Episode 11 of the podcast is now live!

Jeremy is joined by university professor Joshua D Phillips for a discussion on one of the greatest novels ever written, Tolstoy’s War and Peace.

They explore how Tolstoy dismantles the “great man theory” of history, showing how power is actually bestowed by the masses rather than held by a single leader. The conversation dives deep into Tolstoy’s critique of war, his emphasis on the small, everyday moments of family and friendship, and why those quiet scenes around the dinner table ultimately matter more than the battlefield…

You can watch the episode for free on Substack, or on YouTube if you prefer.

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The book club is currently reading Virgil’s Aeneid. The next discussion is on Tuesday, April 14, at noon ET — come study it with us!

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Our next session on The Aeneid will be on Tuesday, April 14th.

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Reminder that our first session on Virgil’s Aeneid is taking place tomorrow, March 31, at noon Eastern Time.

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You read the Narnia books as a child, or had them read to you — the iconic tales that took you beyond the four walls of your bedroom, through the wardrobe in the attic, and into an exhilarating world of magic, prophecy, and mythic beasts.

But at the time you probably weren’t aware of their spiritual depth.

The Chronicles of Narnia weren’t written as mere entertainment for children. They are, of course, religious stories, created by a devout Anglican and infused with Christian symbols and ethics.

But C.S. Lewis’s books weren’t written for any straightforward, moralizing purpose, either. Lewis knew that mythic stories are meant to be experienced at a much deeper level, in order to unleash the imagination of the child (or adult) reading them.

Lewis was trying to awaken something in all of us; something that changed his life not as a child, but as a man in his early 30s.

Here’s what you may have missed in Narnia, and what the author was trying to tell us all along…

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Christianity in Narnia

The Christian elements of Narnia are glaringly obvious at times, certainly to the adult reader.

Edmund, a stand-in for sin, eats the Turkish Delight before betraying his siblings to the White Witch, seduced by pride. We see the poisonous influence of the serpent on the first man in Genesis, but Edmund can also be read as Judas Iscariot of the New Testament.

Aslan the Lion comes, as revealed through prophecy, to save Edmund (and all of Narnia) through sacrifice. A great lion wasn’t chosen at random, either — in Revelation, Christ is described as “the Lion of the tribe of Judah.”

When Aslan gives himself up to the White Witch, he isn’t just killed. He’s taunted by a mob, spat on, and kicked on the way to the Stone Table (much like Christ at Golgotha). He’s later resurrected by a “Deeper Magic”, which can reverse the death of one who willingly took the place of someone guilty.

Biblical parallels run through the entire series, which even concludes like the New Testament does. In The Last Battle, the “real” Narnia emerges out of the old one’s apocalypse, commanded by Aslan, and the corrupted world is replaced by eternal joy.

Death, we learn, is not an ending but another doorway. Aslan now wields judgment, letting some through and condemning others to be “swallowed up in his shadow,” though it isn’t entirely clear where they’ll end up.

Beyond Allegory

Notice, however, that there are no simple, one-to-one allegories. Edmund can be read as Adam, Judas, or sin itself. And unlike Judas, who commits suicide shortly after betraying Jesus, Edmund ultimately repents and finds forgiveness.

Narnia goes beyond simple parallels in other ways, encouraging deeper reflection on the part of the reader. When the Pevensie children grow up, Susan refuses to accept that Narnia was real, and gets lost in the material world: “interested in nothing nowadays except nylons and lipstick and invitations.”

The story ends with the children’s tragic death in a train wreck, and reunion with Aslan in Narnia. But Susan wasn’t with her siblings at the time — she carries on in life, “too keen on being grown-up”, and we’re left to wonder if she’ll make it into Aslan’s “Heaven.”

Like his friend J.R.R. Tolkien, Lewis considered allegory a lazy method of storytelling, and an unsuitable medium to properly ignite the imagination. He preferred to call his Narnia a “supposal”, not an allegory:

Suppose there were a land like Narnia and that the Son of God, as He became a Man in our world, became a Lion there, what would happen?

