The Swerve: How the World Became Modern - Stephen Greenblatt

Published in 2011 by W. W. Norton & Company, New York, NY

356 pages

ISBN: 978-0-393-34340-3 pbk.

LCC: PA6484.G69 2011

LCCN: 2011019765

In early May 2018, at the tail end of my final exams for graduate school, I decided to take a quick break from writing my research papers and go to a book signing event in Harvard Square. Late as always, I quickly descended the brick steps leading down to the door of the main auditorium of the Brattle Theater and bought an admission ticket for $5. The lights were already dim as I entered, and I quickly found an empty spot on the far-right side of the theater. Quietly sliding into the soft blue-clothed seat, the introductory comments had just finished up, and the audience clapped as an older, well-dressed gentleman took the stage. The author was promoting his new book on Shakespeare, titled Tyrant: Shakespeare on Politics. He discussed how Shakespeare wrote about the political world of the Elizabethan age, and how Shakespeare critiques the demagogues and tyrants of his day and the disastrous consequences that would befall them for their hubris. Overall, I found the author to be charismatic and convincing as he presented the central ideas of his book, and I appreciated the break from my research and academic arguments.

While I did not buy his work and get it signed at that time, a year later, I was perusing the aisles of a local bookstore when I saw that same author’s name on the spine of a book. On the cover, I noticed that it had won a Pulitzer Prize and a long list of praiseworthy blurbs in the first few pages, including accolades from the NY Times and Time Magazine. Furthermore, the subject matter of the book directly related to my particular field of study, examining the role of religion and literature at the beginning of the early modern era. On a whim, I decided to pick it up and added it to my TBR list. There it sat on my shelf for over a year before I finally decided to crack it open and give it a read. In his 2011 book, The Swerve: How the World Became Modern, Harvard professor and author Stephen Greenblatt traces the rediscovery and dissemination of Lucretius’s poem On the Nature of Things (De Rerum Natura) in the early 15th century. By rekindling the interest in Epicurean philosophy during the Renaissance, Greenblatt argues that this single poem helped to spark the Scientific Revolution and set the stage for the advancement of science and reason during the Enlightenment, ultimately ushering in the modern world. Ultimately, while I believe that Greenblatt is a phenomenal writer and gifted in the art of rhetoric in telling this gripping tale, I do not believe his thesis can hold up to historical scrutiny. Furthermore, I think this text highlights a key issue that we as historians must face, namely our ethical relation to history and how we choose to retell it. But before we get to the main issues of the text, it will help to recount the particular historical narrative that he’s advocating.

Overview:

The book roughly follows the life and work of Poggio Bracciolini (1380-1459), a papal secretary and book hunter, as he rediscovers the work of Lucretius (1st century BCE) in the depths of a remote monastery in 1417. Namely, Poggio discovers a manuscript that was thought to be lost: Lucretius's poem On the Nature of Things (De Rerum Natura). In the poem, Lucretius attempts to explain the philosophy of Epicurus (341–270 BC), a Greek philosopher who, following in the footsteps of Democritus, posited that the world consisted of tiny particles called atoms. Epicurus was deeply critical of the polytheistic religion of his peers and believed that the soul does not carry on after death, but rather dies just the same as every other thing. Thus, the greatest goal in life is to maximize pleasure and minimize suffering, focusing on the things of this world rather than on any form of afterlife. Thus, Lucretius’s poem meditates on these themes and posits a small form of free will in an otherwise deterministic universe, called a swerve. This swerve (Latin: clinamen, or “turning aside”) is due to an unpredictable change in the direction of an atom, and Greenblatt reckons the unlikely survival and reintroduction of Epicurean philosophy via de Lucretius's poem to be a swerve in the universe, changing the course of modern history.

