What is the purpose of education? Is it to get a degree and find a high-paying job? Or is it something else entirely?

In today’s world, the phrase “liberal arts” is used by admissions directors to describe a course of study that comprises the humanities and an emphasis on critical thinking. But a brief glimpse at the etymology of the phrase tells a radically different story, and hints at what the purpose of education really is.

In Latin, the “liberal arts” — artes liberales — are “liberal” in the sense they derive from libertas, meaning “freedom”. In other words, the liberal arts are literally the “tools of freedom,” the subjects that make you free to think for yourself and navigate the world around you.

But what are these tools, exactly?

In the Middle Ages, these artes liberales were broken into seven main subjects. These seven were then divided into two groups, the Trivium and Quadrivium. Mastery of the Trivium and Quadrivium was considered essential for anyone to call himself educated, as together they form the backbone of a truly classical education.

Today, then, we look at the seven liberal arts to see how they can help you become truly free in a world that would happily see you anything but. Because unlike our modern system, the medieval world had a coherent vision of education — not as preparation for work, but as a means of shaping your mind and soul…

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The Trivium

The three subjects that comprise the Trivium serve as the foundation of all learning. Not only do they teach you how to think, but they teach you about the very nature of thought itself.

Crucially, no student can move onto the Quadrivium before he masters these three subjects, for his studies would be fruitless without them. Indeed, before setting out, it is important to realize that these disciplines were understood less as distinct “subjects,” but rather as a connected web through which a soul was trained in its capacity to understand the order of reality.

1) Grammar

Medieval professors considered grammar to be the gateway to all knowledge. Since you think and express yourself with words, you must have robust knowledge of how words work.

Just as grammar imposes order on language, language imposes order on thought. The best way to express coherent thoughts is to understand the inner workings of language. You must master your own, of course, but it also helps to learn (as all medieval academics did) a classical one like Latin.

But for as necessary as grammar is, it only lays the structural foundations of the metaphorical house of thought. The roof and walls of that house are erected by the next discipline…

2) Logic

If grammar is the ordering of language, logic is the ordering of thought. Building directly on the analytical precision developed via grammar, logic trains you to critically evaluate ideas.

The point of studying logic is to make you invulnerable to lines of reasoning that sound robust, but are in fact flawed. Not only does it help you identify a hidden/false premise in an argument, but it also enables you to think through a philosophy to its real-world implications: what does this look like when taken to its logical end?

In the medieval era, students used texts like Aristotle’s Organon and Boethius’s commentaries to learn how to construct valid arguments and identify logical fallacies. Disputations were also a key part of the curriculum. As almost the entirety of fields like theology, law, and philosophy rests on premises established by logic, mastery of this subject is absolutely key to the formation and governance of a just society.

3) Rhetoric

Needless to say, simply knowing how to think rationally isn’t enough. You also need to be able to communicate your ideas to others, too. Rhetoric is the tool that helps you do so with clarity and force.

Unfortunately, the idea of “rhetoric” often gets a bad rap, conjuring up more visions of dishonest politicians than those of just leaders. But historically, skill at rhetoric was viewed as a virtue: given that the truth isn’t always easy to grasp, it requires skilled rhetoricians to help others understand it.

Viewed in this light, rhetoric isn’t just the hobby-horse of a select few, but rather the calling of all those who care about the truth. It’s also why it’s the final subject before you begin the Quadrivium, because no matter what you learn there, none of it makes a difference if you can’t effectively share your knowledge with others.

The Quadrivium, after all, is where your real learning begins. Grammar, logic, and rhetoric are simply the prerequisites for meaningful thought and the pursuit of truth. But they mean nothing if you don’t have real knowledge to communicate.

That knowledge is precisely what the Quadrivium provides. It is the framework that shaped over 1,000 years of brilliant intellectual minds — and perhaps your own, if you’re up to the task. With the Trivium under your belt, you are now ready to understand and be formed according to the pattern of reality…

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Film and television constitute the bulk of modern entertainment. An ever-decreasing portion of adults prefers reading, but most of it is confined to novels, non-fiction, or news. Whether as a source of entertainment or insight, plays are practically forgotten.

This is a terrible mistake, for the role of plays in shaping Western civilization cannot be overstated. Long before the founding of Rome or the invention of the printing press, there was the theatre. It shaped the minds of Ancient Greece and laid the foundation for all of Western art, politics, and philosophy.

But of course, the role of theatre doesn’t stop there. Today, we take a step back in time to look at how five of history’s greatest plays shaped Western culture, from the Ionian peninsula to Elizabethan England and the court of France’s Roi Soleil.

If you’ve ever wanted a “must-read” list of history’s best theatre, there’s no better place to start than here…

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We are currently reading East of Eden by John Steinbeck.

The next discussion is TODAY, September 9, at noon ET. Watch the previous discussions here if you missed them.

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1) Antigone

Written in the 5th century BC by the playwright Sophocles, Antigone explores the ideas of divine law, political authority, family bonds, personal conscience, and the consequences of pride…just to name a few!

The central tension of the play arises from the character Antigone’s decision to bury her brother, despite King Creon ordering her not to. But don’t let this oversimplification fool you, for Creon is no petty tyrant. At the heart of his disagreement with Antigone is a real political dilemma that continues to shape politics to this day.

When you read Antigone, you get exposed to one of the foundational ideas of all Western civilization: natural law. You can trace a line from Sophocles’ play to the work of Cicero, Thomas Aquinas, the Catechism of the Catholic Church, and today’s concept of “conscientious objectors”.

The play raises questions like: to what extent must the law be enforced in order for it to mean anything? To what degree do the “unwritten and unfailing laws” of the gods outweigh legitimate legal authority? And, most importantly, how do the answers to these theoretical questions impact real people in the real world every single day?

Antigone explores all this and more in thrilling fashion. It is not a play you can afford to ignore.

2) Hamlet

Hamlet begins with a ghost and a demand for revenge, but what follows is something far more profound: an extended meditation on death, duty, grief, betrayal, love, and the mystery of what comes after this life.

The only real problem with Hamlet is that (in some ways, like its protagonist) it’s a victim of its own success. It’s a play everyone “knows,” and because of this, few take the time to know it on its own terms. But the more time you spend with Hamlet, the more you get out of it. It asks far more questions than it answers, and offers one of the most far-reaching explorations of the human condition ever put to stage.

That said, arguably the entirety of Hamlet’s premise can be summed up in one line. It is a word of caution delivered to the eponymous character’s friend from university, but it is just as well meant for us:

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy…”

3) Life Is a Dream

Pedro Calderón de la Barca is known as “the Spanish Shakespeare,” and with good reason. He penned approximately 200 plays, and his Life Is a Dream is perhaps the greatest philosophical drama of Catholic Baroque Europe.

The surreal play kicks off with a prophecy about the king’s son, who is destined to become a tyrant and bring ruin upon the kingdom. Although the details of the plot differ quite drastically from that of Oedipus Rex (another play by Sophocles, which we wrote a breakdown of here), the main question at its heart is the same: can man escape his fate?

To answer that question, Calderón de la Barca blends together the classical outlook on fate with Christian ideas of free will and providence. The result is a play that inverts the tragedy of Oedipus Rex and demonstrates how human freedom can triumph over fate and circumstance. It does so by questioning the very nature of reality itself, and showing that even if “life is a dream,” that doesn’t change the moral basis for our actions…

4) The Misanthrope

No list of great plays is complete without at least one entry by Molière! The Misanthrope, one of his greatest plays, is about a man fed up with the world of polite society.

The character in question, Alceste, despises flattery and the seemingly harmless lies told in everyday conversation. When a man reads him a sonnet he wrote and asks Alceste’s opinion, he replies that it’s terrible. No polite head nodding or encouragement from him!

But while Alceste thinks himself righteous and honest for telling the truth, the limits and inconsistencies of his uncompromising approach eventually come to light. Not only that, but the play also explores the extent to which disingenuous compliments and polite phrases are actually necessary elements of any developed civilization.

If you’ve ever gotten upset when someone casually asks “how are you?” this play has your name on it.

5) Faust

Goethe’s magnum opus Faust is a classic tale about a deal with the devil. It begins with an aging scholar who, although he has studied all fields of human knowledge, realizes he still doesn’t know the secrets of the universe. He is so miserable he contemplates suicide, and into this context steps the demon Mephistopheles.

Mephistopheles says he’ll serve Faust in this life if Faust serves him in the next. After some negotiations, the two finally come to a deal: if Mephistopheles can offer Faust an experience so wonderful and transcendent that he wishes to remain in it forever, then he will die immediately and serve the devil in Hell.

But as it turns out, neither side fully knew what they were getting into. Mephistopheles is stumped by man’s inability to ever be satisfied, and Faust drastically underestimates the havoc his pursuit of pleasure wreaks in the world, not to mention his own life. The play ends with a dramatic reversal of fortune that leaves many of those onstage — and in the audience — asking whether or not Faust really got what he deserved.

Much like the work of Goethe himself, Faust is a wide-ranging play that covers almost every bit of the human experience, from desire to grief, gain, cunning, commerce, sin, and salvation. What becomes of the man who never stops striving? Goethe’s answer, whether right or wrong, might well surprise you…

Our read-along of East of Eden is coming to an end. We meet TOMORROW, September 9, at noon Eastern Time.

If you missed the previous sessions, don’t worry. You can catch up on the recordings here.

The 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…

This final third of the novel focuses on Adam’s children — Aron and Cal.