Through allegory or not, Lewis was mostly unconcerned with making moral or religious arguments via his stories. He was trying to do something much more foundational.

Above all, Lewis worried that the grind of modernity makes us lose a sense of mystery in ordinary things, whereas mythic stories open us to the idea of reality beyond the material world. How?

Myths, Lewis knew, do something far greater to the human imagination, and this is what we turn to next…

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We have just voted to read Virgil’s Aeneid next. The first discussion will be on Tuesday, March 31, at noon ET — see you all then!

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Reminder that our second session on Homer’s Odyssey is taking place TODAY, March 17, at noon Eastern Time.

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Another exciting one. Episode 10 of the podcast is now live!

Jeremy is joined by theology professor and Tolkien expert Andrew Snyder for a discussion on The Lord of the Rings, and what drove J.R.R. Tolkien to pen his fantasy epic.

They discuss Tolkien’s Christian and northern heroic influences, and the story’s timeless lessons on personal responsibility, hope amid despair, and finding the true self through self-sacrifice.

You can watch the episode for free on Substack, or on YouTube if you prefer.

Enjoy!

We do what we do because we’re passionate about spreading the wisdom, stories, and virtues of the Western canon as widely as possible — but we need your help.

We are a 100% reader-supported publication.

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If you want to support our efforts, please consider a paid subscription. It makes a huge difference to the time and resources we can dedicate to this. You’ll get:

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• Access to all member discussion threads (via the subscriber chat)

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The book club is currently reading Homer’s Odyssey. The next discussion is on Tuesday, March 17, at noon ET — come study it with us!

Our next session on The Odyssey will be on Tuesday, March 17th.

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Reminder that our first session on Homer’s Odyssey is taking place TODAY, March 3rd, at noon Eastern Time.

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In his 1946 essay Politics and the English Language, Orwell laid down six rules for writing. They are short, almost blunt, but they have outlived most style guides because they are true. If you want to know why some writing feels alive and other writing feels dead, the difference is usually whether the writer followed Orwell’s rules.

Orwell believed the corruption of language was tied to the corruption of thought. If people wrote badly, it was usually because they thought badly. If they learned to write clearly, they could learn to think clearly.

That is why his rules are more than writing tips. They are a way of defending the mind against confusion…

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Rule 1: Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print

When Orwell says this, he is not saying never use metaphors. He is saying never use dead metaphors. Language becomes dead when it is repeated without thought. A phrase like “toe the line” or “the acid test” was once vivid, but after a thousand uses it becomes invisible. Writers reach for these clichés because they are easy. But easy words make lazy readers.

Orwell wanted writers to make language alive again. If you say “time is money,” no one feels anything. If you describe how waiting in a queue feels like watching coins drain from your pocket, people pay attention. The difference is that the first is a cliché, the second is an image born from experience.

Writers often defend clichés because they think readers need familiarity. Orwell thought the opposite. Familiar phrases lull readers into not paying attention. Fresh language wakes them up. When Shakespeare compared Juliet to the sun, the image was new. When modern writers say the same thing, it is an echo. If you want readers to feel, you must make them see, and they only see if the image is your own.

Rule 2: Never use a long word where a short one will do

This sounds obvious, yet almost no one does it. The temptation to use long words is strong because long words feel impressive. Politicians do this most often. They say “utilize” instead of “use,” or “ameliorate” instead of “improve.” The goal is to sound serious, but the effect is the opposite. Readers suspect you are hiding behind the word.

Orwell believed that short words are honest words. “Use” is better than “utilize.” “Help” is better than “facilitate.” A child understands them. A reader trusts them. Good writing does not need to dress itself up. It does not need ornaments. A short word is a small clear window. A long word is a stained glass panel that blocks the light.

Writers often object that some ideas require big words. That is true for technical writing. A physicist cannot avoid “quantum” or “relativity.” But in most cases the long word is chosen for effect, not necessity. It is chosen to look clever, not to be clear. Orwell’s rule is a reminder that you are not here to show off, you are here to be understood.

