Blush petals adorn the concrete sidewalks and frame the Boston skyline. The air is crowded with sweet fragrance, masking the industrial stench of the T. For the first time this semester, I can feel the sun’s rays warming my skin and marvel at the red and yellow tulips blooming all around South Campus. I find myself thankful for this little bit of wild amidst human invention; peace amongst the chaos of finals season, internship hunting, maybe even capitalist hunger. As variegated ivy leaves begin to poke through dry branches, crawl up barren brick walls, and dot my brownstone with some much-needed green, a theme in Montaigne’s famous essay “Of Cannibals” comes to mind: even our “utmost endeavors cannot arrive at so much as to imitate the nest of the least of birds, its contexture, beauty, and convenience.” According to this logic, even the finest of man’s creation cannot rival the beauty and perfection of nature.

With a trampled magnolia blossom in hand, I ponder if this notion is true. I think there is no argument to be made against the fact that human innovation could not exist without nature. It is from nature that we draw our observations and inspiration – we cannot create out of what does not already exist. Nature has not only been the basis for industrial advancement, as in the biomimicry of planes and boats, but also for artistic progression. Everything from poetry to fashion, photography to charcoal sketches, have drawn from the natural world. However, this brings up the question: if humans find genuine delight and inspiration in nature, then why do we always try to force human achievement at the expense of ecosystems?

Shakespeare provides a possible answer in his play, The Tempest. All characters in this theatrical work are in different ways allured by power. For example, Prospero does everything he can to keep his reign, Caliban longs back for the time when he was king of the island, and Miranda longs for knowledge and the ability to dictate her own life. After Caliban hints that Stephano should murder Prospero, Stephano immediately dreams of himself as king, proclaiming, “Monster, I will kill this man. His daughter and I will be King and Queen—save our graces” (The Tempest III.ii 105). As I shift my gaze to the crowded streets, the honking cars, arguing couples, and radio speakers blasting at a heart-shaking, deafening level, I realize that just as we long for tranquility and nature, we also desire power, control, attention, and recognition at any cost – why? What about having power is so appealing to us? Do we want power so that we can have the freedom to do what we want? Run the world or our relationships the way we’d like? Is looking to the natural world a solution to all of this? Is nature synonymous with peace? Is the lust for individual power inherently corrupt?

These questions congregate, divide, disperse, and re-form in my head as I walk across St. Mary’s bridge onto Commonwealth Avenue. Now facing Marsh Chapel, my thoughts are directed to a stop: the church has historically played a large role in both the unity and division of humankind. It has been a place where spirituality meets corruption, where selflessness is preached, but greed often flourishes. Right after the fall of Rome, the Catholic Church held immense political power. It also played a big role in missionary colonialism, using religious justifications for discrimination such as in slavery or the White Man’s Burden. As Montaigne was writing Of Cannibals during the French Wars of Religion, these issues were likely on his mind as well. On this topic, he notes, “The genuine, most useful, and natural virtues and properties … we have helped to degenerate … by accommodating them to the pleasure of our own corrupted palate.” This is seen in the role the church has played as an oppressor, such as in the Crusades, where individuals ignore or purposely misinterpret parts of the Bible they don’t agree with and take the rest out of context to provide their movement with religious justification.

A related theme in “Of Cannibals” that is particularly striking to me, is the idea of cultural relativism – editing out original intent, changing ideas so they’re comfortable and familiar. I find it astounding that a man living in a euro-centric society could hold radically different beliefs from his contemporaries, and think so similarly to the way we do today. He proposes that the experiences we have, the way we grew up, and the people we grew up around deeply impact our beliefs and behaviors. Therefore, because our world views are strongly influenced by culture, we can’t judge the way other people live without the correct cultural context: “Every one gives the title of barbarism to everything that is not in use in his own country” (Of Cannibals). Walking down towards Kenmore station, as lines of Mandarin, Spanish, Malay, and Russian brush past my ears, I can’t help but think: is this true? I’ve been fortunate enough to live in multiple different continents and cultures – sometimes it seems like the experience of culture shock has integrated itself into my identity. Here at Boston University, I am able to share my cultural experiences with others as a celebration. However, I believe that Montaigne is suggesting that: if you’ve never had to embrace or immerse yourself in a different culture, it simply isn’t possible to understand that culture.

The idea that shared experience is necessary for true understanding is reflected strongly in Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. In this thought experiment, we are introduced to cave dwellers that are stuck in the shadows; they have no knowledge of the outside world and know only what they have experienced in the cave. Trapped inside this cave, they believe shadows are reality because that is all they have experienced to be real. Plato and Montaigne agree that our beliefs and perception are determined by what we can see. Furthermore, although the cave dwellers don’t have a way to assess power based on material goods, they still develop a hierarchy based on their sense of achievement – those who could guess what shadow came next would be celebrated. Looking back to the Magnolia trees, I’m reminded of a previous question: why do we crave power? To this, I hear Plato asking, “Do you think the one who had gotten out of the cave would still envy those within the cave and would want to compete with them who are esteemed and who have power?” (Allegory of the Cave 5). Plato argues that the antidote to human lust for power is to transcend out of the limitations of perspective. He suggests that to do this, we must actively seek truth through philosophy.

Looking at both of these passages, I think Plato and Montaigne would agree that asking difficult questions about why things are the way they are, thinking about oneself in relation to the world, and analyzing different perspectives, are all necessary ways to expand our realm of experience. However, I believe that ultimately, human perception will always be biased by our own experiences. It’s impossible to understand another’s culture or perspective, no matter how much knowledge we have of it. Just like the cave dwellers cannot understand the world outside which they live, our perception cannot encompass objective truth. Crossing Newbury Street, I look up to the sky. Taking in the pink and purple balayage, vast clouds, and squinting as the sun gently peeks through, I think, so, what’s the way forward? Is it to listen to each other’s stories and find something to connect over? After all, we all live in the same world. I think about the destruction of wanting power, as outlined by Shakespeare in The Tempest, about the beauty of the natural world and importance of experiencing different cultures emphasized in Of Cannibals, and the variability of human perception seen in the Allegory of the Cave. The scent of magnolia draws my attention to an answer from Montaigne: “And yet for all this, our taste confesses a flavour and delicacy … in several fruits wherein those countries abound.” Montaigne argues that the natural world is a powerful uniter because of its objectivity. Nature is experienced by everyone and doesn’t discriminate based on power dynamics or culture. As Shakespeare puts it in Romeo and Juliet, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet” (Romeo and Juliet II.ii).

With that thought, I walk back towards my brownstone from Boston Commons. As I promenade down the Commonwealth Avenue Mall, past bikers, jaywalkers, historical statues, and busy students from universities all over the city, I think: community is a fundamental aspect of the human experience, togetherness is a concept we experience from our very first breath. So, once again, blush petals adorn the concrete sidewalks and frame the Boston skyline. The air is crowded with sweet fragrance, masking the industrial stench of the T, and I conclude my walk with a question inspired by the great works we’ve studied this semester: how can I work towards creating a culture that celebrates differences and searches for common ground?

Works Cited