Aquinas College

Writers’ Night Symposium Proceedings

April 19th, 2013

Cover image: Early modern painting depicting a lecture in a knight’s academy. The painting is located in Rosenborg Castle, Denmark, and is part of a series of seven paintings depicting the seven liberal arts. This painting illustrates Rhetoric, and is attributed to either Pieter Isaacsz or Reinhold Timm.

The Writers’ Night Symposium is the culmination of the Writer’s Night Essay Contest, a campus wide event sponsored by the Write Reason Plan.

The Write Reason Plan at Aquinas College aims to strengthen writing and logical thinking habits among the student population. Write Reason is the effective expression of clear, organized, and accurate ideas that are stated convincingly according to the objective standards of truth and reality, as established in the Trivium of grammar, logic, and rhetoric, which is the foundation of a liberal arts education.

Habits of mind (logic) and habits of expression through language (grammar and rhetoric) are the foundation of a college level education. Through these habits we come to know the truth and express ourselves responsibly according to what we know of reality. The Write Reason Plan aims not only at improving writing and critical thinking skills, it considers the whole person as an individual, a member of society, a citizen, a future professional, and made in the image of God. To think according to the standards of logic and objective truth and to express ourselves clearly is the end of all education and the vocation of every human person.

Table of Contents

“The Horror Endures, the Darkness Swallows: Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness and the Vulnerability of Modern Western Culture” 1 by Stephen Lanham

“Free Will and White Smoke: The logical compatibility of divine foreknowledge and human freedom” 12 by Sr. Susanna Edmunds, O.P. “St. Robert Southwell’s “A Vale of Teares”: Afflictio dat intellectum” 20 by Sr. Rose Miriam Collins, O.P.

“Dressed to Kill” by Michael McLean 31 “Cardinal Nguyen Van Thuan: The Best of Vietnamese Culture” by Sr. Maria Thuan Nguyen, O.P. 36

1

“The Horror Endures, the Darkness Swallows:

Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness and the Vulnerability of Modern Western Culture”

Stephen Lanham

ENG 214: English Literature

Instructor: Dr. Katherine Haynes

Since its publication in 1902, Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness has been widely

recognized as one of the most deeply complex stories regarding psychology, sociology, and the

human condition. Specifically, Conrad explores the realities of western imperialism, providing

his reader with a disturbing account of Central Africa under Belgian colonial rule. Charlie

Marlow, the narrator of this haunting and shadowy tale of European domination, and his

relationship to antihero Mr. Kurtz, continue to evoke both praise and condemnation for Heart of

Darkness to this day. Many readers and critics hail Heart of Darkness as an excellent expository

work regarding the atrocities of Belgian King Leopold II’s chokehold on the Congo Free State;

while other critics denounce Conrad as a racist, sexist, and supporter of imperial rule. Though

these common interpretations are important for an analytical reader to keep in mind, they often

overlook or shadow a crucial theme within Heart of Darkness. Marlow and Kurtz’s characters,

their relationship, and the far-reaching cultural vulnerability that the story indicates are often

darkened by a potential misinterpretation and inattentiveness to the narrator as such.

First, it may be helpful to examine Marlow and Kurtz as individuals in order to better

identify the intricacies that pervade their respective characters. Charlie Marlow is introduced at

the very beginning of Heart of Darkness as the story’s peculiar narrator. Aboard ship, anchored

in the Thames at sundown, Marlow proceeds to tell his fellow shipmates the tale of his time as a

riverboat captain in Africa. He recounts his beginnings; applying for the job, making the

2

journey, and bringing his African steamship to an operable level after many weeks of waiting for

repair parts. Throughout Marlow’s reminiscence, Mr. Kurtz is sporadically mentioned by the

people Marlow comes in contact with, and Kurtz slowly evolves into a central point of Marlow’s

story. Marlow’s story is wrought with inconsistencies of conscience; he is often depicted as

indifferent to scenarios that would likely shake the average man to his core, yet he also seems to

intermittently recount certain situations as deeply troubling. Marlow’s character aptly represents

a disconnected narrator; he has a story to tell that has affected him intensely, though his resulting

disordered state has left him weak and unable to recount the events accurately.

Mr. Kurtz, the abysmal antihero of Heart of Darkness, is a person of minor authority in

the realm of African colonization. Though he is held in high regard by his coworkers,

subordinates, and friends, he has become a vehemently horrifying leader. He runs a remote ivory

trade outpost along the Congo River, and the working conditions have seeped into his mind,

corrupting him his core. His perception of reality has become wildly perverted. Kurtz has

managed to convince the native population around his post that he is some sort of deity. Yet,

even witnesses to his atrocious behavior continue to admire Kurtz as a bright, intelligent, and

wildly persuasive man of high regard. A distinct connection to Marlow lies within these

paradoxes of Kurtz’s character; Kurtz’s enigmatic qualities are reflected by Marlow’s

inconsistent opinion and portrayal of Kurtz. The narrator’s overall outlook may become clearer

upon further investigating the odd relationship that Kurtz and Marlow share.

Marlow first describes Kurtz as “withered; [the wilderness] had taken him, loved him,

embraced him, got into his veins, consumed his flesh, and sealed his soul to its own by . . . some

devilish initiation (Heart 72)”. He is emaciated, sickly, and nearly lifeless. Marlow further

explains Kurtz’s debilitating materialism. Kurtz speaks of, “My Intended, my ivory, my station,

3

my river . . . (Heart 73)”, and maintains that everything is in his possession, when in fact he has

been reduced to a vile, bestial man. Kurtz has an unreasonably large stockpile of ivory, his hut is

surrounded by the severed heads of natives, and the natives perceive Kurtz as an object of

adoration (Heart 86). The ivory may be in his custody, the station may be in his charge, and the

natives may be in his service, but nothing truly belongs to him. Kurtz belongs to the material he

so desires. Though Marlow is charged with saving Kurtz’s life, there seems to be a peculiar

desire for Marlow to dominate and destroy Kurtz. While Kurtz secretively writhes through tall,

wet grass toward a wild, eerie native ceremony on the banks of the Congo, Marlow follows him

closely proclaiming, “[I will] deal with this shadow by myself”, an unnerving lust for power

saturating his words (Heart 97-100). Marlow overtakes Kurtz and, after Marlow rationalizes

about how Kurtz should be “dealt with”, Kurtz’s life is spared (Heart 99). Marlow merely states,

“You will be lost . . . utterly lost (Heart 99)”. Marlow then speaks with Kurtz about his lofty

idea of conquest, and though it is clear to both men that Kurtz has failed miserably, Marlow

pledges that “[Kurtz’s] success in Europe is assured in any case (Heart 99)”. From this peculiar

discourse, Marlow says that “the foundations of [my intimate relationship with Kurtz] were

being laid—to endure—to endure—even to the end—even beyond (Heart 99)”. Marlow’s

dreadful, puzzling account of Kurtz is perhaps embellished as a result of Marlow’s traumatic

experience in Africa thus far.

