Colleen's blog

I haven’t traveled much outside of the U.S., but my main ambition in life is to see as many places as I can. In the accounts we’ve read in class, the travelers leave their homes for completely new lands; either to known countries that haven’t been visited by many (if any) outsiders or to lands that are completely new territory. But in our globalized age, practically everywhere is inhabited and has been visited by foreigners. Besides venturing into space (which I would love to do), there’s hardly a place I can go that hasn’t been written about by someone who’s already been there. Without the lure of the complete unknown, what does traveling offer people today?
 
Of course, governments still colonize foreign lands, and modern merchants still travel for business purposes. But I think for the every-day traveler seeking adventure, travel is necessary if only for first-hand experience. It’s incredibly easy to watch videos or read books about a place and think you know it. But as we’ve seen in the course’s readings, these accounts are usually biased. People idealize or demonize, whether they intend to or not. The only way to know for sure what a place and its people are like is to go there yourself; this also lets a person react to a different culture based on his own disposition and preferences.
 
This raises two considerations. Firstly, while its clearly convenient and sometimes arguably necessary to research a place before traveling there, I think embarking with no preconceived notions can also have its advantages, as long as the traveler is careful. To me, the most compelling part of the classic travelogues was the excitement with which the men viewed foreign lands. My parents are the type that meticulously plan every vacation and weekend trip, so I felt like I had already taken the trip before we even left. But my favorite trip was an unplanned road trip I took with a friend, because even the most mundane towns we passed through were made exciting by the prospect of the unknown. Even though it’s easy to learn everything about a foreign place before booking an airline ticket, I think there’s something to be said for spontaneity, in that it allows the traveler to capture some of the explorer’s spirit of true travel pioneers. Secondly, I’ve realized how to – and how not to – approach foreign cultures in order to best enjoy them for what they are. Of course, people from a different culture will always be “others” to a traveler, and vice versa. But travelers like Cabeza de Vaca, Marco Polo, and Herodotus appreciated differences and tried to keep judgment to a minimum. I certainly won’t ever travel with the intent of colonizing the people I encounter, but the Western “conqueror” attitude could cause me or other Americans to patronize so-called underdeveloped cultures if we let it. As trite as it may sound, remembering that all people are equal seems to be the only way to truly understand and value a foreign culture for what it is.
 
These thoughts on how to approach travel are not new to me, but the classic readings from this course gave me new perspective on what it means to travel today. Though we now have the luxury of easily accessible resources to educate ourselves about foreign places, second-hand travel seems even less appealing to me. For one thing, the writer’s account, while possibly interesting and enlightening, could be biased to the point of fictionalization. But most importantly, reading about a place gives only a shadow of its culture – and the only real way to understand it and form an opinion on it is to travel there yourself.

The essence of travel is to embark on a journey to the unknown. Of course, few people leave home without telling friends and family about their trip, so there is an expectation that the traveler will report back about his wondrous discoveries. This can lead travelers to exaggerate or lie about their trip in order to save their pride. In “Of Cannibals,” Michel de Montaigne says the only source that can be trusted on matters of unknown lands is an extremely truthful man or one who is too simple to even think of lying. But sometimes travelers lie about their journey to even themselves, in order to preserve their original idealistic vision of the trip.

In his essay “The Tempest and the New World,” Charles Frey balances the history and romanticism of Shakespeare’s The Tempest. He argues that the play was most likely based upon common knowledge of the new American world, but that Shakespeare took liberties with the facts to shape his story into a more captivating tale. Frey also writes about the optimism the new world colonists had at the start of their journey, and how that positive outlook turned to misery when faced with reality – but later, the same travelers claimed to have found everything they were searching for.

This led me to question how honest travelers are with themselves about their trips. Instead of admitting defeat, many of the travelers we have read about in this course have altered their accounts of reality in order to convince others of their success, and perhaps to convince themselves. They might change their objectives to match what they actually achieved, or find hidden benefits in the disappointing situations they find themselves in. There’s rarely a way to tell for sure if a returning traveler is truthful about his sojourn. Even if he tries to be honest, he may have smeared the line in his mind between fact and romanticism, perhaps subconsciously, to protect his travels from being deemed worthless. I think the best way to accurately remember one’s travels is to go with limited expectations and an open mind; and if a trip is entirely unpleasant, it can at least be a contrast by which life at home seems that much better. 

