Some will remember
the stately procession of Edward Gibbon’s finale, his summation to “the
greatest, perhaps, and most awful scene in the history of mankind”:
“ . . . the
disorders of military despotism; the rise, establishment, and sects of
Christianity; the foundation of Constantinople; the division of the monarchy;
the invasion and settlements of the Barbarians of Germany and Scythia; the
institutions of the civil law; the character and religion of Mahomet; the temporal
sovereignty of the popes; the restoration and decay of the Western empire of
Charlemagne; the crusades of the Latins in the East: the conquests of the
Saracens and Turks; the ruin of the Greek empire; the state and revolutions of
Rome in the middle age.”
I have just started
reading Victor Davis Hanson’s The Second
World Wars: How the First Global Conflict Was Fought and Won, and Hanson’s panascopic
lens reminded me of Gibbon’s great book and his observation that history is “little
more than the register of the crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind.” He
also reminded me of Zbigniew Herbert’s “Transformations of Livy,” in which the Pole
contrasts how four generations of the men in his family read the Roman
historian. The poem was translated into English by John and Bogdana Carpenter in
Elegy for Departure and Other Poems (2000),
but was written in the 1980s while Poland remained under Communist domination:
“and so they
read Livy—O season of blossoms—
in the smell
of chalk boredom naphthalene for cleaning the floor
under a
portrait of the emperor
because at
that time there was an emperor
and the
empire like all empires
seemed
eternal”
That is how his
grandfather and great-grandfather read Livy. In contrast: “Only my father and
myself after him / read Livy against Livy / carefully examining what is
underneath the fresco.” For the older readers among his relations, “the empire
like all empires / seemed eternal,” as did the Soviet Union and its puppet
states. Herbert’s poem concludes: “and the empire will fall.”
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