We follow them through their youth, adolescence, and early adulthood, and notice that both boys mimic the character of Adam and Charles. Specifically, Aron is beloved, gentle, and an idealist (like Adam), while Cal is described as dark, brooding, and jealous (like Charles).

Yet these boys do have quirks of their own. Aron does have a capacity for violence that Adam lacks, and Cal has a heightened conscience/sense of guilt over his violent nature that Charles lacks. In other words, though both boys seem to inherit character traits that would continue the cycle of violence between Adam and Charles, Steinbeck suggests they also have agency to choose their own destiny.

Thus Aron is not obviously going to become a saint, nor is Cal doomed to become the next Cain.

Unfortunately, however, Adam shows favoritism, just like his own father Cyrus did. Specifically, Adam loves Aron more than Cal, and is more proud of Aron’s success in university than Cal’s success in business. Although Cal tries to donate his profits to his father — hoping to restore the family’s reputation — Adam rejects the money as the gift reminds him too much of profiteering off the war. Thus, we get “Cain’s rejected sacrifice,” all over again.

Cal, crushed by his father’s rejection, seeks vengeance on Aron. Specifically he takes Aron to visit their mother, knowing the revelation that she is alive, and evil, and that Adam had lied to Aron all his life (he told her she was dead) would destroy Aron.

Indeed, Aron’s meeting with his mother is too much for him to handle. He runs away, enlists in the army, and seeks to destroy himself at war. The last action in the novel — which we’ll discuss on the call — leaves the fate of all our characters up in the air:

What will become of Aron? Did Cal doom himself to become Cain? How will Cathy handle meeting both of her sons? Can Adam the father find redemption in light of his own failings as a father?

Additionally, below are some questions to consider:

• Consider again Adam’s rejection of Cal’s money, which once again repeats the “Cain and Abel,” cycle of violence. If timshel means Cal is free to choose good, why does the novel keep putting him in situations where his best effort is guaranteed to fail? Is Steinbeck undermining his own thesis from the last section?

• Cal’s revenge — showing Aron their mother — is framed as his “sinful,” Cain moment. But is it actually a “sin,” to show Aron the Truth? Does Adam stand to blame for lying? Or should Aron be responsible for his own moral agency? How do we balance this with Cal’s vicious intentions?

• Cathy has been the biggest challenge to Steinbeck’s thesis of timshel. He asserts all human beings have free will, yet Cathy continuously puts this idea under tension as she is monstrous to the end. And yet, do you notice any changes in Cathy during the final act of the story? Is there a semblance of a guilty conscience in her? Or does she remain adamant, monstrous, and unchanged to the end?

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 tomorrow…

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Men are not [monogamous]. No good pretending. Men just ain’t, not by their animal nature.

—J.R.R. Tolkien

Many readers will perhaps be surprised to learn that these words, written down by the beloved author of The Lord of the Rings, are indeed authentic. Penned between the 6th and 8th of March, 1941, they are found midway through a lengthy letter from J.R.R. Tolkien to his son Michael.

In the letter, Tolkien advises his second-eldest son on marriage and relations between the sexes. He offers advice on how to find a “soul-mate”, and explains why “nearly all marriages, even happy ones, are mistakes.”

On the surface, it seems completely hypocritical — heretical even — for a self-proclaimed Catholic author to write such words. But over the course of the letter, the real point Tolkien sets out to make slowly becomes clear, and the result is timeless advice for sustaining a happy and healthy relationship.

Tolkien clearly followed his own recommendations, as he and his wife Edith remained happily married for over 55 years. Today, we take an in-depth look at Tolkien’s letter, and discover the Oxford don’s secret to a loving, lifelong marriage…

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We are currently reading East of Eden by John Steinbeck.

The next discussion is on September 9, at noon ET. Watch back the previous discussions here if you missed them.

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The Problem

To see how Tolkien’s advice resonates today, it helps to first consider contemporary views on relationships. In fact, it was a viral post — “My wife thinks we’re soulmates. I think I settled” — that first sparked my recollection of Tolkien’s thoughts on the subject.

In that post, the author laments being married to his wife of six years, and considers leaving her to pursue true love elsewhere. Here is an excerpt:

It may or may not be surprising to you to know that most of the comments regarding this man were overwhelmingly supportive. The following piece of advice, for example, was “liked” over 137,000 times:

Whether or not the original post was real or written by AI is beside the point — in either case, the online masses overwhelmingly agreed that to leave his wife would be a just thing to do.

When I demurred on this point and suggested that he should instead adhere to his marriage vow “to be faithful to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life”, I inevitably got pushback. The most common objection raised was the following:

This is what finally brings us to Tolkien — because in his mind, it is near impossible to not choose the wrong person. On this point, he specifically writes:

Nearly all marriages, even happy ones, are mistakes: in the sense that almost certainly (in a more perfect world, or even with a little more care in this very imperfect one) both partners might have found more suitable mates.

Admittedly, this is hard to dispute, and some might even use it as a pretext for ending their marriage. Yet Tolkien never intended it that way — in fact, his remedy for these mistakes is utterly at odds with the advice most people give today…

“A Nice Name for Self-Indulgence”

Let us now look at the first main section of Tolkien’s letter to Michael to better understand his thoughts on the institution of marriage — specifically, lifelong Christian marriage:

Men are not [monogamous]. No good pretending. Men just ain’t, not by their animal nature. Monogamy (although it has long been fundamental to our inherited ideas) is for us men a piece of ‘revealed ethic,’ according to faith and not the flesh. The essence of a fallen world is that the best cannot be attained by free enjoyment, or by what is called “self-realization” (usually a nice name for self-indulgence, wholly inimical to the realization of other selves); but by denial, by suffering. Faithfulness in Christian marriages entails that: great mortification.

For a Christian man there is no escape. Marriage may help to sanctify and direct to its proper object his sexual desires; its grace may help him in the struggle; but the struggle remains. It will not satisfy him—as hunger may be kept off by regular meals. It will offer as many difficulties to the purity proper to that state as it provides easements.

—Letter to Michael Tolkien, March 6-8, 1941. From The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien

Before continuing: it’s important to note three main points:

1) Tolkien believes that “the essence of a fallen world” means that the best things in life “cannot be attained by free enjoyment…but by denial”

2) What is popularly referred to as “self-realization” is deemed by Tolkien to be “a nice name for self-indulgence”. Neither this nor “free enjoyment” allows you to attain the best, and is in fact “wholly inimical to the realization of other selves”.

3) Tolkien states that marriage, for as exalted as it is, is not the magic bullet to man’s woes:

Marriage may help…but the struggle remains.

It will offer as many difficulties…as it provides easements.

Put together, all of this offers seemingly little consolation. And what little it does offer appears to be decimated even further with the following lines:

When the glamour wears off, or merely works a bit thin, they think that they have made a mistake, and that the real soul-mate is still to find. The real soul-mate too often proves to be the next sexually attractive person that comes along. Someone whom they might indeed very profitably have married, if only—. Hence divorce, to provide the ‘if only’.

And of course they are as a rule quite right: they did make a mistake…

Yet it is precisely on this final line that all of Tolkien’s argument hinges. In the following paragraphs, he goes on to claim that “all marriages are mistakes” — but far from being a cause for despair, he instead presents this as a point of hope, the key foundation for building a successful marriage.

What he says next holds the key to understanding it all.

How to Find Your “Soul-mate”

In today’s world, more than ever before, you have a choice of who you marry — but with that choice comes massive responsibility.

What if you make a mistake? What if you marry the wrong person? Not to mention the underlying fear that, because the choice of who to marry is entirely yours, an unhappy marriage would be a curse of your own making.

For those struggling with these feelings of doubt — or regret — Tolkien’s advice offers a much-needed perspective. He continues his letter with the following insight:

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In a previous article, we asked the question “why is there no great art anymore?” We answered it by saying that actually, there is. You just need to know where to look.

This summer, we traveled to Tuscany to scout out this great art in person. Our team traveled to Florence and Siena to meet with some of today’s greatest painters and sculptors: modern-day Michelangelos in the making.

A major part of our trip was our visit to the studio of , a talented young artist from whom we commissioned a life-sized portrait of St. Catherine. So far, the progress he’s made has been pretty astounding — you can catch a glimpse of it in the sequence below:

In today’s article, we want to take you with us on our trip to the heart of Renaissance Italy. We’ll give you an inside look at Carl-Nikolas’s studio, show you the glorious medieval city of Siena, and provide an actionable response to the question “how do you find great art nowadays?”

The answer, as always, might surprise you…

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We are currently reading East of Eden by John Steinbeck.

The next discussion is on September 9, at noon ET. Watch back the previous discussions here if you missed them.

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• New, full-length articles and essays 2x per week

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In-Person Amazement

Our trip to Florence began with a visit to the studio of Carl-Nikolas, who was hard at work on our commissioned portrait. His studio, just a five-minute walk from Florence’s imposing cathedral, is a playground for any artist (or like us, mere enthusiasts) to revel in. It was also a powerful reminder of how much more impactful paintings are when experienced in person.

This point is worth dwelling on for a moment, because it often risks being forgotten in our increasingly digitized world. No matter how incredible a photo might be, there is always something intangible it can’t fully capture. Carl-Nikolas’s painting of Christ Carrying the Cross, for example, might look nice in a picture. But when viewed in person, the gaze of Christ pierces you. It brought literal tears to the eye of at least one member of our team.

While this example pulls from the specific world of visual art, its lesson is no less universal: we are embodied creatures, and our experience of the world is most powerful when it, too, is embodied. This goes for everything from art to live music, meals, community, and more.

