Our third and final session on The Brothers Karamazov will be at the same time in two weeks: Tuesday, September 1, at noon Eastern Time. On that call, we will be discussing Books 10–12, plus the epilogue.

In the meantime, the discussion will carry on inside the subscriber chat. See you in there!

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Our read-along of The Brothers Karamazov continues. We meet this Tuesday, August 18, at noon Eastern Time. We’ll be discussing Books 5–9.

If you missed the first session, don’t worry — you can catch up on the recording here.

Tuesday’s session will be live streamed via Substack at this link.

For those joining our discussion group directly (available to all paid members), the Zoom link is at the bottom of this email…

You can join our inner circle group by taking out a paid membership here:

Subscribe now

This is proving to be one of our most rewarding read-alongs yet. If you’ve been on the fence about joining our inner circle, now is a really great time to join us!

Today’s thread will focus on Book 6, which gives credence to Father Zosima’s teachings and backstory.

We find out that the wise and noble elder had a conflicted past. His brother and parents died when he was young, and though he took to Christianity in childhood, he grew up to become a morally reprehensible officer in the army. Eventually, his behavior catches up to him after challenging a gentleman to a duel over a woman.

The night before, he grows tormented and irritable and strikes his servant. Then, after a sleepless night a profound spiritual experience comes over him. He feels remorse for striking his servant, offending the gentleman, and his years of debauchery. After making apologies to his servant, he arrives at the duel and closes his eyes, preparing for death.

However, the gentleman misses his shot, and Zosima, overjoyed, throws his pistol into a tree. He begs forgiveness of the gentleman, and after much scandal, the town falls in love with his spiritual fervor as Zosima announces he’s joining the monastery.

Some question/ideas to ponder:

• Dostoevsky’s most moral characters are rarely saints without a past. It’s often the case that his “saints” reach a spiritual maturity after repentance from great evil. Why might this be the case? And why is Zosima’s backstory so enlightening to the nature of his gentle character?

• Consider the profound spiritual experience that leads to Zosima’s repentance. It almost defies explanation. Why is this the case, and what happened to Zosima specifically? Do you consider this lazy writing, or might it be the case that a true change of heart transcends neat explanation?

• Perhaps the key idea in all of Zosima’s teaching is this: we are all guilty before all. Every one of us is guilty and collectively responsible for the evils of the world, and until you know this, you will limit your self-knowledge, happiness, and ability to love your fellow man. Why does he argue this? Do you agree with him? Why or why not?

Share your thoughts below or in the subscriber chat, along with any questions you have — we’ll incorporate them into the discussion!

Here is the Zoom link for Tuesday…

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For something slightly different, Sean hosted Liza Libes (of Pens and Poison fame) for an impromptu discussion on The Brothers Karamazov, focusing especially on Book V (“Pro and Contra”).

Sean and Liza examine the pivotal dialogue between Alyosha and Ivan, in particular:

• Rebellion: Ivan’s rejection of a world (and a God) that permits the suffering of innocent children for the sake of some eventual harmony — and his famous line about “returning the ticket.”

• The Grand Inquisitor: Ivan’s poem in which Christ returns to Earth during the Spanish Inquisition and is arrested. The Inquisitor argues that free will is an unbearable burden for most people; the Church has therefore chosen security and authority over freedom…

Enjoy!

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We just started reading Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov! The next discussion is on Tuesday, August 18, at noon ET.

Watch the recording of the first session (covering Books 1–4) here.

Subscribe now

To support our mission, please consider a paid subscription. It makes a HUGE difference to the time and resources we can dedicate. You’ll get:

• Live book discussions (biweekly) and recordings

• Access to our incredible community of readers

• Regular essays to guide you through the books we’re reading

• The entire library of articles, essays, and podcasts

Thanks to all who joined the incredible first session on The Brothers Karamazov. If you missed it, we highly recommend you watch the recording back here.

This week’s discussion thread will focus on Book V, which contains one the most famous and critical moments in the novel: the story of the Grand Inquisitor.

Below is a breakdown of the most important ideas and questions to carry in your mind as we continue reading…

Book V introduces the core philosophical/theological themes of the story. It is where we finally get a proper introduction to Ivan: the guarded atheist now reveals to Alyosha the true extent of his beliefs, which are far more complex than your typical cynic.

Ivan shares his lack of faith and points to human suffering, specifically the suffering of children. He spends a chapter recounting various atrocities (that actually happened), in which adults maimed, murdered, and tormented innocent children in a variety of ways.

He says his rejection of God is not just the problem of evil, but specifically the evils inflicted upon innocent children who have not committed any sins.

Surprisingly, however, Ivan admits he could be wrong. He freely grants that God could indeed be good, benevolent, and just, and that someday the judgment day will come where the “lion will sleep with the lamb,” and the “murderer will embrace the murdered.”

But the twist is, Ivan wants no part of this judgment day. He understands God could be good and just, and that his accusations about God could fall short — but even if this were the case, Ivan would still prefer to “return his ticket.”

In other words, this is not a man looking to understand God, but a man fashioning himself as an opponent in open rebellion against God.

His philosophy reaches a conclusion via “the Grand Inquisitor,” a poem written by Ivan. It is one of the best known — and most shocking — parts of the entire novel…

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We often think of antiquity and the medieval age as ages of “enchantment”— times when people experienced the world as alive with supernatural wonder and mystery.

In their world, human participation was of deep significance, and their actions imbued with a sense of meaning and adventure.

By contrast, human activity in the modern world only has meaning if it can be rationally argued for (if it passes a kind of cost-benefit analysis), and the physical world can be fully understood in rational terms. In this “disenchanted” age, it’s common to hear calls for “re-enchantment,” for us to somehow put magic and mystery back into everyday life — but how?

