ADVIENTO - La niña que no se concentraba

La niña que no se concentraba – Cuento para reflexionar

Juanita se quejaba de que no podía concentrarse para realizar sus deberes porque un vaivén de pensamientos no se lo permitía: pensaba en los amigos, en ver la tele, en jugar, en chuches, en imágenes...

Por todo ello habló de esto con su madre diciéndole:

Mami no puedo concentrarme porque los pensamientos y las imágenes mentales no me dejan meditar. Cuando se van unos llegan otros y mi mente se queda confusa.

La madre se acerca y le explica:

_ Agarra esa escoba y sostenla.

Después de unos minutos la madre le dice:

_ Ahora suéltala y dime qué ha pasado.

_ La escoba ha caído al suelo _ señaló Juanita.

Entonces la madre explica:

_ ¡Tú controlas tus pensamientos, no tus pensamientos a ti!

Autora: María Abreu

Truth in Sorrow, Truth in Joy

Truth in Sorrow, Truth in Joy

Summary:

Jehan Prouvaire has lent Feuilly a book, and rambling discussion of Othello, of being an outsider, and of the roles of sorrow and joy in perceiving reality ensues. Basically, a book club run rampant.

Jehan looked up as Feuilly laid the thin black volume on the table. “Did you enjoy it?” he asked, examining his friend’s sober face.

Feuilly’s forehead creased. He lowered himself into a chair across from Jehan, taking a deep breath. “It… it is a sad text,” he said.

Jehan smiled softly, sympathetically. “A very sad text,” he murmured. “A foreigner working his way into society that despises his people. A woman who loves him, and is loved in return, but never fully trusted. A man who wants to wreak destruction, and a woman who—despite the fact that her loyalty lies elsewhere—is bound to him. In the end, chaos, stemming from one person’s hatred and another’s mistrust.”

“I do not think I have understood all the levels yet,” Feuilly said, running his hands along the cover. “This Shakespeare has a great deal of depth.”

“So he has.” Jehan’s smile widened a bit. “I admire him a great deal for his insights into humanity. But you did not answer my question: did you enjoy it?”

Feuilly stared at the cover for several long moments before looking up again. “Yes,” he said slowly. “It is a sad text, but I enjoyed it. There is something—something very true—”

He trailed off. “What specifically caught your attention?” queried Jehan, his head tilted with interest. “I have seen a great many true things in Othello.”

But Feuilly found that he could not speak. All the thoughts that had been so clear in his head when he’d sat on his bed talking them out alone the night before, that had fallen neatly into sentences when he had looked over some scenes again during his lunch break, were now muddled and locked behind some solid door. “I—” he started, “well, I am interested in—I mean, the character of Othello is…”

And he looked at his hands, helplessly. Parbleu, he thought, why had he ventured to discuss literature with Jehan? History, politics—they accepted him there, even though his education was so shaky. But literature was utterly foreign to him, and Jehan was so well-versed in it. He must be looking down on Feuilly for his fumblings even now—

No, he hastened to correct himself, that was doing Jehan’s kindness an injustice. But still he must get his thoughts together, must try to sound like a person with legitimate things to say…

But Jehan was looking at him with gentle curiosity. “It’s Othello himself who catches your interest, then, above all? I can see that.”

“Yes,” said Feuilly, “because—because—” Oh hell, he wasn’t getting any more articulate. The only thing he could think of to say was that Othello made him the saddest, and that was hardly an insight.

Jehan waited.

“Because he tries so hard,” Feuilly finally managed. “And like you said, he can’t trust anyone. The one person he decides to trust ruins him.”

“He can love, but he can’t trust,” Jehan put in.

“Yes,” said Feuilly. “Because—because he is an outsider.”

And then Jehan gazed at him again with those keen eyes, and Feuilly felt uncomfortably, lovingly known, and he ducked his head.

“You know,” he said, slowly, “the issue with his marriage, for example. Even though he’s so well-renowned, he can never escape who he is and the inferiority that society has attached to that. Is he even called by name very often? He is always the Moor.”

(And Feuilly thought—and knew in the silence that Jehan was thinking—of the men from other Republican groups that had come to their meetings, and met Feuilly, and yet referred to him as the worker or the fanmaker long after they should have known his name. There had been one such contact joining them just last week, and Courfeyrac had led the charge in saying Feuilly’s name as many times as possible throughout the evening, which had flustered the man—as well as Feuilly himself—but had not convinced him to rectify his behavior.)

“He’s set off, separated from the rest of humanity by the way they refer to him,” Jehan mused. “But he is more than what they deem him to be by use of the label.”

Feuilly looked at Jehan bleakly. “…or is he?” he said. “In the end, he is violent and dangerous, deceived and suspicious. In the end he is the murderer of the very woman who consecrated her soul and fortunes to his honor and his valiant parts. He fulfills worse than their suspicions.”

“But not because that is his nature,” said Jehan. “Rather, he is manipulated by one of the characters who most maligns his identity.”

“So instead of his nature creating their attitude,” Feuilly said, slowly, “their attitude pushes him into being something that he otherwise would not be.”

(And he thought of all the people that surrounded him on a daily basis—the people who called the grasping poor, because they were not given fair pay and thus had to cling to each sou, or the lazy poor, because there were not enough jobs, or the deserving poor, because they tried to survive by conforming to the standards of a society that was designed to crush them, or the criminal poor because they rioted and drank and stole when they had had enough of getting nowhere by being “deserving.” He thought of talk he’d heard of the working class being bloodthirsty and restless, and needing a firm hand to prevent them from launching another ’89, and of the finely-dressed women who clutched their purses more tightly when he passed them in the streets. But would the working class have sought blood in ’89 if they had not been so oppressed to begin with? To assume that they were dangerous and thus keep them down and treat them with suspicion was to render them more dangerous yet.)

It was heavy, so heavy, and he ran a hand over his face as Jehan murmured, “Such, alas, is the way of the world,” and waited for him.

“It makes me—” Feuilly hesitated. “When I read it, and feel for him, it feels like grief. But it is a grief which makes me want to go on reading. It is—I don’t know how to explain it, exactly.”

But Jehan nodded at once. “It is a grief which feels somehow satisfying? Right and good, although in no way lessened in sorrow because of that?”

“Yes,” said Feuilly. “Yes, exactly. It is as if I am not merely grieving a character in a play, but an actual state of injustice which…which needed my grief.”

A melancholy smile crossed Jehan’s face. “That,” he said, “is because there is truth to be found in fiction…truths that come clearer for us because they are portrayed through another lens than that of our daily life. So through Othello, you have a new perspective on a reality somewhat similar to that which he faces, and you grieve because you have come face to face with truth all over again, and that truth is painful, but it needs to be known. And you are right, I think—it also needs to be grieved. Combeferre would say that grief is an essential stage in progress.”

“Hmm.” Feuilly ran his fingertips over the cover of the book again, tracing the lettering. “So sorrow is fitting, because it reflects reality.”

“Our sorrow acknowledges the weight of the world’s pain.” Jehan was talking to the tabletop, not from timidity or distance but from a depth of contemplation. “And its meaning as well.”

“In sorrow, truth,” summed up Feuilly, and he was about to take up Othello again and scan its pages to point out to Jehan passages which had affected him most, when a large hand fell on his shoulder.

“But,” said Bahorel, to whom that hand belonged, “in joy and laughter and cheer, truth as well!” He swung a chair over to the end of the table near Jehan and Feuilly.

“Come,” he continued, “my friends laden with melancholy and with heavy thoughts, we must see both sides of the world in order to have a fair picture of reality.”

Feuilly raised his eyebrows. “The ‘two sides’ of the world, as you put it, are hardly equal at present.” He moved his shoulder out from beneath Bahorel’s touch, turning to face him better. “Focus your attention on laughter, and you risk becoming blind to misery, just as so many have who see and do nothing because their eyes are fixed on their own pleasure.”