Along the way in this grand narrative, we are also taken along many byways and related tangents. We are given a brief introductory lesson into the production and preservation of manuscripts in the ancient and medieval world. We are told of the destruction of the ancient library in Alexandria, as well as how the inner workings of medieval scriptoriums were organized. We are given a brief sketch of the development of humanism and how it shaped various thinkers and artists in the Renaissance. We are taken along the political intrigue of the Catholic Church in the early 15th century, including the Great Schism resulting in three popes as well as the burning of those deemed to be heretics such as Jan Hus and Giordano Bruno. We are shown how texts by pagan authors were received, utilized, and repressed by the Catholic Church. Finally, in the end, we are told of the various ways in which Epicurean philosophy found its way into the writings and works of later artists, philosophers, and scientists (such as Thomas More, Copernicus, Galileo, Bruno, and even Thomas Jefferson). As such, Greenblatt credits the resurgence of Epicurean philosophy (and its rejection of religion, which Greenblatt views as universally repressive and cruel) with the formation of the modern world and the advent of the scientific endeavor toward progress.

Commendations:

Before I move on to the bulk of my critique with this retelling of history, there are several aspects of this book that are well worth commending. Greenblatt is a talented writer, as he certainly knows how to draw you into the historical narrative. Certain chapters of this book - particularly regarding the Council of Constance - read like a novel, as you begin to feel immersed in the world of 15th-century politics. Greenblatt effectively utilizes two main rhetorical voices in this book: 1) a compelling narrative voice that retells the historical events and 2) a sharp polemic voice - reminiscent of a lecture - that pointedly attacks the foibles of religious superstition in favor of the infinite wonder of a pure materialist worldview. While Greenblatt goes on several tangents in the book that are more or less related to the central thrust of the narrative (such as the details of producing papyrus or the Roman book trade), the heart of the book, which focuses on Poggio’s life as he navigates the complex political world of the tripartite papacy, is quite gripping and immensely enjoyable. Furthermore, Greenblatt keeps meticulous reference notes throughout the work, and the bibliography is a great source for those who want to dive deeper into the ideas and periods that Greenblatt introduces.

Critique:

Now, while The Swerve is undoubtedly a well-written book, it also has a vast array of problems, especially in its interpretation of history. I am surely not the first person to point out these issues, as I understand that the book has been widely and sharply critiqued by academics and scholars in various fields. Undoubtedly, given the bleak and one-dimensional picture that Greenblatt paints of the Middle Ages, the bulk of critique has come from Medievalists. I am afraid that, while admittedly not a trained Medievalist, I must also add my voice of critique. Part of my specialization in grad school at Harvard (where Greenblatt also teaches) consisted of the transition from the Late Middle Ages to the Early Modern Period, studying the historical development of science and investigating the ways in which religion factored into these developments, for better or worse. I studied under the tutelage of prominent scholars in the field such as Kevin Madigan, Joseph Nagy, and Stephen Mitchell, three medievalists who are colleagues of Greenblatt at Harvard. I am deeply thankful for their mentorship and instruction, and if I learned anything from them, it’s that the Middle Ages were anything but the simplistic and one-dimensional portrait that Greenblatt paints for us.

After discussing my thoughts on this book with various colleagues and friends who specialize in the field, I realize that I am far from the first person to critique this book. As such, I will not go too much into every nitpicky detail of my disagreements with Greenblatt, as I’m sure that many before me have already done with greater tact and efficiency. Rather, after some initial critique of the book’s structure, I will proceed with my critique of the book through four main points, or weaknesses, of Greenblatt’s argument. As such, I believe that Greenblatt misrepresents the historical complexity of three eras of history (ancient, medieval, and early modern) as well as grossly oversimplifies the theological landscape of the Late Medieval period. In doing so, Greenblatt relies on tired and sorely outdated historical theories and narratives that have long been challenged by scholars in the field.

I. Structure

First of all, while some of the chapters are gripping and highly engrossing, many other chapters tend to meander and are only loosely tied together. The reader is consistently taken on tangential journeys that, while attempting to give background information on the historical period, tend to lose the main thrust of the narrative. Like I mentioned earlier, Greenblatt seems to utilize two main voices throughout this book: a novelistic retelling of Poggio’s life and a series of lectures on various topics. It’s this latter voice that tends to struggle the most, and many sections (especially when talking about religion and philosophy) tend to take on a less than endearing tone.