Fantasy writers C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien are often seen as revolutionaries of this re-enchantment through literature. But when Lewis wrote The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, he dedicated it to a young girl named Lucy Barfield. Lucy was the daughter of Owen Barfield, a philosopher and writer who was perhaps Lewis’s single greatest influence.

Before any of Lewis’s or Tolkien’s fantasy novels were penned, Barfield had produced an astounding idea that breathed new life into the literary world.

Barfield argued that the enchantment of past societies was actually a different stage of human consciousness — one that he could demonstrate, and in time, would be reclaimed once more.

Because although modern humans have evolved away from this ancient mindset, we are also arching back toward a new age of enchantment…

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We just started reading Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov! The next discussion is on Tuesday, August 18, at noon ET.

Watch the recording of the first session (covering Books 1–4) here.

Subscribe now

To support our mission, please consider a paid subscription. It makes a HUGE difference to the time and resources we can dedicate. You’ll get:

• Live book discussions (biweekly) and recordings

• Access to our incredible community of readers

• Regular essays to guide you through the books we’re reading

• The entire library of articles, essays, and podcasts

Winds and Spirits

Barfield is best known for developing his idea of the evolution of consciousness. Across a number of published works, such as Poetic Diction and Saving the Appearances, he demonstrated how ancient peoples had an entirely different relationship with the world.

Take his example of the following passage in John’s Gospel (per the King James translation), in which we find three similar yet distinct words: “Spirit,” “spirit,” and “wind.”

Jesus answered, “Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God. That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit… The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.”

– John 3:5-8

It’s eye-opening to learn that these three words were translated by King James’s scribes from only one Greek word: “πνεύμα” (pneuma)! Pneuma means all three modern interpretations at once, as well as “breath”. The ancients’ experience of pneuma was simultaneously the wind that can be felt by the senses, and the spirit that cannot.

According to Barfield, the New Testament was written closer to a time when ancient man identified what was within his own mind as indistinguishable from his surroundings — his thoughts about things were not differentiated from the things themselves. He did not passively observe nature, but was actively involved in its very structure.

In Barfield’s nomenclature, this is called “Original Participation”. A tree or a storm wasn’t just an external thing, but something with its own inner life that connected directly, without barriers, to the person experiencing it. The human spirit was never disentangled from the wind, and this produced an enchanted and unified relationship with the natural world.

The Disenchantment of History

Barfield read the next 2,000 years of history as a gradual evolution away from this mode of consciousness. Humans now perceive that we are entirely separate from nature, which we understand as a set of “dead” objects with which we interact. Instead of something that meaning is inherently a part of, nature is something we project meaning onto.

Things like pneuma were once felt and immediately recognized through a pre-conscious process that produces our perceptions of things. Meaning was drawn from nature as we breathe the air. Now, external stimuli are received and then represented by our modern minds (say it slowly: “re-presented”) as either objective things (breath and wind) or subjective things (spirit and soul).

Ancient man never distinguished between these two categories, and the result was that his connection with nature was richer and his life was charged with meaning.

Without stepping too far into the details of this transition, Barfield asserts that human consciousness evolved into a state of heightened self-awareness. He points to monotheism and bans on idol worship (images treated as though they have an inner life) as revolutionary steps in this evolution, sharpening the distinction between humanity and the world/God.

So then, practically speaking, how can we begin to participate fully in the world again?

Fortunately, Barfield proposes a fascinating solution. Unfortunately, the way forward is not easy, nor is it simply a return to the way things were before…

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Episode 19 of the podcast is now live!

Jeremy is joined by Alex Petkas, classicist and host of the Cost of Glory podcast, for a deep discussion on Homer’s Odyssey.

Starting from the beginning, Alex explains why the nearly 3,000-year-old epic has endured so long and how it shaped the Western imagination. From its roots in the oral bardic tradition to the universal themes that still resonate now: homecoming, family, the proper place of war and peace, cunning intelligence (polytropos), and the struggle to restore order against entropy and temptation.

Alex compares Odysseus with Achilles, and examines what the poem has to say about fatherhood and strong households. They also discuss what Christopher Nolan’s adaptation got right, and what it got wrong…

Watch the episode for free on Substack, or on YouTube if you prefer.

Enjoy!

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We just started reading Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov! The next discussion is on Tuesday, August 18, at noon ET.

Watch the recording of the first session (covering Books 1–4) here.

Subscribe now

To support our mission, please consider a paid subscription. It makes a HUGE difference to the time and resources we can dedicate. You’ll get:

• Live book discussions (biweekly) and recordings

• Access to our incredible community of readers

• Regular essays to guide you through the books we’re reading

• The entire library of articles, essays, and podcasts

Our second (of three) sessions on Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov will be at the same time in two weeks: Tuesday, August 18, at noon Eastern Time. On that call, we will be discussing Books 5 – 8.

In the meantime, the discussion will carry on inside the subscriber chat. See you in there!

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It’s so great to be back. It is finally time to begin our read-along of Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, perhaps the greatest psychological novel of all time.

We meet tomorrow, August 4, at noon ET. We’ll be discussing Books 1–4 — if you’ve already read this far, that’s great, but you don’t strictly need to have done the reading yet. We’re reading this novel over the next 6 weeks, together.

The first discussion will be live streamed via Substack at this link.

For those joining our discussion group directly (available to all paid members), the Zoom link is at the bottom of this email…

You can join our inner circle group by taking out a paid membership here:

Subscribe now

This is going to be one of our most rewarding and challenging read-alongs yet. If you’ve been on the fence about joining our inner circle, now is the time. You do not want to miss this!

