St. Isaac the Syrian

Regrettably, I failed to check my santoral yesterday, which happened to be the feast of Isaac the Syrian. Now, he's written a good many worthwhile things, but the problem is that they're difficult to transmit by means of something as inherently ridiculous as a web-log. (I have not yet given up on the notion that a message is greatly affected by its medium.) Nevertheless I present a little bit:

Sin is the fruit of free will. There was a time when sin did not exist, and there will be a time when it will not exist.

God's recompense to sinners is that, instead of a just recompense, God rewards them with resurrection.

I have often pondered this; how can people claim that God is just, if he doesn't reward us according to our iniquities? I suppose Kierkegaard would be useful in some regard here.

Elsewhere:

In other news, there is yet another web-log on the internet, one which happens to be a collaboration on the part of myself and acquaintance Aaron. Why not give it a visit? It promises to have something resembling dialog, which is sorely lacking here.

More Presidential Speculation

If, like me, you've always wondered which president would win in a battle to the death with all the other presidents, then perhaps it would behoove you to read this article.

Presidential Regnal Numbers

One aspect (well, there are others) in which American leaders have been sorely lacking is that of regnal numbers. (Yes, perhaps they are more associated with royalty, but as the government continues to centralize and accrue ever more power in the executive branch, we'll soon be wondering, why not?) So, here's a list:

1. George I
   
2. John I
   
3. Thomas
   
4. James I
   
5. James II
   
6. John II
   
7. Andrew I
   
8. Martin
   
9. William I
   
10. John III
    
11. James III
    
12. Zachary
    
13. Millard
    
14. Franklin I
    
15. James IV
    
16. Abraham
    
17. Andrew II
    
18. Ulysses
    
19. Rutherford
    
20. James V
    
21. Chester
    
22. Grover
    
23. Benjamin
    
24. Grover [restored]
    
25. William II
    
26. Theodore
    
27. William III
    
28. Woodrow
    
29. Warren
    
30. Calvin
    
31. Herbert
    
32. Franklin II
    
33. Harry
    
34. Dwight
    
35. John IV
    
36. Lyndon
    
37. Richard
    
38. Gerald
    
39. James VI
    
40. Ronald
    
41. George II
    
42. William IV
    
43. George III
    
44. Barack

Statistics:

• There have been six Jameses, four Johns, four Williams, three Georges, two Andrews, and two Franklins. All the other presidents—twenty-two of them—are uniquely named.
• The greatest gap between two presidents with the same name is 192 years, between George I (Washington) and George II (Bush). The only president to follow another with the same name was James II (Monroe), coming directly after James I (Madison).
• Only two presidents have been the son of a president, and both had their father's name: John II (Adams) and George III. One president, Benjamin, was the grandson of another, William I. Most presidents are more distantly related to other presidents, though.
• Fourteen presidential names are those of saints; five are those of British monarchs. Seven were originally surnames; two were place names. At least three (Millard, Grover, and Woodrow) sound frankly bizarre today.
  
• Fourteen are ultimately of Germanic origin; five are Hebrew; three are Greek, three Latin, one Aramaic, one French, and one Arabic (guess which?).
  

Links Roundup

Whilst traipsing 'round the internet (I use the verb and preposition figuratively, of course), I have happened upon several web-sites that I find quite interesting. I post them here in hopes that you might enjoy one or several of them.

Thesaurus Precum Latinarum, a collection of Latin prayers with English translations. It's notable for the sheer number of prayers, both ancient and (relatively) modern.

Anglo-Saxon Aloud, a collection of many texts in Old English (with audio files!). Much of the Bible is included, as are other interesting texts. I find it fascinating to hear this language, so close and yet so far from our modern tongue. Now I know what the Rohirrim are supposta sound like...

Some industrious and enterprising Anglican came up with St. Bede's Breviary, a handy widget for when you need a dose of sweet sweet Book of Common Prayer.

And, to round out this web-post, here's some web-logs that might be worth following:
Strange Maps: strange maps
The Hebdomadal Chesterton: he's not always right, but he's always worth considering
If Flannery Had A Blog..., the world would be a very different place
Hark! A Vagrant: well, not really a 'blog, but rather comics. It's sometimes uneven, but I refuse to condemn any comic strip that (pretty accurately) deals with Beethoven and his nephew Karl.

"Habit is a compromise effected between an individual and his environment. "

Back in South Bend, everything is starting to fall into place. My two classes this term, Choral Conducting and Psalmody, are shaping up to be both interesting and rewarding. I'm finally an employee of the University of Notre Dame du Lac, which means now I gets to be paid. (And after a semester of paupery, I gotsta be paid.) Part of these new duties is playing Wednesday night Masses, which are pleasant (except when the priest attempts to lead the singing. Leave it to the professional musicians, won't you please, Father?). The only bad news is that Ye Olde Dagwood's Sandwiche Shoppe, whence I obtained many a tasty chicken cæsar wrap, is now out of business, or moved, or something. I walked there today only to find it shuttered—and just when I'd completed my punch card! Obviously the Dagwood's folks were on to me.

Oh Noes, I am Decadent

In preparation for the publication of a new web-log (a soon-to-be-announced project I am working on), I've been looking into the decadence of the Roman Empire. As always, primary sources are best. Over at the excellent Ancient History Sourcebook, I happened upon a jeremiad by Ammianus Marcellinus, a visitor to Rome not too long before the city was sacked by the Visigoths. Amid a veritable catalogue of moral decay he mentions the following:

Those few mansions which were once celebrated for the serious cultivation of liberal studies, now are filled with ridiculous amusements of torpid indolence, reechoing with the sound of singing, and the tinkle of flutes and lyres. You find a singer instead of a philosopher; a teacher of silly arts is summoned in place of an orator, the libraries are shut up like tombs, organs played by waterpower are built, and lyres so big that they look like wagons! and flutes, and huge machines suitable for the theater.

As an organist (though not a player of the aforementioned hydraulis), I am not entirely certain what to make of this. I am realistic enough to admit that music cannot replace philosophy (though music probably predates philosophy; that is another discussion). But at the same time, the scholarly study of music is part of the medieval quadrivium, and one of the liberal arts. Perhaps Marcellinus refers to the non-scholarly practice of music, of which there is plenty today. Music, when removed of its context in the pursuit of knowledge, can become nothing more than a "silly art", a "ridiculous amusement". (Observe American Idol, or simply listen to nine out of ten radio stations.) In that case, we are well on our way to following the Romans' descent into decadence.

The Figge

Yesterday I visited the Figge, in Davenport. It's really quite a nice collection, certainly far better than I was expecting in a metropolitan area as small as the Quad Cities. There's a Dürer, and a Brueghel (the Elder). And the Mexican Baroque collection is very fine indeed.

Still, I have not yet come to an understanding about abstract art. There is a logic implicit in representative art: viz., its purpose is to portray its subject. When this telos is abandoned, we're left only with what the art makes us feel. (That's not to say representational art shouldn't make us feel things; indeed, it should. When it doesn't, it isn't art.) There's some abstract art I like very much; there's some I find to be quite without a point. The problem is that I have no reasonable gauge for thinking so, now, do I? I suppose all art can be appreciated to the extent that it takes some skill to create, but then we're left with the difficulty of appraising those works that neither represent anything nor demonstrate any sort of skill. Maybe a red circle on a white canvas makes you feel something; maybe it means nothing at all to me. But you'll have to explain the justification for paying thousands of dollars for it. Abstract art—even the good stuff—has led us into the thickets of subjectivity. This may not be a bad thing, but it is certainly not a comforting thing. Perhaps that is the point.