It is strange that while Lucretius’s poem should serve as the focal point of Greenblatt’s argument, the poem’s content only receives about twenty pages of devotion. Even within these few pages, the contents of Lucretius’s poem are distilled into a list of bullet points, each summarizing a general theme or idea that supports Epicurean philosophy. This was especially disappointing, and after so much buildup to this point (the contents of the poem are only revealed well over ⅔ of the way into the book), Greenblatt’s bullet point simplification of the work (with only a handful of direct quotations thrown in) left me wanting to read Lucretius for myself. Perhaps this was Greenblatt’s intention, but as he comments on the work’s philosophical relevance for the modern secular world (tellingly, Greenblatt titles the chapter “The Way Things Are”), Greenblatt seemed to make bold declamatory statements and evangelical pronouncements praising the “seductively beautiful” merits of atheism while using Lucretius’s work as a prooftext, rather than simply explaining the contents of the poem.

II. Historical (Philosophy in Ancient Greece and Rome)

Furthermore, Greenblatt oversimplifies several aspects of history to construct a neat and tidy narrative. In regards to the ancient world, Greenblatt tends to ignore the role of skepticism and the development and integration of Neoplatonism in the early Christian Church, which were hugely influential Hellenistic schools of thought that served as foundational to the history of philosophy. Greenblatt tends to overestimate the popularity and impact of Epicurean philosophy in the ancient world, preferring to romanticize the ancient philosophers by contrasting them against the seemingly repressive, intellectual inferior thinkers of the Middle Ages. In the same way, it should also be noted that Epicurus’s philosophy was widely rejected even among his contemporaries. Even for the later Romans, among whom was Lucretius, Epicurus’s emphasis on pleasure was seen as antithetical to the Roman ideal of strength through virtue and was often castigated as effeminate. In recounting Lucretius’s On the Nature of Things, Greenblatt conveniently leaves out certain parts of Lucretius’s writing, such as the role of ἀταραξία (ataraxia, “stillness” or “tranquillity”), which echoes many similar themes of Stoicism in the ancient world.

Yet, Greenblatt never really takes us through these competing theories of thought, and we are led to believe that Epicureanism was much more widely known and accepted in the ancient world. Greenblatt notes that philosophies such as Platonism and Aristotelianism survived in the Middle Ages because they were easier to integrate into the Christian worldview. While this is correct, it also ignores the fact that Epicureanism in the ancient world was incredibly conservative, in that Epicurus’s followers did not attempt to adapt or build upon Epicurus’s philosophies, preferring instead to always refer back to the teacher. This was common in much of the ancient world, as there was a complex and delicate balance between the innovation and conservation within various schools of thought (as evidenced by Plontius’s ardent belief that originality and innovation in Platonic thought were grave mistakes to be avoided). This is a common tension that is held in religion and philosophy throughout much of history, including the ancient world (ex. the Pharisees vs Sudducees vs Nazarenes in the ancient Jewish world). Therefore, when Greenblatt criticizes the Medieval World for their lack of creativity and originality, we must realize that there is a large precedent for the conservation of ideas and the distrust of innovation. Such blanket derision of an entire swath of history, namely the Middle Ages, leads me to the bulk of my critique.

III. Historical (Medieval World and Christianity)

Throughout the past several decades, medieval scholars have been working diligently to dispel several myths about the Middle Ages that have persisted for centuries: namely, that the so-called “Dark Ages” were a nightmarish hellscape of intellectual inertia fueled by religious intolerance and repression. In their attempts to justify their field, many scholars of the Renaissance have historically weaponized these false narratives and portrayed the Middle Ages as an age of ignorance, religiosity, and intellectual regression to present the Renaissance as a light that broke through that darkness and brought humanity to an age of science and reason.

Unfortunately, Greenblatt relies heavily on these cliched and outdated narratives. The Swerve paints the Renaissance as a great awakening of intellect and critical thinking that helped humanity overcome the dark and painful centuries of the Middle Ages. In Greenblatt’s story, the Catholic Church was the enemy of reason and intellect, as they allowed ancient texts to be devoured by the teeth of time, excommunicated each other over small squabbles, and burned heretics for simply disagreeing with doctrine. While such atrocities surely did occur, Greenblatt often misses the contribution of Christian leaders toward the gradual formation of modern ideas such as liberty and freedom, particularly in the Reformation. These religious leaders and thinkers were well-read in ancient, scholastic, and the emerging humanistic philosophy, and eventually helped pave the way for much of the foundation of modern liberalism (a legacy with which we are still contending). Instead of this nuance, we are treated to images of monks sitting in dark scriptoriums, mechanistically and unthinkingly copying manuscripts without deviating or critically engaging with the texts (which any study of medieval marginalia immediately calls into question).