In this video, Kermit the Frog says Christopher Columbus is setting sail to "discover America." I believed that when I was growing up; I didn't know until history class in high school that he was actually looking for Asia and that his voyage ended up with the destruction of the natives' lives. In fact, I always thought of him as a hero growing up, like I think children and people uneducated about his story probably do. After all, he had his own day. After reading about him this week, I find that misconception rather ironic. He wanted to be a hero, but his trip was more or less a disaster in that he he didn't accomplish his original motive and he is now largely considered the catalyst for the demise of a whole population's way of life. Still, the heroic aura of his name still persists even today amongst many people. I wonder if he'd be happy with his legacy - on the one hand, it has lasted over 500 years, but on the other, it's a tainted legacy because he's only celebrated by people who don't know the truth about his travels. 

When reading J. M. Cohen’s compiled account of Christopher Columbus’ four voyages to the New World, I was struck by the influence of perspective on how the story is interpreted, and the way in which people revise history’s interpretation or ignore it altogether in order to satisfy cognitive dissonance. Rarely can a person undertake a morally wrong endeavor without somehow legitimatizing it by a beneficial outcome, whether they truly believe the justification or declare it only to prevent interference from others. Columbus ignored the wrongfulness of the subjugation of the natives on his trip by believing that the result was not only favorable for him and for Spain, but by also upholding the illusion that it was favorable for the natives. But in the case of the conqueror/conquered dichotomy, the conquered are faced with the transformation of their lifestyle, and must also vindicate this if they wish to prosper under new authority, as Michael Hardin explains in The Trickster of History: The Heirs of Columbus and the Dehistorization of Narrative. He shows example of authors of native North and South American descent, most notably Gerald Vizenor, who have reconstructed the history of Columbus to avoid victimization. They believe the role of Natives as a conquered people is propagated by the victim stereotype, because it leads them either to constantly oppose their new reality in favor of nostalgia for a dead and romanticized past, or forget their tradition and assimilate to the conqueror’s culture. In his article, Hardin shows that examining all perspectives is crucial to eliminating both the bias towards and victimization felt by Natives that was created centuries ago.
 
Columbus wanted to convert the natives he encountered to Catholicism, and this could be seen as a motive of entirely good intent. However, I do not think it would be too far-reaching to call into question Columbus’ own conversion if it is true he was originally Jewish; if that were the case, it’s certainly possible he wanted to prove the rightness of his conversion to himself (most likely on a subconscious level) by personally enforcing the same upon others. Additionally, he may have wanted to convert the Natives to appease his royal benefactors and to more easily colonize them. But even if he truly believed in the virtues of Catholicism and the necessity to convert all non-believers for their salvation, he did not treat the Natives in the way he should have according to that religion. In fact, he did not even treat them as humans, but as objects to be scavenged for their use, much like gold or spices. Still, beyond the matter of religious conversion, he also seemed to be driven on his journey by a desire to experience something exotic. In his journal, he often expounds the beauty of the islands, noting how the vegetation and climate is different from that of Spain. But he is unable to appreciate the “other” and insists on exploiting it for his own purposes. His seemingly good intentions are bastardized by his disillusioned sense of grandeur and self-serving belief that he is not only justified, but perhaps actually obligated, in his quest to conquer the natives and their lands.
 
In the same manner that Columbus ignored the negative outcomes of his colonization of the Natives, the event is often re-appropriated by modern people whose present was affected by its occurrence. In the United States, Columbus is celebrated as a hero whose discovery led to its existence. Columbus’ maltreatment of the Natives and his self-righteous greed is disregarded in light of the decided worthiness of his goal, much like the U.S. government and some of its citizens justify contemporary wars that pillage an offending country’s resources and subjugate its people with the goal of democratizing the country for its own benefit.
 
But Hardin’s analysis of works by writers like Vizenor shows a different approach to remembering history. He argues that Native peoples can accept the facts of their conquering while simultaneously maintaining their old traditions through “survival” stories; narratives that serve to give a voice to the colonized population and to break down pervasive notions of the “savage other” as inferior. Hardin says Vizenor’s way of including accounts of an event from all perspectives allows for a “global identity” in which no one group’s fictional history is accepted as indisputable truth at the expense of another group. Instead of either fully believing a biased account or living in denial of the impact of its occurrence, modern people should consider and event from every perspective; in doing this, we can recognize both the bad and good. In the case of Columbus’ story, we can also remove old conqueror/conquered preserved from the time of the event. By including all perspectives in our collective memory, all people are included in the collective identity.
 
