an annotated bibliography

Machiavelli, Niccolo. The Prince and Other Writings. Trans. Wayne A. Rebhorn. New York: Barnes and Noble Books, 2003.

Originally written to Lorenzo dé Medici to attain favor, The Prince is the chef-d’oeuvre of Machiavelli’s career. Encouraging the emergence of totalitarian rulers, Machiavelli compiled realpolitik paradigms to write an instructive discourse on how an ideal prince should intolerantly reign, exercising authoritative leadership. He suggests that a ruler, vying for power, should not let ethic morality hinder him from achieving his design. Modern scholars still read and debate the issues discussed in the pages of this philosophical work; it has been one of the most controversial political treatise since it was written in 1513.

Machiavelli, Niccolo. The Discourses. Trans. Leslie J. Walker S.J. London: Penguin Books Ltd., 1970.

Written in 1531, this book takes on a whole new set of ideals. The Discourses on Livy are an insightful collection of articulate musings. Depicting a society of peace and prosperity, Machiavelli states that a government should have its root firmly embedded in an ethical groundwork. The result would be a civic people who showed deference to the proper authorities. Consequently the people are urged to respect the state more than themselves and to give of oneself in order to assist others. It is radical but pragmatic with a hint of the ideal thrown in--almost those of a republic--to consider.

Machiavelli, Niccolo. The Art of War. Trans. Christopher Lynch. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2003.

Known as one of the worlds most informative books on war strategy and tactics, The Art of War, was revolutionary in its own time period. Considered a classic, it is one of the main texts used to teach the thought of western warfare, as well as the fundamentals behind the scene. Many of the most famous commanders, Napoleon Bonaparte and Fredrick the Great to name a couple, read and were influenced by Machiavelli’s ideas. It is a great read after reading both The Prince and The Discourses--it further explores Machiavelli’s thought in writing his other two books.

Machiavelli, Niccolo. The History of Florence: the affairs of Italy from the earliest years to the death of Lorenzo the Magnificent. Trans. Henry G. Bohn. London: Tilden Library, 1895.

Cardinal Guilio de’ Medici commissioned the writing of this book. Machiavelli took extensive pains to detail the land and surrounding towns, the family heritage of the prominent people in Florence. It is an in depth study and meant for readers who are ready for a challenge and an astute academic survey to understand the circumstances and details of the ancient Tuscan saga.

about Machiavelli

Politician, playwright, historian, philosopher, and an Italian by birth, Niccolo Machiavelli lived during the budding of the Renaissance and is closely associated with the literary influences from that era. From 1469-1512 Machiavelli was simply a Tuscan statesman interested in political science. He was privately educated and quickly rose to a level of importance, holding the position of Secretary of the Florentine Republic until the Medici family regained authority in 1513, at which time Machiavelli was imprisoned, tortured, and exiled from his homeland on suspicion of treason. Pope Leo X eventually acquit him of sedition and allowed him to return to his family in Florence. It was during these last 15 years of his life that he wrote the books that have made him famous today. The Prince, originally written to Lorenzo dé Medici to attain favor, is the chef-d’oeuvre of Machiavelli’s career. Encouraging the emergence of totalitarian rulers, Machiavelli compiled his realpolitik paradigms to write an instructive discourse on how an ideal prince should intolerantly reign, exercising authoritative leadership. Today, “machiavellian” refers to devious or unethical methods of obtaining something for the betterment of an individual at the expense of others--derived directly from his chimerical book. Some of his other writing include: The Art of War, The Mandragola, and Discourses Upon the First Ten Books of Livy. He also wrote The History of Florence, commissioned by Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici. After a brief re-introduction into society after his expulsion, Niccolo Machiavelli died in 1527 at the age of 58.

Slant Narrative of Beauty and the Beast

I am always filled with such joy to think of how I was freed from my bondage. My aunt had always loved to play with magic when she was a little girl, or so my mother told me. When she grew up, she still held a fascination for it and it turned out to be my down fall. Once I was a cute little prince, son of the royal King and Queen. One day my mother's sister was in a terrible mood and I happened to be the first one she crossed. Maybe she didn't like me because I was the only heir to the thrown, and if I had been out of the way, her son would have been next in line for the crown. Whatever reason she had, if she even had one, she cast a spell on me, turning me into a horrific beast. My future looked grim.