The in-person aspect of our visit paid dividends for our commission as well, as we were able to discuss with Carl-Nikolas details regarding the fall of drapery, the depth of shadows, and how to modify specific brush strokes to change the way light reflects in St. Catherine’s eyes. It was a fruitful visit, but it wouldn’t have been the same without…

A Trip to the Source

In St. Catherine’s day, Siena was a 2-3 days’ journey by foot from Florence. Today, it is a one-hour drive.

From the beginning of this project, we knew a trip to Siena would be a necessary step in making this painting all it can be. The reason why points to the first key to finding great art in the modern world: look for inspiration at the source.

In the context of this project, that source was literal: we toured St. Catherine’s home and saw the room she slept in, the well she drew water from, and the streets she played in as a child. For Carl-Nikolas especially, this allowed him to better understand the environment that shaped Catherine’s soul, thus equipping him to better convey her spirit through his painting.

But the idea of going to the source doesn’t have to be applied this literally. When conceived of in more general terms, it becomes a useful litmus test to help you determine who is making great art these days.

Regardless of their style of art, today’s greatest artists all have one thing in common: they find their inspiration in the transcendentals. Themes from heroism to love, beauty, and bravery all transcend time and inspire the best in us. Artists who pull from these for inspiration can create art that is both forward-thinking and timeless, as they are able to push into the future while being rooted in tradition. Those who completely break with the past and reject the transcendentals, however, might create something compelling in the moment, but it won’t stand the test of time.

So if you’re on the hunt for great art, start by looking to those who find inspiration in the timeless and eternal. From there, the next thing you ought to do is…

Look Where No One’s Looking

Just as you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, you shouldn’t judge an artist by his follower count. The best artists are rarely those with the biggest online followings.

But while “look where no one’s looking” is easy advice to give in the abstract, it’s far more difficult to implement in practice. How are you supposed to find hidden talent if it’s hidden? The answer lies in something that is, rather fittingly, just as timeless as humanity itself: community networks.

The process goes something like this: take an artist you already know, and look into their network. This is easy if they’re online — simply look at who they follow, and who follows them. Scour these networks for other artists who are more or less in your sphere of interest and follow them, too. Then, rinse and repeat several times until you’re multiple layers deep.

Although this process might sound arduous, it presents a serious arbitrage opportunity for those who are willing to put in the work. You’ll be able to find hidden talents who can produce better art at a better price than the more established names. This is even more true when you’re able to leverage offline connections and personal relationships to find artists who aren’t online at all.

The latter is what our team has been doing over the past several years, slowly building up a portfolio of European-based artists ranging from Moscow to Madrid. But you can do it on your own local level, too. Start by inquiring at local churches or art schools. If you see a piece of art you like in a café, ask the owner who painted it. Every time you meet an artist, ask them for the names of three other people you should connect with. This is how we originally came across Carl-Nikolas, as well as other artists we’ll be revealing in future instalments.

If you’re interested to learn more about what we’re doing at The Culturist to support classical artists, or if you’d like to commission art yourself, feel free to reach out to us directly by replying to this email.

P.S. Keep an eye out for the next update on our commissioned portrait of St. Catherine — the biggest news is yet to come!

In the meantime, follow Carl-Nikolas’s new Substack publication The Painter’s Gaze. If you want a behind-the-scenes look at how to create something beautiful in a world hostile to the idea of beauty itself, his writing will provide welcome insight:

The Painter's Gaze

The official Substack of traditional painter Carl-Nikolas von Tiedemann: Musings on art, beauty, faith, and more.

By Carl-Nikolas von Tiedemann

The 300-year reign of the Medici family is among the most illustrious in European history. As “Godfathers of the Renaissance,” they transformed not just the city of Florence, but the course of Western civilization itself. Their legacy in art, politics, and finance still continues to shape the world in which we live today.

So how did they do it?

In large part, the answer lies in the parenting style of Giovanni di Bicci, founder of the Medici Bank. Although often overlooked in favor of later Medici rulers, Giovanni’s story is in fact one of the most fascinating, as it reveals the secret to raising children worthy of empires.

Given that his descendants ruled from Florentine palaces to the throne of France and the chair of St. Peter, Giovanni’s track record speaks for itself. That’s why today, we look at three principles that defined how the first Medici patriarch raised his son Cosimo — who would later be honored as Pater Patriae, “Father of the Fatherland” — and what they can teach you about raising your own children.

The best part is, you don’t even have to run the world’s biggest bank to follow his advice…

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We are currently reading East of Eden by John Steinbeck.

The next discussion is on September 9, at noon ET. Watch back the previous discussions here if you missed them.

Subscribe now

We are 100% independent, funded only by our incredible community. Become a paid member and get:

• New, full-length articles and essays 2x per week

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• The entire archive (200+ articles, essays, and podcasts)

#1: Know Thyself

Self-consciousness in the late 14th century was still firmly rooted in medieval mores: people tended to regard themselves as members of a family, rather than as individuals.

According to such a way of thinking, these early Medici would have naturally sunk their individual political ambitions in the long-term ambitions of the family as a whole, accepting that political power would only be achieved by the family in more propitious times…

Meanwhile it was best to lay the foundations, establishing the family and its wealth to an ever greater degree, in preparation.

-Paul Strathern, The Medici

The greatest gift Giovanni di Bicci ever gave to his children was a simple one: that of a father who knew himself and his limitations.

Giovanni was a competent man, and more than confident in his ability to transmit his business acumen down to his son, Cosimo. He indeed did so — and we shall see how in the next section — with incredible success. But as far as topics like culture, art, and philosophy were concerned, Giovanni was keenly aware of his shortcomings.

Such knowledge of his insufficiencies, however, proved the key to Giovanni’s success as a parent, for he realized what he was unable to offer his children. In the areas in which he could provide little guidance, he sought out tutors to teach Latin, rhetoric, and classical philosophy. He encouraged Cosimo to cultivate relationships with artists and architects, not so much for the sake of formal patronage, but as social and intellectual capital.

Giovanni had grown up while the Renaissance was still in its infancy, and thus had little exposure to its artistic and philosophical undercurrents. Yet despite this, he was still able to ensure his son grew up immersed in the best aspects of the burgeoning movement:

It had only been in his later years that Giovanni di Bicci had begun to understand that there was more to life than banking and its attendant risks. Money could be turned into patronage, and in the exercise of this patronage one gained access to another world of timeless values…

Cosimo, on the other hand, would be aware of this other world from his earliest years; his education made him a humanist, yet he also retained his father’s astute character, and Giovanni made sure that this was thoroughly applied to the skills of banking.

-Paul Strathern, The Medici

Perhaps most remarkably, Giovanni provided all of this for Cosimo without ever coming to resent his son for outshining him intellectually. He never felt threatened by Cosimo’s ability to fluently speak a “language” that he himself would never know. He instead focused on the value of giving Cosimo the best of both worlds — both the requisite cultural know-how, and the concrete skills of business.

It was indeed Giovanni’s fatherly ability to pass down the wisdom of the old alongside the insight of the new that enabled Cosimo to launch the Medici family to international prominence…

#2: Let Them Hold the Reins

The Council of Constance would prove to be the greatest social and political event of the early fifteenth century…Cosimo was twenty-five, and was already showing considerable promise as a banker.

…the trip to Constance on behalf of the Medici Bank was an undertaking of exceptional responsibility, and it was a mark of Giovanni’s absolute confidence in his son that he chose Cosimo for the job.

-Paul Strathern, The Medici

In Giovanni’s time, banks rarely survived the death of their founder. The trust a client cultivated with his banker did not immediately translate into confidence with his banker’s son, and, as a result, most banks were simply shut down and dissolved upon the founder’s death.

In light of this, what Giovanni accomplished was all the more remarkable.

Giovanni successfully raised a son who not only continued the family business after his father’s passing, but who took it to heights never thought imaginable. The key to it all came down to one thing — giving Cosimo responsibility, and giving it to him early.

What follows is a breakdown of how, at each stage of Cosimo’s development, Giovanni exposed his son to risk and responsibility in the family business. Even if you’re not in the same position as Giovanni, the principles behind his parenting approach can still be applied in many ways today:

Ages 6-12 | Foundations in Literacy & Morals

Cosimo’s education began with the basics: Latin grammar, reading, and writing. His humanist tutors drew from Christian and classical sources to teach him history and moral philosophy, and stories from Livy and Plutarch doubled as lessons in statecraft, ambition, and restraint.

Giovanni made sure the young Cosimo was grounded in religion: both in the doctrines of the faith, and also in his understanding of the Church’s role in Florence’s political life. This would bear fruit both in the the present and decades later, as much of Cosimo’s artistic patronage in the winter of his life was fueled by an especially meaningful trip he took to a local monastery.

Whenever possible, Giovanni also brought Cosimo to public ceremonies and processions. The young boy was instructed to observe who greeted whom, which families sat together, and where influence really lay in the city’s hierarchy. It was a lot for Cosimo to take in, but one can imagine how, standing proudly beside his father, he enjoyed every minute of it…

Ages 13-16 | Apprentice Banker & Early Civic Training

By his early teens, Cosimo was no longer just an observer. Giovanni put him to work inside the Medici counting rooms, beginning with currency conversion and basic bookkeeping skills. He was soon allowed to manage small accounts, which was his first exposure to real risk: any mistakes he made while managing them would have real repercussions, though they would be more educational than they were ruinous.