 

I found Ibn Battutah’s emphasis on miracles to be interesting because it cast the credibilityof his writings into doubt, and because it was not unique amongst other similar accounts. Both Herodotus and Marco Polo also relayed tall tales, with varying degrees of skepticism, often depending on their respective religious inclinations. I enjoyed reading about miracles because they were a fantastical departure from more mundane details in the travel accounts. However, I think they also lend important information about the writing of the texts, and how they should be read.
 
It seems to me that the stories of miracles were ingrained in cultures, and as such, were passed along as if in a massive game of Telephone. I wonder how long it took for the “miracles” to develop from ordinary stories, and how much writers such as Ibn Battutah contributed in their exaggeration. His accurateness became especially questionable when read something about his work that I hadn’t considered before. No notes from his travels have been recovered. I assume he made basic notes, such as the order in which he visited each city and probably certain lengthy names, but I think there is also a great possibility that he sensationalized the miracle tales included in his writings. It’s highly plausible that authors like Ibn Battutah, Marco Polo, and Herodotus were impressed by stories of miracles, and thus expanded on these tales to cause the same impression in their readers. If this is true, could that mean that even true-seeming stories were partially fabricated? And if they were, how much would this actually affect a modern reader’s enjoyment?

In The Travels of Ibn Battutah, I was most struck by the central presence of religion in Ibn Battutah’s writings about his nearly three-decade-long journey. It directs the trip’s purpose; he originally left Tangiers to make the hajj pilgrimage to Mecca. But his religion also informs his opinion of nearly every place and person he encounters. In his descriptions of cities, he provides the details of religious sanctuaries, the charitableness and faithfulness of the citizens, and any renowned holy men that may reside there. He prides himself on his extensive knowledge of the world, and is treated very favorably by the rulers of each city because of his worldliness. It seems to me that Ibn Battutah was motivated on his travels not only by religious purposes, but also to attain some level of prestige. I do think he had a true commitment to his faith, but I also think he viewed piety and spirituality as qualities that divided worthy from unworthy men – and on some level, he arrogantly pursued his religion out of self-interested purposes, in a manner that seems pervasive amongst many of the other Muslims he encounters.
 
In his work, Ibn Battutah includes several examples of discrimination based on religion. For one thing, he casually mentions people having slaves from other lands and religions, but then praises those who take care of Muslim beggars. In fact, in some places people engage in hostile competition over who can be the most generous. Also, he decries a bazaar where women purchase expensive jewels, but then admires the rich adornments of mosques. And he honors King al-Malik al-Nasir for his devoutness, and later mentions his practice of hiring hit men for his enemies without disapproving it. It seems the actual benefit of religious practices is not only what Ibn Battutah values, but rather he is also impressed by pious discipline for its own sake.
 
For this reason, he seeks out holy men, respects people who perform ritualistic practices, and finds discretion and faithfulness to be the signs of a good citizenship. But perhaps it is the respect that these godly citizens afford him that makes him so generous with his reciprocal praise. In Journeys to the Other Shore: Muslim and Western Travelers in Search of Knowledge, Roxanne L. Euben points out that Ibn Battutah praises his host when he receives abundant gifts and hospitality, but is insulted when his host refuses to acknowledge his importance.
 
Ibn Battutah and most of the other Muslims he writes about seem to regard religious piety as the noblest quality a man can strive for. But in the process (at least according to my admittedly brief and under-informed analysis), they lose sight of the actual personal meaning of such an endeavor and turn to anyone they think has achieved some level of enlightenment higher than their own for guidance. This tendency extends beyond religious leaders; Ibn Battutah cites several tales of a man losing his mind due to a supposed spiritual experience and consequently being viewed as holy. I think Ibn Battutah was genuinely curious to obtain knowledge, and also possessed a genuine devotion to his faith – but I also think he studied religion for a more self-centered purpose; namely, to achieve an estimable presence in a religion-centric society. 