To that end, it seems prudent to explain some potential causes of Marlow’s deep internal

struggle. From the moment Marlow reached Central Africa, he was confronted with his fellow

westerners’ inhumane practices. One of his first recollections is of six African men, shackled

together, clothed only in tattered black rags wrapped around their waists (Heart 22). Marlow

watches closely as the stony eyed prisoners are forced to march in despair by a uniformed man

4

with a rifle (Heart 22). Marlow then recalls that the prisoners’ escort is alarmed at seeing a

white man on his path, and only after realizing that Marlow was no one of authority, “[he gave

me] a large, white, rascally grin, and . . . seemed to take me into partnership in his exalted

trust. . . . After all, I also was a part of the great cause of these high and just proceedings (Heart

22)”. Marlow’s retelling of this specific scenario is dripping with cynicism. He knows that the

men in custody are being treated like beasts and perhaps this realized relationship to such

abhorrence sparks a profound inner conflict. It digs a deep chasm in his soul, void of all the

human decency he once knew, and permanently separates his goodness from his immediate

existence.

His internal struggle is compounded by memories of innocent wonder. Marlow

reminisces on his curious nature as a child, gazing at a world map and marveling at the “blank

space on earth” (Heart 10). He recalls promising himself, “When I grow up I will go there”

(Heart 10). With recommendation from his Aunt, Marlow goes to work for a Belgian company

that puts him in charge of his own African riverboat; a job that would not only satiate Marlow’s

desire to set sail, but also allow him an opportunity to explore a land that had fascinated him

since the earliest days of his youth. The debilitating disappointment and horror of the harsh

reality that awaited Marlow in Africa affects him deeply, and this is perhaps why Marlow’s story

is so ambiguous. Marlow is unable to tell a coherent, purposeful story given the intense ethical

conflict that divides his mind and torments his soul. At the beginning of his tale, his current

shipmates say that, though he seemed of a higher class than most lowly seamen, “[they] knew

[they] were fated . . . to hear about one of Marlow’s inconclusive experiences (Heart 8-9)”.

In the Conradiana article entitled “The Horror of Mimesis”, author Nidesh Lawtoo

explores the manifold results of affective mimesis, the psychological confusion between self and

5

others, in Conrad’s work (‘Mimesis’ 46-47). When a reader applies this concept to Marlow and

Kurtz, one may form a surprising interpretation of the characters’ relationship. A reader must

keep in mind that Heart of Darkness is being told by a narrator with a horrifying past; a past that

has a very real potential to distort a person’s internal perceptions. In his essay for The

Cambridge Companion to Joseph Conrad, Cedric Watts declares that “Marlow can probably be

trusted most of the time, but . . . he isn’t fully reliable (Cambridge 55)”. Considering Marlow’s

frightful description of Kurtz, perhaps Marlow is projecting some of his own struggles with

morality onto a man who has been defeated by their common foe. Perhaps Kurtz represents the

potential for a dark and horrific future for Marlow, should his own good nature fail entirely.

There is no reason to think that Kurtz is entirely a figment of Marlow’s imagination, but the idea

that Marlow may have embellished Kurtz’s appalling condition as a result of some sort of

affective mimesis can be easily proposed.

On a larger scale, the psychological toll taken on Marlow may represent a vulnerability

that is alarmingly prominent in the west to this day. In today’s western world, wrought with

international conflict and domestic violence of all kinds, the poor souls who bear witness to such

atrocities are most often deeply affected and turned to psychological care as a result. The

diagnosis is almost always the same: post-traumatic stress disorder. With that in mind, one may

be able to link Marlow’s perplexing character to post-traumatic stress disorder. U. S. Army First

Sergeant C. J. Grisham hauntingly describes the internal struggle he feels as a result of his

experiences in Afghanistan as “a million voices in my head telling me that I'm not good enough

to be alive (‘Veterans’ par. 3)”. In the article “Military Deployment, Masculinity, and Trauma:

Reviewing the Connections”, post-traumatic stress disorder is explained more thoroughly, stating

that it “involves more than disruption of one’s identity, but extends to the experience of, and

6

assumptions about, the world in which the person lives (‘Military’ 18)”. Marlow explains his

internal perception of western life upon return to Europe with an eerie monologue that nearly

defines post-traumatic stress:

I found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through

the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to

gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant silly dreams. They trespassed

upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating

pretence [sic], because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew.

Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about

their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me like the outrageous

flauntings [sic] of folly in the face of a danger it is unable to comprehend. (Heart 107)

It seems that Marlow’s perception of reality has become wildly askew, his interpretation of

everyday life has become horribly misaligned, and his sensitivity has been severely damaged.

Every second of his time in Africa is summarized for him in Kurtz’s last words: “The horror!

The horror! (Heart 105)”.

Combined with the notion of affective mimesis, examining a modern account of the

psychological torment one potentially endures as a result of extremely horrific circumstances

may help clarify a key aspect of the social vulnerability represented in Heart of Darkness.

Though seemingly disgusted by Kurtz, Marlow maintains a strange loyalty to him from the very

beginning of their relationship. Kurtz has been defeated in Africa, his soul has been corrupted,

yet Marlow will see to it that Kurtz’s character will not be defamed. Upon Marlow’s return to

London, he speaks with Kurtz’s former friends and loved ones, the most prominent being Kurtz’s

“Intended” (Heart 108-117). Marlow seems to carry out Kurtz’s final affairs as if it was meant

7

to be, though Marlow does all of this freely and under no direction. It is this perceived empathy

that Marlow holds for Kurtz that has become a source of intense debate for the critics of Heart of

Darkness.

Jorge Sacido Romero of Spain’s University of Santiago de Compostela claims that

“Marlow’s persistent expression of loyalty [to Kurtz]” and Kurtz’s representation as a lingering

“spectral” character is proof that Conrad “[failed in indicting] imperialist ideology [with Heart of

Darkness] . . . which, in the last instance, amounts to an endorsement (‘Failed Exorcism’ 43)”.

Yet, for all of Romero’s implications of Kurtz’s “ideological function” as a lingering character, it

seems that Romero’s article fails to take into account a vital feature of Heart of Darkness.

Perhaps Kurtz’s puzzling character is preserved throughout the story as a representation of

Marlow’s deep psychological afflictions. Romero seems to take Marlow at his word when

describing Kurtz as disgusting, detestable, and morally destitute. It can be claimed, however,

that no single facet of Heart of Darkness should be taken at face value. In this respect, Cedric

Watts illuminates the notion that Heart of Darkness creates a “critical distance between the

reader and the narrator (Cambridge 55)” that one should always bear in mind. Many of Kurtz’s

atrocious characteristics may have been fabricated or embellished by Marlow as a horrendous

result of Marlow’s post-traumatic mental instability.

In contrast to Romero’s scathing criticism, the Australian Journal of Politics & History’s

article, “The Past in the Present”, acknowledges the narrator’s importance in analyzing Heart of

Darkness. Authors Christine Helliwell and Barry Hindess indicate that westerners have

historically perceived non-westerners as “living in the European past (‘Past’ 377)”; thus,

Marlow’s account of Central Africa as a “prehistoric earth (Heart 52)” and other misguided

statements made by the narrator about Africa and its native peoples may result from a cultural

8

disposition. Yet, it seems that Marlow’s account of Africa as arcane and primitive should not be

reduced to European elitism. To support this point, one may consider Marlow’s contemplations

while staring out at the shores of Africa: “For a time I would feel I belonged still to a world of

straightforward facts; but the feeling would not last long (Heart 19)”. He further laments the

goings-on of the transport ship that takes him to Africa, but while gazing from the bow, Marlow

spots a group of natives in a small rowboat (Heart 19). In “a momentary contact with reality”,

Marlow describes the men as having “faces like grotesque masks”, though they acted “as natural

and true as the surf along their coast” and were “a great comfort to look at” (Heart 19). These

statements can be interpreted as Marlow’s recognition that his long-time belief in Africa as a

culturally distant and inhuman place was inaccurate. In fact, it seems that Marlow begins to

identify his own culture as distant and inhuman as he witnesses the humanity of the African

peoples.