At the same time, Cosimo furthered his study of rhetoric. He began accompanying his father to council meetings, guild gatherings, and private dinners with merchants. Yet for all his study in the art of persuasion, Cosimo was not yet allowed to speak — he was instead instructed to learn how to read the room. It would prove as vital a skill to banking as it was to politics…

Ages 17–21 | Advanced Banking & Local Diplomacy

Cosimo’s responsibilities expanded rapidly in his late teens. His father entrusted him with larger and more politically sensitive accounts, ones in which interpersonal tact mattered just as much as (if not more than) bookcounting and arithmetic.

Continued private instruction in the fields of commercial law and trade regulations gave Cosimo a deeper understanding of the rules — and the loopholes — that governed merchant life. Around this same time, Giovanni also began introducing him more intentionally to artists and architects. Though these early relationships did not usually constitute formal patronage, they laid the groundwork for Cosimo’s later mastery of cultural capital.

Finally, Cosimo began traveling to nearby cities on short business missions. He was now allowed to represent the Medici Bank in negotiations, taking on the responsibility of upholding the Medici name. It was a task in which he would not only succeed, but would do so to an extent that shocked the entire world — because what happened next would forever change the Medici family fortunes.

At the legendary Council of Constance, when Cosimo was just 25 years old, the fate of the Medici Bank rested on a single decision. Cosimo proposed a crazy idea to his father — and the response he got back was even more remarkable. Not only did it underscore Giovanni’s incredible knack for dealmaking, but it also enabled the Medici to do the impossible, and snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.

It also reveals Giovanni’s third principle of parenting, and the secret to raising a worthy heir…

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Mark your calendars…

The next discussion will take place in 2 weeks, at the usual time: Wednesday, September 9, at noon Eastern Time. We will cover Chapter 34–Conclusion.

Happy reading!

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In 1966, J.R.R. Tolkien translated the Book of Jonah for the Jerusalem Bible. In doing so, he also provided what is arguably the most succinct summary of the book to date:

“[The whale] is quite unimportant. The real point is that God is much more merciful than ‘prophets’, is easily moved by penitence, and won’t be dictated to even by high ecclesiastics whom he himself has appointed.”

Now, if you grew up with the Sunday school version of this story, Tolkien’s summary of the Book of Jonah might sound quite odd — and even more so when you consider that, if people know anything about Jonah, it’s that he was swallowed by a whale!

But Tolkien’s analysis, as so often, is spot on. Today, we explore the Book of Jonah: what it’s really about, why it’s hilarious, and how it challenges you to turn your conception of God on its head…

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We just started East of Eden by John Steinbeck.

The next discussion is TODAY, August 26, noon ET. It isn’t too late to join: you can watch back the first discussion here if you missed it.

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Nineveh: The Hated Foe

To understand Jonah’s story, you first need to understand Nineveh. In Jonah’s time, Nineveh was the capital of the Assyrian Empire, a superpower infamous for its violence and cruelty. Assyrian artwork itself brags of their brutal methods, which included impaling and skinning their enemies alive.

For the Israelites, the Assyrians weren’t just enemies — they were an existential threat. In 722 BC, Assyria sacked the northern kingdom of Israel, scattering its population and leaving destruction in its wake. Even after this conquest, the southern kingdom of Judah faced constant harassment until the Assyrians were finally overthrown by the Babylonians in 612 BC.

This background makes God’s command to Jonah all the more shocking:

“Go to the great city of Nineveh and preach against it, because its wickedness has come up before me” (Jonah 1:2)

For Jonah, Nineveh represented everything evil in the world: the ultimate enemy of God’s people. Why would God offer such a city the opportunity to repent? Surely, they deserved nothing but judgment and destruction. From Jonah’s perspective, God’s command wasn’t just distasteful, it was incomprehensible.

Jonah’s Reluctant Mission

Jonah immediately responded to God’s call, but with defiance, not obedience. Instead of heading to Nineveh, he boarded a ship bound for Tarshish, a city in the exact opposite direction. The reluctant prophet wasn’t just running away, but trying to escape God altogether.

But God, as the story shows, is not so easily avoided. When a violent storm threatens the ship, Jonah admits that it’s his fault. To save themselves, the sailors reluctantly toss Jonah overboard, where he’s swallowed by a giant fish (most children’s stories call it a whale, but in Hebrew it’s technically just a fish).

Now at this point, it might appear as though Jonah finally behaved virtuously by offering himself up as a sacrifice. But the author of Jonah makes it clear that the disobedient prophet isn’t just having a change of heart, rather, he’s attempting suicide!

This perspective is in line with Jonah’s character throughout the book. He hates the Assyrians so much, he’d rather kill himself than give them the chance to repent. But it’s also a perspective which is more harmonious with the character of God: the fish that swallows Jonah isn’t a source of punishment, but a source of salvation — not just for Jonah, but for the Assyrians whom God wishes to see reconciled to Him.

For three days, Jonah languishes in the fish’s belly, praying a prayer of repentance that’s equal parts thanksgiving and self-pity. While it might read as quite sincere, it’s actually just a pastiche of pre-existing Psalms — almost nothing about the prayer is original, which further compounds Jonah’s disingenuous character. Nevertheless, God has the fish carry Jonah to safety, and vomit him onto dry land.

Once ashore, Jonah begrudgingly goes to Nineveh, where his reluctance is on full display — and both the subtle humor and overt message of the story shine through.

For starters, the “sermon” Jonah preaches is just eight words in English: “Forty more days, and Nineveh shall be overthrown” (Jonah 3:4). It’s even less in the original Hebrew — five words are all that Jonah offers to the Assyrians.

But the real humor that’s lost in English is just how reluctantly these five words are pronounced. They’re not “called out” as most English translations render it. In fact, they’re barely muttered under Jonah’s breath. The image you get is one of Jonah reluctantly shuffling into the city, murmuring his words, then promptly making a beeline for the exit.

And yet, despite all of Jonah’s half-hearted efforts, something extraordinary then happens.

The Worst Possible Outcome

Unfortunately for Jonah, the people of Nineveh attend to his words. From the high king to the lowest servant, all the Assyrians don sackcloth and ashes, fasting and praying for forgiveness. Even the animals are included in their acts of penitence, as the king orders the animals to fast, too!

What’s even more remarkable is the attitude with which all of this is done — it’s not penitence as a vending machine, where you simply put on a sackcloth and get saved. All of it is done with incredible humility, and the King even says:

“Who knows? God may turn and relent and turn from his fierce anger, so that we may not perish.” (Jonah 3:9)

His “who knows?” showcases his humility — he understands it’s no guarantee that God relents from his anger. He knows their destruction is warranted.

But nevertheless, God forgives them. The destruction Jonah had hoped for doesn’t come. To his horror, Nineveh is spared.

The beginning of Chapter 4 illustrates the prophet’s frustration perfectly:

But it displeased Jonah exceedingly, and he was angry. And he prayed to the Lord and said, “O Lord, is not this what I said when I was yet in my country? That is why I made haste to flee to Tarshish; for I knew that you are a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, and relenting from disaster. Therefore now, O Lord, please take my life from me, for it is better for me to die than to live.” (Jonah 4:1-3)

Jonah is furious. He cannot reconcile God’s mercy with his own sense of justice, and would prefer to die than see his enemy saved from destruction.

The God of Mercy

This tension between Jonah and God reaches its climax in a final, poignant lesson. Jonah sulks outside the city, hoping against hope that God will still destroy it. As he waits, God causes a leafy plant to grow and provide him shade.

But the next day, God sends a worm to wither the plant, leaving Jonah exposed to the scorching sun. When Jonah laments the loss of his shade, God delivers the story’s moral:

“You have been concerned about this plant, though you did not tend it or make it grow. It sprang up overnight and died overnight. And should I not have concern for the great city of Nineveh, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand people who cannot tell their right hand from their left—and also many animals?” (Jonah 4:10-11).

Here, Tolkien’s analysis rings true. God is easily moved by penitence, even from the most unlikely sources. The Assyrians, infamous for their cruelty, turn to God with sincerity, and He responds with mercy. But this mercy isn’t just for Nineveh — it’s also a challenge to Jonah and to all who, like him, would limit God’s grace to those they deem deserving.

God, as Tolkien notes, “won’t be dictated to even by high ecclesiastics whom he himself has appointed.” Jonah’s prophetic authority doesn’t give him the right to decide who is beyond redemption. God’s grace is His alone to give, and it often defies human expectations.

The Book of Jonah is, in the end, a comedy — not because it’s funny (though it often is), but because it ends in unexpected joy. It invites you to marvel at God’s mercy, laugh at Jonah’s stubbornness, and reflect on the ways in which you might be more like him than you’d care to admit.

As Tolkien’s one-sentence analysis reminds us, the real point of Jonah isn’t the whale. Rather, it’s the radical, unexpected, and boundless mercy of a God who refuses to be put in a box.

Thank you for reading!

If you enjoyed this piece, you should definitely check out our sister publication, The Ascent.

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Our read-along of East of Eden continues! We meet TOMORROW, August 26, at noon ET.

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

The discussion will be live-streamed via Substack at this link. Note: we are personally using this centennial edition of the book when referring to page numbers.

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

Chapters 19-33 introduce a continuation of the core philosophical hinge of the novel, namely the exaltation of human freedom. This is most pronounced over the conversation between Samuel, Lee, and Adam about the Cain and Abel story of Genesis 4. Lee reveals that he spent years inquiring into this story through consulting Chinese elders and studying Hebrew.

One of his major concerns was a translation dispute between the King James “thou shalt,” and the American Standard “do thou,” in God’s words to Cain. Lee’s own research suggests a third option, the Hebrew word timshel, which he translates as “thou mayest.”