When searching for something to write about for this post, I looked up the movie Xanadu because I vaguely remembered watching it when I was younger. I found the plot had very little to do with Kublai Khan, but then learned the movie’s title is a reference taken from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem “Kubla Khan, or, A Vision in a Dream: A Fragment.” After reading the poem and some different analyses of its meaning, I found some themes that I thought connected to Marco Polo and his writings. (Although I should mention these connections were in no way intended or implied by Coleridge or his critics.)

The poem describes the pleasure-dome erected by Kublai Khan in a walled-off area of Xanadu. Coleridge indicates that Kublai’s creation is no match for the real beauty of nature, and that he will eventually be overcome by a power greater than his own. To me, this same theme could be applied (if loosely) to Marco Polo’s journey because no matter how much astounding wealth and decadence he encounters, Kublai’s imperial splendor could never convince him to stay in China. To borrow a pair of terms from a literary critic’s interpretation of the poem, the Kublai and his wealth is the “commanding genius” during Marco Polo’s trip, but the desire to return home is the “absolute genius” that eventually draws him away.

Another interpretation relies on the background of the poem. Coleridge says he had a vision while high on opium and began to record it, but while he was writing the poem, an interruption caused him to forget the rest of the dream, and he was unable to complete his work. A different critic concluded that this explanation was a story that Coleridge made up to achieve the poem’s desire effect, which was to describe the feeling of forgetting an extraordinary dream that one wants to remember; in fact, a dream so incredible that no one would believe it if the dreamer were to remember it. This critic says the poem has little to do with the actual content at all, and that Kublai and Xanadu merely help demonstrate the greater theme. However, this greater theme can, I think, be applied to Marco Polo. The explorer’s writings could be seen as an example of Coleridge’s description of a dream; in this case the dreamer is considered the “absolute genius” just as Marco Polo was the most travelled man in the world and had knowledge of the most incredible wonders. But Marco Polo did remember his travels, and when he shared them upon his return home, he was scorned as a liar. In Coleridge’s poem, the dreamer would have an elevated status, and few would be able to understand the dream. The same is true in Marco Polo’s case. Because most Europeans had not experienced what he had, they did not believe him, and he was left knowing he had achieved more than they had, but that they were too ignorant to realize it – much like the dreamer knows his extraordinary dream would only be accepted and appreciated by those who had reached a similar level of understanding.

Marco Polo’s trip to Asia was motivated by many different purposes. An educated young man, he probably wished to make use of the merchant skills he had cultivated through his studies. He no doubt wanted to follow in the family tradition of foreign trade, and his father and uncle’s return gave him the opportunity to embark with them on their next journey and learn trading tactics first hand. He was most likely anxious to spend time with his relatives as well, since this journey was his first chance to learn from and prove himself to his father. Additionally, as a devout Christian, he was hopeful that he and his father and uncle would succeed in converting Kubilai Khan to Christianity. This potential conversion would not only have been a success in his spiritual life, but would also have secured him favor with the Western states attempting to vie for religious influence in the Mongol empire in order to secure fiscal and protective privileges. And of course, Marco must have been enticed by the riches his father and uncle brought back from their previous journey, and by the fame and prestige he would develop as a result of his uncommon travels. Perhaps most importantly, Marco was surely excited about the trip because it afforded him the rare opportunity to come of age while experiencing an entirely foreign culture from an entitled position.

But Marco stayed on to hold an imperial position instead of merely focusing on his trade and religious objectives; indeed, he became ingrained in the Eastern lifestyle and government, and his trip far outlasted his original motives – he stayed in Asia for longer than he’d spent in his birthplace Venice. For the length of the journey, he effectively adopted Asia as his new home in practice, and left only, it seems, when the Kubilai’s imminent death and replacement weakened his future prospects in the empire. Yet in theory he never broke allegiance to his native land, even fighting a war for Venice shortly after his return. His admiration of and engagement in the Mongol empire and the wealth and provincial honor he acquired there, juxtaposed with his self-imposed distance from Asian customs and religions, demonstrate the impermanence of the traveler. Why does the notion of home prevent a sojourner like Marco from fully adopting a new life and culture in a land no longer so foreign?