The illogical nature of Marlow’s narration also caused some critics to deem Conrad’s

work racist, which also hampers the notion of an affected narrator. Paik Nak-chung, Professor

Emeritus of English at Seoul National University, attempts to expand upon the denigration from

such notable Conrad critics as Chinua Achebe, who famously attacked Conrad as a bigot with his

article “An Image of Africa: Racism in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness” (‘Planetary’ 499). Some of

Achebe’s contemporaries cite that Marlow refers to Africa as “a blank space (Heart 10)” and

seems to describe the native actions, rituals, and environment as an evil presence that saturates

his experience in Africa (Heart 49-82). Nak-chung responds, “if we ask: ‘was Conrad a racist?’,

I would say, by the standards of the late 20th or early 21st century, yes, he was a racist, but

probably not as racist as were Marlow and other English seamen that he was writing about

(‘Planetary’ 500)”. Other critics attack Heart of Darkness as sexist. Nak-chung further states,

9

“if we ask: ‘was Conrad a sexist?’, I would again say yes, he was a sexist by the standards of the

late 20th or early 21st century, but probably not as sexist as those fellows that he is describing or

creating (‘Planetary’ 500)”. Though Nak-chung goes on to state, “I think there is much to learn

from these critics, but they also tend to end up dismissing or minimizing the critical and

emancipatory potential in Heart of Darkness (‘Planetary’ 499)”, his acknowledgement and

subjective position on racism and sexism in Heart of Darkness is an oblique approach to an

objective ethical matter. Though there is no justification for the real existence of racism and

sexism, its potential presence in Heart of Darkness seems to be indeterminate of the story’s true

intent.

In the final analysis, the syndrome commonly referred to as post-traumatic stress disorder

may account for many of the controversial and ambiguous issues presented in Heart of Darkness,

for both the fictional narrator and the late author. Cedric Watts reminds the reader that “[during]

Conrad’s own journey into the Congo in 1890 . . . he noted evidence of atrocities, exploitation,

inefficiency, and hypocrisy, [which] fully convinced him of the disparity between imperialism’s

rhetoric and . . . harsh reality (Cambridge 48)”. Conrad himself alludes to the semi-biographical

nature of Heart of Darkness, as he is quoted in the novel’s introduction, “[Heart of Darkness

was] experience pushed a little (and very little) beyond the facts of the case (Heart xi)”. It seems

that the psychologically unsound aspect of Heart of Darkness is the catalyst for both praise and

condemnation for Conrad and his work. Some sentimentalists laud Heart of Darkness as a much

needed exposure to the ghastly realities of western imperialism. Others attack Conrad’s morals,

via Marlow and Kurtz, with a viciousness that teeters on the edge of ad hominem. Perhaps many

critics have ignored the crucial fact that Conrad wrote Heart of Darkness from experience; an

experience that could darken the heart of the most stout-hearted man. The vulnerability that

10

post-traumatic stress disorder exposes in western society is a horror that has destroyed many men

and women throughout history, and it continues to devour our people in a darkness that is not

easily lifted. Though it may seem far-fetched to some readers, Joseph Conrad’s Heart of

Darkness may be one of the earliest literary accounts of post-traumatic stress disorder and the

devastating effects it wreaks on our culture.

11

Works Cited

Conrad, Joseph. Heart of Darkness. 1902. Introduction Franklin Walker. New York: Bantam

Dell, 2004. Print.

Fox, John, and Bob Pease. "Military Deployment, Masculinity and Trauma: Reviewing the

Connections." Journal of Men's Studies 20.1 (2012): 16-31. Academic Search Premier.

Web. 15 Apr. 2012.

Helliwell, Christine, and Barry Hindess. "The Past in the Present." Australian Journal of

Politics & History 57.3 (2011): 377-388. Academic Search Premier. Web. 17 Mar.

2012.

Lawtoo, Nidesh. "The Horror of Mimesis: Enthusiastic Outbreak[s] in Heart of Darkness."

Conradiana 42.1/2 (2010): 46-74. Academic Search Premier. Web. 17 Mar. 2012.

Paik, Nak-chung. "Towards a Planetary Approach to Western Literary Canons." Inter-Asia

Cultural Studies 11.4 (2010): 496-501. Academic Search Premier. Web. 13 Apr. 2012.

Romero, Jorge Sacido. "Failed Exorcism: Kurtz's Spectral Status and its Ideological Function in

Conrad's Heart of Darkness." Atlantis (0210-6124) 33.2 (2011): 43-60. Humanities

International Complete. Web. 17 Mar. 2012.

Tucker, Charlotte. "U.S. Veterans Struggle with Pain, Stigma of Post-Traumatic Stress."

Nation's Health 42.3 (2012): 1-12. Health Source: Nursing/Academic Edition. Web. 12

Apr. 2012.

Watts, Cedric. “Heart of Darkness.” The Cambridge Companion to Joseph Conrad. Ed. J. H.

Stape. New York: Cambridge UP, 1996. 45-62. Print.

12

“Free Will and White Smoke

The logical compatibility of divine foreknowledge and human freedom”

Sr. Susanna Edmunds, O.P.

PHI 465: Philosophy of God

Instructor: Dr. Peter Pagan

“We are living through very momentous times in the life of the Church, so I ask now for your

prayers that the Holy Spirit will inspire us as we will gather soon in conclave to elect our new

Holy Father.” Cardinal Seán O’Malley, O.F.M. Cap. Archbishop of Boston, Massachusetts.1

During the recent papal election, many Catholics confidently expressed their faith in the

Holy Spirit. “The Holy Spirit will guide the cardinals.” “The Holy Spirit won’t let them elect the

wrong Pope.” While theologically sound, these statements raise important philosophical

questions. Who was in control of the election, the cardinals or the Holy Spirit? Did God already

know who would be elected, and if so, were the cardinals able to vote freely? Divine

foreknowledge and human freedom can appear to be logically incompatible. However, in the

light of God’s eternity and transcendence, it is possible to understand human actions as being

caused by God while remaining fully human acts, known by God from eternity and yet truly free.

The divine eternity is an essential foundation for any discussion of God’s knowledge,

which is radically unlike temporal knowledge. God is not so much everlasting, without

beginning or end, as radically outside time2

1 Cardinal Sean O’Malley, “Saying farewell to the Holy Father”, Cardinal Sean’s Blog, March 1, 2013, http://www.cardinalseansblog.org/.

. This is a negative doctrine, for we have no positive

knowledge of what this is like. By first demonstrating that God is immutable (unable to change),

2 Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Provence ( New York, NY: Benzinger Bros., 1948), Prima Pars q. 10 a.2.

13

it is possible to show that he is outside of time, for philosophically, time is the measure of

change.

Change is readily apparent in our daily experience. All material substances undergo

generation and corruption. Even immaterial substances, such as the human intellect, are subject

to change. On a fundamental level, change can be understood in terms of potency and act. To

change is to move from being potential (with respect to some state of being) to having that

potency actualized. Cold water has potency: the potential to be hot. Once heated, it no longer has

this potency. It has undergone a change, and the potency of being hot has been actualized.

Nothing can actualize itself. It must be actualized by something that is already in act. A fire must

be hot (actual in respect to heat) in order to heat cold water (actualize its potential to be hot).