For Lee, this simple translation becomes the philosophical foundation of the entire novel, and his conception of human nature. Namely, he reckons “timshel,” to be a Biblical precedent for free will — that no matter how corrupt man’s nature may appear to be, he is always promised the agency to be the arbiter of moral actions. Man, through his own freedom, may reign as the conqueror of sin if he so desires it.

Meanwhile, Adam Trask eventually tracks down and confronts Cathy, who’s now running a brothel under a hidden alias. She’s lost her former beauty, and Adam is relieved to find that she no longer holds the power over him she once did. He condemns but pities her, and Cathy, enraged by his newfound disgust, screams and sets a bouncer on him in a fit of rage. Nonetheless, Adam leaves with peace and closure, to Cathy’s chagrin.

Some questions to consider:

• Lee insists that timshel, “thou mayest,” is the most important word in the world, because it protects human freedom and man’s ability to rule sovereign over his nature. Does this resolve the tension from Cathy’s introduction in the earlier chapters, where she was described as born to evil? Can “thou mayest” coexist with someone seemingly incapable of choosing otherwise, or does Cathy remain a standing exception to Lee’s theology?

• Steinbeck goes into great depth sharing Lee’s account of the elders debating Hebrew grammar. It’s a fascinating literary choice to depict a group of Chinese elders in an American immigrant enclave devoting themselves to the correct translation of a Genesis verse in the original Hebrew: the novel’s central philosophy arises out of a diversity of cultures that coalesce together in a single pursuit of human wisdom.

• Why does Steinbeck choose this depiction to ground his central theological claim, rather than simply sharing it through Adam, Samuel, or the narrator? What does that decision suggest about the novel’s claim to universal access to wisdom? Despite man’s freedom, does Steinbeck suggest all men might still be bound by a universal human nature?

• Why is Adam’s pity an outrage to Cathy? What changes transpired that she lost her power over him? Is it as simple as her fading beauty, or might there be a deeper transformation in Adam’s spiritual life? Also consider what Cathy’s sudden rage — an uncharacteristic outburst — suggests about the nature of her character, freedom, and moral agency, especially in light of Lee’s theory of timshel.

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 tomorrow…

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We are living through one of the great transfers in human history: the transfer of our mental faculties.

We have already handed our sense of direction to the GPS and our memory to the search bar. Now too, at long last, writing and thinking are being surrendered to the machine.

This transfer is understandably seductive. It feels free: Claude, Grok, and ChatGPT do the work for us, we save a bunch of time and effort, and we get to keep the results for ourselves. Right?

J.R.R. Tolkien would have recognized this Faustian bargain instantly, because his mythology was written, in large part, to expose precisely this. In The Lord of the Rings, we find that evil operates by surrendering personal sovereignty to what Tolkien called “the Machine.”

Tolkien, a veteran of WWI, had first-hand experience of how machines of war can rip apart an entire continent. But he was brilliant enough to also see the much more insidious power of technology: its ability to slowly rot the user from within.

The Lord of the Rings, then, is a cautionary tale about the use of technology. The threats and temptations posed by LLMs and algorithms may be different from the technology of Tolkien’s day, but his warning about the Machine is just as relevant as ever.

Here is Tolkien’s warning about technology, and what he suggests is the antidote…

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We just started East of Eden by Steinbeck. It isn’t too late to join: the next discussion is on Wednesday, August 26, at noon ET!

You can watch back the first session (on Chapters 1-18) here.

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Sauron’s Bargain

Explaining the One Ring to Frodo at Bag End, Gandalf says of Sauron:

“He made that Ring himself, it is his, and he let a great part of his own former power pass into it, so that he could rule all the others.”

Sauron, desiring absolute power, begins by giving his own power away and pouring it into the Ring. In return, the Ring lets Sauron’s will act on a scale that his own physical presence could never reach. This is how the Machine works; it offers the user external power, but that power must be paid for.

What this means is that Sauron’s existence now hangs on a thing that can be lost, or indeed, destroyed by the unlikely figure of a hobbit. Symbolically, this shows that when you externalize your strength, what you feed into the Machine may be amplified and “improved,” but it is no longer yours. Sauron’s Faustian bargain leaves him vulnerable:

The Ring of Sauron is only one of the various mythical treatments of the placing of one’s life, or power, in some external object, which is thus exposed to capture or destruction… A man who wishes to exert ‘power’ must have subjects, who are not himself. But he then depends on them.

—J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter 211

Of course, it’s not only Sauron. We see how the self is diminished with all who come too close to the Ring. Gollum’s lifespan may be extended by it indefinitely, but his life becomes a hollowed out husk — lonely, pointless, and entirely enslaved to the Ring itself.

Should We Trust Technology?

So, does Tolkien mean to disparage all technology use? Surely technology has played an important role in human history, lifting the masses from food shortage and back-breaking menial labour. Is Tolkien merely a Luddite to be ignored?

Well, consider what Tolkien precisely meant by “the Machine.” In a letter to his publisher, he once wrote:

By the [Machine] I intend all use of external plans or devices (apparatus) instead of development of the inherent inner powers or talents — or even the use of these talents with the corrupted motive of dominating: bulldozing the real world, or coercing other wills.

—J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter 131

Tolkien’s concern, then, is when technology is a substitute for inner growth. Thus, a good way to judge your own technology use is to ask: has using it in some way diminished your inherent capability or agency?

Has LLM use diminished your capacity to compose an essay, or think up original ideas? Has your GPS worn down your sense of direction?

In other words, is it helping you grow, or is it offering to grow for you?

But if this is the standard, how are you to navigate a modern world that almost seems to worship technology; in which screens and software are an increasing part of virtually every aspect of life?

If The Lord of the Rings is a cautionary tale about technology, then what does it suggest is the antidote?

Fortunately, Tolkien provides a way to resist the Machine — and better understand the legitimate role of technology — by instead cultivating power within. To understand his radical answer to the Machine Age, we have to go and see the Elves…

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Few works of art have sparked as much intrigue and debate as Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper.

A cornerstone of Western art that has captivated viewers for centuries — not only for its artistry, but for the layers of symbols and messages concealed within.

• What secrets lie in the shadow of Judas’s betrayal?

• How does Christ’s calm demeanor hold firm against the storm of human emotion?

• And is there any truth to Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code?

Today, we break apart all of these questions to reveal what makes The Last Supper one of the most enigmatic and enduring masterpieces of all time…

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We just started East of Eden by Steinbeck. It isn’t too late to join: the next discussion is on Wednesday, August 26, at noon ET!

You can watch back the first session (on Chapters 1-18) here.

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A Theatrical Drama

First, many are not aware that Da Vinci’s Last Supper is actually a mural, painted on the wall of a church refectory in Milan. Leonardo was working for Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan, who requested the popular subject of the Last Supper be painted in the monks’ dining hall.

Leonardo took far longer to finish it than Ludovico had liked, but when he finally unveiled it, it was obvious why. This was no ordinary Last Supper scene, but one of the most enthralling narrative paintings ever produced.

Leonardo’s version was, among many things, a drastic break with tradition. While earlier depictions show Christ calmly dispensing bread and wine, Leonardo chose a different focus. It is the precise moment that Christ announces:

“One of you will betray me.”

This revelation sends shockwaves through the Apostles, each reacting in their own unique way. The scene is alive with motion and emotion: hands gesturing, faces contorted, bodies leaning in or recoiling in a moment of masterfully choreographed drama.

The composition further amplifies this dynamic tension. The Apostles are grouped into sets of three, their gestures and positions arranged to create a visual path that leads the viewer’s eye toward the center. At the center of this chaos, of course, is the serene and composed figure of Christ.

Leonardo’s use of linear perspective — a hallmark of Renaissance art — further emphasizes this focal point, with the architectural lines of the walls and ceiling converging around Christ’s figure, as so:

In the midst of this human chaos, Jesus thus remains the embodiment of divine calm. His body rests in a triangular shape: Leonardo’s way of symbolizing the Holy Trinity and emphasizing Christ’s divine centrality in the composition.

Remember, as ever with Leonardo’s work, not a single detail is accidental…

Hidden Symbols and Controversies

To give a sense of the symbolic depth of the painting, notice that each Apostle’s reaction is layered with its own meaning.

Saint Peter clutches a knife, foreshadowing both his defense of Christ during his arrest and Judas’s demise. Saint Thomas raises a single finger, a gesture that recalls his later demand for proof of the Resurrection (that of placing his finger into Christ’s wounds). Some even speculate that Thomas’s pose, skeptical yet curious, may be a self-portrait of Leonardo himself — a remarkably honest insertion of the painter’s own doubt into the work.

Then there is Judas. Seated somewhat apart from the others, he leans back aghast, clutching the bag of silver coins that he received for his betrayal. A tipped-over salt container sits in front of him, a symbol of his broken covenant with God.

We still have Leonardo’s preparatory sketches of Judas, and we can see that he took great care to make him the ugliest in the room. Leonardo searched long and hard for the ugliest model he could find, and his appearance contrasts him starkly with Christ’s idealized visage.

Yet arguably the most contentious figure in the painting is the one seated to Christ’s right.

Some claim this is Mary Magdalene, the female follower of Jesus present at both the crucifixion and burial, but about whom relatively little is otherwise known. Proponents of this theory point to the figure’s undeniably feminine appearance, an idea made extremely popular by Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code.