Christianity in the medieval period was not monolithically anti-intellectual, emotionally repressed, or devoid of variation as Greenblatt would have us believe. He paints a dismal picture of the medieval monasteries, insulting the role of the medieval monk by writing, "Without wishing to emulate the pagan elites by placing books or writing at the center of society, without affirming the importance of rhetoric or grammar, without prizing either learning or debate, monks nevertheless became the principal readers, librarians, book preservers, and book producers of the Western world" (28, 29). Yet, these same monks and thinkers were actively engaging with the works of Plato and Aristotle and integrating them into scholastic philosophy. While Epicurean atomism might have been absent from the minds of most Medieval scholars, they were still engaging with similar ideas about the foundational principles of life. Ideas such as Aristotle’s minima naturalia were integrated into theology and metaphysics via empiricists and scholastics such as Roger Bacon and Duns Scotus and helped bridge the gap between ancient atomism and the mechanistic philosophy of philosophers such as Descartes, Locke, Gassendi, and Boyle.

Contrary to Greenblatt’s claim, the Middle Ages were one of the most book-centered eras in history. While it is true that most people were illiterate, books were objects of authority and veneration, which even Greenblatt puzzlingly affirms, writing that books possessed a kind of “social magic”(17). Greenblatt can’t quite bring himself to expressing gratitude for these monks working diligently to preserve texts, so he rather credits their accomplishments as being “inadvertent” and “obligatory” (28). However, contrary to Greenblatt’s assertions, we even have records of writers copying Virgil’s Aeneid, Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and even Lucretius’s De Rerum Natura in the 9th century, where we find our earliest copies of such texts. It could also be well-argued that the ideas of Lucretius and Epicurian philosophy can be found in sources ranging from Chaucer to Dante.

Bookmaking and the preservation of texts were essential to Medieval intellectual life, and while the Early Modern period did bring about radical changes and progress in the art of bookmaking (the invention of the printing press, the Reformation, the interest in classical Greek and Roman texts), Greenblatt unnecessarily denigrates the Medieval Era, portraying those who lived in it as backward and opposed to reason. This is a completely one dimensional perspective of learning in the Middle Ages, not only because it paints the monastic life with broad brush strokes, but also completely ignores the role of critical thinking and debates outside of its walls: namely, in the university (also a medieval invention and the foundation for the liberal arts) and in the commentary tradition, where religious scholars and monastics would analyze texts, make their commentaries, and debate.

Many of these scholars were well-versed in classical rhetoric and ancient philosophy, and even amongst the secular world, there were widespread productions of drama, romance literature, poetry, songs, plays, and more. Far from the middle ages being an era of masochistic repression and fixation on pain, we can find ample evidence of bawdry humor and sensuous texts. Whether found in the explicit sexuality and crassness of Chaucer’s Tale of the Wyf of Bathe and The Milleres Tale or the religious and political satires of medieval Irish texts like Aislinge Meic Con Glinne, we can see that medieval belief was far from rigid and doctrinally unassailable, especially on the periphery of Christendom.

We can see this variation of Medieval Christianity through the proliferation of various monastic orders during this era. Medieval Christianity was anything but monolithic, constantly reforming itself through the Cistercians, Cluniacs, Franciscans, Benedictines, and more. If anything, the story of the Middle Ages is one of constant reform and change. Christian Mysticism spread throughout the south of France, much to the ire of Rome. The Carolingian Renaissance of the 9th century and the 12th century Renaissance reconnected the Latin West with Roman Antiquity, although subsequent wars and invasions stifled these steps toward progress. Contrary to Greenblatt's consistent assertion, self-flagellation was not widespread within monasteries and certainly did not become normative for the laity. Even amid the turmoil of the Black Death, Pope Clement VI condemned the practice in 1349 (and even published a Papal bull the following year, Quamvis Perfidiam, which condemned the violence and pogroms against Jews, who had at the time been blamed for the Black Death). Even if Greenblatt rightly points out some examples of medieval thinkers denying themselves of immediate sensual gratification, he doesn’t even consider the ways in which, especially through a psychoanalytic perspective, pleasure can be achieved through religious ritual and denunciation (sublimation of desire).