Furthermore, a different “active agent” (in act with respect to heat) must have in turn actualized

the potential of the wood, bringing about the heat of the fire in the wood.

Let us consider the highest act, existence itself. Each finite thing that actualizes the

existence of another must have itself been brought into existence by a prior agent. However, this

chain of active agents cannot go on infinitely. There must be a first agent by which all things are

actualized. This agent (God) is the ultimate cause of all act.3 Remember that only that which is in

act can actualize another. If God is the transcendent source of act, then there can be nothing that

is in act in a respect in which God is not in act. Hence, there is nothing that can actualize God.

Also, nothing can actualize itself. Therefore, by definition, God cannot be actualized. He is pure

act.4 He has no potency, and cannot move from potency to act in any respect. Hence, God is

unable to change5

3 Summa Theologiae Ia q. 1 a.3.

. Remembering that time is the measure of change, this allows us to say God is

4 Summa Theologiae Ia q. 3 a.4. 5Summa Theologiae Ia q. 9 a.1.

14

outside of time. He exists not in time, the measure of change, but in eternity, the measure of

abiding existence, pure act.

From this eternal perspective, it is possible to consider the implications of omniscience. If

God is outside of time, then statements such as, “God knew whom the cardinals would elect

before they did so,” are meaningless. God cannot be placed on a timeline, knowing an outcome

“before” the event occurred. He knows all things, all at once, from the perspective of eternity. He

knows how events relate to each other chronologically, but his knowing is radically removed

from any sort of chronology.

This would seem to ease the tension between God’s knowledge and human freedom.

Indeed, it would suggest that God does not have foreknowledge, because “fore-” would place his

knowing in time. Yet in the Acts of the Apostles, we have it from Peter himself that “[Jesus] was

handed over to [the Jews] by God's deliberate plan and foreknowledge.”6

6 Acts 2:23, New International Version

Perhaps he is speaking

analogically about God’s knowledge. But what can be made of the prophets, who were in time,

and yet experienced a participation in the divine omniscience, enabling them to predict with

certainty? Further questions arise when we consider the Incarnation of the Second Person of the

Trinity. Jesus did not lose the divine nature when he took on human nature. While debate

remains over the relationship between his human and divine intellects, evidence from Scripture

demonstrates that he retained at least some of the divine omniscience. Did he not predict Peter’s

denial and Judas’ betrayal? In this sense, Jesus really does have foreknowledge. He knew, in

time, the outcome of future events. Did this in any way lessen the freedom of those around him?

These interactions between God and creation point to the need to consider the nature of God’s

knowledge, which is not only outside of time, but is radically different from ours.

15

The Platonic-Aristotelian tradition has long held that the human intellect is man’s highest

faculty. This can allow us to infer that God, source of all perfections, has an intellect7

Man’s knowledge generally arises from his experience of material reality. His knowledge

is true if what he knows in his intellect corresponds correctly to objective, extramental (outside

of the mind) reality. Reality is a cause of man’s knowing. This cannot be so for God, who is pure

act, unable to be changed or caused. It is indeed the reverse situation. God’s knowledge is the

cause of reality. Reality is as it is because it is known to be such by God. Truth begins in the

mind of God; extramental reality is true in so far as it conforms to the divine intellect. His

knowledge is the cause of the existence of that which he knows.

. However,

comparing the divine intellect to the human intellect can be misleading. An analogous approach

is necessary in order to make inferences about God’s knowledge from our experience of human

knowledge, without losing sight of the infinite distance between the two.

If we stop here, serious concerns arise regarding the relationship between omniscience

and human freedom. God cannot learn, for that would imply a change in him. Thus, he knows all

that can be known. Even if an event is in our future, God is outside of time, and he knows it

eternally. Furthermore, its existence is caused by him8

Further distinctions will help to resolve this tension. God not only knows all things; he

knows the manner in which they are and the manner in which they will come to be. If God

knows something as actual, then it is actualized (real); if he knows something as potential, then it

. How, then, can we say that humans are

able to freely choose? God knew from all eternity whom the 266th successor of St. Peter would

be, and indeed, the outcome of the election was so because of God’s knowledge of it. Did the

cardinals follow a predetermined course, like actors in a play? Was the Pope freely chosen?

7 Summa Theologiae Ia q. 14 a.1. 8Summa Theologiae Ia q. 14 a.8.

16

is potential, existing only in the mind of God. This can be applied to the outcome of the

conclave. God knew the outcome, but he knew it precisely as the free decision of the cardinal

electors. He knew each of their votes, but his knowledge of these votes is of them as free

decisions9

This is ultimately a divine mystery. God’s knowing is infinitely different to human

knowing. The likeness between them is not the likeness of something limited to that which is

perfect, or of a lesser degree to a greater degree. It is the likeness of cause to effect, of a fire to a

pot of hot water. Once we accept God as the first act, the source of all being, then it is necessary

to infer that he is the primary cause of all human actions. Yet he does not act as a cause in the

same way that we act as causes. God, the first cause, by his infinite power, is able to cause

outcomes that are also dependent on free secondary causes. In a loose analogy, we can think of

rolling dice – an action that is caused by man, yet with an outcome that is not caused only by

him. It is as secondary causes that we act as free agents. God knew the outcome of the papal

election, but the cardinals cast their votes freely, because God knew and willed it to be so. It was

100% God’s act, and, at the same time, a 100% free human act. Divine omniscience and human

freedom are not logically incompatible.

. It is because God knows human action as truly free actions that they are free.

This can be seen in the example of Peter’s denial. Jesus is God, and remembering that

things are true in so far as they conform to God’s knowledge, then we can say that God cannot be

mistaken. Once Jesus declared that Peter was going to deny him thrice before the cock crew, the

outcome of Peter’s evening was, in a sense, determined. Could Peter have chosen to remain

faithful? Was he free? We must say yes. Otherwise, his action was directly willed by God, and to

hold that God would will a sinful act raises serious problems for Christian philosophy. How,

then, were Peter’s three choices free? They were free to the degree that God knew them as free, 9 Summa Theologiae Ia q. 11 a.13.

17

as he knows all human choices from all eternity. Peter acted, just as the cardinals did, as a free

secondary cause. At the Last Supper, Jesus already knew how Peter would use his free choice,

and thus was able to predict his triple denial. This did not mean that Peter could not have acted

otherwise, but rather that Jesus, by his divine foreknowledge, knew that he would not.

It is also helpful to consider briefly the nature of human choices. Choice is experienced

by us as a real thing, and all reality is ultimately caused by God. If a choice is caused by God, is

it still free? Yes. We act as “caused causes”, but as true causes all the same. It is important to

note that freedom is not the state of being able to will whatever one wants. No individual is free

in the sense of being able to choose any conceivable option. Many things are already determined

- I cannot grow wings, for example. Furthermore, the will is directed towards the perceived

good, and while we sometimes perceive falsely and pursue false goods, we cannot will that

which we know to be evil for its own sake10

This philosophical foundation is a helpful starting point for a proper theological

discussion about the nature and purpose of prayer. Nothing can change God, so prayer is in no

sense an attempt to change God’s mind, and although we do sometimes ask God to change

someone’s mind or to force their hand, God will not violate the free will which he has given to

each. It remains for theology to explain the mysterious ways in which God guides creation, and

desires humanity to act as true causes and “co-creators” with him through prayer and action.

. Our freedom is not freedom from restraints or

limits or causes; it is freedom to will the true good, in all situations where God has given us the

opportunity to act as a secondary cause.