“Ah,” said Bahorel, “but what of laughter amid misery? Surely you would agree that those who are miserable need not always contemplate it?”

Feuilly’s brow contracted. “They should not be deceived by false pleasures,” he said tentatively, “things that would persuade them that their oppression is not so bad after all. But no, I do not begrudge pleasure of anyone who is suffering; that would be unkind.”

“I think,” said Jehan, “that the pleasures of those who are oppressed and suffering are not likely to be false, or cheap—to be designed to cloak hard truths. There is truth in joy, even for those in hard circumstances, and perhaps by finding joy they make joy true.”

Bahorel grinned. “It’s defiant,” he said. “Laughter defies circumstance, defies the world which seeks to crush. There are men, scores of men, in these days here in Paris, who look down on me because my parents are peasants, calling me farm boy, but I laugh at their idiocy and backwards ideas more heartily than they at my birth. Who wins?”

Feuilly hesitated, knowing his own indignation and sorrow at being looked down on, but Jehan smiled at him gently. “Both sorrow and joy, laughter and grief, exist, Feuilly,” he said. “Both are meant to be known and used; both are a means of finding truth. By sorrow we find the truth of current circumstance; by laughter we find the truth of our ability to surpass circumstance.”

“Balance,” Feuilly said. “Balance is key.”

“Yes,” said Jehan. “But balance by knowing both fully, not by limiting our experience of either.”

Feuilly looked down at the book on the table, and thought of his deep experience of vicarious sorrow while reading it, and of his keen awareness of how much of an outsider he sometimes was. But if balance was the key to truth—and since it was true, he realized, that different as he was he was accepted and equal here in this discussion—then perhaps now was the time for laughter.

He took a deep breath. “Let us, then, defy our circumstances,” he said.

Bahorel clapped him on the back and called for wine, and Jehan gave him a melancholy smile as he slipped Othello into his bag. 

THE CARNIVAL DAUGHTER (+ SEQUEL FIC)

Illustration by Jack Stockman,

The Carnival Daughter

Others went away forever into a country that was only in their minds…

Carny lived in a huge mansion on the edge of the mountain that rose. Mt. Hill lifted its grand peak to the sky and proudly displayed a vast array of large estates and palatial homes. The child’s father was a wealthy merchant who traveled far to purchase costly goods for sale in the bazaar.

Carny had everything a girl could want. She never went hungry or shivered in the cold. Her father was rich enough to hire servants. Her mother was beautiful and kind. She had no brothers or sisters demanding to share her toys.

But something was wrong. Something was so wrong with Carny that her mother wept quietly in the day when everyone else was sleeping…

Illustration by Zhivko Zhelev

La Hija de la Feria

Otros se marchaban para siempre a un país que sólo existía en sus mentes…

Feria vivía en una vasta mansión al borde del monte que se alzaba. El monte Colina alzaba su gran cumbre hacia los cielos y hacía soberbio alarde de grandes propiedades y hogares palaciegos. El padre de la criatura era un acomodado negociante que viajaba largas distancias para comprar objetos de valor que vendía en el bazar.

Feria tenía todo cuanto una niña puede desear. Nunca tenía hambre, ni sed, ni tiritaba de frío. Su señor padre se permitía el lujo de contratar a sirvientes. Su señora madre era hermosa y amable. Ella no tenía hermanos, ni varones ni hermanas, que le pidieran compartir sus juegos y juguetes.

Pero algo fallaba. Algo pasaba tan malo con Feria que su madre sollozaba en silencio durante el día, mientras todos los demás dormían. Y su padre se paseaba con un gesto facial de preocupación que le hendía una profunda línea en el entrecejo. Los sirvientes se reunían en grupos, juntitos juntitos, conversando sobre la triste condición de la niña.

Feria permanecía en su habitación. Se negaba a mirar por las ventanas por las preciosas noches estrelladas. Las contraventanas estaban cerradas con llave, así como las persianas, y los pesados tapices que servían de cortinas de invierno estaban siempre cerrados.

Las únicas personas a las que se admitía en la habitación eran la Nana, la niñera (que se marchaba llevando bandejas plateadas de comida medio acabadas) y la madre de Feria (que sólo se quedaba para breves visitas), pero nunca su señor padre. Él, desgraciadamente, le recordaba mucho a Feria a otra persona que le había hecho sufrir.

Todos los sirvientes de antaño recordaban que la niña había una vez sido una alegre y hermosa duendecilla de brillantes ojos color café y lustrosos rizos entre dorados y castaños. Le salían hoyuelos en las mejillas cuando sonreía… y siempre estaba sonriendo, danzando por allí, llena de abrazos para todos.

–Ella era un primor –se susurraban los unos a los otros, sus cofias almidonadas asintiendo en un estrecho círculo. –Qué primor. Qué pena.

Pero hacía cinco terribles años que aquello sucedió.

El Baile del Usurpador, celebrado cada año en una mansión diferente escogida por el gobernante, tuvo lugar aquel año en el palacio de mármol y cedro de los padres de Feria. La mansión estaba llena de invitados, y los soldados del Usurpador montaban guardia en torno a todos aquellos que se divertían, que reían y danzaban y brindaban y actuaban como si estuvieran pasándoselo bien… aunque algunos de ellos admitían que era difícil divertirse si eran forzados a ello.

Aquella noche, a Feria la habían metido en la cama por su seguridad. Las madres escondían a sus criaturas cuando el Usurpador estaba cerca –no porque al gobernante no le gustaran los niños, no, no. El problema era que le gustaban demasiado y de todas las formas equivocadas. Los huérfanos, por supuesto, eran propiedad del Gobierno, que los empleaba como mano de obra forzada. Pero los hijos de la gente acomodada no estaban exentos de la leva. Más de una criatura bien parecida había “entrado en quintas” para servir como consentidas estrellas en el Palacio del Placer, donde el pueblo llano, lleno de hastío y de mal del corazón, venía para olvidar por un rato sus penas, sus temores, y sus sufrimientos. Pocos progenitores pensaban en esto como un privilegio.

Escaleras abajo, la música sonaba. Los cascabeles cosidos a los hábitos de los sacerdotes tintineaban. La risa y la celebración despertaron a la niña de su profundo sueño. Ella salió reptando de la cama y se dirigió, de puntillas, a la barandilla circular que protegía el corredor de los dormitorios del vasto espacio que se arqueaba hasta el gran techo de cúpula y al grandioso salón…

(Traducción de Sandra Dermark)

(Continuación redactada por Sandra Dermark)

Una tarde de otoño en que Feria no tenía clases particulares, y su niñera se había vuelto a su campiña natal (en otra provincia, bien lejos del monte Colina), y sus padres se habían ido a la ópera (pues en aquel complejo de mansiones también había un teatro, además de un internado de señoritas, un casino y una academia militar), ella estaba tirada en la cama con dosel, sus rubios rizos cayéndole en cascada por las sienes y los hombros, leyendo un poemario. Cabe decir que ella tenía muchos libros ilustrados, entre cuentos, novelas, poemarios, obras de teatro y ensayos, pero aquella tarde no hallaba placer en ninguno de sus muñecos o juegos, en dibujar o colorear o siquiera hojear cualquier otro libro.

El sol ya se estaba poniendo y hacía frío, el jardín francés estaba envuelto en brumas y caían las hojas secas una tras otra. Y allí estaba ella, tirada en la cama, con los codos hincados en el suave edredón de satén y recitando su poema preferido, el de la página por la que el libro estaba abierto:

Pasan las horas de hastío

por la estancia familiar,

el amplio cuarto sombrío

donde yo empecé a soñar…

Ese era uno de los pocos poemas que le entretenía leer cuando estaba sola de verdad. No sabía por qué razón.

Dice la monotonía

del agua clara al caer:

un día es como otro día,

hoy es lo mismo que ayer.

Cae la tarde. El viento agita 
el parque mustio y dorado… 
¡Qué largamente ha llorado 
toda la fronda marchita!