Books 1-4 cover the groundwork of introducing the family before the meat of the action takes place. The Karamazovs consist of 4 men:

• Fyodor, the buffoon-sensualist patriarch, who has fathered three sons by two women and abandoned all of them

• Dmitri, the oldest son, an impassioned, hot-headed military officer

• Ivan, the cold and brilliant intellectual

• Alyosha, the gentle-hearted but timid son, apprenticing to become a monk

The most significant action takes place in Book 2, where the entire Karamazov family gathers to meet the sagely monk Father Zosima, in order to settle a familial dispute between Dmitri and Fyodor.

The dinner proves to be a disaster, in which the worst of the vices in Fyodor, Ivan, and Dmitri manifest themselves, disgracing the Karamazov family in front of the respected elder Zosima. Yet the dinner concludes with a mysterious ending:

Just after Dmitri finishes screaming at his father, Zosima arises from his seat and bows down to Dmitri. No explanation is offered, but his loving gesture defuses the conflict as Dmitri runs away in shame.

Some questions for us to consider tomorrow:

1. Fyodor Pavlovich is a buffoon, but Dostoevsky gives him a genuine philosophical voice: his cynicism about God and meaning offers much more than “comic relief.” Does his buffoonery grant him privilege to say things a more distinguished character couldn’t, or does it undercut whatever truth he may actually articulate?

2. Dmitri seems to be a man at war with himself. He’s capable of real nobility (his devotion to honor) and real degradation (his pursuit of Grushenka) almost in the same breath. Consider his capacity to be both a “great saint,” and “great sinner,” and ask why Zosima would bow to him of all people.

3. Ivan is fairly mysterious thus far. He’s distinguished himself in Russian society as a genuine intellectual authority, and has published celebrated newspaper articles on matters of Ecclesiastical courts and Church Authority in the secular world.

And yet, he’s a self-aware atheist who believes “anything is permitted.” Does he strike you as conflicted like Dmitri is? Or perhaps merely a cynical Machiavellian figure? Or might there be more to Ivan than meets the eye?

Share your thoughts below or in the subscriber chat, along with any questions you have.

Here is the Zoom link for tomorrow:

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Episode 18 of the podcast is now live!

Jeremy is joined by David Mainayar (of Empire-Builders fame) for a discussion on Miguel de Cervantes’ masterpiece, Don Quixote.

David explains why this 17th-century story is widely regarded as the first modern novel, and how it lay the foundations for novelists ever since.

It’s a fascinating tale reflecting Cervantes’ own hard-won life and the clash between idealism and reality. The iconic journey of Don Quixote and his sidekick Sancho Panza contains within it many timeless lessons on purpose, doubt, and what it really means to live by one’s ideals.

Watch the episode for free on Substack, or on YouTube if you prefer.

Enjoy!

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We’re about to start Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov! The first discussion is on Tuesday, August 4, at noon ET — join us!

Subscribe now

To support our mission, please consider a paid subscription. It makes a HUGE difference to the time and resources we can dedicate. You’ll get:

• Live book discussions (biweekly) and recordings

• Access to our incredible community of readers

• Regular essays to guide you through the books we’re reading

• The entire library of articles, essays, and podcasts

If your “For You” feed is anything like mine, you see this phrase at regular intervals, lifted from Dostoevsky’s The Idiot:

“Beauty will save the world.”

The quote appears in uplifting posts set against sunsets, church ceilings, or the ecstatic art of Michelangelo. Few, however, recognize the depths of Dostoevsky’s claim.

The problem is, it’s a statement that sounds poetic but also feels vague and naïve. It’s an appealing idea, but lacking as something of real use to us.

How, exactly? How will beauty save the world? Why should anyone hang their hopes on a claim so vague?

Precisely what Dostoevsky meant has been subsequently wrestled with by thinkers from Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn to Pope Benedict XVI. Let’s examine Dostoevsky’s claim, and how to apply it in our own lives…

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We are just about to start Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov! The first discussion is on Tuesday, August 4, at noon ET — join us!

Subscribe now

To support our mission, please consider a paid subscription. It makes a HUGE difference to the time and resources we can dedicate. You’ll get:

• Live book discussions (biweekly) and recordings

• Access to our incredible community of readers

• Regular essays to guide you through the books we’re reading

• The entire library of articles, essays, and podcasts

A Positively Beautiful Man

As mentioned, the phrase comes from the novel The Idiot, spoken indirectly by the character Prince Myshkin. The 26-year-old prince is an “idiot” because he’s a naïve optimist, a positively good man in a Russian society corroded by cynicism and nihilism. The people around Myshkin reject him for his innocent nature and foolish generosity, though at times, they find him too piteous to attack.

The prince is also a committed Christian, and this is a source of tension. Myshkin is seen as a “holy fool,” unequipped with the kind of cynical rationalism necessary to navigate the broken society he’s plunged into. He sees the good in everyone, and fails to see that his goodwill toward others won’t be reciprocated. Worse, he’s blind to the destructive psychological forces at work in those around him.

When we encounter the quote in question in the novel, it’s attributed to Myshkin but spoken in mockery by the intellectually sharp but nihilistic Ippolit:

“Is it true, prince, that you once declared that ‘beauty would save the world’? Great Heaven! The prince says that beauty saves the world! And I declare that he only has such playful ideas because he’s in love! Gentlemen, the prince is in love. I guessed it the moment he came in. Don’t blush, prince; you make me sorry for you. What beauty saves the world?”

Myshkin is mocked and rejected by modern Russians precisely because of his affection for “outdated” notions like beauty and romance. Yet he clings to them. When Myshkin later discovers a horrific murder that he is unable to process, his psychological fragility (and epilepsy) overwhelms him — he is destroyed because his goodness is incompatible with the world he inhabits.