My parents were horrified when they found out. My aunt said it was not permanent, but the only thing that would cause me to return to my normal state as a human, would be for a young lady to accept me as I was. I felt sure that no one would ever love a beast as ugly as me. Still outraged by her rash action, my parents threw our relative out of the kingdom. I lived in the palace until I was capable of living on my own. At that point, I wanted to be alone, sort things out, and try to figure out what the rest of my life would hold. My parents, the rightful owners of a vast wealth, bestowed on me a gigantic estate. It was truly beautiful and I was satisfied--for a while.

I had been lonely for quite some time and had become desperate to find someone to free me; but more than that, to love me. One day, though I did not know it at the time, the key to my freedom arrived: an old man, obviously poor and out of sorts. Finding no one inside he began to wander around my palace. I almost kicked him out for intruding, but he was so fascinated by everything and looked so tired and unhappy, I had pity on him and, to his astonishment, provided him with several meals. The next morning, as I wondered in my garden, still holding a grudge against my aunt, my guest came out to my garden and picked a rose. "How dare he?" I thought. After all I had done for him, he had the audacity to steal from my garden!

I approached him, nearly forgetting how ugly I was. He was taken aback at being spoken to by a beast. He tried to explain how he had been lost the previous night on his way home from a journey which he thought would have been a success, but had turned out a failure. Intrigued by this statement, I questioned him and found that he had once been a royal, wealthy person living happily with his six sons and six daughters. "Daughters??? Could it be? No. Surely not." I tried to remind myself there would never be a girl for me. My mind turned back to the story at hand. He had lost everything by a series of terrible misfortunes. At one point he had several trade ships, all of which he had thought to have been lost, burned, or stolen; but just recently he had been informed that one of them had docked safely and was loaded with cargo. My guest had left his home only after being pestered by his daughters who longed for the pleasures they had once been accustom too; for dresses, jewels, and luxuries of every kind--all but the youngest. I could tell he had a soft spot in his heart for her. This daughter had asked only for a rose. When he arrived, the cargo had been divided by his former companions who thought him to be dead. The journey had proved worthless. The merchant, began his return home empty handed, when he was caught in a terrible storm. He spent the night in the cold and the next morning renewed his journey upon which he found my castle.

What a story! I wanted to be angry with this man. I wanted to be angry with everyone and everything in the world. Yet how could I? He was obviously not trying to take advantage of me. He was merely trying to bring happiness to his daughter. Could I be so cruel as to deny him this one happiness? I could tell he was being honest with me so I let him off the hook; only on one condition. While he had been telling me his story, my mind kept drifting back to the six daughters. I had to take a chance. I made up my mind. He could go home as long as he brought back one of his daughters. She had to come willingly though, and he had to tell her the truth about me. I didn't want just any girl, I wanted a girl of character, this had made my chances even slimmer, but I had to try. The merchant was agreeable to this and to make sure he didn't fail me, I promised that if he didn't return with one of them in a month, I would find him and it would get ugly after that.

My guest gave me his word and returned home. I wondered if he would really keep his promise, and had begun to give up hope when one day, upon the horse I had given him, my merchant friend returned. In front of him sat a young lady. I knew from his description of his youngest daughter, Beauty, that this was she. Now that she was here, the rest of my life was up to her.

I did not show myself immediately, lest I scare her off too soon. The father and daughter enjoyed their dinner in the solitude of their room, as the merchant had done on his previous visit. As soon as they had finished, I could wait no longer. I walked into the room. I could tell the man was deeply sorrowed at the thought of leaving Beauty in the hands of a beast like me. I could tell the young lady was terrified, but she did such a good job of disguising her fear. She was bold and responded with confidence. I stayed and talked to them for a while and I learned that she really had come of her own choice and was willing to stay even after she had seen just how horrific I really was! "She was willing to stay!" I was thrilled for that much at least.