Human freedom and divine omniscience are not logically opposed. Just as the first

Bishop of Rome freely chose to deny Christ and then later to repent, so too did the College of

10 Summa Theologiae Ia q. 19 a.1.

18

Cardinals freely choose Pope Francis to be his successor. Did they listen to the promptings of the

Holy Spirit? We hope so. Yet even if they did not, we know that their choice is in accord with

God’s will, for God wills the Pope to be the one freely chosen by the cardinals, and we can be

confident, for as history attests, he can bring great good even out of our worst decisions.

19

Works Cited

Aquinas, Thomas. Summa Theologiae. Translated by the Fathers of the English Dominican

Province. Vol. I. New York, NY: Benzinger Bros., 1948.

O’Malley, Sean. “Cardinal Sean’s Blog.” http://www.cardinalseansblog.org/.

20

“St. Robert Southwell’s ‘A Vale of Teares’: Afflictio dat intellectum”

Sr. Rose Miriam Collins

ENG 312: World Literature – Lyric

Instructor: Father Albert Trudel, O.P.

On May 8, 1586, Robert Southwell left the English College in Rome to begin his mission

among the recusant Catholics of England (The Reckoned Expense, 196). Jesuit superiors

instructed priests on the English mission, “to confirm Catholics in their faith, absolve the lapsed,

[and] not to battle with heretics” (Discovering and (Re)covering, 7). Edmund Campion’s year of

preaching and dramatic martyrdom inaugurated the mission in 1581. Following Campion’s lead,

most priests spent a short time travelling in disguise, ministering to Catholic households or to

Catholics secretly living in large Anglican households. None expected to evade eventual capture

and death. As their instructions indicate, Jesuit priests understood their mission as a ministry of

reconciliation and encouragement. The priests often heard confessions all night, preached and

offered Mass in the morning, and left immediately afterward. A stanza of Southwell’s poetry

illustrates the priests’ situation:

Here Christall springs crept out of secrete veyne

Strait finde some envious hole that hides their grace

Here seared tuftes lament the wante of rayne

There Thunder wracke gives terror to the place (“A Vale of Teares,” 49-52)

“Christall springs” are a fitting image for the priests themselves, who in their sacramental

ministry act as alter Christus, “another Christ,” channeling the grace of redemption in the

Church’s liturgical worship. As such, they depended entirely on the good will of those to whom

they ministered. Rewards for informing the authorities on the whereabouts of a priest were high.

21

If the authorities arrived unexpectedly, priests scrambled into secret cupboards or rooms, known

as “priest-holes.” With all Catholic liturgy and devotion banned, the faithful were as “seared

tuftes lament[ing] the wante of rayne.” The “thunder wracke” heralded, not life-giving rain, but

the terror of torture and execution which awaited those bold enough to flaunt the laws

prohibiting Catholic worship.

In his poem, “A Vale of Teares,” Southwell depicts three landscapes: the first is a

physical alpine valley; this opens into a figurative representation of sixteenth-century England;

finally, the interior space of the individual’s mind and soul appears. Southwell’s poem of

contrition and repentance serves a definite purpose in his missionary activity. He invites the

reader into “A Vale of Teares,” as a means of transcending the personal and social trials of

recusant Catholics in late sixteenth-century England.

A Literary History

Robert Southwell accomplished his personal mission among English Catholics in large

part through writing. As Campion’s “Brag,” (“To the Lords of Her Majesty’s Privy Council,”

1580) aptly demonstrated, the written word travelled more quickly and widely than even the

ablest of disguised priests. Although several of Southwell’s works were published during his

lifetime, manuscripts, or hand-copied collections, were more frequently circulated among

Catholics. Among these poems, “A Vale of Teares,” is preserved.

In his critical history of English Catholic poets, Anthony Cousins discusses several of

Southwell’s poems in thematic groupings. Cousins’ examines “A Vale of Teares” only briefly,

appreciating it as a descriptive exploration of a physical landscape which also possesses

figurative meaning as a landscape of the mind. In the vast and violent aesthetics of Southwell’s

“Vale,” the “emotional states of contrition” play an integral role in God’s design for human

22

nature (The Catholic Religious Poets, 60-61). But for Cousins, “A Vale of Teares” bears

remembrance primarily as an introduction to the better known poem of repentance, “Saint Peter’s

Complaint.”

The missionary context of Southwell’s poetry urges closer study of “A Vale of Teares.”

The martyr’s zeal, which inspired Catholic priests to return to England, likewise inspired each of

Southwell’s English lyrics. The poems of repentance, therefore, are not distant psychological

studies, but rather the art of a man who devoted his life to the good of souls. The recusant

Catholic in the last decades of the sixteenth-century copied and disseminated Southwell’s lyrics,

not as an academic study in the aesthetics of contrition, but as real aids in bearing the hardships

of persecution. It is in this sense that the critical recognition of “A Vale of Tears,” is wanting.

How did Southwell’s art help him accomplish his pastoral ministry to the recusant Catholic

community of England? “A Vale of Teares” presents the personal and societal experience of

recusant Catholics as a landscape of bleak horror, “where every thing doth soothe a dumpish

moode” (34). Through the speaker of the poem, Southwell does not counsel rash action or

escapism, but invites faithful Catholics to respond by embracing reality, learning contrition, and

receiving mercy; therein becoming capable of transcending darkness by the Christian paradox of

redemption.

The Place

“A Vale of Tears” is comprised of nineteen rhyming quatrains of iambic pentameter

verse. At the literal level the first thirteen stanzas of the poem describe a valley, probably

modeled on the dramatic alpine passes through which Southwell travelled while studying on the

continent (Collected Poems., xvi). Southwell’s “Vale” retains the scale and natural wonder of a

real landscape, but is also designed to evoke sorrow, dread and gloom. The steady meter and

23

unvarying rhyme, draw the reader into the vale. Sweeney remarks that the “strong patterning

tends to force its own sense on the reader” (Collected Poems, 124). “A Vale of Teares,” is dark

and fearful. With grim detail, the speaker deliberately addresses every physical sense in the

mournful landscape. He begins:

A Vale there is, enwrapt with dreadfull shades

Which thicke of mourning pines shrouds from the Sunne

Where hanging clyftes yelde shorte and dumpish glades

And snowye fludd with broken streames doth runne (1-4)

Most of the visual elements appear in this first stanza. The valley is enclosed by sheer cliffs,

topped by looming pines. An icy river tumbles down from the heights. Later in the poem,

Southwell returns to each element, highlighting significant details to evoke figurative meaning.

The vast proportions of the landscape magnify the emotional impact on the reader. The

intensity and anthropomorphism of the natural elements stretch literal meaning to its limit. For

example, the natural course of a mountain stream becomes a violent gauntlet as, “waters wrestle

with encountringe Stones / that breake their streames and turne them into fome” (13-14). The

scale of the scene creates a sense of smallness in the reader, who has unwittingly become the

subject of the poem. When, in the sixth stanza, “pilgrimm Wightes” appear, the reader watches

with dismay as they “pass with trembling foot and panting heart / They judge the place to terror

framed by art” (21-24). This is no place for resting, no place for repose.

The effect created by the isolation of the subject in such magnitude is compounded by the

fact that each sense is strictly obligated to receive what the vale presents. Only what is dark,

dreary and violent may be seen, only the howling and roaring heard. The pilgrim exiled in the

vale stands helplessly amid hostile elements, so much more powerful than himself.