The Insufficiency of Reason

Despite Myshkin’s lack of success in Russian high society, even the hardened characters of The Idiot feel themselves drawn to his good nature, although their ruthless rationalism and self-interest tell them otherwise. Myshkin is a living alternative to their own inner emptiness.

This is an example of something that Dostoevsky returns to repeatedly across his novels: human beings are not primarily motivated by reasoned argument. We can argue ourselves into (or out of) almost anything, yet this can never formulate a sense of meaning.

Similarly, in The Brothers Karamazov, we encounter another young “holy fool” in Alyosha, who cannot compare to the intellect of his older brother Ivan, a sharp rationalist. Ivan is superior in debate, and when he lays out his case against a just God (especially his argument from innocent suffering), Alyosha cannot win. He does not have a counterargument that closes the logical gap in his faith exposed by Ivan.

And yet, readers of The Brothers Karamazov do not fall in love with Ivan (though they often see themselves in him). They are drawn to Alyosha and the kind of life that is lived out by his philosophy. He doesn’t have all the logical answers, but he lives oriented toward something that transcends the need for logical arguments in the first place.

Be careful not to interpret this as anti-intellectualism — Dostoevsky was making an important point about the outer limits of argument. He knew well that reason can expose the fractures in one’s beliefs, but it cannot supply what comes next.

So, where does beauty come in?

Beauty, like the characters of Alyosha and Myshkin, is proof of a kind of truth that exists beyond the reach of logic. Beauty is something that you cannot be reasoned into or out of, and it simply grabs you.

But that doesn’t mean that living in tune with beauty is easy. As we read in The Brothers Karamazov, “beauty is not only fearful but also mysterious.” Dostoevsky’s “beauty will save the world” claim is not some comforting platitude, but a profound challenge — to live as a “positively beautiful man” in the modern world is difficult.

Fortunately, though, Dostoevsky’s masterpieces reveal how we can start to live up to what beauty demands of us…

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Is intensity a virtue or a vice?

We all have a friend who gets overly passionate about whatever he cares about, even at the expense of more important things. At its worst, this can manifest in addictions or consistent habits that can destroy your life.

In perhaps the greatest novel of all time, The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoevsky demonstrates the dangers of being a slave to your own destructive passions. The Karamazov family is full of passion, often to tragic results. But while you can read about the danger of intemperate passions in many places, what makes The Brothers Karamazov unique is that it provides alternatives to a life governed by them.

The three (legitimate) Karamazov brothers provide three ways to handle passion. Only one brother — though he is by no means a perfect character himself — succeeds.

The demonstration results in one of the greatest psychological novels of all time, and shows why we cannot become enslaved by our passions, but we cannot eradicate them, either…

Join our read-along of ‘The Brothers Karamazov’!

We are working through it over the next 7 weeks, in dialogue with each other. The first discussion is on Tuesday, August 4, at noon ET.

Subscribe now

To support our mission, please consider a paid subscription. It makes a HUGE difference to the time and resources we can dedicate. You’ll get:

• Live book discussions (biweekly) and recordings

• Access to our incredible community of readers

• Regular essays to guide you through the books we’re reading

• The entire library of articles, essays, and podcasts

Dmitri: A Passion for Pleasure

The first and oldest Karamazov brother is Dmitri. Like his father, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, Dmitri is a classic hedonist. He gets himself drunk on a regular basis, revels with prostitutes, and runs around partying. He is engaged in a petty love triangle with his father over a young woman who goes by “Grushenka,” who constantly teases both men without committing to either.

And even when he is not living hedonically, Dmitri is impulsive and fiery — beating others, including his own father, when he becomes captured by his own rage. He is, in every sense, a man enslaved by passion.

Dmitri’s passion ends up destroying his life. He abandons his rich, beautiful, and almost miraculously patient fiancee, Katerina Ivanovna Verkhovtseva, for Grushenka. Moreover, his public rages and open threats against others make him the obvious suspect when a murder takes place, and he is convicted of a crime he did not commit. Dmitri is a miserable wretch, and his passions lead to his own destruction.

Most people in the novel attribute the intense passion to being a Karamazov; it runs in the family. Dmitri’s younger brother Ivan does not handle this well, either. But Dostoevsky does not think that the Karamazovs are helpless to their natures; they can choose how to handle their fiery temperaments…

Ivan: Love of the Intellectual Life

Ivan is the second eldest brother, and he is completely disgusted with Dmitri’s life of decadence. But surprisingly, Ivan is not much happier.

Ivan is a brilliant philosopher and writer. He can argue theological and philosophical points with the best of them, even confounding the learned monks of the monastery. Ivan is an atheist, though he writes thoughtful theological essays almost as a joke.

Yet Ivan cannot seem to be happy, either. He does not serve others, does not find true fulfillment in his writing, and seems largely to be waiting for something that never comes. He is also in love with Dmitri’s fiancee, but never speaks of it and represses his emotions.

Ivan’s philosophy, partially a response to his family’s chaos, is destructive in its own right: Ivan later learns that it is precisely his own nihilistic philosophy that led to the murder in the story (though he did not commit murder himself).

Eventually, Ivan’s brilliance collapses into mental disorder. His constant reflections on the problem of evil, and his growing sense of complicity in the murder, lead him into a brain fever and a vision of the devil — the devil is sarcastic and ironic, reflecting how Ivan himself approaches everything from his standpoint of intellectual superiority.

Thus, Ivan battles his “Karamazovic” passion by pouring it into his intellectual life. But this does not satisfy him, either. He is just as miserable as his older brother, and like Dmitri’s hedonism, Ivan’s philosophy ends up destroying both himself and others.