Especialmente en otoño e invierno, cuando la bruma y/o la lluvia no permitían salir al aire libre y perderse entre los setos del laberinto, o perseguir mariposas o mariquitas. Feria suspiró y miró hacia arriba, a las constelaciones luminiscentes que decoraban el dosel de la cama. Pronto, el sol se pondría del todo y los astros bordados volverían a brillar.

Y fue entonces cuando ella oyó una dulce voz masculina, menos profunda que la de su señor padre o la del mayordomo, al ritmo de una guitarra acústica:

Guadalajara en un llano,

México en una laguna…

Al principio lo pensó como ensoñaciones suyas, pero ahora podía discernirlo más claramente:

Guadalajara en un llano,

México en una laguna…

me he de comer esa tuna…

Intrigada, pegó un brinco de la cama y corrió las cortinas del dosel, y luego las de la ventana de su cuarto, con todas sus fuerzas, para echar un vistazo, el primero en un lustro de reclusión, al mundo exterior. Allá afuera, a contraluz del sol poniente, más allá de la puerta modernista de hierro forjado, había un chico joven, como tres o cuatro años mayor que ella, vestido con una especie de uniforme, que punteaba una guitarra flamenca a zurdas; tocaba las cuerdas en medio del instrumento con la mano izquierda y lo agarraba por las clavijas con la derecha:

Desde Santurce a Bilbado,

vengo por toda la orilla…

Se miraron un instante, pero no necesitaron más. Ni siquiera cuando otros jóvenes uniformados igual vinieron a por su compañero y se lo llevaron con él, justo cuando su bardo estaba elogiando al mejor puente colgante, ubicado en Portugal u otro lugar parecido. Ni siquiera cuando, tras desaparecer todos los chicos de uniforme cuesta abajo, ella por fin se rindió al sueño. Con una anhelada sonrisa en los labios.

Ese invierno, por el solsticio, sería su fiesta trilustral de presentación en sociedad. Entre todos los cadetes y señoritos del monte Colina seguro que se disputarían el derecho de sacarla a la pista, bajo la majestuosa lámpara de araña, mientras los padres de los adolescentes iban a discutir, como siempre, las ofertas de matrimonio; aquel sería el debut de la joven (que ya no sería, una niña y aún no sería una mujer), sin contar que aquella noche otros echarían su suerte por ella, y su vida nunca volvería a ser igual…

EPÍLOGO

Puente de Portugalete,

el mejor puente colga-a-ante…

–¡Modesto! –le despertaron de su ensoñación. Había creído ver una silueta femenina, pequeña y frágil, allende las contraventanas. Quién sabe si era igual como él la imaginaba: un ángel caído, un hada enjaulada, que necesitaba que alguien la tuviera en sus brazos.

Aun así, seguro que estaba fuera de su alcance. Ella, una heredera del monte Colina, fijo que hija única de sus señores padres. Él, un estudiante bohemio de una universidad en el otro confín del reino, que estaba simplemente veraneando con la tuna (para más inri, su educación primaria se la debía a sí mismo), y tenía que regresar, con el otoño, a la rutina de la Facultad.

Ella vivía en un palacio de mármol y cedro, con un jardín francés perfectamente ordenado y una reja modernista, en una habitación escaleras arriba con contraventanas y persianas; él, en una guardilla al borde del campus, con una caja de madera, en el alféizar, donde cultivaba sus propias zanahorias, perejil, cebolletas y las flores que llaman alegrías.

Los dos eran personas inteligentes y sensibles, los dos eran hijos únicos, sabían apreciar las cosas buenas de la vida… pero se reencontrarían, y se conocerían mejor el uno al otro, cuando las ranas criaran pelo.

Nunca más se volverían a ver, y, seguro que cuando se vieran por siguiente vez, ella estaría casada con otro, más o menos contra su voluntad.

Aquel encuentro no sería más que una nota a pie de página de la vida que él esperaba, a la hora de realizar su carrera, y seguro que estaría, tras graduarse, a años luz del monte Colina, físicamente y en espíritu. Seguro que él estaría casado con otra, con una mujer de su clase media de su villa de provincias natal.

¿Y qué le importaría aquel encuentro efímero de los años mozos?

Lo mismo que a ella, seguro, pensó Modesto acompañando a sus compañeros de clase, de tuna y de fatigas a la taberna-venta que se erguía a la sombra del monte Colina, pensando en una jarra de cerveza negra con la que ahogar las penas:

Me he de co-o-omer esa tuna,

a-aunque me pinche las manos… 

La pinta de cerveza negra no había sido suficiente. No sabía cuántas copas de licor 34 con hielo se había echado entre pecho y espalda cuando, tras cantar estos versos, se dejó caer rendido, con la guitarra en la mano izquierda y la copa en la derecha, exhausto sobre la barra.

OF CASSIO AND LEWINSKY

We’ll get to Monica Lewinsky in a second, but if we’re going to talk about shame we have to start with “Othello.” It’s Act II, Scene 3. The Venetian Army is on Cyprus, and in festive spirits: the enemy Turkish fleet has been conveniently destroyed by a tempest, and the Venetian general, Othello, just married and feeling great about it, declares an evening of feasting. Iago, inflated with spite, skulks around, looking to stir up mutiny against his boss. He finds his target in Cassio, a handsome young lieutenant and Othello’s protégé. In one of the Western canon’s great deployments of peer pressure, Iago plies Cassio, who has confessed to “very poor and / unhappy brains for drinking,” with wine, and tricks him into initiating a violent fight with the former governor of Cyprus. Othello appears, furious, and puts Cassio—sputtering, pitiful—on speedy public trial. Iago craftily testifies against him. “But men are men,” he says, making a show of his reluctance to crush his prey. (The next time you hear the “boys will be boys” excuse, remember that it was invented by the slimiest villain of them all.) “I love thee,” Othello tells Cassio, “but never more be officer of mine.” Humiliated before his peers, out of a job, his life in ruins, Cassio crumples:

Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost
my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of
myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation,
Iago, my reputation!

These are lines that lodge in the ear and burrow deep into the heart. Could the distress of a disgraced lieutenant—an affectionate, vivacious youth whose impetuous behavior has cut his career short, who has confided his weakness in an older, trusted friend and been betrayed for it, who has been embraced and then abandoned by the man he admires most in the world, a charismatic national leader with plenty of enemies looking for a way to bring him down—have echoed in Monica Lewinsky’s mind, a vestige of some long-ago high-school English class, as she prepared to take the stage at a ted conference in Vancouver last Thursday? The talk that she had come to deliver—viewed online, as of this writing, more than a million and a half times—is called “The Price of Shame.”

There stands Monica, forty-one years old, square jawed and sleekly coiffed, the discreet wireless mic of motivational speakers and Broadway stars hooked around her right ear. Her feet are firmly planted, her hands mobile and expressive, her eyes open wide. She enunciates like a pro, and chokes up once. Seen from a wide angle, the auditorium, with its red stage ringed by seats bathed in blue light, resembles an ancient Greek theatre decorated in the garish colors of US politics—Lewinsky the heroine of the national tragicomedy, reading at last from her own script. More to the point, the room looks disconcertingly like a dartboard, with Lewinsky at the center of the crimson bull’s-eye.

“In 1998, I lost my reputation and my dignity,” she tells the audience. “I lost almost everything. And I almost lost my life.” She recounts the humiliation that she experienced after the news of her affair with Bill Clinton broke: the mortification of being required to listen, in Ken Starr’s dingy, windowless office, to twenty hours of phone calls recorded without her knowledge by her friend Linda Tripp, in which she described her encounters with Clinton and her feelings for him, and the unbearable amplification of that humiliation by the subsequent release of the Starr report.