Furthermore, in the constant bids for reform, we see that monasteries were not the most dogmatically religious and repressed places; rather, they were often centers of political power, amassing wealth and resources that became the subject of viscious critique from reformers such as Francis of Assissi. As much as Greenblatt refuses to engage with it, we must recognize that Christianity had a greater degree of freedom and complexity than he portrays. Yes, heresy trials, burnings, and persecution did indeed happen. No one would deny that. Yet, by that logic, the early modern era should also be solely defined by the witch crazes stirred by Heinrich Kramer’s Malleus Maleficarum and Pope Innocent’s condemnation of witchcraft in 1484 via the Summis desiderantes. History is much more complex than this simple transition from the Middle Ages to the Modern World. According to The Swerve, the Church is portrayed as an absolute enemy of pleasure and reason while the humanists (and the Renaissance artists and writers who took inspiration from Lucretius and Epicurus) rediscover a vibrant form of atheism that brings the world out of the Dark Ages and propel the modern world into one of progress and reason, encapsulated by the Enlightenment.

The sources just do not support this assertion, and the narrative thrust of The Swerve relies on a caricature of the Middle Ages to support a nice and tidy transition into the Renaissance when reason triumphs over religious dogma. On the contrary, one does not need to adopt an outdated model of history (pioneered by the likes of Jacob Burckhardt in his 1860 work The Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy) and denigrate an entire swath of history for the Renaissance to have meaning and significance. While I am admittedly much more sympathetic to the continuity thesis between these eras, I do not believe that the advancements and progress of the Renaissance are insignificant either. The Middle Ages laid the foundational groundwork for the Renaissance. The seeds of humanism and scientific inquiry were planted in this era, and while it may have taken several centuries to germinate, it is still important to recognize the vast contributions of the Middle Ages. Yet, it’s even harder to see how Lucretius’s work helped to spark the scientific revolution, and here I think Greenblatt’s thesis runs into its most difficult hurdle.

IV. Historical (Science)

To be fair, Greenblatt admits from the outset that one poem is not enough to change the world. In the preface, Greenblatt writes, “One poem by itself was certainly not responsible for an entire intellectual, moral, and social transformation...But this particular ancient book, suddenly returning to view, made a difference.” This difference is always left a bit vague, as Greenblatt doesn’t elaborate on the influence of the poem until the last few pages of the book. While he remarks that there were around 50 manuscripts from the fifteenth century that survive today, we never get an idea of just how many copies of Lucretius’s poem were printed and disseminated after the invention of the printing press, nor what languages it was translated into. Instead, Greenblatt gives us an array of characters who either reference Lucretius directly or reiterate his general ideas as his main point of evidence, some of which is more convincing than others.

In the final chapter, Greenblatt speeds through a brief sketch of the Scientific Revolution, noting the influence of atomism among budding scientists and philosophers. By doing so, Greenblatt takes atomism as the sole metric of our transition into the modern age, ignoring how atomism (and specifically the tenet that particles are indivisible) wasn’t wholly adopted by all scientists of the early modern period, as Descartes, Hobbes, Gassendi, Boyle, and Newton held onto Corpuscularianism (for example, see Newton’s corpuscular theory of light). The evidence suggests that most of these scientists looked back to Democritus, not Epicurus, for their ideas on atomism, and even then didn’t adopt it wholesale. Furthermore, many of Epicuris’s ideas on atomism were preserved in the commentaries of Galen (129–216), whose work (which defined the practice of medicine for well over a millennia) persisted and continued to be read throughout the medieval and early modern period.

Greenblatt trots out old, familiar example after example, including Galileo’s heresy trial, which Greenblatt argues was a chance for the Church to exact retribution on Galileo’s propagation of atomism (though Greenblatt readily admits that this wasn’t the sole reason). Looking at the notes on this section, Greenblatt even admits that he is going against the consensus among most historians of science to make this argument work, yet persists by saying “But there is no reason to think that the Church’s motivation could only have been one or the other concern and not both” (306). Even though this idea (that the Church’s condemnation of Galileo’s heliocentrism served as a cover for their real motivation for persecuting him, namely his atomism) originally proposed by Redondi has been widely criticized by historians of science, Greenblatt essentially shrugs his shoulders and essentially proclaims, “eh, why not both?” Since it serves as a convenient example for his main argument, Greenblatt is more than willing to stretch the available evidence.