The key to a life lived well with passion, then, lies not in satisfying the passionate desires, nor in directing them toward ironic intellectual detachment. The true path to peace lies in the choices made by the third brother: Alyosha.

Alyosha: The Love of Others

When the novel begins, the younger brother Alyosha is a novice in a monastery. One feels that Alyosha is running from his family’s past, seeking safety in the seclusion.

But the elder of the monastery, a living saint named Father Zosima, soon tells Alyosha that his place is not behind monastery walls — he must go out into the world and live among his family (and get married).

Holiness, we learn, is not found in running away from who we are, but in becoming who we are meant to be. In Alyosha, the passion of the Karamazov family is made what it was always meant to be: one that is passionately on the side of justice and charity.

Many people warn Alyosha that he is a Karamazov like his brothers and father, and therefore will have to reckon with passion as the others do. But Alyosha’s passion is not a passion for intelligence or pleasure; instead, he takes caring for others very, very seriously. When Alyosha learns that Ivan has insulted a poor man, he personally attempts to mediate between Ivan and that family to set matters aright. When he learns of a rift between Katerina and Dmitri, he works to repair that situation, too.

Where Dmitri, Ivan, and their father do tremendous damage to themselves and others, it is Alyosha who sets about making things right. It can seem like Alyosha spends most of the book putting out fires that other people set. And yet, Alyosha is both the happiest and most popular of the Karamazovs. Almost everyone respects and loves him, even his brothers who cannot get along with each other. Whereas the other Karamazovs spend the novel destroying themselves and others, it is Alyosha who serves as the corrective to classic Karamazov passion. He still has it, to be sure, but it is directed in love for others.

It would be tempting to think that Dostoevsky is firmly against strong, passionate personalities in The Brothers Karamazov. But like Aristotle, Dostoevsky is not opposed to strength or intensity; he is opposed to disordered intensity.

In Alyosha, we find a classic example of a man who puts his whole self into serving others. The result is someone who prompts the reader to say, with the final line of the book, “Hurrah for Karamazov!

Join our read-along of ‘The Brothers Karamazov’!

We are working through it over the next 7 weeks, in dialogue with each other. The first discussion is on Tuesday, August 4, at noon ET.

Subscribe now

Lots of people are talking about “enchantment” recently: how we lost it, the consequences of losing it, how we might re-enchant our world again.

But precisely what enchantment means is hard to pin down. To many, it is the idea that the world we inhabit is not fully explainable by us. That our world is inherently meaningful, and so too our participation in it.

Put another way, it is not simply that the nearby forest may play host to mysterious forces or creatures, but that your own journey through the trees is participating in some greater story that you cannot fully know.

For J.R.R. Tolkien, enchantment could be identified as something more specific: something approximating the feeling of un-possessive love or wonder.

I’ve personally found learning to cultivate this perspective to be incredibly useful. Tolkien reveals how…

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We have just voted to read Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov next! The first discussion will be on Tuesday, August 4, at noon ET — join us!

Subscribe now

To support our mission, please consider a paid subscription. It makes a HUGE difference to the time and resources we can dedicate. You’ll get:

• Live book discussions (biweekly) and recordings

• Access to our incredible community of readers

• Regular essays to guide you through the books we’re reading

• The entire library of articles, essays, and podcasts

Delight Vs. Control

One of my favorite things about Tolkien’s writing is how he takes time out of the plot to describe single trees in great detail. He gives them the dignity of their own names, personalities, genealogies. Why?

It is well known that Tolkien abhorred the desecration of nature by industrial society. He saw it as his role to speak up for trees, which in our world are voiceless: “In all my works I take the part of trees against all their enemies.”

More fundamentally, Tolkien underscored the importance of tending to things without regard for how you could use them. A living tree, just the way nature intended, is more beautiful than anything we could use it for or carve from it.

Modernity (or synonymously, the dis-enchanted state) sees nature as a set of extractable and farmable resources, which can be fully understood through rational inquiry. Modern man sets out to master nature (including his own human nature), and to transcend his physical circumstances. The enchanted man experiences the inherent wonder of things and wishes only to live among them, with a kind of un-possessive love for them.

The Lord of the Rings explores the tension between those who seek to control the world (Sauron, Lord of the One Ring) and those who seek only harmony with it (the Hobbits or Tom Bombadil, who treats the Ring with frivolity). Relinquishing one’s desire for control is your first step back toward enchantment, because control is enchantment’s polar opposite.

Learning to love things without fully understanding them is related to this. Things impress wonder upon us (a sunset, an intricate facade, a gnarled tree) because there is a dimension to them that we cannot explain. Not knowing precisely how something (or someone) works, or why it makes us feel a certain way, helps us to see the inherent value in it.

Tolkien advises us to be comfortable with the idea that we cannot understand all things, and to seek harmony with the way they are instead. But does he give any clues as to how to actually recover this state of wonder?

Faërie Vs. Magic

The first clue to achieving re-enchantment is in how Tolkien distinguishes enchantment (or “Faërie” in his nomenclature) from magic.

Sauron’s One Ring is a vulgar thing of magic, because magic seeks power by making an alteration in the primary world (it is no coincidence that the words “magic” and “machine” have the same ancient root ‘magh-’ meaning “to be able, to have power”). Sauron’s magic ring is a machine of total control.

Enchantment, by contrast, is “artistic in desire and purpose,” says Tolkien. It seeks to create anew rather than to change what is there. The high art of Tolkien’s Elves is an analogue for enchantment.

For instance, the Elven cloaks of Lothlórien, gifted as camouflaging garments to Frodo and company, were created in harmonious alignment with nature. When Pippin asks if these are “magic cloaks,” the confused Elves respond:

“Leaf and branch, water and stone: they have the hue and beauty of all these things under the twilight of Lurien that we love; for we put the thought of all that we love into all that we make.”