Still, the worst abuse didn’t come from public authority figures like Starr, who was outmatched in his sickly blend of prudishness and prurience only by the members of the federal grand jury, who made Lewinsky retread the same sad ground in their own interrogation of her. (“When you look at it now, was it love or a sexual obsession?” one juror asked. “Did you think that the President was in love with you also?”) The worst abuse resulted from the widespread, and unprecedented, distribution of those materials online, and the ensuing spectacle of derision that has continued, with radioactive endurance, for a decade and a half. Clinton’s escape from pointless impeachment ended up seeming like a golden boy’s feat, the stunt of a daredevil pilot who takes his plane into a nose dive only to swerve up just before hitting the ground. Not so for Lewinsky. “Overnight, I went from being a completely private person to being a publicly humiliated one worldwide,” she says. When it came to her shame, Starr was only the tip of the iceberg. The iceberg was the rest of us.

A frightening, terrible thing about shame is how difficult it is to dispel. Guilt, at least, can be absolved through action. You apologize to the friend you gossiped about; you donate ten per cent of the million cash bonus you got as C.E.O. to charity. Guilt is the discomfort that comes from recognizing that you’ve done something wrong, or failed to do something right. It’s an emotional accountability mechanism—the way that the self takes itself to task.

Shame, on the other hand, is a social feeling, born from a perception of other people’s disgust, a susceptibility to their contempt and derision. You see yourself from the point of view of your detractors; you pelt yourself with their revulsion, and as you do you begin, like Cassio, to lose track of the self altogether. Someone else’s narrow, stiffened vision of who you are replaces your own mottled, expansive one. As Lewinsky listened to the recordings of her phone calls, she tells us, she heard her voice as if it belonged to a different person: “My sometimes catty, sometimes churlish, sometimes silly self being cruel, unforgiving, uncouth.” It was “the worst version of myself, a self I didn’t even recognize.”

That dread is the fear of it happening to you. What to do when it’s your head on the chopping block? One solution is to follow the advice of Hillary Clinton, who is to shame what cockroaches are to Raid, and “toughen up.” Nice work if you can get it, and there’s something to that apocryphal Eleanor Roosevelt line about no one being able to make you feel inferior without your own consent, but not everyone is built to endure reputation battles that seem to grow more vicious by the day.

Which brings us back to Lewinsky. In her ted talk, she speaks of her anguish at watching other young people suffer through experiences like hers, with more drastic consequences and for behavior far less risky than having an affair with a sitting President—young people like Tyler Clementi, the Rutgers freshman who committed suicide in 2010 after his roommate captured him on a webcam kissing another man. “We need to return to a long-held value of compassion—compassion and empathy,” Lewinsky says. “Online, we’ve got a compassion deficit, an empathy crisis.”

You might be inclined to find this argument soggy. I was so inclined, at first. I was ten when the Lewinsky scandal broke, and by the time I reached the age that Lewinsky was I sympathized with her situation, but not with her. Yes, the way she was thrown under the bus by Clinton and his Administration was outrageous, but how could she enter into a situation like that and expect it to end well? She didn’t deserve the brutal treatment she got, but she seemed too naïve to be taken altogether seriously. Lewinsky’s latest call for compassion seemed to me a slice of classic ted optimism, packaged to go down easy—soft sentiment where there should be unrepentant ferocity.

Then, looking over the transcript of Lewinsky’s second appearance in front of the grand jury, back in 1998, I found something extraordinary. It comes at the very end of the hearing.

Foreperson: Basically what we wanted to leave with, because this will probably be your last visit to us, I hope—I hope I’m not going to have to do this any more and I hope you won’t have to come here any more—but we wanted to offer you a bouquet of good wishes that includes luck, success, happiness, and blessings.

Lewinsky: Thank you. (The witness begins to cry.) I appreciate all of your understanding for this situation and your—your ability to open your heart and your mind and—and your soul. I appreciate that.

This is who Monica Lewinsky was then, and it’s who she is now. Raked over hot coals, she thanked her torturers for their understanding. She was compassionate enough to expect that, like her, her interrogators could be moved by a human sympathy that trumped politics to see the complex, confused, affectionate, hurting person underneath the caricature. Lewinsky, back in the public eye, is tough enough to admit that she’s still soft—that she’s not only a thinking person but a feeling one, too. We should be tough enough to expect the same of ourselves.

ZODIAC LORE

ZODIAC LORE
Translated from the Swedish of Sven Tito Achen by the mistress of the blog


The series of twelve pictures known as the zodiac is maybe the oldest series of living symbols in the Western world. And they still live! You can't open a weekly magazine in all of the Occident that doesn't have a page dedicated to the Horoscope of the Week, illustrated with the twelve well-known pictures: a sheep ram, a bull, a set of twins, a crab or crawfish, a lion, a maiden, a pair of scales, a scorpion and a centaur firing an arrow, a billy goat (usually with a fish tail), a figure with a pitcher, and finally, a couple of fish.
As a charm in silver or gold, each and every one of these twelve figures is produced by the thousands, and, in cheaper materials, in completely astronomic amounts: on knickknacks or souvenirs, postcards, stepping stones, the corks of spring water bottles, even on biscuits and as liquorice treats. Add to this their appearance on walls: outdoors and indoors, in fine arts, on the faces of clocks, etcetera. The twelve images of the zodiac are certainly the most common, and the most diffused popular group of motifs, in our days.
The original duty of these twelve icons was to picture the sun's route around the firmament during the course of a year. The images represent twelve constellations, which the sun passes through during its circular journey.
Most ancient civilisations have made representations of the sun's yearly circular route - high up in the sky during the summer solstice, low over the horizon in the winter solstice - and they have portrayed the "stations of the sun" with images. Our own western zodiac, the subject of this article, hails from Mesopotamia.
Most of the images and names that compose the zodiac can be traced back to the first age of empire in said region, in between 1900 and 1700 b.C.E. Some of them are already recorded from the Sumerians, who lived in Mesopotamia more than 4000 years ago. As a series, the zodiac is surely far younger, maybe from the seventh or sixth century b.C.E. During this period, the region knew another age of empire and prosperity, and it was surely in the sixth century when knowledge of the zodiac was passed on to nearby cultures, the Greeks for example. Which continued during the next centuries.
Two centuries later, the Persian Empire was overthrown by Alexander the Great, and a great part of his conquests would later on become Roman. The freedom of travel within their empire and the previous Hellenistic ones made it possible for the philosophy and science of Mesopotamia to spread their seeds across exceedingly vast areas. Whether these Eastern scholars themselves or the Greeks were those to honour for the image of the zodiac as a pictorial gallery of pictures arranged together, as we know the concept, is still discussed in our days. The oldest preserved rendition of the complete series hails from the fifth century b.C.E, from a Hellenistic land. Our own word "zodiac" is a loan from the Greek ("zodiakos").

THE MESOPOTAMIAN SKY
In our days, when all lighting in general is electric and makes it impossible to see the stars in the night sky, there are not many people who understand how the firmament "works" and what it looks like, and very few know the names of more than one or two constellations.
In the ancient world, it was obviously different. When people in hot climates, after a blazing day, climbed up to the flat rooftops to enjoy the cool night air, they could see the stars. Or rather, they could not avoid seeing the stars. For centuries, in what is now Irak, they beheld the night sky: how the "fixed" stars passed through the firmament in a coherent pattern, retaining their positions respective to one another, and how the sun, the moon, and the five "wanderers" (the naked-eye planets, none known beyond Saturn in those days), moved in completely different ways, independently of the fixed stars and of one another. The most attractive stars and constellations were given names, names based upon religious and mythological representations of phenomena on Earth which the clusters of stars were associated with, or possibly after what people thought the constellations resembled.
Mesopotamian scholars realized that, aside from the usual wandering of the fixed stars night after night, there was another movement stretching across many, many nights, but in the opposite direction. Not the same pattern of stars was seen night after night. In the east, there was more and more of the pattern disappearing from view, while new stars equally gradually appeared in the western sky. After a while, the well-known stars and constellations returned, appearing in the firmament exactly where they had been 365 nights before.
They also observed the sun with a special interest and thoroughly. They realized that the movements of our system's star were intimately linked to the seasons. During the warm half of the year, the sun stood higher up in the sky than during its cold half. During the warm seasons, the days were longer than the nights, and vice versa in the cold seasons. Twice a year, the day and night were just equally long. And all of these phenomena coincided, every year, with the position of certain constellations in the night sky.
These Mesopotamian scholars recorded all of their observations, measuring and calculating, foretelling (and the foretellings came true!), drawing conclusions, finding links and connections, and they drew the conclusion that the sun, during the course of a year, undertakes a great circular journey throughout the universe and around the Earth. And that all life on Earth, the changes in nature and variations among plants, animals, and even humans, unfurl precisely and connectedly in parallel with this solar journey.
To have a general view and guidelines, they divided the circular path of the sun into a series of equally large sections. There are accounts of early partitions into eight and ten sections, coming doubtlessly from the quadripartition of the year into seasons, marked by the solstices and equinoxes. But the winning number was twelve.

