of his experiences. Again, he uses the sonnet to warn others about the sinister nature of desire because he himself has likely experienced scorn from a lover, which made him think that desire as a whole was a flawed concept. The message of this poem, and, by extension, the poet’s ambivalent opinion of desire, is incredibly complicated. He has two conflicting views of desire that combine to form this complex opinion. On one hand, he understands the allure of desire and how it may seduce people into pursuing it. On the other hand, he scorns desire and argues that the love it offers is worthless, as it is both vain and costs one’s sanity. Simultaneously, he believes that those who pursue desire are fools for knowingly allowing themselves to be ruined by desire. The poet personifies love as a predator, which traps fools and feasts on their sanity, despite the aforementioned fools knowingly allowing themselves to fall into these traps. Despite his opinion of desire, the poet’s hatred likely stems from personal experience, meaning that he scorns desire so much because he himself was once scorned by it.