However, art historians typically argue that it must be Saint John, traditionally depicted in Renaissance art as feminine to accentuate his youthful, gentle nature. Moreover, if it were in fact Mary Magdalene, then the absence of John elsewhere in the painting would be without precedent — no other depiction of the Last Supper omits him. You can make up your own mind…

These theories feed into the idea of Leonardo as a great skeptic of Christianity and thus the quintessential Renaissance rebel, secretly embellishing commissioned religious works with his personal jabs at the faith.

Another such theory points to the lack of halos above the characters’ heads, which is clearly unusual for a devotional Last Supper depiction and often interpreted as carrying Leonardo’s skepticism about Christ’s divinity.

But this conclusion severely underestimates Leonardo’s subtle brilliance. Look closer and you’ll realize Christ is framed not by a traditional halo, but by the light of the central window — a kind of natural halo. What might that imply?

This choice underscores both Leonardo’s theological understanding and his profound artistry. It’s a clever composition that brings Christ down to an entirely earthly understanding: his divinity is not imposed but intrinsic, and fully tied to the natural order.

We know that Leonardo found truth not only in scripture, but also in nature. This inclination, of course, drove him to the stunning scientific observations and discoveries he made throughout his life, but also inspired him to find radical new ways to connect his art, science, and faith.

Scholars will always debate the extent of Da Vinci’s personal faith, but we know from the historical record that he was at least an unorthodox Christian. However, his art proves that he knew how to dovetail his Catholic theology with the philosophical undercurrents of the Renaissance and the revolutionary spirit that drove him to greatness.

A Deeper Message?

Beyond its many symbolic details, The Last Supper perhaps conveys one more, deeper message. The Apostles’ grouping into threes is not just an artistic device, but a statement of theological significance. Indeed, many believe it provides a connection to Lamentations 3:31–33:

For no one is cast off by the Lord forever. Though he brings grief, he will show compassion, so great is his unfailing love. For he does not willingly bring affliction or grief to anyone.

Why this passage in particular?

Because, it seems to me, the theme of forgiveness is central to this painting. We see in Christ’s expression a sombre acceptance of Judas’s betrayal: he’s saddened by the treachery he must announce, but simultaneously at peace with it — and the shortcomings of human nature.

In this sense, The Last Supper is far more than just a technical masterpiece of the Renaissance revolution. It is a meditation on chaos and order, upon faith and forgiveness.

While it foreshadows the awful event of Judas’s betrayal, its most profound message conveys not despair, but hope. Christ’s serenity in the midst of human frailty reminds us that grace and redemption are always within reach, even for those who falter.

Shakespeare is arguably the most famous writer in history. His work has been translated into well over 100 languages. His plays are performed more than those of any other playwright, past or present. Characters such as Hamlet, Romeo, and Juliet are known the world over, even by those who have never once read his work.

And yet, at the same time, Shakespeare is somehow underrated. Students forced to study him in school aren’t properly taught to appreciate the wit, wisdom, humor, joy, drama, and meaning of his plays. He remains a bore at best; someone hardly worth reading at worst.

Admittedly, my early experience with Shakespeare was less than enthralling, and it wasn’t until I rediscovered him years later that I truly fell in love with his work. Since then, I’ve come to share the opinion of T. S. Eliot that “Shakespeare and Dante divide the world between them. There is no third.”

Today, then, we look at four lessons I learned reading Shakespeare, and what insight the Bard stands to offer you into your own life. There are, after all, plenty of reasons why his work is still read and performed over 400 years after his death, in languages and countries he never dreamed existed…

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We just started East of Eden by Steinbeck. It isn’t too late to join: the next discussion is on Wednesday, August 26, at noon ET!

You can watch back the first session (on Chapters 1-18) here.

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1) The Best Things in Life Can’t be Quantified

The Beatles’ “Can’t Buy Me Love” was one of the best-selling singles of the 1960s, and its message was simple: “I don’t care too much for money / Money can’t buy me love.”

The idea that the best things in life are free — or at the very least, unable to be purchased — is one that sits deep at the heart of our culture. But what we know intuitively, Shakespeare transforms into a comprehensive worldview and guiding principle that, when earnestly embraced, leads you to all that really matters in life.

In King Lear, for example, Shakespeare launches an all-out attack on those who would reduce life down to a materialist perspective. Demonstrating that even the poorest among us seek comfort in unnecessary things, Shakespeare has King Lear exclaim:

Our basest beggars

Are in the poorest thing superfluous.

Allow not nature more than nature needs,

Man’s life is cheap as beast’s.

It’s a retort not simply to those who underestimate man’s need for beauty, but also to anyone who would discredit real personal challenges or social concerns because “GDP is up and you’re actually richer than ever”. If you aim to meet only man’s material needs, Shakespeare says, you treat him as though he is a beast. There is a spiritual dimension to man’s life as well, and it is fed by the unquantifiable: things like beauty, love, honor, etc.

On the topic of honor, Shakespeare addresses this too, albeit from a rather comedic angle. Following the climactic battle in Henry IV, Part 1, the disgustingly overweight and self-regarding character John Falstaff delivers a tirade against the idea of honor. Skeptical of its supposed merits, Falstaff asks:

Can honor set to a

leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a

wound? No. Honor hath no skill in surgery, then?

No. What is honor? A word. What is in that word

“honor”? What is that “honor”? Air. A trim reckoning.

Who hath it? He that died o’ Wednesday…

From a purely logical perspective, Falstaff seems to make an airtight argument against honor. But the irony is that the reason Falstaff is such a pitiful character — hilarious though he may be as the play’s comic relief — is precisely because he has no sense of honor.

Even if Falstaff knew how to set a leg or to “take away the grief of a wound”, his social standing would be no more improved by this practical knowledge. If he chose to adhere to a code of honor, however, this would genuinely transform his life: instead of getting discarded by the future king for his disreputable conduct, he would have remained one of his closest confidants.

The things that most impact your life, in other words, are not those that merely heal your wounds or keep you fed, but those that shape your heart, mind, character, and soul. But what happens when your desire for things like love and honor takes a dark turn, and leads you to make compromises to obtain them?

This is what Shakespeare tackles next, and it’s one of his most chilling warnings…

2) The Line Between Good & Evil Runs Through the Human Heart

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Mark your calendars…

The next discussion will take place in 2 weeks, at the usual time: Wednesday, August 26, at noon Eastern Time. We will cover Chapters 19-33.

Happy reading!

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This past weekend, a group of French sculptors began installing a 50-foot statue of Prometheus at the Texas headquarters of Elon Musk’s SpaceX.

While the statue itself is an incredible thing to behold, no less astonishing is the practically overnight success of the group behind the project: Atelier Missor. In just a matter of months, it seems, they went from relative obscurity to erecting a statue for the wealthiest man in the world.

But what, you might ask, does any of this have to do with learning a language?

The answer has nothing to do with learning English to access American markets. No, it’s about something else entirely, and begins with the fact that Atelier Missor’s “overnight success” was anything but.

Today, we look at the benefits of learning a language in an age where technology makes translation easy, and learning (seemingly) irrelevant. Because, as we shall see, knowing a language is about far more than just knowing the meaning of words…

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We’re about to start East of Eden by John Steinbeck! The first discussion is TODAY, August 12, at noon ET — join us! The links to join are here.

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From Vagabond to Visionary

One year ago, Atelier Missor was practically unheard of in America. But there was one place they were already immensely popular: French YouTube.

For the previous six years, Missor — the leader of Atelier Missor — had been posting videos to his YouTube channel documenting his foray into sculpture. He shared stories about his errant youth, and how beauty had called him back from the verge of meaninglessness and despair. A video entitled Je commence la sculpture (“I’m starting sculpting”) dated Jan 26, 2020 is one of his earliest videos, and is still available to watch on the channel.

About this same time, Culturist co-founder Evan Amato was living in France. He came across Missor’s work and got connected with him to share marketing advice as the atelier began producing and selling busts at scale. Missor’s domestic base in France was growing faster than ever, and he was regularly adding new members to the team in order to keep up with demand.

Eventually, Missor pivoted away from producing busts to set his sights on something far grander. Although no one could have imagined an installation at SpaceX just yet, the seeds of ambition had certainly been planted…

Cultural Insider Trading

The point of the story is this: while Missor and his team appeared to come out of nowhere as an overnight success, they had in reality been honing their craft for nearly a decade. And crucially, anyone who was plugged into French culture could have identified their talent years before anyone in the American market did.

To illustrate the importance of this, consider the world of investing: early access to knowledge is crucial to playing the stock market, so much so that insider trading — the buying or selling of securities while possessing confidential facts that would change the stock price if known — is illegal because of the unfair advantage it confers.

But in the world of language, a different kind of “insider trading” exists: that of being able to penetrate different cultures to access their ideas and human capital. There are certainly clear examples of where this could pay off in business, or even in the world of art: it’s why, for example, we were able to partner with the painter Carl-Nikolas before his career took off. But more than that, this insider access to culture is one of the greatest “growth hacks” for your own personal development.

There are several reasons why people with feet in different worlds — whether linguistic, cultural, professional, or otherwise — often report high levels of wellbeing. One is that they are able to view both their own and other cultures from an outside perspective, and pick and choose what they prefer from each one. By intentionally synthesizing different modes of being, you can lead a life that best aligns with your values and priorities.

But you can never do this to the fullest if you don’t take time to learn a language…

The Illusion of Understanding

In the age of AI, language learning might seem a thing of the past. Six years ago, YouTube didn’t automatically translate Missor’s YouTube videos into English, but it does now. Why bother to learn a foreign language when you can translate any tweet, text, or video at the click of a button?