WHY TWELVE?
The division into twelve segments was probably to reach an agreement, the closest natural number once could reach if the 365 days of the solar journey were to be combined with the moon's periods of phase change, which last about 29 1/2 days. Our own word "month," originally "moonth," ("moon-turn" in Westeros, "mânad" in Swedish, "kuukausi" in Finnish), points to the fact that it took place that way. Probably it is also relevant that dividing a circle into twelve segments is so easy to do! A circle's radius fits exactly six times into its circumference, as anyone who has drawn circles with a compass knows. Therefore, the easiest and most comfortable way of dividing a circumference is obviously into six segments. If this is done twice, taking as guidelines two diameters that cross each other forming right angles, without any need for difficult calculations, the circle is divided into 6x2 = 12 equally large sections.
Anyway: the circular path of the sun was divided into twelve sections, and each twelfth of the route equalled, obviously, one twelfth of the time it takes for the sun to close the circle.
The number twelve has, as you know, also got mathematical advantages. It can be divided by two, by three, by four, by six, and has also got special relations to the numbers eight, nine, and ten. But its special quality of being a number of "fulfilment" and "encompassing everything," and thus, of idealism, verity, and exaltation, that quality has surely reached the number through the division of the sun's path into twelve segments, and thus, of the year into twelve months. The day is divided into two sets of 12 hours, there are 12 inches in a foot, 12 pence in a shilling, 12 tribes of Israel, 12 disciples of Jesus, 12 Knights of the Round Table, and 12 Marshals of France (during the Napoleonic era). Hercules performed his Twelve Tasks or Labours, the Romans wrote the Law of Twelve Tables, a jury consists of 12 people. Tableware is purchased by the dozen, the table is set for 12 people, and 12 bottles of wine are served whenever a person turns a round number of years, like 30, 40, and so on (at least in Sweden).

NAMING THE SIGNS
Mesopotamian scholars gave the twelve sections of the ecliptic (the circular path of the sun) names that also were images. In most cases, these names were taken from a characteristic constellation in the region of the sky in question. For the naming of other fragments, it appears that the naming has taken the completely different route. It is, thus, credible that the winter precipitations in January/February have given name to the section of the ecliptic known as Aquarius, i.e. "Waterbringer," the part of its path which the sun traverses in midwinter, from mid-January to mid-February. In this case, it's the earthly conditions that have named the section and the constellation.
Some of the names of the constellations and their respective segments of the ecliptic, which are still in use, can (ut supra) be traced back to Sumer, about 2000 b.C.E. This can be said of Taurus, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn (a beast of lore, half goat half fish), and Leo. Aries and Gemini have also got age-old names, while Cancer, Virgo, Aquarius, and Pisces are far younger. During the pass of time, other names have been employed, for instance the "Pot" for Aquarius and the "Ear of Grain" for Virgo, but they have been later replaced by other names. The youngest name on the list is surely Libra.
With our commonly-used present-day names, and divided into seasons, the twelve signs are listed as this: Springtime: Aries, Taurus, Gemini. Summer: Cancer, Leo, Virgo. Autumn: Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius. Winter: Capricorn, Aquarius, Pisces.
The zodiac opens with the spring equinox around the 21st of March, which is the New Year of yore. We still have got a rest of that old calendar in our month names September, October, November, and December. In our calendar, these are the ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth, but, if one counts from March as the first month, they become the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, as their names originally meant.
To set the record straight and without boasting, we must perchance, ere we proceed, state that the observations the ancients built their zodiac upon were crazy. The sun does not take any annual circular tour of the horizon. It's the Earth that orbits for a year around the sun. But, from our own landlocked point of view, it appears that the sun is the one moving (in the opposite direction), leaving the sign of Virgo and entering that of Libra, et cetera. The "movements" of the sun and the other stars during the day and the year are illusions created by the Earth's rotation around its own axis during 24 hours, as well as around the sun for a lapse of approximately 365 days.

COSMIC INFLUENCES?
If all of these astronomical observations were done on practical grounds is hard to say, but at least they achieved practical results. Nearly every activity within a society depends on some kind of time division and a reliable measurement of time, and these relations are once more founded on the movements of the sun, moon, and other stars (or at least what appears to be their movements).
Likewise, the Mesopotamians had another purpose for their observations and calculations, which perchance was even more important to them. They thought that celestial bodies had an influence on life on Earth, an influence decisive to every single person's destiny and fortune. To get to know something about this influence and about the traits one had been given by the stars -- and thus, to obtain a guide to one's own path of life and a norm for one's actions --, one must know the position of the celestial bodies at the moment of one's birth: which constellation the sun was in (sun sign, "the sign one is"), and the position of sun, moon, and planets respective to one another and to the fixed stars.
Shards of these ancient worldviews can still be traced in our language. Something is said to be "written in the stars," some people are "born under a lucky star." People under a certain influence of the moon, "luna" in Latin and Romance languages, were seen as fickle, now in a good mood, now in a sad one. Our own word "mood" is connected to "moon," while "lunacy" also relates to our natural satellite.
It's easy to regard all of this as superstitious balderdash, but, in fact, it's possible to find arguments for the fact that celestial bodies influence human life. That the sun does, at least, is obvious: the seasons, with their changes in plant and animal life... but also in ways that are not always easily explained. Since the orbit of our Earth is not circular, but elliptic (oval-shaped), it is, during some periods of the year, closer to the Sun than in others. This influences the magnetism of planet Earth, which in turn influences the human physiology and thus, the human psyche.
Neither does nearly anyone deny that the moon and its movements influence, to a very high degree, the existence on Earth: it causes the tides, whose regular rising and falling, once more, are behind a long series of plant and animal biological cycles, and probably also behind events as decisive to human life as menstruation. During the last periods in history, we are still constantly receiving new knowledge about cosmic radiation, radioactivity, UV light, influences from outer space.
Whatever can be said in favour or in detriment of astrology, it has anyway played an exceedingly important part in history and in cultural history, religion, philosophy, art, politics, and everyday life.

