Goodbye, Lincoln Chafee

I was not going to vote for Lincoln Chafee in the Democratic primary. In fact, at this point, there is little any of the candidates could do to actually change my mind as to who to vote for. To be honest, the only major change in my opinions since campaigning began way back before the Canadian election kicked off is that Martin O’Malley, the candidate I knew least about, moved up in my opinion, rather than not even being on the radar.

These campaigns are long, loud, and serious and, while mocking things said by Republican candidates trivializes the seriousness of governance and the traction they have among voters, humor is a nice break from the grind of American campaigns. But I don’t want to talk about them. Instead, I want to share some appreciation for Lincoln Chafee, who just withdrew from the Democratic primary race.

To date, Chafee had my favorite campaign plank: convert the United States to the metric system. His reasoning made sense, namely that the changes will not be too painful and that there are economic benefits, but it was this sort of non-traditional statements that made me like him and his withdrawal speech lived up to expectations.

Chafee linked Aristophanes’ Lysistrata, Dwight D. Eisenhower, the Vietnam War, the Middle East, and Feminist International Relations theory in his speech before the Women’s Leadership Forum (without directly saying that Hilary Clinton should be president). As a historian of Ancient Greece I always appreciate a good reference to Greek theater, the other great example of which being Bobby Kennedy’s impromptu invocation of Aeschylus the night of Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination. Chafee mentions the basic plot of Aristophanes’ play, albeit not its conservatism, and encourages women to get involved in ending wars around the world. But his message is also reminiscent of another feature of Aristophanes’ play–that it is women from around Greece who make a joint cause to stop wars. Chafee’s message was one of understanding an unification and said, “from what I’ve heard none of the Republicans running for president want to understand anything about the Middle East and North Africa.”

I wasn’t going to vote for Chafee, but, at least on the day he withdrew, he preached a humanistic message of understanding and obliquely endorsed the value in a classical education.

I failed a MOOC

At least I thought I did. Here’s what happened.

My first MOOC experience was positive enough that I decided to take another one. The decision itself was expedited when the University of Michigan announced the creation of specialties in Python and HTML, with the latter being an new course offering. I want to learn more about both these languages, so I signed up for the first course in the HTML sequence. A lot of what I liked about the first course held true in this one, but, right away, it didn’t go as well as Python, and I was frustrated by everything from each week having multiple videos that went by quickly and had embedded questions, to some awkwardly phrased questions in the weekly quizzes, to the Coursera site redesign that I found confusing. But perhaps the most bothersome part for me is that I know some HTML–not a lot and I did learn things, but I knew enough that most of what I needed to advance my skills wasn’t being taught in this section of the course. [What I really need to learn how to do is use CSS, which this was not.]

I kept up with the course well enough for the first two weeks, but, in the third, life came up. I had work to do, people came in from out of town, and I had a bit of a freakout, so I missed the first deadline. The course was set up with an extended deadline to complete the materials, but for the next week I couldn’t work up the motivation to go back to the lectures, so I just kept working on things that count toward my degree and watched as the final deadline passed. Failure through incompletion, which I’ve witnessed all too often as an instructor but never actually experienced from this end.

Then I received another email announcing that I didn’t fail the course and the deadlines in Coursera are only meant for timely progression with the idea that small groups of students can keep up together–the answers will just be pushed to the next batch of students. I’ve never interacted with other students taking the course and don’t much like discussion boards as a substitute for class discussion, but I can understand this motivation for the dates. Yet, while it is nice to know I can’t fail the course (I guess) and nice that I can go back to the videos, the notion that failure is not an option is also disconcerting.

In a way, this seems to be a feature of the commodification of the MOOC experience. If more and more people are paying for the course and the course is fundamentally auto-graded, then there is an impetus to treat this more like a purchased training module than an actual course. Once it is purchased, it is something that may be returned to as needed until the skills are acquired. This works well for a course like this one where there are clearly-defined, measurable skills, but not for humanities. This feature of Coursera is also nice in that it reinforces the “learn on your own time” setup of MOOCs so that it can only be eternally deferred, never missed. In contrast, the experience of an actual college education (which I once heard as designed to condition students into taking accountability for their time before getting a job) is harsh. There, falling behind carries with it the very real chance of failure–and failure doesn’t come with a refund or a free re-do. At the same time, though, the immediacy of the physical school carries with it more urgency and structured time to complete the work.

1177 B.C., A Review

The inaugural book in the The Turning Points in Ancient History series bears the subtitle: “The Year Civilization Collapsed.” The title is misleading since, as Cline repeatedly points out, there is no single year in which “civilization collapsed,” but this is representative of the problems endemic with studying the ancient world at large and the bronze age in general. Instead, Cline takes 1177, a year in which the Egyptian King Rameses III won a great battle against the Sea Peoples, as representative of the large-scale changes that were taking place in the twelfth century BCE and the beginning of the end of the networks that bound together the peoples of the Eastern Mediterranean. Rameses III was victorious, but the world that he knew gave way to something new and more isolated in the decades that followed. 1177 B.C. is dedicated to explaining this collapse, but, in order to get there, Cline has to spend most of the book building up the bronze age civilizations. Along the way, he intersperses the narrative with descriptions of the scholars, archeologists, treasure-hunters, and accidents (happy and unhappy) that facilitate the understanding of these connections.

The bulk of Cline’s narrative explains the international commercial and political networks that bound together Egypt, Anatolia, the Aegean, Babylon, and the (petty) kingdoms of the Levantine coast. He does not shy away from using cultural prejudices to explain political representation, but Cline emphasizes that all the actors in this environment relied on one another to create a relatively stable international community that lasted for multiple centuries. Unlike many traditional accounts, largely absent are gods and cultural clashes. This narrative is fundamentally one of royal politics, but he argues that the market in royal gifts as it circulated is representative of deeper commercial networks that our sparse evidence simply does not attest to. The resulting picture is one of vibrant commercial activity, royal communication, and general cultural understanding–wars happen, but for the usual reasons of land and resources.