24

While some find the elaborate composition of place obscure, the reader attuned to

Southwell’s historical and spiritual contexts, will appreciate the personal and social spaces which

he figuratively describes. Every element in the poem is a portal to a figurative place of meaning.

What did the recusant Catholics of Elizabethan England see, hear, and feel in Southwell’s “Vale

of Teares”?

In stanza three, the speaker introduces the wind, which whips through the landscape;

invasive, insistent and interminable. In fact “eares of other sounde can have no choise / But

various blustering of the stubborne Wynde” (9-10). The violating force of the wind recalls the

censorship and persecution of the realm, which steadily increased throughout Elizabeth’s reign.

As the wind wails “in trees in Caves in strayts with divers noyse,” so also, the realm’s

persecution of each class “now doth hisse now howle now roare by kinde” (12). Elizabeth

outlawed the celebration of Mass, the Divine Liturgy and other Catholic devotions. Outlawed or

out of favor with the court, “all pleasant birdes their tunes from thence retyre / Where none but

heavy notes have any grace” (17-18). From the lowest churl to the highest courtier, English

Catholics were subject to debilitating fines, imprisonment, and even death for fidelity to the

Catholic faith.

Beneath the screaming wind, an ominous rumbling echoes through the vale. In lines

fifteen and sixteen, “The hollowe cloudes, full fraught with thundering grones / With hideous

thumps discharge their pregnant woome” (15-16). With these lines, the speaker conjures the

most terrifying of scenes for Catholics of the sixteenth century. The sentence pronounced by the

Lord Chief Justice at Edmund Campion’s trial provides a key for the modern reader:

Ye shall be drawn through the open City of London upon hurdles to the place of

execution, and there be hanged and let down alive, and your privy parts cut off, and your

25

entrails taken out and burnt in your sight; then your heads to be cut off and your bodies

divided into four parts, to be disposed of at Her Majesty’s pleasure. And God have mercy

on your soul. (Saint Edmund Campion: Priest and Martyr, 205)

The martyrdom of English Catholics was a ghastly affair. Once dragged to Tyburn Hill, the

convicted men stood beneath the gallows on wagons, as in “hollow cloudes.” Neck-in-noose, the

condemned gave their last testimony on moveable platforms. Then the wheels groaned forward

and with “hideous thumps,” the final crucible began. As from a “pregnant woome,” men were

born to eternal life. A far cry from the beauty of Divine Liturgy or sacred music, “the horror of

this fearefull Quire” is the only music in Southwell’s vale (16).

Along with gruesome scenes of execution, the “pilgrimm Wighte” in Southwell’s vale

might also glimpse the interior struggles of recusant Catholics wavering in fear and doubt,

measuring the costs of compromise and fidelity. Their circumstances, as Southwell’s family

history attests, were often ambiguous and confusing. In the eleventh stanza, the speaker

elaborates upon the pine trees, which, “sett highe growen and ever greene / Still cloath the place

with sad and mourning vayle” (41-43). Naturally, those who remain “greene,” that is, enlivened

by faith, cover the whole place with a veil of sadness. In the poem’s first reference to a spiritual

reality, “hope doth springe and there agayne doth quaile” (44). The introduction of hope in the

eleventh stanza is significant, as in the twelfth the speaker enters into the personal turmoil of the

faithful and fallen among recusant Catholics.

The fall of faithful Catholics beneath the weight of persecution, finds apt expression in

the reckless destruction of a mountain avalanche. The speaker describes, “Huge Massy stones

that hange by ticle staye /Still threaten fall and seeme to hange in feare” (45-48). Significantly,

fear is attributed to the stones. On the literal level, the image is counter-intuitive: surely those

26

beneath the impending avalanche have more to fear that the rocks do themselves. But Southwell

alludes to the strain and fear experienced by those who desired fidelity, but feared their own

weakness. Counting himself in their number, Southwell attempted to recall Catholics to an

eternal perspective. In the light of eternity, the sacrifices demanded by fidelity are but passing

shadows.

The next two lines describe a curious array of trees. Those who blithely cast aside faith

have no cause to cover the place with “mourning vayle”; but then again, there are “some

withered trees, asham’d of their decay” (47). These represent persons who reluctantly

compromised faith, simultaneously grieving their loss. Tragically, some “besett with greene are

forcd gray coates to weare” (48). The state’s usurpation of religious authority creates a dreadful

irony: to remain faithful to religious conviction, citizens must choose civil “treason.”

Philip Howard, Earl of Arundel, exemplifies these circumstances. Philip spent his

profligate youth as a favorite in Elizabeth’s court. Converted to the Catholic faith by Campion’s

heroic testimony, Philip reconciled with his young wife, Anne, subsequently falling out of favor

with the Queen. He then endured over ten years in the Tower of London. On the condition of

renouncing the Catholic faith, he was promised release. Southwell, then serving as Anne’s

spiritual director, corresponded secretly with Philip, encouraging him in fidelity. In response,

Philip wrote:

It is my daily prayer that I may continue constant in the profession of [God’s] Catholic

faith . . . and He knows, who knows the secrets of all hearts, that I am fully resolved to

endure any death, rather than willingly yield to anything offensive to His Divine Majesty

in the least respect, or to give just cause of scandal to the meanest Catholic. (Robert

Southwell and the Mission of Literature, 55)

27

Philip was undoubtedly the “weightiest” noble victim of the anti-Catholic persecution of

Elizabeth’s reign. Choosing the narrow road of fidelity, his suffering yielded the fruit of wisdom.

Philip left the reckoning to God and reconciled his past, his future, and all his grief in the simple

phrase: Afflictio dat intellectum, “Affliction gives understanding.” In the figurative “Vale of

Teares,” a choice is implicated in both stones’ fall and trees’ decay. Philip’s choice was clear. At

the age of thirty-nine, he died in the Tower of London.

The Response

In “A Vale of Teares,” Southwell accompanies his readers into the dark reality of late

sixteenth-century England. He desires that they become fully aware of their circumstances, so

that they may respond in a manner that will benefit their souls. Afflictio dat intellectum could

have been the rallying cry of the entire Jesuit mission to England.

“A Vale of Teares,” is a place ideally suited to those bearing grief. After all, an idyllic

meadow would only mock their pain. But to those with sorrowful hearts and heavy thoughts

“this vale a rest may bee / To which from worldly joyes they may retire” (57-58). The pathetic

fallacy invites recusant Catholics to “rest” in the reality of their plight. The speaker gently

presses his point: in the midst of persecution, men and women ought to recognize the uselessness

of “Dame pleasures vayne reliefes” (56). Rather, let them be still in this vale, “where sorowe

springs from water stone and tree / Where everie thing with mourners doth conspire” (59-60).

In a brilliant rhetorical turn, the speaker changes to the first person in the sixteenth

stanza. After reviewing the horror of the place, he advises: “Sett here my soule mayn streames of

teares aflote / Here all thy synnfull foyles alone recounte” (61-62). By counseling himself, the

speaker acknowledges that he too is in the vale, struggling with other recusant Catholics. It is an

astute strategy for both the poet and the priest. A humble man, capable of empathy, gains a

28

receptive audience. Southwell’s rhetorical skill provides a gentle invitation to the reader, who

hears his own voice speak: “Sett here my soule mayn streames of teares aflote.” Grief is

altogether appropriate in such a place. Yet self pity will not be the end of the tears which fill this

vale.