True, Marco did go to Asia with the main purpose of conducting business. And with a power structure made volatile with the replacement of the Khan, he could not risk overstaying his welcome after Kubilai’s death. But the extended nature of his trip and his assumption of responsibility in Kubilai’s court would have made plausible the outcome of Marco staying in the empire and assimilating completely to the Mongol way of life. His account makes clear he enjoyed his time in the East; he expressed amazement at the wonders of the empire, and respect for its innovations and the efficiency of its trade and government systems. And it seems he would have been able to spend his riches in Asia just as easily as in Europe. Yet it would be hard to believe that Marco ever considered not returning to Europe. Of course, he would never have fit in seamlessly in the Mongol empire; he spoke a different language, was of a different race and religion, and came from a different educational background than the natives. But since his stay was so long, he must have expected a culture shock of similar magnitude upon returning home.

So besides practical considerations, as well as a conditioned sense of nationalism and man’s persistent tendency to separate himself from the “other,” I think the true reason Marco was destined to be a traveler and not an expatriate was his desire to pass on information. He wanted to expose his countrymen to the wonders and peculiarities of a land that he explored before all others; documenting his travels in order to bring back his findings was a way to validate the trip in the eyes’ of the peers he left behind and an attempt to share his stories with people who could recognize their absurdity. The spirit of modern travel follows in a similar (if diluted) vein: even if an average tourist today finds the living conditions of their vacation destination to be comparable or superior to home life, they inevitably return home - not only to fulfill responsibilities, but to approach familiar life at home with a new sense of cultural sensibility. They end the trip with unique knowledge and experiences that can provide them with conversation material, souvenirs, and a new perspective – the same benefits Marco Polo received from his own journey.

Reading Herodotus’ “Account of Egypt” reminded me in some ways of the Travel Channel. Shows like “Samantha Brown” and “No Reservations” film a TV personality attempting to experience authenticity in a foreign country. I say “attempting” because travelling with a camera crew hardly allows them any sense of inconspicuousness, and the details of the trip are planned for them in advance. Yet the hosts ignore this and often act like they’re completely comfortable with and aware of the cultures of foreign countries. Still, these shows are popular because they give viewers the chance to travel vicariously through the host, whether they choose to stay home out of comfort or they can’t afford to spare the cost or time of leaving. 
 
As much as the Travel Channel would like you to believe the programs show the “real deal” of a foreign culture, it’s questionable whether anyone can come by authenticity in their travels, let alone a TV host on camera. Differences in language, social norms, and physical appearance prevent every traveler from fitting in with a foreign country’s citizens. And even if you make local friends who show you the “true” experience of their country, you won’t understand it like they do because you come from a different background. It seems to me that true authenticity of a place can only be achieved by those born and raised there.
 
But that’s also the fun of traveling – comparing what you see to what you know. The sense of wonderment in Herodotus’ work when he contrasted absurd Egyptian customs to his traditional Greek life is what makes travelling so interesting. I think trying to seem like you understand everything about a foreign culture is useless, but appreciating it for its differences from your own experience makes for an interesting journey.

At the hands of some modern day historians and scholars, Herodotus’ attempts to record his travels through Egypt are reduced to an academic source not much more credible than Homer’s fanciful poems. In the essay “Did Herodotus Ever Go To Egypt,” O. Kimball Armayor presents arguments from modern Egyptologists and other authors of historical leanings that question the validity of Herodotus’ claims. Some say he completely misinterpreted the Egyptians, others say he had no intention to provide an truthful record but rather wanted to profit from storytelling, and still others believe the inaccuracy of his information proves he never went to Egypt at all. In light of modern archaeological evidence, Armayor questions Herodotus’ assertions that the Egyptians were black and circumcised, that he obtained truthful information from high priests or even commoners, and his geographical specifications and omissions. These doubts have led some modern scholars to view Herodotus’ writings as painfully misguided, if not outright deceitful. But even if we cannot take Herodotus’ “Account of Egypt” at face-value because of its historical contradictions, why can we not still value it for what it does provide?
 
Egyptologists say ancient Egyptians were highly xenophobic (a fact Herodotus himself acknowledged when he spoke of Egyptian reverence for cows and their refusal to share knives with Greeks) and the commoners would therefore not have had any interest in conversing with Herodotus, let alone the prestigious priests he claims to have spoken with. Additionally, he would have needed a translator, a fact he does not address. Furthermore, his descriptions of “black” skin are unclear, and historians think only the priests were circumcised. Finally, Herodotus’ geographical measurements have been proven inaccurate, and certain places like Chemmis have not been identified, while other absences, such as that of the Great Sphinx, are considered troubling.
 