The problem with this line of argument is that it reduces culture and language down to a simple matter of words. But as anyone who has learned a language can attest, culture is about far more than language. Yet at the same time, it can never be fully grasped without knowing the language.

A phrase widely attributed to Nelson Mandela captures part of the ineffable magic of speaking a foreign tongue: “If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart.” The reason language goes to the heart is that it conveys so much more than simply the meaning of words: it conveys shared context, cultural references, ways of being, etc.

So while AI can translate everything for you, it can never build meaningful, cross-cultural relationships. It can never tell you where hidden, up-and-coming talent is found in a faraway land, nor tell you which curiosities of one culture will be a smash hit once imported into another. All of this, at the end of the day, will remain for flesh-and-blood humans to figure out for themselves.

This, ultimately, is why you should learn another language. Precisely because AI renders translation easier than ever, it creates the illusion of understanding people and cultures who are fundamentally different from your own. There is great opportunity, therefore, for those who take time to truly learn, and truly understand.

Whether your motivation is to hop on business opportunities and cultural trends before others catch on, or simply to be exposed to other ways of thinking and living, the future belongs to those who don’t simply read about foreign worlds, but who enter and embrace them.

It’s amazing to be back after the summer break. It is finally time to begin our read-along of Steinbeck’s East of Eden, what many consider to be the Great American Novel — and for good reason.

We will meet on Wednesday, August 12, at noon ET. We’ll be discussing Chapters 1-18. If you’ve already read this far, that’s great, but you don’t need to have done the reading yet. We’re reading this novel over the next 6 weeks, together. Note: we are personally using this copy of the book.

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…

Below are some key ideas for us to consider ahead of the first session. Note: there are some plot spoilers relating to Chapters 1-3 below.

East of Eden is a novel that embraces the Biblical architecture of Genesis, particularly the narrative of Cain and Abel. It follows themes of generational guilt, inherited sin, and the “crimes of the father” that manifest in their children.

The story follows three generations of the Trask family, led by Cyrus the patriarch, his sons Adam and Charles, and finally Adam’s sons Cal and Aron.

In Chapter 3, a significant action takes place, laying the groundwork for all that is to follow: Charles attempts to murder his brother Adam, jealous that his father loved the latter. Adam barely escapes with his life, but the attempted homicide will haunt both brothers for the rest of their lives.

That said, East of Eden is not a fatalistic story, mourning that man is a victim of the evils and sins of the world. In fact, this novel is a testament to human freedom, as proclaimed by the story’s narrator:

“And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected. And this I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about.”

And yet, Steinbeck introduces a great counterpoint against this very celebration of human freedom through the story’s villain, Cathy Ames. Steinbeck introduces her as a monster born without a soul, and her story raises questions about the extent to which humans have freedom, and what they can do with their lives.

Some questions to consider:

1. Again, Steinbeck introduces Cathy as someone “born with the tendency to evil.” While the rest of the novel (as we’ll see later) insists man is made free to choose between good and evil, Cathy’s introduction seems to undercut this very thesis. Is this a deliberate move by Steinbeck? How could he answer it? Or is Cathy a problematic character that genuinely undermines the novel?

2. Why do you think Steinbeck used the story of Cain and Abel as the narrative structure for East of Eden? What does that story teach of human freedom, and how does it show up in Charles and Adam?

3. Do you agree with Steinbeck’s thesis — that the free, exploring mind of the individual is the most valuable thing in the world, and that we ought to resist anyone who limits said freedom? Why is this the greatest book in Steinbeck’s eyes?

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

Here’s the Zoom link for Wednesday:

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You can teach yourself about anything you want these days. Want to read hieroglyphics? Open YouTube. Need a niche academic text about the role of the samurai in 13th-century Japan? Order it directly from the publisher. Want to watch all of Shakespeare’s plays performed on stage? Get a subscription to the Globe’s streaming service.

The real challenge to self-study, then, is not so much about how to procure information, but how to make it stick. In other words, the challenge is to actually learn. How do you make sure you retain the information you receive in a way that sticks with you and genuinely improves your life?

Over the past decade, I’ve tried to answer this question for myself in a variety of ways. My experimentation first led me to the science of learning, i.e., the scientifically proven ways of enhancing knowledge retention. Things like spaced repetition or studying after a workout fall into this category.

But at the end of the day, something about this approach didn’t feel right to me: it felt too industrial and unsustainable. Plus, it’s hard to imagine someone like Tolkien or Tolstoy ever “study-maxxing” their way to wisdom. No, there had to be another way.

What follows in today’s article is what I devised as a more “organic” approach to learning. It might not be scientifically optimized, but it’s an approach I know I can follow for the rest of my life. This is the guide I’ve followed to self-study everything from Shakespeare to opera to Roman history, epic poetry, the art of dress, and more.

These four principles have proven invaluable over the past decade of my life, helping me to learn and grow both personally and professionally. It is my hope that they will be of similar value to yourself, and help you on your quest to learn anything.

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We’re about to start reading East of Eden by Steinbeck in the book club. The first discussion is on Wednesday, August 12, at noon ET — join us!

1) Lean Into Your Learning Style

In my sophomore year of university, I had a roommate who was really struggling in his courses. But it wasn’t because he wasn’t smart and talented: he was an entrepreneur, an instrumentalist, and overall a good student.

For whatever reason, he was having increasing difficulty retaining the information covered in his courses. Eventually, his parents paid for him to get an assessment done for his type of learning style. The result? Turns out he placed in the 97th percentile for auditory learning.

Following this revelation, my roommate stopped taking notes during lectures, and swapped his textbooks for audiobooks. Sure enough, he hadn’t just caught up with the material, but was now doing better than he ever had in school. In short, he simply leaned into his learning style.

Generally speaking, there are four main learning styles: visual, auditory, reading/writing, and kinesthetic. Most people don’t fall as exclusively into one of these categories like my roommate did, but have some sort of mix. That said, you likely have natural proclivities, and it’s worth being aware of them.

In my own experience, I’ve come to realize I lean towards reading/writing as my learning style. When studying foreign languages, for example, it doesn’t matter if I hear a word multiple times; it isn’t until I write it down that I actually retain it. There is even a visual component to this as well: if I spell out a new word in my mind (and thus visualize what it looks like), my chances of retaining it increase a hundredfold.

Even today, when I’m stuck trying to understand something, I grab a pen and paper to start writing down my thoughts. Sure enough, the knots begin to come undone, and the idea is finally made clear to me.

All this to say, you have a unique learning style, and if you take time to understand it, you’ll go much further, much faster in your self-study efforts. Don’t fight what makes you you — just lean into it, and see where it leads.

2) Go to the Primary Sources

All throughout lower and middle school, I listened to people talk about the Beatles. Some of my classmates praised them as being absolutely brilliant, the best there could be. But apart from a few songs I heard on the radio, I had never really listened to them. The Beatles seemed to me more like a mythical creature than a real-life British rock band.

Finally, in high school, I got fed up with only hearing about the Beatles. I decided it was time I listened to them myself, and so I went and purchased all of their albums. Over the course of a few weeks, I listened to each album one by one, and the fog of mystery hanging over the Beatles was finally blown away. At last, I finally saw them clearly for myself.

As silly as it might sound, this experience had a profound impact on me. It taught me the value of cutting through the commentators and going straight to the source. It is quite probable, in fact, that without this episode with the Beatles, I never would have fallen in love with Shakespeare years later. The impetus to go straight to the source is what caused me to climb up into my attic, pull out a copy of Much Ado About Nothing, and dive headfirst into the Bard’s world that fateful summer.

On the whole, I believe people read way too many secondary sources these days. To be clear, there’s a time and a place for secondary texts and commentary — but they’re almost always best when they help explain and build on what you’ve already read, not when they’re a substitute for the original.

That’s why my second pillar of learning is to go straight to the source: stop reading what other people think of it, experience it for yourself and make up your own mind! The (sad, but true) fact is that if you do this, you’re almost automatically in the top 10% of learners in any given subject.

So let’s say you do this well, and primary sources now make up the majority of what you read. Well, what now? How do you make sure the information you take in actually sticks? How do you know if it’ll actually shape you in the long term, and not simply be forgotten after a couple months?

It all comes down to my next pillar, which is by far the most important of the four. Because if you can’t do this, all of your other efforts are for naught…

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Few styles of art are as polarizing as the baroque. Immensely rich in detail, baroque art is a feast for the eyes, a drama-filled cacophony of light, color, and motion. People either love or hate it: for some, it is ornate and otherworldly, for others, it is gaudy and vulgar.

But as strong as most people’s opinions on baroque art are, few stop to ask the question, “what actually is it?”

In the popular imagination, the baroque has nearly become a caricature of itself, so much so that it’s easy to lose sight of what it originally stood for.

Today, then, we explore what makes baroque art truly baroque, and what the answer reveals about the power of art to shape the mind and soul…

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We’re about to start East of Eden by John Steinbeck! The first discussion is on Wednesday, August 12, at noon Eastern Time — join us!

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“A Desire for the Stupefying”

But first, let’s begin by looking back to the origin of the term “baroque” itself. It originates from the Italian baroco, a word used to describe an overly complicated syllogism in Aristotelian logic.

This term wasn’t used by artists of the period, but rather by art historians writing centuries after. One of them, the 18th-century neoclassicist Francesco Milizia, described the baroque as “the superlative of the bizarre, the excessive, and the ridiculous”. The philosopher Benedetto Croce deemed it “an artistic perversion, dominated by a desire for the stupefying”.