If one sees “A Vale of Teares” aright, “mayn streames of teares aflote,” carrying the

mourner, not drowning him. Southwell does not recall the nightmares of persecution to foster

resentment, but rather to help his Catholic countrymen grasp the depth of their misery. In that

figurative “place,” if the soul can be brought to recall, “all thy synnfull foyles,” the whole mass

of grief becomes the counterweight of a pulley, raising the person out of the narrow logic of

earthly justice and retribution; “affliction gives understanding.” The speaker thus counsels:

When Eccho doth repeat thy playnefull cryes

Thinck that the very stones thy synnes bewray

And nowe accuse the[e] with their sad replyes

As heaven and earth shall in the later day (65-68)

Awareness of personal weakness and sinfulness allows one to receive mercy, and injustice

becomes an opportunity to extend mercy. The persecuted Christian is called to a profound

participation in God’s manner of loving. This is the manner in which Southwell attempts “to help

souls” (Rediscovering and (Re)covering, “To Help Souls,” 55). His poems of contrition and

repentance counsel recusant Catholics to seek mercy. Scott Pilarz further explains:

Faithful to his Jesuit superiors’ instructions [Southwell] does not himself nor does he

encourage his readers . . . to ‘do battle with heretics.’ Instead, he wants them to engage

in a process of transformation or, in his word, ‘transfiguration.’ The battle is within.”

(The Mission of Literature, 66-67; cf. “Epistle of Comfort,” 157)

29

Humble contrition and the reception of mercy free the soul of rancor and bitterness toward

others. By the end of his combat, Southwell was such a one. To Richard Topcliffe, the man who

hunted and tortured him with sadistic intensity, Southwell mildly stated, “Thou art a bad man”

(“The Roman Steps to the Temple,” 2). Liberation is the gift of the forgiven and forgiving

person. Southwell attempts to illuminate the woes of recusant Catholics with eternal truth. He

directs his poetry toward their “transfiguration,” hoping that despite external suffering, Catholics

might discover freedom beyond the reach of those who sought their woe.

Contrition and repentance distill sorrows into rightly ordered tears (69-72), tears which

do not swamp, but carry one through the darkened valley. The speaker concludes with a final

invitation, still addressed to his own soul:

Let teares to tunes and paynes to playnts be prest

And let this be the burdon of thy songe

Come deepe remorse possesse my synfull brest

Delightes adiew I harboured yowe to longe (73-76)

Robert Southwell’s little known poem of repentance is an invitation to spiritual freedom. Insofar

as every person traverses life in “A Vale of Teares,” Southwell’s poem retains its power and

relevance. A poet and priest to the end, his last words on Tyburn Hill echo down to the valley

still: In manus tuus, Domine; indeed, “in your hands, Lord,” “affliction gives understanding.”

30

Works Cited

Bouchard, Gary M. “The Roman steps to the temple: an examination of the influence of Robert

Southwell, SJ, upon George Herbert.” Logos: A Journal of Catholic Thought and Culture

10.3 (2007): 131+. Academic OneFile. Web. 10 Sep. 2012.

Cousins, Anthony D. The Catholic Religious Poets from Southwell to Crashaw: A Critical

History. London: Sheed and Ward, 1991. Print.

Cunnar, Eugene, and Johnson, Jeffrey, eds. Discovering and (Re)covering the Seventeenth

Century Religious Lyric. Pittsburgh: Duquesne UP, 2001. Print.

Davidson, Peter, and Sweeney, Anne, eds. St. Robert Southwell: Collected Poems, S.J.

Manchester: Carcanet, 2007. Print.

McGoog, Thomas S.J, ed. The Reckoned Expense: Edmund Campion and the Early English

Jesuits; Essays in celebration of the first centenary of Campion Hall, Oxford (1896-

1996). Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 1996. Print.

“Robert Southwell: The Mission of the Written Word,” Nancy Pollard Brown, 193-213.

Oxford English Dictionary. Oxford UP, 2012. Accessed 16 Nov. – 3 Dec. 2012.

http://www.oed.com.ezy.aqcl.sirsi.net/

Pilarz, S.J., Scott R. Robert Southwell and the Mission of Literature, 1561 – 1595: Writing

Reconciliation. Burlington: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2004. Print.

Undset, Sigrid. Stages on the Road. Ave Maria: Aver Maria Press, 2012. Print.

Waugh, Evelyn. Saint Edmund Campion: Priest and Martyr. London: Hollis and Carter, 1935.

Print

31

“Dressed to Kill”

Michael McLean

HIS 112: Western Civilization II

Instructor: Dr. Vincent Ryan

Becoming queen at a young age in a troubled kingdom, Marie Antoinette was in a

tenuous situation at best. Furthermore, France had weak-willed King Louis XVI at the helm,

which served to make things all the worse. Marie Antoinette, however, was not one to shy away

from a challenge or run the risk of fading into obscurity. From the time she arrived in France,

Marie Antoinette set about changing social conventions which, as time went by, conveniently

made her a target from which the revolution could hang its banner. This young trendsetter

would forever leave her mark, not only on the fashion world, but also the political landscape of

Europe.

Early in her reign, Marie Antoinette discovered that her looks and fashion could be a

catalyst to assert herself at the forefront of public opinion. She would not be content to be

relegated to the background. She used fashion to find her voice. As Caroline Weber explains,

“From her earliest days at Versailles, Marie Antoinette staged a revolt against entrenched court

etiquette by turning her clothes and other accoutrements into defiant expressions of autonomy and

prestige” (3). While there was early backlash to her approach from some at the court, it appeared

that the majority of the public loved her, and she was seemingly very close to the king, who did

not have mistresses (in spite of the way his ancestors had done things). As she discovered the

effect that her royal visage and raiment had on the average citizen, the queen was stunned to learn

that even the most taxed commoner seemed to love her, and at such a (ironically) small cost to the

kingdom: “Poor people... were ecstatic at the sight of us, even though they are burdened by

32

taxation... How fortunate we are that we can have such widespread popularity at so small a cost...

That fact was impressed upon me, and I shall never forget it” (Weber 9).

A light came on; this beautiful young monarch was one of the first to discover the

marketing power that a beautiful woman can wield in a male dominated society. Setting the course

for many beer commercials to come, she embraced the role of trendsetter, brilliantly using this

medium to garner more influence. As Weber says, “Inclined in this direction, public opinion –

and a savvy manipulation of 'her dazzling features' – could serve as a most effective weapon in

the Dauphine's political arsenal” (93). This early popularity served to develop what can only be

described as an addiction fueled by the national pocketbook.

The queen redefined opulence in her dress and her hairstyles, spending fortune after

fortune to remain the cutting edge in fashion. This approach continued to keep her in the

forefront of the public eye. It was inconceivable! The queen was meant to be nothing more

than a figurehead who eventually merely blended into the background and made babies;

Weber says, “This was a radical notion to say the least. At Versailles, queens were traditionally

expected to lead quiet, retiring lives, busying themselves with childbearing and prayer while

pampered maitresses en titre dipped freely into the kingly coffers” (99). Feeding her fashion

habit more and more, and in more grandiose ways, she even supported the American

Revolution, by doing her hair to mirror a ship from one of the key victories against the British.

Meanwhile, in the real world outside of Versailles, things were not great. As Marie Antoinette

invested more and more into her extensive wardrobe, people were beginning to turn against

her. Her style no longer made the people cheer. In the midst of more and more suffering

amongst the masses, the public eye was beginning to look less and less favorably upon the

queen: “Marie Antoinette's status as a style icon soon turned from enchanting to suspect, and

33

her use of fashion to command her subjects' respect started to work against her” (Weber 113).