With these being only some of the attacks on Herodotus’ veracity, it seems his writings cannot be regarded as anything other than far-fetched storytelling. Of course, some of the assumptions made by historians are also not infallible; for instance, Herodotus’ definition of “black” may likely have simply meant “darker than my own skin,” and there is no solid proof that the Egyptians, even the priests, would have refused to speak with him. However, there is little about Herodotus’ claims that can be absolutely proven or disproven. In arguing about facts recorded nearly 2,500 years ago, I believe the true worthiness of his work is both diminished and ignored by disappointed historians who presumptuously expected the account to adhere to modern-day standards and capabilities of accuracy. For one thing, measurement inaccuracies should hardly be considered a point of contention, since they were most likely estimated very roughly, and Herodotus’ sense of place orientation would have been based on little more than his internal compass. But more importantly, Herodotus was not aware of the anthropological methods of research common today, and did not claim to use them; it is not fair to consider him deceitful because he may have asked leading questions, or communicated through a possibly questionable interpreter, or not verified the information relayed to him by the Egyptians. Given the time period, when fact and fantasy blurred together in art, story, religion, and real life, it is hardly to be expected that Herodotus would have had the modern sensibilities to separate truth from fiction, both in the Egyptians’ legendary tales and their exotic daily life.
 
Perhaps he did purposefully embellish what he saw, or appropriated stories he heard as his own eyewitness accounts, or lied about going to Egypt at all. But I think it is more likely that he simply attempted to give a description of what he saw, and was unable to do so with complete accuracy because of cultural and language differences, a lack of authoritatively trustworthy resources, and possibly a tendency to mistake isolated incidents as universal peculiarities. Still, I was impressed by his lack of prejudice towards the Egyptians (especially if they were as inhospitable as some historians say), the extensiveness of his account, and his cautious attempts to warn readers about stories he considered doubtful. Far too many years have passed to determine the real truth about Herodotus, so what is the benefit of attacking him? I think his account should be appreciated for its literary value and authorial ambition, and even if the details cannot be used as a source of accurate information, the work itself is highly interesting from an anthropological perspective in regards to the mindset and cultural approach of an ancient man. Besides, even if one refuses to believe Herodotus ever set foot in Egypt, he still wrote a fantastic story. 

I recently read Franz Kafka’s short story “The Silence of the Sirens.” Though Kafka changes the details of the story, he does so with the intention of exposing Odysseus’ nature, and how his characteristics allowed him to withstand the journey home. Kafka explains Odysseus’ decision to be tied to the mast of his ship instead of filling his ears with wax with the reasoning that Odysseus is child-like and confident that he will be victorious over the Sirens’ song, even though no man has ever heard the Sirens and passed through unharmed. He is confident is his own cunning resourcefulness, and in the favor the Gods have shed upon him. Then Kafka asserts that even more powerful than the song of the Sirens is their silence. Of this, he says, “Against the feeling of having triumphed over everything before it, no earthly powers can resist.” This claim, I think, explains Odysseus’ arrogant behavior after he and his men escaped from the Cyclops. He could not resist telling the monster his name, and so brought more misfortune upon himself. But in the case of the Sirens, the results of Odysseus realizing his confidence had silenced them into submission would certainly be more tragic, and most likely fatal. He would no doubt become so arrogant as to fearlessly approach the Sirens, at which point they would ensnare him.
 
But in Kafka’s story, Odysseus did silence the sirens through his brave, if childishly foolish, behavior. But yet he does not realize this; he thinks he’s simply immune to their song and cannot hear it. Though this perceived feat certainly inflated his pride, he believes he has simply overcome an obstacle, and not that he is so all-powerful that the obstacle bowed down before him. If Odysseus became convinced he had the power to transcend all obstacles without effort, he would certainly lose his resourceful nature and perish along the remaining journey. Instead, the level of self-confidence he already possesses gives him bravery, but does not diminish his capacity for quick and cunning schemes. What’s more, Kafka’s Sirens long to look upon Odysseus after he has sailed past, implying that courage and a (rather blind) sense of trust in fate are the most admirable and successful characteristics; not a degree of arrogance that would lead to laziness and a dull sense of wit, and ultimately to one’s demise.