Her father returned to his home the next day with trunks filled with all the gold, jewels, rich fabrics, costly gowns, and treasures they could fit in them. After he was gone, I let Beauty do as she wished, roaming the palace and gardens to her hearts delight. I truly did want her to be happy; maybe somehow she would learn to like me -- maybe even love me. Each night after her supper, I went to the suite in which Beauty lived and talked to her for one hour. After that time I always asked her if she would marry me. Every time I was rejected; I had to keep trying.

One day, I found Beauty nearly at the point of tears. I was distraught. I asked her the cause of her sorrow and found she wanted to return to her father and siblings. She said she would come back after two months. She had told me she had grown very fond of living here and would be very sorry not to come back. I knew if she left for any longer that two months that it would kill me. I had grown so used to her being here. I truly did love her and would do anything for her. I granted her this wish as long as she would come back. She promised she would. I gave her a couple trunks in which to take back everything she could fit in them.

The two months dragged on for ever and I truly thought she had forgotten me. As the last week began to draw to a close I became terribly sick and lethargic. I was not myself. She had promised. I was holding on to that. Surely she would not have lied to me. On the second to last day, I lay out in my garden, drifting ever closer to death's door, when my "savior" came. Her voice was distant at first almost as a dream, mocking me. But the voice drew nearer and more distinct. She had really come. I gathered all the strength that was left in me and opened my eyes. There she was! She had come back just as she said she would! My Beauty was there beside me, stroking my fur which had gown tangled from lack of care the last few days. She was here! That's all that mattered now.

I had nearly resigned myself to never marrying her, but as long as I could see her and talk to her every night, I could be happy enough. I had to be content with that. A few days went by. Each night I talked to her after dinner. Each night I asked if she would marry me. Each night I was rejected. But one night, my whole life was transformed. As I got up from the chair and said my "good-night" I asked the question again; this time I was astonished by the answer I had longed to hear, but never thought could cross her lips. Yes. "She said yes!" The moment she spoke the word, the spell, cast so many years ago, was broken. Light shattered the room and there stood the prince who had been lost under the disguise of a beat. I had been set free by one word, but more than that, she loved me! We were to marry! I was filled with more joy than ever could be expressed. My mother traveled from my parents castle to congratulate us, and the whole kingdom celebrated with us the next day at our wedding. My Beauty and her Beast have lived very happily thus far and will continue to do so until "death do us part."

The Importance of Leo Tolstoy

Celebrated as Russia’s most renown author, Leo Tolstoy left and indelible mark on the world. He was a man full of new ideas; a visionary; a brilliant mind; a perspicacious author. He suffered through traumatic trials and came out strong. He took his education upon himself and learned more in the first 20 years of his life than many moderns today learn in a lifetime. He lived a self-imposed life of pauperism and ventured to better others with what he had been blest. He influenced writers, laymen, poets, politicians, and average people--his prestige in literature cannot be erased.

Count Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy was born in 1828 to a wealthy Russian family. In the early years of his life, Tolstoy faced some of life’s toughest challenges. He was only two years old when his mother died--that was just the beginning of his suffering. His father, a recognized military officer, did not have much time to spend with his family but did provide good educations for his children and encouraged them to pursue the fine arts. One of his aunts and his paternal grandmother helped Count Tolstoy look after and care for his four children; family life and relationships were prized highly by all his close relatives. By the time young Tolstoy was 13, his father, aunt, and grandmother had all died and it would be just a matter of years before both of his brothers would succumb to death as well.

It was through these miserable years that Leo Tolstoy found comfort in perfervid study. Over the course of his scholastic pursuits, Tolstoy, inspired by his father and grandfather, improved his mind my memorizing poetry, songs, and Russian history, learning to converse fluently in more than 12 different languages, and reading English, French, and Russian authors. He graduated from school and enrolled in a university to study law and languages. Unsatisfied with the quality of education he was receiving, he did not remain long at college and moved on to educate himself. Shortly afterwards, Tolstoy began his stupendous literary career when wrote and published his first book in 1852--the first of an autobiographical trilogy (the other two were soon to follow).