THE HELLENISTIC ZODIAC
What captured Mesopotamians was, above all, the influence of the skies on royalty. The position of constellations, planets, and luminaries at a ruler's hour of birth, was what had to be known, not only for the ruler's own life's and destiny's sake, but also for those of the realm, for which the life and destiny of the ruler were decisive. Mesopotamian astrology was a royal and state astrology.
For the Hellenistic Greeks, the case was different. For them, the influence of the stars on Earth meant, in the first place, influence on the life of every individual. Every single person was different from all the others, among other reasons, precisely because of the stars' influence. What we call a horoscope -- i.e. a foretelling of events in a person's life, taking exact knowledge of the position of celestial bodies and their relationship to one another in said person's moment of birth for a starting point -- surely hails from the Greeks.
But the time of one's birth was not the only issue they wanted information about. Taking the continuous observation of celestial bodies for a starting point, the Hellenistic Greeks wanted to make weather forecasts -- and thus, give advice about the right time for sowing grain, for pruning grapevines, and for leaving home on business trips. And this went further. People consulted astrologers about the most advantageous time to tend to certain affairs, whether they pursued the best results for selling property or arranging daughters' weddings.
Gradually, a whole system of correspondences "as so above, so below" developed: the sun, moon, five naked-eye planets, and twelve signs of the zodiac were connected to every circumstance on Earth: to human vital fluids and therefore to temperament, mood, personality, taste, and inclination, psychic and physical traits, profession, appearance, the ages of life and the seasons of the year, geographical circumstances and those of climates, colours, gems, plants, animals, sound, light, moisture, dryness, heat, and cold.
For everything of this to fit together, and for one correspondence or influence not to contradict another, it all had to be thoroughly tested. As we have said before, it's not clear whether the complete zodiac is an Eastern or Greek brainchild, but at least Hellenism placed it in a complex system! This happened during the third, second, and first centuries b.C.E, and one of the main architects of this universal construction was probably the philosopher Erathostenes (284 - 204 b.C.E), most well-known for calculating the Earth's circumference.
The success of the zodiac among the Greeks was maybe connected to the fact that most people linked its twelve signs to events and characters, even gods, from classical mythology.
The Golden Fleece which the Argonauts led by Jason fetched was a sheep fleece, it was Aries! And Taurus was Zeus as a white bull when he spirited away the Phoenician princess Europa. The Gemini twins were Zeus's twin sons Castor and Pollux. Cancer was the crawfish which Hercules trod on while confronting the Hydra of Lerna, and Leo was the redoubtable Nemean Lion which the same hero strangled. Virgo had once been known as the "Ear of Grain." The sun occupies this sign from mid-August to mid-September, during harvest time, and the Virgo Maiden is generally portrayed holding an ear of grain. It was not hard for the Greeks to associate her to their fertility goddess Demeter, or to her daughter Persephone, Lady of the Underworld.
The period of Libra is from mid-September (autumn equinox) to mid-October, and surely the equality of light and darkness, the balance of the day, is what the scales represent. Perchance there is also a link to the notion of divine justice, "dike." It could be represented by Zeus, or by his son and messenger Hermes, holding a pair of scales as guarantee of justice.
Scorpio was the arachnid that stung and in some versions killed Orion. Sagittarius was the centaur Chiron, the only sober and learned one of his kin, who taught nearly every hero both sciences and physical accomplishments. Capricorn was the nanny-goat Amalthea, whom Zeus suckled as an infant. Aquarius was Ganymede, the cupbearer of Olympus (and the catamite of Zeus, by the way). And Pisces were none other than Aphrodite and Eros. Once, when chased by a monster, they threw themselves into a river and became fish. The goddess of love, not to lose her son, tied his tail to hers with a ribbon, as the Pisces fish are generally portrayed.
Probably, the Greeks developed, in the century after the birth of Jesus Christ, the Greeks developed yet another idea with long-echoing results. Like the Jews thought that God had created humans in his own image, Hellenistic astrological thinkers thought that the human body was an image of the cosmos. Each and every one of the twelve signs was linked to a part of the organism and the strengths that there were.
Aries corresponded to the head, Taurus to the neck, Gemini to the arms and respiratory system, Cancer to the chest, Leo to the heart. The abdomen and digestive system corresponded to Virgo, the sides and kidneys to Libra, the genitals to Scorpio, the hips and thighs to Sagittarius, the knees to Capricorn, the calves and ankles to Aquarius, and the feet to Pisces.
When we say here, for instance, that the genitals "corresponded to Scorpio", perchance this is a too neutral expression. Scorpio ruled the genitals, and the genitals obeyed Scorpio. For this reason, the twelve signs of the zodiac were thought to rule over health and illness, healing, life and death.
These thoughts were accepted by the physicians of those days, then were passed on to the Romans and to medieval physicians, and they still played a relevant role three centuries ago, in the so-called Age of Enlightenment. Treatments and medical interventions (for instance: in which part of the body the patient had to be smeared with ointment, and especially in which part the incision for a bloodlettting had to be made) depended on the zodiac signs.

ROMANS: THE ZODIAC IN VOGUE
In Roman religion and social life, foretellings and interpretations of natural events played always a relevant part, and the thought that the position of celestial bodies at the time of a person's birth decided the personality and destiny of said person was reasonable and true to life for the Romans. Th ezodiac and all the thoughts around it were accepted throughout the Empire, by the nobility and commoners alike, and the Romans were the ones who gave the twelve signs the names by which they are known in English today.
The zodiac signs were seen as protective spirits, somewhat like "patron saints," for those born during their periods. The signs were seen as the representants of their "children" in the heavens, and, gradually, simply seen as gods of the months. The zodiac signs protected their "children," who wore images of their signs as lucky charms. Emperors would put their own zodiac signs as a lucky sign on the coins of their reigns. Even Augustus made the sign of Capricorn an ensign for the Roman legions.
As a series, whether arranged in a circle or in a row, there are thousands of images of zodiac signs which have been preserved since the Roman era: as jewelry, coins, seals, brands, on private and public buildings, images of gods, maps of the land and charts of the stars, mosaic floors and frescoes, monuments, long story short, every kind of property. The zodiac and its signs even appear in Latin literature.

THE JUDAEO-CHRISTIAN VIEW
One of the peoples in closest contact with Mesopotamia were the Jews.
Conquered by Chaldea and deported thither in the early fourth century b.C.E, the thoughts and worldview of their conquerors have left countless traces in the Old Testament, including countless accounts of the belief in the influence of the stars on human life. Later on, surely under Hellenistic influence, the Jews were so seized with zodiac fever that they broke one of the most important precepts of the Torah: the image taboo (which also exists among Muslims). Some of the oldest and most renowned ancient zodiacs hail from Roman-era synagogues.
The findings of star lore in the Old Testament, however, grow pale in comparison to the Gospel account of the Nativity, one of the most well-known and beloved texts in world literature. In Chapter Two of the Gospel of Matthew, the author mentions three Wise Men (i.e. astrologers) from eastern lands, who inquire: "Where is the King of the Jews? We have seen his star and we have come to worship him." Herod I was shocked when he heard these words, summoned the Wise Men in secret, and got to know from them the exact time of the star's first appearance, and then sent them to Bethlehem. "The star which they had seen in the east went ahead of them, until she stopped over the place where the infant was."
In spite of Matthew's words, the early Church rejected at first every form of belief in the stars and foretelling by their means, thus declaring war on the zodiac. Church Father Origines, in the third century, sought to ridiculize astrology by emphasizing that its astronomical grounds were crazy. And Church leaders threatened all those who pictured zodiac signs or wore them with severe punishments.
It was all in vain, Though the resistance of the Church lasted for centuries, it had to yield at last. In the Council of Rome, in 799, the Catholic Church lifted its interdiction against images of the Labours of the Months: characteristic scenes from activities of the year, month by month, as long as they described reality (i.e. excluded the more or less scantily dressed gods on Roman images of the months). And, at the same time, the Church allowed images of the zodiac, but only if they were to be understood as an "emblem of the universal omnipotence of God."
The circle, strip, or ring with the twelve signs was now seen as a symbol of the Creator of the Universe, or of the universe itself, the continuity of existence, and eternity. The signs, taken each one on its own, were seen as icons of the months, but also of sacred images, pictorial steps in between earthly and spiritual life, in between humankind and God.
Just like the Greeks had fused their zodiac with their mythology, the same principle was more or less applied to Judaeo-Christian lore. Each and every one of the twelve signs was assigned one or more meanings. Here are some of the most relevant:
Aries was the sheep sacrificed by Abraham in lieu of Isaac, or the Lamb of God, Jesus himself. Taurus was the Gospel of Luke, represented by a (winged) bull. The Gemini twins were Esau and Jacob. Cancer was seen as Job and all the suffering he went through. Leo was the Gospel of Mark, represented by a (winged) lion. Virgo was (whom else?) the Virgin Mary. Libra could stand for the writing on the wall, where a sentence states: "You have been weighed and found too light." Scorpio could be either King Roboam, who said "I will smite you with scorpions," or the Eagle of the Gospel of John. Sagittarius was Ishmael, the son of Hagar, who "settled down in the desert and became skilled with the bow." Capricorn was seen as the scapegoat led by Aaron: "the billy goat that the LORD likes, that one will Aaron lead." Aquarius was obviously John the Baptist! And the humanoid cherub of Matthew was seen as another view of this sign. Pisces has got a lot of relevance thanks to Jesus: the miracle of the wonderful catch, that of the five breads and two fishes, most of the disciples being fishermen...
Through their number itself, the twelve signs were also linked to the disciples of Jesus and to other dozens (the sons of Jacob and the tribes that descend from them...).
From the twelfth century onwards, zodiacs became a common motif in church decorations. In Sweden, worth mention is the face of the magnificent Gothic clock in Lund Cathedral, hailing from around 1400.
During the thirteenth century, Scholastic philosophers developed an interest in astrology. Scholasticism sought to unite Christian theology with ancient sciences and philosophy, being also influenced by Jewish and Muslim thinkers, and, in all of their sources, Scholastics found information and thoughts about the zodiac. The result was that they reached a philosophical agreement:
The stars and celestial bodies are the tools of God, and therefore, they can influence life on Earth. Humans can accept the influence of the stars, their "inclinations," but also refuse them. In any case, the stars only influence the human body, but not the soul.
This interpretation added, naturally, more fuel to the fire of the theory that the human body and state of health depended on the zodiac signs, a theory which now had become official. Astrology was fixed in this sphere all the time. There were astrologers at rulers' courts, at universities, and in observatories. Not a single calendar was produced without the twelve signs included in it. The zodiac had become a professorship.
No one rejected any longer the account in the Gospel of Matthew. The three Wise Men and their guiding star became one of the most beloved motifs in Christian sacred art. In painting and sculpture, in verse and prose, the Star of the East developed into one of the most powerful images in Christian symbolism.