But of course, these men were biased with their own perspectives on artistic refinement, and sought to impose on the baroque an identity it didn’t claim for itself. If you had asked someone from a century prior what they thought the baroque was, their response would have been quite different…

Vulgar, or Vulgaris?

Following on the heels of the Renaissance and its subtle evolution into mannerism, baroque art pursued a no-holds-barred approach to the artistic vision. This was partially a reaction to the religious and political developments of its day: as the Protestant reformation encouraged iconoclasm and the destruction of religious images, the Catholic baroque responded with an affirmation of creation’s splendor.

Was it vulgar? Absolutely — but not in the way you think. The Latin adjective vulgaris was used to describe something that was “of the common people”, and baroque was certainly vulgar in this way. As the historian Martyn Rady writes:

The Baroque uses a semiotics [the study of signs and symbols] that is easily understood. At its heart lies allegory, which is often disclosed in the form of an emblem—a motif or pictogram that sums up an attitude, action, or aspect of the human condition.

In Baroque art, however, the motif is often combined with verses that explain its meaning…[it] is above all a learning tool, and there is no point instructing in a language that the audience cannot understand.

-Martyn Rady, The Habsburgs

In other words, baroque art was designed to speak to the heart, mind, and soul of everyday men and women. All of its allegories, emblems, grand designs and ornate minutiae served one very specific purpose, and it’s the reason why the Catholic Church was quick to endorse the baroque as its very own…

Glimpses of Heaven

In the mid-16th century, Pope Paul III summoned the Council of Trent to respond to the crisis of the Reformation. In the council’s 25th session, they covered one of the most hot-button issues of the day: the role of art in the Christian faith.

Contrary to the views of Protestant reformers, the Church affirmed that art plays a vital role in the life of faith, and should be used to instruct believers and inspire devotion to God. As Rady notes, the council declared that:

Art should be in the service of religion and should appeal to the emotions, even to the extent of giving ‘a glimpse of heaven’…The Baroque was in this respect another way of affirming Christ’s redemptive grace, which He has bestowed on all humankind.

So while Baroque art seeks to awe and overwhelm, at its core there is a deeper purpose: to lead you to the divine. Imposing statues and soaring marble columns testify to God’s grandeur, while fine embellishment and ornamentation reflect God’s attention to even the smallest of details.

Baroque depictions of the saints, portrayed rapt in ecstasy or ascending to the Heavens, point to the fact that you too can partake in these things. The baroque, in other words, is a call to participation: a call to join in the timeless and eternal drama of the Christian story.

For these reasons, the Catholic Church leaned into the baroque as its evangelical tool of choice in its Counter-Reformation efforts. But it’s also why, despite its many critics, baroque art still resonates with so many people today.

Centuries after its inception, the baroque remains just as awe-inspiring as it did in its heyday. Because although tastes have evolved, one aspect of the human experience remains thoroughly unchanged: man’s hunger for the divine and the soul’s quest for eternity. To the extent that specific works of Baroque art speak to this, they remain just as beloved and timeless as ever.

Some of the most beautiful things ever written were penned in the author’s darkest moments.

J.R.R. Tolkien began his epic saga from the trenches of WWI, in a senseless war that claimed the lives of several of his close friends. Homer, author of the Iliad, witnessed the most brutal acts of Bronze Age warfare (as you can tell from the descriptive manner in which his war poetry is written), yet turned them into a tale of virtue that became the foundational work of Western literature.

Once again, it seems, our world lives under the threat of a horrifying war — one which could displace or destroy countless innocent lives in the Middle East.

So, how on earth does one create a thing of beauty when all around is gripped by evil and suffering? How can your mind be so impervious as to create beautiful art at such a time?

The art that we see come forth from these dark hours is itself revealing. In the case of The Lord of the Rings, we see that those characters who hang onto beautiful thoughts in dark times can withstand virtually any tribulation — but how do they manage it?

Tolkien provides an answer via two conflicting perspectives: the “doomerism” of Denethor, and the eternal optimism of Samwise Gamgee…

The Great Shadow

In Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, the free people of Middle-earth live under the threat of seemingly inevitable occupation by evil. Sauron, Lord of the One Ring, threatens to engulf it all — even the Shire — under his terrible shadow. No alliance of Elves and Men appears to have the muscle required to resist it.

The situation is dire, and Denethor, Steward of Gondor, knows it.

“The West has failed. It shall all go up in a great fire and all shall be ended. Ash! Ash and smoke blown away on the wind!… It is time for all to depart who would not be slaves.”

The problem with criticizing this perspective is that Denethor is right. If one were to calculate the likelihood of success in his position, it would be impossible to envision any outcome beyond total annihilation. Death or torture awaits anyone still lingering in Minas Tirith when Sauron’s hordes arrive.

Denethor, already suffering from grief, spirals into suicidal despair at the thought of Sauron’s insurmountable army. He turns in on himself, his mind driven to madness, and perishes in his own fire rather than die at the sword of the enemy.

Before examining why this mindset is wrong in the eyes of Tolkien, consider first the perspective of another…

The Light Beyond Reach

After passing into Mordor and escaping the orc tower at Cirith Ungol, Frodo and Sam are physically and spiritually depleted. Pausing for a moment, semi-conscious from exhaustion, Sam looks up at a distant star in the night sky. One of the most quoted and uplifting passages of the entire novel follows:

There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach.

At the edge of all things, the star is a symbol of the goodness Samwise clings to within his own heart, and this sustains him to the very end of his quest — but what provides a person the determination to cling on?

You might be thinking: “Is Sam’s situation really comparable with Denethor’s?”

Denethor could well be a pessimist because he’s seen too much of war. He’s seen countless battles, lost family members, lived on the edge of Mordor for decades. Sam had seen nothing of evil before his first and only journey out of the Shire.

This, I think, is not the answer. Tolkien’s friend C.S. Lewis, recalling his own time in the trenches of WWI, once remarked that the closer one got to the front line the less everyone spoke of the war effort. Their minds went back to what matters most: spiritual, intellectual, and aesthetic pursuits.

And so it is with Samwise. The closer he gets to Mount Doom the more it seems to fill him with memories of home, and thus with fortitude. Proximity to evil is not the explanation for Denethor’s “doomerism.”

But why, then, is Samwise able to cultivate beautiful thoughts at the brink of annihilation and Denethor is not?

Tolkien’s philosophical framework provides the answer, and the antidote to despair…

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Most contemporary music is instantly accessible. You can find the beat and identify the chorus with hardly any effort. The music is made to be enjoyed by as many as possible, and there are few barriers to entry.

The same cannot be said, however, of classical music.

For most people, there’s a bit of a learning curve that goes into enjoying classical music. You have to learn how to listen actively, and how to follow the development of a piece across multiple movements. Because of this extra effort, many people don’t take the time to truly dive into and appreciate this incredible world.

But that said, not all classical music is hard to get into. This article highlights five pieces that are readily accessible and perfect for a first-time listener.

If you’ve ever wanted to get into classical but don’t know where to start, this is the perfect place to begin (the links you need are below)…

Don’t forget to join our book club!

We’re just about to start East of Eden by Steinbeck! The first discussion is on Wednesday, August 12, at noon Eastern Time — join us!

Subscribe now

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1) Saint-Saëns - Danse Macabre

Skeletal strings and haunting melodies provide a vivid example of musical storytelling in this piece. Here, Death is represented by a solo violin, and he calls out the dead from their graves to dance before him.

The back-and-forth, call-and-answer motifs you hear throughout the piece represent Death leading the souls through a danse macabre. Apart from being incredibly entertaining, this work of genius by the French composer Camille Saint-Saëns is an eerily soul-stirring — pun intended — piece of music.

2) Dvořák - Symphony No. 9 “From the New World”

Interspersing bombastic themes with intimate pastoral flourishes, this symphony has everything you could ask for. Composed while Dvořák was living in NY, it’s an incredible blend of European grandeur and American folk melodies.

Specifically, Dvořák was inspired by the Native American spirituals he discovered while working in Manhattan as a visiting professor. That, coupled with homesickness for his Czech homeland and simultaneous excitement at being in America, led him to create one of the most emotionally thrilling symphonies of the 19th century.

3) Strauss II - The Blue Danube

This is a piece you’ll surely recognize, perhaps for its prominent feature in Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. Swaying melodies and graceful rhythms take you on a journey down the Danube (or through outer space) and remain stuck in your head long after that journey ends

The Blue Danube is a timeless waltz that captures the elegance of 19th-century Vienna. It’s a must-listen for anyone who wants to tap into the spirit of Viennese balls and relive the beauty of a bygone era.

4) Shostakovich - Jazz Suite No. 2

This is an unforgettable piece of music. In it, Russian composer Dmitri Shostakovich embraces the playful side of jazz with a surprising departure from his symphonic works.

This suite showcases a lighter, sultry side of classical music that you’re sure to love. It has catchy tunes, vibrant rhythms, lively brass. Be careful when you listen, though! Once the melody enters your head, it’s hard to get it out.

5) Holst - Jupiter, The Bringer of Jollity

This is best described as a vivid tapestry of musical grandeur, from Gustav Holst’s orchestral suite The Planets. It is a piece of bold brass, sweeping strings, and triumphant melodies. Here, Jupiter takes center stage, embodying the exuberant and majestic force of joy through the full might of the orchestra.

The rising fanfares and rhythmic drive you hear throughout represent the boundless optimism and vitality that Jupiter bestows, his regal energy lifting the music with each bold, swelling phrase. Apart from its undeniable brilliance, this piece offers a jubilant celebration of life’s vigor and splendor — perfectly capturing the essence of the king of the gods.