In the meantime, Greenblatt also fails to take into account the role of vast trade and communication networks between the Western World and the East. The contributions of the medieval Islamic world to the development of modern science cannot be understated (especially in the fields of physics, astronomy, mathematics, medicine), especially with such close contact points such as Sicily and Spain. As much as Greenblatt would like to make a clean cut between these eras, there were still a lot of holdovers from the Middle Ages in the thoughts and beliefs of the central actors of the Scientific Revolution (alchemy, astrology, Hermeticism, etc). In the end, it is left ambiguous to what degree Lucretius’s poem influenced the Renaissance and Scientific Revolution. I was left unconvinced that, even if we had tragically lost Lucretius’s poem, then “the course of modernity would have been different” (7). While Greenblatt is sure to cushion this thesis by insisting that its influence had a kind of “butterfly effect” on the development of modernity, it just seems like a weak foundation to rest the foundation of the modern world upon. By setting up a diatomically opposed world, Greenblatt simplifies and distorts the actual complexities of history and how events and ideas develop. And nowhere does Greenblatt level out any sort of nuance and complexity than in his treatment of religion and atheism.

V. Theological (Atheism and Christianity)

Now I am by no means an apologist for Christianity, and I find most dichotomies and debates between Christianity and atheism to be boring and unproductive at best. As a religious studies scholar, however, I must confess that I am guilty of believing that religion is historically a deeply important part of the human experience, and it behooves us to understand and grapple with it honestly if we are to understand and build meaningful connections with one another and to understand our shared history. In contrast, Greenblatt seems to be taking a hardline stance on the evils of religion, reminiscent of the likes of New Atheists such as Dawkins, Dennet, and Harris.

Like these figures, Greenblatt’s understanding of religion is remarkably shallow and sorely one-dimensional. He tends to utilize grand, sweeping statements about religion, such as when he summarizes Lucretius's poem. He blurs the line between the actual content of the poem and his personal beliefs by claiming “all organized religions are superstitious delusions,” “religions are invariable cruel,” and “the quintessential emblem of religion - and the clearest manifestation of the perversity that lies at its core - is the sacrifice of a child by a parent” (193, 194). He writes further that “religions always promise hope and love, but their deep underlying structure is cruelty” (194). Elaborating in this polemic against all religion, Greenblatt claims that these “poisonous beliefs” are a delusion that strips individuals from pursuing pleasure (and specifically passionate sexual fulfillment) and that Lucretius’s work is a grand vision that seeks to “wrest the truth away from illusion-mongers” (200).

Ultimately, Greenblatt, far from making a decent argument, actually seems to be arguing against a hyperbolic, exaggerated form of asceticism that is more akin to Gnosticism than anything else. He never even attempts to grapple with how religion was practiced in common rituals and people, relegating Christianity to the worst excesses of the monasteries and the church courts. Greenblatt seems to have a particular fascination with the flagellants of the Medieval Period, insisting that it became a central ascetic practice in mainstream Christian practice, writing “what was once in effect a radical counterculture insisted with remarkable success that it represented the core values of all believing Christians” (109).

This is quite a shocking claim, as such practices only existed among incredibly small, apocalyptic populations in Italy and Germany, and was routinely condemned and deemed heretical by Pope Alexander IV in 1261, Pope Clement VI in 1349, and Pope Gregory XI in 1372. While cultic groups that advocated self-flagellation did pop up in various spurts throughout the Middle Ages, particularly in times of great crisis and mass hysteria, it was far from common practice among the vast majority of Christians. Far from being a central practice of the Catholic church, the flagellants were often seen as a threat to the central authority, arising in zealous, populist, and apocalyptic-minded sects that often accused the Pope of being the Antichrist. Again, Greenblatt often takes extreme examples of fringe practices within religion and then extrapolates that to the entire tradition.