THROUGH THE CENTURIES
The Renaissance re-discovery of the ancient world raised the status of astrology even more. During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, there was practically not a person, from the most ignorant to the most learned, who questioned the zodiac's decisive influence on each individual's life. For every human action -- war or peace, love, trade, or art -- there was the most appropriate moment, which could be calculated observing the skies. Every ruler's court had its astrologer. Renaissance and Baroque literature and visual arts. even architecture, are pervaded by astrological motifs, relations, and proportions. Many of these works of art can only be understood by one who knows astrological representations.
The fact that, throughout these two centuries, the firmament was also scientifically studied and observed did not matter anything to astrology. Often, astronomers were astrologers as well, for instance, Tycho Brahe.
In the eighteenth century, the ideals of the Enlightenment thinned indeed the ranks of astrology supporters, but it was hardly noticeable. New England printers only possessed basic typographical material, but the twelve zodiac signs could be found in their boxes, and they were on the sketches of the first U.S. banknotes, around 1776.
Romanticism showed sympathy and interest for the zodiac, and, in our days, it enjoys a new, powerful wave of popularity. The most recent scientific discoveries are often cited by zodiac supporters when they want to defend their signs, but this is actually a misconception and a trivial one as well. The zodiac does not rest upon physical realities, but upon psychological ones.

THE POWER OF AN IMAGE
If all these people throughout the last three or four millennia, from the most ignorant and superstitious to the most clever and up-to-date with knowledge, from the most anonymous to the rulers of the world: Augustus Caesar, Gustavus Adolphus, Adolf Hitler -- if all those people did believe in it, it's impossible to find out.
Some have doubtlessly believed in it. Others maybe partly and often, but often not at all. Others have felt drawn to the symbolic and beautiful cluster of thoughts and wished that they could believe in it...
Maybe here we should relate an anecdote of the great Danish physicist Niels Bohr. Above the door of his summer residence in Tibirke, a horseshoe hung. A guest ranted: "You, the great scientist, cannot be superstitious! You cannot surely believe in things like this!"
"Nyes..." Bohr replied. "Neither do I. But I have been told that a horseshoe brings good luck, even if you don't believe in it."
Now when zodiac lore, the belief in it, or eventually the "faith," has been able to survive and always prosper; when it, rather strengthened, has survived the critique of science, the hostility of the Church, and the derision of the Enlightenment -- in my own humble opinion, it is largely, well, perchance in the first place, due to the fact that the images of the zodiac, the twelve signs, make the symbol so visually strong.
Human history, the history of politics and that of spirituality, thought, religion, and science, is full of worldviews, theories, laws, systems, explanations, and philosophies for which one could give as many advantages as for the Western zodiac, but which have all been completely forgotten. The 4000-year-old zodiac, on the other hand, is one of the most well-known concepts in the modern era. Surveys carried out throughout Europe have shown that practically everyone who was asked about their sun sign knew under which sign they had been born: "I'm a Libra!" "I'm an Aquarius!"
Images have got a power which commonly is not realized.
Firstly, it is due, reasonably, to completely physiological reasons: the fact that the sense of sight or vision is the dominating one in the human species.
For example, for dolphins and bats, the sense of hearing is the most important one. For canids, it's the sense of smell. But for humans, the gift of vision is what is decisive for understanding the world and our views of it. When we understand, we talk about insight. About seeing in our minds' eyes. "It looks like a cold," we say when we get a sore throat. If an esper can see the future, we say that is a clairvoyant ("clearseeing") person. There are lots of more expressions about the sense of vision. What we humans receive through our eyes remains more set in stone than other kinds of impressions.
To this biological advantage we must add that images are so exceedingly practical. Pictorial messages are far older than written texts -- and they will surely survive writing as well! Images give information no matter the mother tongue, linguistic intelligence, or literacy of the beholder.
Among pictorial messages, some of them are shaped like themselves, or mean what they picture: for instance, the phone on the door of a phonebooth. They can be useful, but they don't give imagination much wind in the sails. On the other hand, this is done by other pictures known as symbols, which mean something else than what they picture. And when it comes to meaning something else, the zodiac takes the first prize!
As a gathered composition, for instance a circle or a belt of signs, the twelve symbols stand for the path of the sun (the ecliptica), for the firmament and outer space, "everything", the universe, the cosmos. They can refer to the astronomical sky, but also to the metaphysical heavens, the dwelling of the blessed.
The twelve signs can also represent the Creator or divinity. In the Roman Empire, from this starting point, they came to symbolize its ruler and the power invested upon him: Pax Romana or Roman Peace, as well as the golden age which said peace had brought.
But the series also represents, after all, a year, the pass of the year, the passing of years, the passing of times, eternity. And, from this starting point, the series can once more stand for existence, human life, cosmic order, destiny, life and death, the closed circle, and the eternal cycle of nature: that nothing lasts forever but everything constantly returns.
Each sign, on its own, is a twelfth part of the ecliptica and the corresponding twelfth of the sun's travelling time, the period from around the 21st of that month to around the 21st of the next month, or they can simply represent a month: the month when their period begins. The twelve images can also represent whatever has happened during their period: the birth of a child -- perchance their most common duty --, a wedding, a victory, a great turning point (this may be the reason why Augustus Caesar used Capricorn as a "trademark" though he was born a Libra on the 23rd of September). As month symbols, the twelve signs have served in the calendar since centuries ago. As dating seals on silver and gold handicrafts, they have also been employed, for instance on all the products made by silver- and goldsmiths in Copenhagen from 1685 to the late nineteenth century.
From these symbolisms in time and space, the areas of operation of the twelve signs expanded (as we have already seen) to an extremely incredible degree. They can represent practically every human physical, mental, and emotional condition: personality traits, temperament, inclinations, ambitions, emotions, passions, health and the lack of it, the human body's organs and functions, psychological issues... And they can also be used to symbolize weather, temperature, colours, seasonal activities, all the changes of life on Earth, and so into nigh infinity. It's the duty of symbols to express something abstract with the aid of something tangible, and this duty is fulfilled by zodiac signs better than by any other symbol.
They can be used separately, combined in clusters of two or more, or all twelve, a number which fits any frame: circular, square, triangular... They are simple, easy to recognize, and beautiful. As pictorial symbols, they do not have comparison.
In these "practical" advantages there is also, at the same time, a deep emotional soothing effect. "Translating" the elusive qualities of time, space, and the human psyche into something as tangible as the image of a pair of scales or of a pair of fish appeases a deep emotional need. We all long for understanding. The simplifications of the zodiac make the unrelatable relatable and put the elusive within our reach, The twelve zodiac signs "explain" time, space, and existence so we think we understand it all.
But there's still another satisfying effect in zodiacal images, id est, the identification they offer us.
One of the duties of zodiac signs is to represent or characterize the people born under the sign in question. Since we are all born under one of them, it means that the zodiac gives every individual a pictorial identity, a psychological and pictorial idea of belonging -- if one prefers: a crest, sigil, or coat of arms. Or a totem. Why this is so relevant can be hard to explain, but the fact that it is so cannot be doubted by seeing zodiac signs at least one hundred times a day, in necklaces, bracelets, and rings, as motorbike stickers and bumper stickers.
In each and every party, in our days, we still hear people saying for example: "My husband's a Leo, but I'm an Aries."
All of this -- vision as our dominant sense, practical advantages, emotional gratification, the security granted by identification, aesthetic pleasure -- comes together as image pleasure, the attractiveness of images, the power within them. The zodiac is irresistible.
However, being irresistible has its risks. The more popular a symbol is, the more often it is obviously used. And, the more often a symbol is used, the more it risks to lose its symbolic content and end as a beautiful ornament without any meaning at all! Roses -- the flowers of love, eros, passion, emotion, confidence, and well-kept secrets -- become ribbons and cockades: ornaments. Palm leaves, which stand for victory, success, glory, and martyrdom, end also up as decorative details. The zodiac is on its way to share the same fate. Its signs appear where they neither mean anything nor have got any function, for instance on crates and in advertising. The zodiac is heading for not meaning anything.