Elvish craft works alongside, not against, the power of the land. The Elves embody the kind of enchantment that Tolkien was after because their creations are rooted in a desire to create out of love and reverence for the land. They enhance one’s participation with original creation, and never seek to transgress its inherent nature. When we say “enchantment,” what we mean is a closer and more meaningful relationship with the world around us, and this is what characterizes the Elves.

So, practically speaking, what does our road to recovery look like?

It’s easy to talk about wonder and “un-possessive love” of things. But if you already know how a tree works — its biological form and process by which it grows — how do you see it as a thing of wonder again? What can we do as people of modern times?

Fortunately, Tolkien answered this question in an essay…

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John Milton’s Paradise Lost features one of the greatest portrayals of evil in literary history.

The poem is a theodicy, Milton’s attempt to “justify the ways of God to men.” In it, he dramatizes the Biblical Fall of Man to tackle one of the most difficult questions of all time:

Why would a good God allow a world full of evil, suffering, and injustice?

Milton’s epic poem, first published in 1667, became immediately controversial for its radical, romanticized portrayal of Satan. Many critics have gone so far as to claim Milton was on the Devil’s side without knowing it.

Paradoxically, however, it is specifically because Satan is so appealing to the reader that Milton's genius is revealed. For Milton understood the nature of evil like few poets ever have, and shows that behind the glamour and wonder of Satan’s “heroism” is a rotting decay that shows how corrupting and damning evil truly is.

Here, then, is Milton’s take on the cosmic birth of evil, why evil is so enticing to mankind, and the only true defense against its corrupting influence…

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A Failed Rebellion

The first two chapters of Paradise Lost take place in Hell, where Satan and his demons mourn in despair over their recently failed rebellion. They lament that God is far more powerful than they ever conceived, and now admit that he is indeed master of the universe.

In the words of one demon:

“I now of force believe [God is] Almighty, since no less

Than such could have o’erpowered such force as ours”

Already we get a glimpse into the psychology of evil. The demonic host admits that God is the true ruler, but does so on the basis of his power. Notice how the demons never acknowledge his goodness or justice — Milton is teaching us that the psychology of Hell is one where might makes right, a world that is “beyond Good and Evil.”

Though the demons despair over their loss of Heaven, Satan still proclaims the new cry of the underworld, and it is the most quoted line of the entire epic:

“Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heav’n!”

This is Satan’s pride speaking, which Milton makes clear is the cosmic birth of evil in the universe. For Milton, Satan (once the greatest of all the angels) rebelled out of jealousy of Christ, and preferred an eternity of damnation rather than bending the knee in submission. Already the stakes are high, but the evils of Hell prove even more complex and sinister in the next chapter.

The Council of Hell

Satan’s first move as the ruler of Hell is to summon a war council of his advisors.

The demons propose a range of responses to their defeat. Some urge another assault, others recommend peace for the sake of survival, and still others suggest scouring Hell’s depths in search of profit.

Here, Milton is further increasing the complexities of evil, namely, that it has no real identity. The demons are not just searching for a plan of action, but rather trying to understand their life’s purpose.

Before the rebellion, their lives were contingent upon serving and loving God. Now, their plans only involve some form of corruption or revenge against their heavenly father. Milton’s lesson for us is Augustinian: evil cannot exist by itself.

To make sense of this, think of a hole that has been dug into the ground. Evil exists in the same way that a hole in the ground exists — the hole cannot exist without the ground because the hole is an absence of ground. In the same sense, Evil is but a corruption or absence of the Good — it only exists in relation to the Good.

Finally, the war council agrees on a plan. Satan himself will leave Hell in search of a rumored new cosmos where God has created man. They agree that the best revenge against God will be to corrupt this mankind, and this now becomes the identity of evil — the permanent enemy to God and to the Good.

Up to this point, Milton’s portrait of evil has been grandiose and striking, yet largely familiar. As Satan departs, however, the poem takes a startling turn.

At the gates of Hell, Satan encounters two wicked monsters that are strange and foreign to him. He soon learns that they are his own grotesque offspring, born from his rebellion, and their appearance reveals a shocking lesson about the root of all evil…

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Episode 17 of the podcast is now live!

Jeremy is joined by professor Joshua D. Phillips for a discussion on Hemingway’s classic novella, The Old Man and the Sea.

Through Santiago's epic struggle with the marlin, they explore the book’s meditation on ambition, sacrifice, and the meaning of victory itself. They also examine Hemingway's own life, and why this deceptively simple fable is such a timeless guide to completing life well.

Watch the episode for free on Substack, or on YouTube if you prefer.

Enjoy!

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We just voted to read Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov next!

The first discussion will be on Tuesday, August 4, at noon ET. Come study it with us.

We are currently voting on what to read next inside the subscriber chat.

We are taking a short summer break, so the first discussion on the next book will take place on Tuesday, August 4, at noon ET — see you all soon and happy reading!

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We can often think of philosophy as being completely impractical. While many people spend their time thinking about how to make their career, family or hobbies more successful, philosophers just sit around…thinking about stuff. Right?

Not Aristotle.

For Aristotle, his ethics are eminently practical. So much so, in fact, that his works on ethics and politics are focused primarily on how to live a good life and make your city better.

Moreover, these are not vague, “everybody should get along”-type answers. They have to do with concrete and specific ways that better living leads to happier people. So today, we are going to see three life lessons from Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, and how they can help us improve our lives today.

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You can find the Zoom link to tomorrow’s live discussion here.

Lesson 1: Keep The End Goal In Mind

One of the most important principles of Aristotelian ethics is that a thing’s goodness is determined by its purpose and the degree to which that thing achieves its purpose.