Rule 3: If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out

This may be the hardest rule to follow because writers fall in love with their own sentences. Cutting words feels like killing them. Yet almost every sentence is improved when it is made shorter. A page that once took a minute to read can often be read in forty seconds without losing anything. The reader feels the difference.

Orwell understood that extra words are not harmless. They create fog. A writer who says “it is clear that” or “the fact that” is wasting the reader’s time. The words do not add meaning. They pad it.

Good writers are brutal cutters. Hemingway stripped his prose to the bone. His sentences are lean because he cut without mercy. Orwell did the same. If you compare early drafts of his essays with the final versions, you see whole phrases removed. The effect is energy. Words that remain have power because nothing else is in the way.

The test is simple: read your sentence aloud. If a word adds nothing, cut it. If the meaning survives, the word was never needed. Writers fear cutting because they confuse length with importance. Orwell’s rule reminds us that importance comes from clarity, not from how many words you can put on the page.

Rule 4: Never use the passive where you can use the active

The passive voice hides responsibility. When a writer says “mistakes were made,” the subject disappears. Who made them? No one is sure. The passive voice creates distance. It makes events sound inevitable. The active voice names the actor. “The minister lied.” “The company cheated.” These are sentences with teeth.

Orwell saw how politicians used the passive voice to disguise guilt. A law is “enacted.” A city is “pacified.” Enemies are “eliminated.” The verbs hide the subject. The state becomes a machine that acts on its own. The reader is left with no one to blame.

In ordinary writing, the passive voice makes prose weak. “The ball was thrown by John” is longer and less direct than “John threw the ball.” The difference seems small, but over a whole page it changes the tone. Active sentences are alive. Passive ones are limp.

The rule does not mean never use the passive. Sometimes the actor is unimportant. “The house was built in 1900” does not need a subject. But in most cases, the passive voice is a trick to avoid clarity. Orwell wanted writers to resist it. He wanted words that name names.

Rule 5: Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent

This rule is often ignored in universities. Academic writing is famous for jargon. Scholars prefer “problematize” to “question,” or “hegemonic discourse” to “common belief.” The effect is to make ideas seem more complicated than they are. Orwell despised this. He saw jargon as camouflage. Writers who use it often do not know what they mean.

Foreign phrases are another form of showing off. Writers sprinkle in Latin or French to give their prose authority. But the reader only feels excluded. Orwell believed that the best writing should include the reader, not shut them out.

The same is true for scientific words. In science they are unavoidable. But outside science they are often used to impress. A writer says “existential” instead of “real,” or “cognitive” instead of “mental.” These words create distance. Everyday English brings ideas closer.

This rule is not about dumbing down. It is about precision. Short, common words are often the most exact. When a reader understands at once, the idea is stronger. When the reader has to pause and decode, the idea weakens. Orwell wanted writing that did not need translation.

Rule 6: Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous

This last rule is the safety valve. Orwell knew that rules can become their own kind of cliché. If you follow them blindly, your writing may become mechanical. Sometimes a cliché is the only phrase that works. Sometimes a long word is the only precise one. Sometimes the passive voice is the clearest way to say something.

What matters is not the rule but the purpose. The goal is clarity. The rules are tools to help you get there. But the rule that matters most is honesty. If breaking a rule makes you more clear, break it.

This last rule is the one that separates Orwell from pedants. He did not want writing bound by formulas. He wanted it freed from bad habits. His rules were guides, not chains. Writers who remember that will write with both clarity and freedom.

Why Orwell’s Rules Still Matter

The strange thing about Orwell’s rules is that they have not aged. They were written in 1946, in response to the political jargon of his day, but they could be written today about corporate press releases, academic journals, or government reports. The disease of language he described is permanent. People use words to hide. They always will.

The rules still matter because they remind us that writing is an attempt to tell the truth. If you fail, the reader feels it. The words may look polished, but they do not connect. If you succeed, the words disappear and the meaning comes through. That is the test.