STRONGER THAN REASON
We have mentioned earlier that the zodiac is based upon an error, since the Earth, and not the sun, is the one who takes the annual tour of space. This was already known in ancient times, and then during the Renaissance, but it barely affected the diffusion or popularity of the zodiac.
But there is something more that should be believe in an ever higher degree threatened the belief in the zodiac and astrology.
Aside from the facts that the Earth circles around the sun and spins around its own axis, it moves in yet another way. It swings to and fro in a circular motion. The axis of our planet does not always point in the same direction. It has, in fact, been so believed, and this apparent permanence gave origin to a special symbolism. Nowadays, the Earth's axis points nearly exactly towards the North Star, Polaris. From Earth, it appears that this star is the only point in the night sky that does not move: everything else (ostensibly) rotates, only Polaris stands unmoved in the same place in space. Naturally, the star rotates like any of the others (or, to be more precise, no fixed star does at all. But seen from Earth...). Polaris, however, "rotates" in a fixed position, and thus, it appears to be still.
This immobility in the firmament made it possible that the North Star was seen with great respect. It has been praised in song and become a symbol. After it, the Swedish Order of the North Star was named, and its motto Nescit Occasum means: "It Does Not Know to Set at All," it is permanent, it can be used to guide one's course, this star is trustworthy.
All of this, however, is an illusion caused by the slow movement of the circular motion of the Earth's axis: it takes nearly 25800 years before the axis points at the same point again. And, seen from the Earth, it naturally looks like if the center point of the axis and the rest of the sky are those who, during these 25800 years, move in a circular motion (in the opposite direction).
If the 25800 years that this (ostensible) cycle comprises are divided by the twelve segments of the ecliptic, the result are about 2150 years for each segment. Which means that the sun, observed during a certain day of the year, let's say the spring equinox, during the course of these about 2150 years, gradually changes its background to another of the twelve signs.
From about 2340 b.C.E. to about 190 b.C.E, the sun, in the spring equinox on the 21st of March, entered the sign of Aries. From about 190 b.C.E onward, the sun moved, as seen every 21st of March, into the segment of sky of Pisces, and it moved within the limits of the latter segment during the next 2150 years, until around 1960. From around 1960 to around 4110, the sun will stand, every 21th of March, in Aquarius. And, before it entered Aries, from about 4490 b.C.E to about 2340 b.C.E, it had moved through Taurus (everything is still ostensible. The Earth is always the one that moves.)
The astronomical limits between the segments of the ecliptic, however, are not exactly fixed, and therefore, these chronological milestones cannot be either. The length of the periods, about 2150 years, remains fixedm but the calculations for their beginning and their end can vary up to several centuries,
The discovery of the 25800-year-old circle of the Earth's axis and its consequences was done by Greek astronomer Hipparchus in about 130 b.C.E, and already then did not the zodiac names and signs, with Aries for a starting point, from the 21st of March, match astrological facts: from about 190 b.C.E, the sun during the spring equinox (ut supra) did not stand in Aries, but in Pisces. And now Pisces has glided before the sun as well, and every year in mid-March, the sun is in Aquarius.
From these facts, we can still draw the conclusion that the zodiac system can't be dated further back than 2340 b.C.E. Its point of departure is Aries at the spring equinox, of course, and first around 2340 b.C.E. could the sun be found in the Aries segment of the ecliptica on the first day of springtime.
What is most amazing is the fact that the system has survived this lack of coincidence between its original grounds and present-day physical reality, and, to crown it all, highly-wished-for well.
The discovery of Hipparchus was already a scientific commonplace in his own times of Hellenism, and Church Father Origines mentioned it in his rants against astrology. But it has ostensibly not made the least impression on the millions and billions and trillions of people who, since around 190 b.C.E, have sought enlightenment and help in the zodiac -- the whole shift in the firmament, first one segment, then, around 1960, two segments, id est, that the signs of the zodiac and their respective constellations no longer coincide. If one's birthday falls between the 21st of March and mid-April, one says that one is an Aries. This can be astrologically right, but it's astronomically crazy. If one was born before 1960, one is astronomically a Pisces, and if one was born after 1960, one is astronomically an Aquarius.
The shift has, however, given rise to new symbolic interpretations. There is much talk about the "Ages" of the signs, periods of about two millennia (2150 years) said to show a connection with the sign whose names they bear. The Age of Taurus, around 4490 b.C.E. - 2340 b.C.E, was (according to this interpretation) marked by bovine cults: Apis, the Minotaur, the Hindu sacred cow... The Age of Aries, around 2340 b.C.E - 190 b.C.E, was likewise marked by ovine cults, such as Amon, the Jewish paschal lamb, and the sheep sacrificed in lieu of Isaac, as well as by warrior cultures. The Age of Pisces coincides, more or less, with the reign of Christianity, and a fish was, from the beginning, a symbol for Jesus Christ (we have already stressed the connection between Jesus and fish). Aquarius, the current Age since the 1960s, symbolizes progress, advance, acceleration, and revolution. So far, time has shown that it fits, but the Age of Aquarius is still in its cradle.
Images are stronger than reason. They're stronger than the evidence produced by science and than the precepts of religion. It's not by chance that all three monotheistic Abrahamic religions, Judaism, Islam, and Christianity (if the Ten Commandments are meant to be taken seriously), forbid every kind of images: "Thou shalt not maketh thyself any graven image or any likeness. Thou shalt not serve them: for I, the LORD thy God, am a jealous God." Images can actually make people forget what the LORD wants them to remember...