Spinors, Clifford, and Cayley Algebras (Interdisciplinary Mathematics Series Vol 7) Book

As this is my fourth review of Gibbon, and as I am not as inexhaustible as that great man, this review will be somewhat scatterbrained—just a few casual observations and some final reflections.

First, it occurred to me, after reading Gibbon’s memoirs, that one of the largest influences on his writing must have been Homer. Notice that Gibbon systematically reuses and repeats certain key phrases and words in the same situations, just as Homer reused the same formulas through his poems. For example, Gibbon always uses “the winds and waves” to denote challenges at sea, while Homer always uses “wine-dark sea” to denote the stormy, foreboding sea. Homer was, in all probability, an oral poet, so it’s no surprise that one finds formulas in his poems. But Gibbon must have done this quite intentionally; this wouldn’t be surprising, as he was a great fan of the Grecian bard.

Next, as I have on several occasions sung Gibbon’s praises, I think it only fair that I jot down some of his shortcomings. Gibbon’s prose is supremely beautiful; but, unlike the beauty of, say, Shakespeare’s language, Gibbon’s writing is all beautiful in the same way. Gibbon mastered one aesthetic, and deployed it to great effect. But after thousands upon thousands of pages of his style, one does grow a bit tired of it. I think much of this has to do with pacing. Gibbon’s mind traveled at one speed—a slow, stately procession. The tumult of battle and the sublimities of philosophy are all recounted in the same majestic waltz. Of course, this is a great part of the appeal of his works, since he manages to cast his silken shroud over all of life’s defects. Yet the reader does sometimes long for some variety, some bit of headstrong passion or unrestrained pathos on the part of the author.

Both of the above qualities—his reuse of certain phrases, and the uniformity of his style—combined to give an artificial homogeneity to the material under discussion. Whether discussing the Turks or the Tuscans, the same phrases are heard, the same cadences sounded. It is often difficult to picture the action in the mind’s eye; the appeal is rather to the ear, as Gibbon’s prose rolls augustly along in its inexorable course.

Gibbon’s other major flaw is his cultural snobbishness. His heroes are all cultured gentlemen and amateur philosophers; his villains are philistines and savages. Gibbon will connect the decline of an empire with the decline in literary taste, and the ruin of a polity with the ruin of a monument. His historical explanations all involve loosening standards of personal honor—something most modern readers are wont to regard as an effect, rather than a cause, of decline.

Yet I will speak no more of this. It feels dishonest of me to nitpick an author who has so deeply influenced me, and has filled so many of my leisure hours with pleasure and companionship. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire is as great a monument of the human spirit as is the Coliseum. And like that ancient amphitheater, this work exquisitely blends the most noble and most base aspects of our species: a grand edifice, erected by diligence and knowledge, preserved by respect and care; and in the center of this great work—amid the elegant archways and the polished marble—the spectator finds nothing but pointless bloodshed.