What Orwell saw clearly is that clarity is rare because honesty is rare. Writers avoid short words because they fear sounding simple. They avoid active voice because they fear naming responsibility. They avoid cutting because they fear losing status. In every case, the problem is pride. Orwell’s rules are a cure for pride. They force the writer to serve the reader, not themselves.

Conclusion

Every generation faces the same choice. We can let our language decay into jargon, cliché, and euphemism, or we can fight to keep it alive.

Orwell gave us six rules for the fight. They are simple. And they are still the best advice anyone has ever given about how to write.

We will soon be taking votes on the next book in the subscriber chat!

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Reminder that our second session on Niccolò Machiavelli’s The Prince is taking place TODAY, February 17, at noon Eastern Time.

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Our next session on The Prince will be on Tuesday, February 17th.

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Reminder that our first session on Niccolò Machiavelli’s The Prince is taking place TODAY, February 3rd, at noon Eastern Time.

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Incredibly excited to hit publish on this one. Episode 9 of the podcast is now live!

Jeremy is joined by bestselling historian and writer Dan Jones for a discussion on his book, The Wars of the Roses. They discuss the chaos of the 15th century conflicts, why the English monarchy ultimately survived despite all it endured, and the lingering trauma and lessons from it all.

You can watch the episode for free on Substack, or on YouTube if you prefer.

Enjoy!

We do what we do because we’re passionate about spreading the wisdom, stories, and virtues of the Western canon as widely as possible — but we need your help.

We are a 100% reader-supported publication.

Subscribe now

If you want to support our efforts, please consider a paid subscription. It makes a huge difference to the time and resources we can dedicate to this. You’ll get:

• Live community book discussions (biweekly)

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• The full archive of articles, essays, and our 100 Great Texts reading list

• Access to all member discussion threads (via the subscriber chat)

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The book club is about to start reading Niccolo Machiavelli’s The Prince. The first discussion is on Tuesday, February 3, at noon ET — come study it with us!

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Reminder that our second session on G.K. Chesterton’s The Everlasting Man is taking place TODAY, January 20th, at noon Eastern Time.

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Episode 8 of the Athenaeum Podcast is now live.

Jeremy sits down with medieval history writer Memory Medieval for a discussion on medieval (and early modern) culture, honor, and combat, in the context of a fascinating book called “Duelling Stories of the Sixteenth Century.”

You can watch the episode for free on Substack, or on YouTube if you prefer.

Enjoy!

We do what we do because we’re passionate about spreading the wisdom, stories, and virtues of the Western canon as widely as possible — but we need your help.

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If you want to support our efforts, please consider a paid subscription. It makes a huge difference to the time and resources we can dedicate to this project. Paid members get:

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The book club is currently reading Chesterton’s The Everlasting Man. The next discussion is on Tuesday, January 20, at noon ET. All paid members can join the live discussion up on stage…

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Most people assume that thinking happens entirely inside their own head.

When we disagree with someone, we tend to imagine two private worlds bumping into each other. My thoughts are mine, yours are yours, and the disagreement is just the point where they meet.

But it hasn’t always been this way.

For most of human history, thought was not experienced as something manufactured internally and then projected outward. People did not experience the mind as a closed container behind the eyes. Thinking was something that happened between you and the world.

Today, thinking is treated as a mechanical process. Information enters the mind, gets processed internally, and exits as opinions, judgments, or conclusions. If an idea can’t be defended cleanly or articulated precisely, it’s dismissed as emotional.

This shift has changed how we reason..

Thank you for being part of our mission! If you’d like to support us, and join in the book club sessions directly, please consider a paid subscription. You’ll get:

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A Porous Mind

Ancient people did not experience the mind as a sealed chamber.

The boundary between inner and outer life was thin. Dreams, intuitions, omens, and sudden insights were treated as meaningful disclosures.

This is why ancient texts so often describe wisdom as something that comes. In the Hebrew scriptures, wisdom “cries out” in the streets. In Greek philosophy, truth is something the soul remembers. In early Christianity, revelation descends; it is received, not reasoned into existence.