Furthermore, in regards to Greek philosophy, he seems to credit Epicurus for being a lone atheist of the polytheistic ancient world, not recognizing the vast amount of variation of belief (and non-belief) in the ancient world (such as Xenophanes, Parmenides, Pyrrho (who also centered the role of ataraxia), etc). Greenblatt’s analysis of religion is severely lacking and one-dimensional, which while lending itself to compelling storytelling with clear heroes and villains, fails to capture the nuances and functions of belief and how they manifest themselves in our wider world. Greenblatt seems to take his experience of converting to atheism as a normative one, insisting that anyone who affirms a religious system of belief is life-denying and mired in superstition. Greenblatt begins the book by talking about his mother’s obsession with death, and how Lucretius's work helped him to embrace the material world for what is and face death head-on.

While finding existential meaning a person’s work is fine, his biases begin to pervade the text. Greenblatt’s deftly weaves his convictions and commitment to a particular ideological apparatus into the narrative of history he’s constructing, thus justifying his ideology. This becomes an endless feedback loop, as one gets consistently reaffirmed in one’s ideology. Greenblatt conflates idiosyncratic individual experience with grand historical narratives, inferring that just as Lucretius’s work freed him from denying the pleasures of this world and the fear of death that so plagued his mother, so did it also liberate the world from the dark, repressive world of superstition and fear and into one of progress and enlightenment. Let me be clear: I have no problem with atheists or those who are highly skeptical of religion. Truly, I also have major issues with religion.

What I do have a problem with is someone believing that they are intellectually or spiritually superior by virtue of their belief/unbelief. If Greenblatt derives meaning from his worldview, that is wonderful and should be encouraged. Yet, he should also recognize the contingency and idiosyncrasy of his perspective, as well as the subsequent cost of modernity. Modernity, far from liberating us from our chains of oppression, has simply ordained new masters in the place of rigid doctrine or hierarchical ecclesial structures. Christianity and atheism have a lot more in common than one would think and pitting them against each other as bitter enemies is wholly unproductive. At the end of the day, we are meaning-making beings. As long as humans are around, we will continue to seek answers to the fundamental questions of life, creating narratives, questioning our assumptions, and reforming our perspectives. Instead of castigating others and treating religion as a relic of the past, we need to take it seriously, as it remains an integral part of many people’s lives, even in our “modern” world.

Conclusion:

Now, with this heavy layer of criticism, you might be asking, “How did this book win a Pulitzer Prize?” In short, it is because The Swerve tells a simple, neat, tidy narrative of history with clearly defined heroes and villains, when history, in reality, is never really this way. There are certain parts (such as the tale of Pope John XXIII and his political maneuvering) that are wholly engrossing and read like a novel. Other sections, however, such as the chapters on bookmaking and the only chapter on Lucretius’s poem (which is explained via a handful of bullet points) seemed more like lectures, and vitriolic ones at that. Even so, some of Pogglio’s inner dialogue and thoughts that Greenblatt inserts seem more like a projection of his own beliefs than actual historical fact.

This brings us back to the ethical issue of retelling history and brings up several questions about the usefulness and utility of popular history. Surely people should have some knowledge than none at all. But when that historical narrative is so skewed and aberrant from the complexities of the actual events, one has to question whether such books end up as net positives or negatives for the general understanding of our shared history. Is it better to know something over nothing, even if that something is factually inaccurate? Is incorrect information better than no information? With the amount of unlearning that one has to go through, are books such as these ultimately detrimental to the discourse? Eh, maybe. Do they get people interested in a period of history that they might otherwise not care about? The book sales would suggest so. This is something that we have an obligation to wrestle with if we want to be ethical agents of history.

Overall, this is a popular history book, and your expectations must be tempered accordingly before reading. Greenblatt serves up a simplified perspective of historical development to advocate and propagate a militantly anti-religious worldview. What we, as responsible readers, must recognize is that the signifiers that we apply to eras of history (Ancient, Medieval, Renaissance, Modernity, etc) are just that: signifiers that are arbitrarily applied to help us make sense of our past. History is paradoxical and full of nuance and vibrancy, not prone to easy and hackneyed characterizations. Pleasure, pain, repression, hedonism, masochism, desire, and religiosity have existed throughout all eras of time since they are integral to what it means to be human. The intersections between these eras of time are so fascinating because they show the tension and contradictions of humanity. There are plenty of interesting, nuanced stories of this era that are still yet to be told. Maybe it’s time that we begin to tell these stories with the weight of respect and nuance that they deserve.