Disapproving the general method of schooling available to the public, he started a school for the peasants, hoping to reform the modern system of education. This endeavor failed, but his aspirations for changing the way people thought did not flicker. All in all, Leo Tolstoy wrote 19 books and countless short stories and essays. Tolstoy decided to use pen and ink to inspire his readers to greatness. Most of his writings are based on his life experiences, as evidenced in his two most esteemed novels. Following in his father’s footsteps, Tolstoy joined the Russian army, commanding and fighting in the Crimean War (1853-1856). From this experience, Tolstoy drew the lion’s share of information needed to write the famed War and Peace. Written over four years and published in 1878, Anna Karenina is based solely on Tolstoy’s firsthand knowledge of the twists, turns, and sorrows of humanity, “happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”An exorbitant amount of his life story appears in the pages of this book. After it was published, he actually said that his whole life was part of his novel, “I wrote everything into Anna Karenina and nothing was left over.”

Plagued about the meaning and importance of life and death, Tolstoy struggled internally over these philosophical questions for a better part of his life. He searched for answers everywhere and eventually found his way to the Russian Orthodox Church. For the first time he could make sense of his confused and perturbed questions, ideas, and beliefs. Immediately he began to rectify his thoughts and put his faith into practice. This step towards Christianity radically changed him. Striving for peace and a “better” life, he gave away the majority of his money, lived as a peasant, and tried to show Christ’s loving care to the people around him.

Until Tolstoy was brought to a saving faith in Christ, his life was one of debauchery and vile pursuits. He kept a journal of his activities, which ended in causing marital strife later on. After his conversion he wrote several essays and short stories in which he laid out the basis of his faith and showed how Christianity had changed his life. In 1862 Leo Tolstoy married Sofia Andreyevna Behrs. Together, over the next 33 years, they had 12 children (one died right after birth). Undervaluing the time spent with his family, Tolstoy eventually abandoned his wife and children to find a “deeper meaning” in life--he died at the railroad station that night (1877). Throughout his life, Tolstoy remained active in the political arena, was interested in reforming Russian society, and was writing dynamic literature.

During his lifetime Tolstoy was heavily influenced by ancient authors as well as many of his contemporaries--he actually kept up a correspondence with Noah Webster. Some of his “mentors” were: Charles Dickens, Aristotle, Jean Jacques Rousseau, George Elliot, Henry David Thoreau, Plato, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and Alexander Pushkin.

*Tolstoy lived during the same time as a plethora of classic authors. Here are a few that I found:

Emily Bronte

Charles Dickens

Alexandre Dumas

Wilkie Collins

Fydor Dostoevsky

George Elliot

Mahatma Gandhi

Elizabeth Gaskell

Nathaniel Hawthorne

Victor Hugo

Jean Jacques Rousseau

Henry David Thoreau

Noah Webster

"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers..."

October 25, also called St. Crispin's Day, used to be a celebrated Catholic, Church of England, and Eastern Orthodox holiday. Crispin and Crispinian were twin brothers in Rome during the 3rd century. They preached the gospel to the people during the day and made shoes by night. Under the rule of Maximian, they were martyred for their faith. The church canonized them and dedicated a day of feasting to them. In 1662, due to the doubt of the actual existence of the brothers, the feast day was taken off the church calendar and is no longer observed. However, this day is still remembered by some; why, you ask? Shakespeare wrote a speech in his play Henry V given by the king on St. Crispin's Day, just before the battle at Agincourt (King Henry V and his army defeated the vast army of the French on this day).

notable happenings on October 25:

1400- Geoffrey Chaucer died

1415- the battle at Agincourt during the Hundred Year's War

1854- the battle of Balaklava during the Crimean War (the Charge of the Light Brigade)

1881- Pablo Picasso was born

St. Crispin's Day Speech

What's he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;

If we are mark'd to die, we are enow

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires.

But if it be a sin to covet honour,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.

God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour

As one man more methinks would share from me

For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart; his passport shall be made,

And crowns for convoy put into his purse;

We would not die in that man's company

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,

And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'

Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,

But he'll remember, with advantages,

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words-

Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-

Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remembered-

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition;

And gentlemen in England now-a-bed

Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.