That might sound complicated or esoteric, but it actually makes a lot of sense. Consider it this way: what makes a good pencil? Presumably, it needs to write well, and do whatever facilitates good writing. So if it does, in fact, mark paper, does it smoothly, doesn’t smudge, is comfortable in the hand, and so on, it is a good pencil. And not for some moral or theoretical reason: its goodness is completely determined by what it is for.

This means that knowing a thing’s purpose is crucial for determining whether it is good or not. To keep a trivial example, imagine that you thought that a cue stick was meant to be a pencil. The cue stick could be the fanciest, most impressive cue stick in the world, but you would still think it was poorly made, by someone who doesn’t understand pencils; it doesn’t even have something to write with unless you put chalk on the end!

Frequently, poor solutions to problems come about because the solution forgets the actual goal the solution is supposed to pursue. This is what happens when disciplinary rules focus on external appearances but allow any manner of actual vice that gets around them. In especially bad cases, the solution can be worse than the problem itself.

So next time you have to solve a problem, stop and remember Aristotle, and ask yourself: what is the end-goal here? Why am I doing this in the first place? It will help you make a more focused solution. And that is important, because it is not always obvious what the right solution is. Fortunately, Aristotle has some advice for that, too…

Lesson 2: Virtue is Found in the Middle

Aristotle held that a sound ethics discerned good habits, called virtues, directed towards particular goods. But he pointed out that, typically, virtue is found in the middle of an excessive response and an insufficient response.

Pursuing justice, for example, is good. Virtuous even. But seek to exact every single “fair” result you possibly can, and you are going to be exacting and unmerciful in a way that is no longer justice. But be careful; in an attempt to not be over-exacting, you might also let too much by, so that justice is not served.

This theory is the famous “golden mean” theory of Aristotelian ethics, and it is a fundamental principle of wise living and wise governance. While it can be tempting in important circumstances to lean heavily towards laxity or exactness in every instance, that is not always what is demanded by virtue. Instead, the virtuous man is going to find the mean between excess and deficiency in every instance.

Importantly, this is not the advocacy towards a vicious passivity. You could read this and think that Aristotle never thought it was right to make a strong decision. But really, what he is calling for is that all of our actions be governed by reason. Unfortunately, that is not always possible on our own, which is why Aristotle offers this third lesson…

Lesson 3: We Can’t Be Good By Ourselves

Aristotle calls human beings political animals, which means that we do not exist solely for ourselves. Rather, we are directed not just for our own good, but for the good of our community.

This has two implications on what it means to be a good person living a fulfilled life:

Virtue is other-centered. A virtuous person is not focused only on his own goods. If someone is only ever looking out for himself, he won’t be virtuous, no matter how hard he tries. And as Aristotle points out, he will not be happy either. After all, Aristotle’s rules are not external instructions like “please do not step on the grass.” Rather, they are instructions on how to live a happy, fulfilled life. You shouldn’t be moral because it will make your Mom happy. You should be moral because you will be miserable otherwise. And without a healthy community that you are working towards, you will be miserable.

Virtue comes from a healthy community. You cannot be virtuous if you are surrounded by people making you vicious. The community you are in determines a lot about who you are, how you live, and what you live for. Since we are political animals, we grow in virtue or vice as our community at large does, too. Notice that this means that you and your friends have a responsibility to each other. You can, and in fact you should, help your friends become more virtuous people! And if you do not do so, they will not be as happy as they ought to be.

Fundamentally, Aristotle’s point is that no person is only responsible for herself. Whether you like it or not, your virtue both impacts, and is dependent on, the people around you. So choose carefully.

The Important Questions

To close, ethical philosophy at its best is not about coming up with annoying answers to bizarre thought experiments. It’s about answering the questions that matter most:

How ought I to live?

How can I be who I am meant to be?

That’s what makes Aristotle so powerful, and what makes reading him useful to everybody, even if you aren’t a philosopher…

Reminder that our third (and final) session on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics is taking place tomorrow, July 7, at noon Eastern Time.

Please join the live discussion via Zoom if you want to participate or ask questions directly.

Here’s the Zoom link:

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A popular idea today — and perhaps the founding myth of modernity — is that mankind is gradually ascending from ignorance to rational enlightenment.

Progress, in this sense, is defined as gradual improvement in both morality and technological capability, so that mankind may eventually become fully rational and live in a kind of utopia.

Not only is this belief almost certainly wrong, but it turns out that the opposite may be true — because technological progress not only fails to guarantee moral progress, it can even become a sign of civilizational degradation.

This warning is nothing new. It was first sounded by Plato over 2,500 years ago, and later echoed, quite intentionally, by J.R.R. Tolkien in The Lord of the Rings.

Today, then, we’ll look at what Plato (and Tolkien) warned us about human nature, how that warning is unfolding in real time, and what we can do to protect ourselves…

The Myth of Progress

Let’s restate the myth of progress:

Modern man is a product of evolution, descended from apes, and steadily ascending toward rational enlightenment. Religion, myth, and superstition were merely primitive stages of mankind learning to reason and gain mastery over his environment.

Over time, through rationality and science, man will master both nature and morality, and use this mastery to usher in a utopia free of suffering.

The problem with this theory is not science itself, nor whether one affirms the theory of evolution. The problem is the unsound philosophical assumptions smuggled in under the authority of science.

Evolution alone, of course, does not account for human consciousness, the origin of existence, nor the fullness of human nature. It is therefore not “scientifically sound” to assert that man is a creature of pure rationality, especially when nearly all philosophers agree that man is a mixture of reason and will.

Thus, it is not guaranteed that mankind is gradually becoming more moral, nor that technological advancement implies an improved understanding of the human good.