Even memory was not primarily internal. It lived in ritual, song, architecture, and story. Knowledge was communal and embodied long before it was abstract and individual.

This does not mean ancient people were irrational or incapable of analysis. It means their consciousness was structured differently. Thought had not yet withdrawn into the interior and declared independence from the world.

One of the most important modern thinkers to recognize this difference was Henri Bergson. Bergson argued that modern philosophy had confused reality with the tools we use to analyze it. Instead of knowing things as they are lived, we dissect them conceptually from the outside.

“The intellect,” Bergson wrote, “is characterized by a natural inability to comprehend life.”

For Bergson, lived experience was fluid, continuous, and qualitative. But modern thinking freezes experience into static concepts. We replace what is lived with what can be measured.

Something subtle but profound is lost in this exchange.

The Birth of the Isolated Thinker

The turning point in Western thought is often traced to René Descartes, who famously declared cogito, ergo sum—I think, therefore I am, placing the certainty of thought at the center of human experience.

With this move, the act of thinking becomes the most secure foundation available, and everything else is approached from there. Reality no longer presents itself directly as something given; it must first be doubted, tested, and reconstructed internally before it can be trusted.

From this point on, the mind is understood as standing apart from the world. The world appears at a distance, positioned in front of the thinker rather than surrounding and sustaining him, and experience is reorganized as something to be observed rather than inhabited.

Over time, this stance reshapes how it feels to exist. The human being comes to experience himself less as a participant moving within reality and more as a spectator positioned across from it, encountering the world through representations before encountering it as lived.

Bergson noticed a similar habit in modern thinking about time, which is treated as though it were space… divisible, measurable, and laid out in units. Thought undergoes the same treatment. It is broken into parts, arranged into steps, and handled efficiently, while the sense of thinking as something continuous and lived from within gradually recedes.

When Ideas Had Weight

In older forms of consciousness, ideas were not weightless abstractions that passed easily through the mind.

To hold a belief meant aligning oneself with a reality, and words carried force because they were bound to what they named. Speech was not neutral. To speak falsely was not simply to be mistaken, but to disturb the order of things one had entered into.

This is why ancient cultures treated language with caution. Words were understood to bind the speaker to what was said, creating obligations that extended beyond the moment of speech.

Modern language feels lighter. We speak constantly and casually, and opinions multiply because they cost very little. Words drift away from action, belief loosens from commitment, and thought separates from life. Thinking becomes easy precisely because it no longer binds us to anything beyond ourselves.

That freedom produces a faint but persistent sense of unreality, a feeling that ideas move through us without leaving much behind.

Thought as Encounter

For Plato, knowledge took the form of recollection, a recognition of truths the soul already knew in some incomplete way.

In the Meno, Socrates shows that learning unfolds through questioning and dialogue, not through the passive reception of information. The point is the structure of knowing itself, in which truth emerges through participation rather than private construction.

Thinking happened in conversation… with other people, with tradition, and with reality itself. Even solitude was understood as an openness toward something beyond the self, rather than a withdrawal into mental privacy.

Modern thinking treats this process as a closed loop. The individual mind receives inputs and produces outputs. Dialogue turns into debate. Truth turns into opinion, something defended rather than recognized together.

The Cost of Sovereignty

The modern mind operates as a sovereign, judging and evaluating from a position of distance.

Nothing is allowed to speak for itself. Everything must justify its existence before reason. This posture has produced extraordinary achievements in science and technology, reshaping the material world with remarkable precision.

It has also made meaning more fragile. When meaning is manufactured it becomes easier to discard. When thought is private rather than participatory, it loses its grounding. The modern individual experiences freedom alongside a persistent sense of drift.

This helps explain why contemporary life is saturated with information and yet starved of wisdom, why we think constantly and still feel oddly detached from what we think about.

As Bergson observed, “The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend,” and a mind trained exclusively to analyze gradually loses the ability to receive.

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