As Weber describes her decline from the graces of the people (6), the queen's wardrobe

became symbolic of everything that was wrong with the monarchs and nobility. It epitomized the

vast differences between the rich, who were dumping money by the cart full into frivolous things,

and the poor, who could barely even feed themselves and their families. During what one

contemporary described as a “veritable revolution in dress” (Weber 4), an actual revolution was

forming its foundations and clinging to the queen as one of the cornerstones upon which to build.

While the people were learning the meaning of vive la revolution, “This queen of poufs and

feathers came to emblematize the worst aspects of royal privilege – and the best reasons for

revolution” (Weber 6).

Once the seeds of revolution began to grow, it seemed as if nothing she did could get

positive press. Her cherished status as a fashion icon now developed into a catalyst stirring the

rebellion to a crescendo. The queen crossed a line at some point and she could no longer retreat.

She was demonized in all aspects of her life, and as Winston Churchill once observed, a lie has

traveled around the world before truth puts its pants on. Like wildfire the lies about Antoinette

took hold:

Now known and decried among a broader public than ever before, Marie

Antoinette's iconoclastic indulgences of style again figured forth a host of

damning connotations – from sexual depravity to financial rapacity to treasonous,

anti-French political loyalties – that managed her already tarnished reputation

beyond repair and drastically compromised the stature of the monarchy as a whole

(Weber 164)

34

The damage had been done and events were set in motion that would prove to be the undoing of

the French monarchy.

There are many things that can be blamed for the French revolution, such as poor

economic policy, famine, and the privileges of the elite. Marie Antoinette's indulgences, though,

became a very public symbol for the revolution to use to incite the people. Her decisions were

not well thought out in many areas; nonetheless, the queen became the very figurehead she

worked so hard to avoid becoming during the ancien regime. Marie Antoinette was of a

revolution that had planted itself firmly at her doorstep, and against which no costume in the

world would protect her. Whether she dressed like a princess or a peasant girl, 'Madame Deficit'

had been singled out as the people's most heinous foe. As such, she was indeed doomed to bring

bad luck – to the ancien regime, to her family, and most

of all, to herself” (Weber 192).

35

Work Cited

Weber, Caroline. Queen of Fashion: What Marie Antoinette Wore to the Revolution. New

York: H. Holt, 2006. Print.

36

“Cardinal Nguyen Van Thuan: The Best of Vietnamese Culture”

Sr. Maria Thuan Nguyen, O.P.

English 344: Advanced Grammar

Instructor: Sr. Mary Dominic Pitts, O.P.

Vietnamese people are said to be nosy. They do not wait upon an invitation to enter the

house of your life. No, they worm themselves in, and next thing you know, they are relaxing in

your living room, soaking in all the details of your life. They also, however, take it upon

themselves to use any meager resources they have to help you. Vietnamese people, then, are not

necessarily nosy but attentive to the other. They do not wait upon an invitation to enter the house

of your life because they anticipate your needs. That’s how Cardinal Nguyen Van Thuan entered

my life. I was not acquainted with Cardinal Thuan’s story until after I entered a religious

community as a postulant. I was not planning on getting to know him, but he did not wait for an

invitation. He was simply there, guiding me through my spiritual journey. In thanksgiving for

Cardinal Thuan’s presence in my life, I now take every opportunity possible to introduce him to

all people. Faithful, innovative, and people-oriented, Cardinal Thuan manifests the best of the

Vietnamese culture.

Cardinal Nguyen Van Thuan was born on April 17, 1928. From a young age, his

character was shaped by the ideals of his heritage. Thuan knew that he was called to

communicate the very best of Vietnamese culture. In 1941, Thuan joined the Catholic seminary

and was ordained a priest in 1953. Shortly after Thuan was made Coadjutor Archbishop of

Saigon in 1975, he was arrested and imprisoned by the Communists on account of his Catholic

faith. During Thuan’s time in prison, he lived the virtues cherished by the Vietnamese culture.

37

One of the prized virtues of the Vietnamese culture is fidelity to those whom they love,

even in the midst of profound hardship. This fidelity permeated Thuan’s actions during his

imprisonment. The stench of urine flooded his senses. The brutality of isolation assaulted his

mind. The cruelty of constant darkness haunted his heart. Despite this, Thuan remained faithful

to Christ. When officials attempted to force Thuan to admit there was collaboration between the

FBI and the Vatican, Thuan proclaimed Christ’s message of unity and reconciliation. He treated

each of his tormentors with dignity. When the prison guards taunted Thuan because of his

Catholic faith, Thuan simply smiled and thanked them. He did not allow bitterness to consume

him, but remained faithful to Christ-Crucified by trusting in Divine Providence. Like previous

generations of Vietnamese people who clung to their family values despite hardship, Thuan

remained faithful to His Christian values.

Imitating the Vietnamese who came before him, Thuan used his limited resources

creatively in order to fulfill his duties as shepherd to the faithful when he was in prison. When

Thuan could not physically be present to his people, Thuan solicited the help of a young boy to

bring him old calendars. Thuan wrote simple, sincere messages of hope on the calendars and had

the young boy copy and distribute them among the faithful. Thuan’s profound letters to the

Catholic community strengthened them in their faith and helped them to persevere. The words,

which resonated in the people’s hearts, reminded them that Thuan, though not physically present,

was present with them through prayer.

Thuan also innovatively used his scanty means to celebrate Mass in prison. Thuan knew

that celebrating Mass was his most important duty, but he had no church, no altar, and no

tabernacle. How, then, could he fulfill his duty as bishop? Thuan turned the concentration camp

into a cathedral and the palm of his hand into an altar. He turned his shirt pocket into a tabernacle

38

and turned the darkness of the sleeping quarters into a dwelling place for Light Himself. Because

of his ingenuity, many prisoners regained the fervor of their faith. The prisoners were reminded

to embrace suffering and to use their current circumstance to their advantage. Thuan’s ability to

make the most of what he had reflects the example of his ancestors, who creatively used their

poverty as means to provide for their family.

Exemplifying the Vietnamese tendency to be attentive to others, otherwise known as

charitable nosiness, Thuan was conscientious of his prison guards’ needs. Thuan, formed in all

the goodness of Vietnam’s communal culture, could not help but intrude on other people’s lives.

Thuan saw them as part of the village in which he lived—he saw them as family. Eventually,

Thuan’s kind demeanor and genuine interest pierced through their anxiety and resentment. He

taught them English, French, Latin, and other foreign languages. Starving for a sense of meaning

in their lives, the prison guards would ask Thuan numerous questions about the Church. Thuan

catechized his eager prison guards, explaining Catholic doctrine with kindness and patience.

When the prison guards asked if Thuan felt resentment towards them for his imprisonment,

Thuan only assured them of his concern and love for them. His love was both bewildering and

contagious. Government officials soon discovered prison guards arguing for the Church and

singing the Veni Sancte Spiritus while working. As a result, government officials were constantly

moving Thuan to different prisons because Christian ideals were contaminating die-hard

Communists, but by the time the guards were moved away, Thuan had already imprinted his

ideals in their hearts.

Cardinal Thuan carried the Vietnamese ideals with him wherever he went. The best of the

Vietnamese culture is marked by the people’s constancy, creativity, and charity. Thuan’s witness

teaches and reminds the Vietnamese people to live their Vietnamese culture in all circumstances.