Plato, in fact, argues the opposite. Progress can be dangerous when it reshapes the soul without reference to virtue. Innovation for its own sake, says Plato, is a dangerous thing: “Change, we shall find, except in something evil, is extremely dangerous.”

But why?

Plato and the Decay of Regimes

In The Republic, Plato argues that excessive innovation — especially in education, culture, and moral norms — destabilizes societies. Civilizations, he says, do not endlessly advance; they tend to cycle and decay instead.

Famously, Plato identified five political regimes that any society can inhabit (for a more detailed breakdown, check out this article). To understand why Plato mistrusted innovation, we must first summarize each. Note, the five regimes are not just different governments; they represent successive deteriorations of the human soul.

Crucially, a city (or a soul) is defined by what it treats as its highest value…

1. Aristocracy

An aristocracy, as Plato defines it, is ruled by philosopher-kings: benevolent rulers with a perfect philosophic knowledge of justice and the Good. This is the ideal state for Plato.

In this society, wisdom is held as the highest value, and the aristocratic man’s soul is led by reason. Education must be carefully regulated to protect this, because citizens create governments that reflect their dominant values. Cultural or technological “advancement” must not be allowed to threaten society.

Plato, however, admits that mis-education of philosopher-kings is inevitable over time, and when rulers are no longer totally committed to the Good, society will devolve into its next form…

2. Timocracy

In a timocracy, rulers begin to prize honor, not wisdom, as the highest value. Plato points to the warrior ethos of Ancient Sparta, where timocratic man is led by his spirit instead of his reason: the part of the soul that craves recognition.

Timocratic man looks up at those of military status, but down upon producers and serfs — he is obedient to his rulers, but harsh with his slaves. Thus, timocracy produces order and vigor, but not justice. And over time, hunger for status mutates into hunger for possessions, because to accumulate wealth is the best way to protect oneself against an unjust state.

3. Oligarchy

The next form is oligarchy, rule by the wealthy. Wealth replaces honor as the highest good. The oligarchic man’s soul is ruled by his appetite, but this is restrained out of his fear of losing what he has.

Though the state may grow rich, wealth-inequality and social instability begin to arise. The state is brittle because wealth alone is not enough to secure unity — a city held together by money rather than virtue or wisdom cannot last.

4. Democracy

Plato (and most classical thinkers) heavily disliked democracy, where freedom is held as the highest value. It arises from the grievances of the impoverished classes of oligarchy, and charismatic speakers who can sway the crowd’s appetites rise to power.

Democracy unchains the appetite of the oligarchic man, and pleasures belonging to both bad and good desires are now accepted (since freedom of choice is the ultimate good). With nothing to direct the soul’s appetite, democracies end when one single appetite comes to enslave the others…

5. Tyranny

Out of democracy emerges a strongman leader who promises redistribution to the mob. He grabs power by playing upon the people’s appetites, and the state becomes authoritarian to preserve that power.

Tyrannical man is the most free to pursue his lawless appetite, and thus he is the most enslaved by it. The result is inevitable ruin.

Remember, earlier systems kept the appetite in check: at first through the pursuit of wisdom, then honor, then the oligarchic man’s fear of losing what he has. But when freedom became the guiding ethos, there is nothing to check the appetite. Ultimately, Plato’s point is that any society that cannot keep wisdom and virtue as its guiding principle will spiral into tyranny through the cycle he described.

An Age of Tech Worship

Ours is an age of tech worship. We all know that the rapid innovation in AI — which disrupts the way we think, write, and learn — opens up a Pandora’s box of unintended consequences that could fundamentally unsettle society. And yet, there is little attempt to slow down the rapid advancements being made in AI. We live in an age of unrestrained tech worship, where to endlessly improve the capability of technology at the cost of all else is deemed the greatest good.

In Plato’s terms, a civilization driven by “progress” in this way (defined primarily as material wealth and mastery over nature) is oligarchic in spirit. It may flourish externally, for a time, but Plato warns that such a society is doomed to decay.

And this is precisely what J.R.R. Tolkien witnessed a century ago, and which lies at the heart of his epic saga, The Lord of the Rings.

What does a story of a heroic, pre-technological age, have to tell us about technology and the decay of civilization?

Well, quite a lot.

What Tolkien was trying to communicate is the key to understanding both our decay and the narrow path out of it. For Tolkien, technology is not simply a tool, but an apparatus that replaces the formation of the soul, and amplifies the will to dominate…

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Episode 16 of the podcast is now live!

Jeremy is joined by Jessica Hooten Wilson, Chair of Great Books at Pepperdine University, for a discussion on Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov.

This novel, the last book Dostoevsky penned before his death in 1881, is often talked about today as the greatest novel ever written. Why is that?

Jessica defends this claim by explaining how Brothers stands as the culmination of Dostoevsky’s life, philosophy, and faith. It is a piercing insight into the full spectrum of human experience, told through three brothers: passionate Dmitri, intellectual Ivan, and the striving Alyosha. Through three separate characters, Dostoevsky dramatizes the deep internal conflicts that exist within every human soul.

Watch the episode for free on Substack, or on YouTube if you prefer.

Enjoy!

Episode 15 of the podcast is now live!

Jeremy is joined by writer Liza Libes for a discussion on Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, and why the novel — written 160 years ago — still resonates so strongly today.

They explore the crucial Russian concept of Toska, a deep spiritual ache or homelessness, which sits at the heart of the novel but is sorely missed in English translations.

Through Raskolnikov’s harrowing journey, this 19th-century masterpiece still speaks forcefully to the spiritual and moral emptiness of our own age, while also revealing how love and self-sacrifice can resurrect a broken life.

Watch the episode for free on Substack, or on YouTube if you prefer.

Enjoy!