So why did this civilization collapse sometime after the year 1177? Cline treats each proposed cause in turn, examining the evidence for earthquakes, famine, social revolution, external invasion, and the collapse of dynasties. Fundamentally, he argues that each one is inadequate as an overarching explanation, but that each could explain an individual collapse. Thus, in an ultimate act of synthesis, Cline posits that the stability of the system required the networks between the different locations, so, as each individual node was weakened by famine/war/invasion/earthquake/aliens/social revolution (I might have added one), the commercial ties themselves fell apart and were unable to buttress the nodes until they toppled one by one.

1177 B.C. is clearly influenced by the modern discussions of world-systems theory and the climate of globalism currently popular, but this doesn’t invalidate the point. I am sympathetic to Cline’s approach for many reasons, including that I think that bombastic literature of all ages tends to exaggerate the differences between peoples. Further, the ancient world did not comprise of Great Civilizations that sprang up in isolation, but was already engage in what might be termed proto-globalism, since globalism is technically impossible until the entire globe is included. As hokey as it may seem, this is also a useful way to approach the issues of “relevance” for the ancient world, since it makes the underlying relationships seem less alien to a modern audience. It is possible to quibble in that Cline does a better job of integrating Egyptian culture into his narrative than, for instance, Ugarit culture, but in a book of fewer than two hundred pages, that is more a problem for an instructor hoping to use this approach into a Western Civilization or Ancient Mediterranean course than it is for him. One is also led to ponder what the peoples of the Aegean, truly on the fringe of the network of civilization, thought about the relationships, but here the evidence is particularly weak.

One last thing that Cline does is to incorporate accounts of modern archeology. Initially I found the vignettes somewhat distracting, but they are not overly cumbersome or frequent and in sum I think it is important to recognize how little evidence there is and how that evidence was found because this, in and of itself, shapes how we understand the period.

I picked up 1177 B.C. as a productive fun non-fiction book to read (i.e. something I shouldn’t be spending time on, but that could come in handy later on) and it exceeded my expectations. I cannot vouch for its utility as a scholarly text, as it is written for an intelligent, non-specialist audience, but I highly recommend that anyone teaching this early period of world history pick it up. For anyone else who wants a different take on early early Mediterranean history that defies the usual solipsism of histories of Egypt, Mycenaeans, etc, look no further.

September 2015 Reading Recap

I finished three books in September, as the academic year picked up and things, as they do, got busy.

Grave Peril, Jim Butcher
Harry Dresden continues his wizarding, only, now in the third book, the decisions he made in the previous two are beginning to catch up with him. I did a little write up about the series after I finished reading this one. The general impression of it still stands, which is to say that they are fun, largely pulpy reads that can be addictive in the moment, but haven’t really compelled me to read on. The third book started to build to a larger plot that could make up for how thin the noir skin began to feel, and the cast of characters is starting to expand, but I am still taking a break from the series.

Dracula, Bram Stoker

Jonathan Harker goes to Transylvania to help a rich client, Dracula, who is moving to London. The he stumbles into a backward environment of unspeakable horror. The vampire escapes and descends on an unprepared England, while Harker, his wife Mina, Dr. John Seward, Arthur Holmwood (the beloved of the Vampire’s first english victim), the American Quincy Morris, and the Dutch doctor Abraham van Helsing combine Catholic doctrine, folk remedies, and the cleverness of modernity to hunt this relic from eastern Europe. One of my favorite things about reading classic novels for the first time is that some of them are so utterly familiar and yet completely bastardized by subsequent representations. That is the case here, where many of Dracula’s traits and various descriptions are familiar, yet this specific version is not one often portrayed. I loved just about every minute of reading this beautiful mess of a novel. It is easy to see how this book was (and sometimes still is) considered overwritten and lowbrow, with dozens of concepts and fads mashed together in sometimes bizarre ways, and how it became a classic of Western literature. I have also started posting to Twitter quotes from books I read, and have collected them into a blog post.

The New Life, Orhan Pamuk
Reviewed and quotations collected.

One of Pamuk’s early works, The New Life is the story of a book and a girl that inspired young men to seek a new life, while being ambiguous about what the new life is. Most of the story takes place in shadowy buses careening across Turkey, at a time when and place where identities are transient. The men, particularly, in the story all seek a way to achieve equilibrium after reading the book, but the only way to reach this balance is to suspend themselves from a world that is racing onward. The New Life is not an easy book to describe and while it fits thematically in Pamuk’s oeuvre, it is not part of the same semi-real Istanbul that forms the backdrop of, for instance, The Black Book and The Museum of Innocence. This is also a book that I have grown more fond of upon letting it sink in than I necessarily was in the middle of it, so I’ll tentatively say it was my favorite of the month.


October is probably going to be another tight month for reading, particularly because I am starting off with an ambitious read, at least in terms of time investment. Currently, I am reading Dostoevsky’s Demons.

Live-Tweet The New Life

The collected quotations from Orhan Pamuk’s The New Life, which I reviewed here.

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Previously in this series, Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

“Live Tweet” Dracula

Following in the footsteps of my friend Will Mountz, I have started tweeting some quotes from books as I read them. To some extent I have always done this, but I’m now doing it in a more organized way. These are not meant to be a review of the book, but rather things that stood out as I read. Excepting the occasional typo, the only curation of the quotes is for length. These posts (since I suspect this is going to turn into series) are meant to collect what I tweeted out in one place, starting from the beginning of the book.

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