Genius & Ink 🖌

Before you find out about the similarity between the River Styx and the River Thames let’s talk about Carl Jung.You, my dear reader, could vote for our next read-along and the overwhelming number of votes went to Carl Jung’s The Undiscovered Self.

Next Sunday, I will send you all the details for our read-along, including the brief schedule, the edition and some initial thoughts and context on the book.

You can still change the candidate for the book you’d like to read after Carl Jung’s essay by going to the poll and voting there.

I have also created a separate chat group for Slow-Read Community. I haven’t sent the invitation to anyone yet, but you can join it by clicking here.

Thank you all once again!

What would happen if Charon, the ferryman of the dead—the man who took us through the River Styx into the Inferno in Dante’s Divine Comedy came up from the underworld to London?"

Lucian’s two-thousand-year-old dialogue between Hermes and Charon gives us an idea of what the boatman of the dead would say if he saw modern London.

In the dialogue, Charon takes a day off and on his way up to the world of the living, he meets Hermes, messenger of the gods. After a bit of hesitation, Charon convinces Hermes to give him a tour of the living world.

I read this dialogue standing in the aisle of Waterstones Piccadilly, the largest bookshop in Europe. Lucian gripped me in just two sentences, convincing me that even if fire engulfed the building or I discovered there was no money in my account, I would not leave without the book. Luckily there was no hellish fire that swallowed the bookshop nor was my account empty, I simply paid and continued to read.

What was striking to me from the first sentence was a line that Charon tells Hermes:

I was eager to see what the life of man is like, Hermes, and what they do in it, and what they all grieve to lose when they come down to us: for none of them has crossed over without weeping.

I had to stop reading there and lift my eyes from the page. The man who has seen every human being who died, from kings to peasants, does not know what life is. He is curious about what life is and why people cry when they die. Why is life so precious?

Charon and Hermes look down at the world of the living from above and the lord of the River Styx asks Hermes:

I see a large tract of land with a big lake surrounding it, and mountains... and very tiny men and some sort of dens they have.

Hermes explains that these dens are cities that the living dwell, and what follows is a parade of various versions our life takes. Charon observes how Milo of Croton carries a bull in the stadium while the crowd roars.

“He will soon give us a laugh when he is on the boat and with no strength left to lift a mosquito, let alone a bull” says Charon.

Of course, Milo of Croton represents not only the frailty of the human body that wanes with age, but also the fame we seek that fades away exactly as our body declines with old age.

Charon shifts his gaze and sees the incredibly wealthy King of Lydia showing off his gold to the philosopher Solon. When Croesus asks if he is fortunate, Solon replies:

"I don't know yet, Croesus, as you haven't come to the end of your life. Death is the real test in such things, and living in good fortune right to the end."

Hermes notes that Croesus's wealth will soon be captured, but what is interesting is not the fact that the wealthiest man in the world might soon become the poorest, but Solon’s words where he says that whether one was fortunate or unfortunate could be judged only once one is dead.

This reminded me of a Russian saying: “If he died sooner, one could have called him an honest man.” One could live his entire life honestly but then ruin it completely by a few dishonest actions.

The parade continues and Charon, the ferryman of the dead, keeps laughing at how human beings waste their lives. He sees Polycrates of Samos, a fortunate tyrant, who has no idea that he will soon be crucified.

I shall laugh when I recognize them on my skiff, each of them naked, carrying with them neither purple raiment nor tiara nor golden couch.

To remind my reader that I was still standing in the heart of the bookshop, so I lifted my eyes again from the page and rushed to the till.

I re-opened the dialogue now sitting in the bookshop’s café, which was buzzing with tourists and bibliophiles and the lines I read were about you and me.

After tyrants and athletes Charon sees merchants, soldiers, money-lenders and other usual folk that go on with their life, and not a single one of them thinks about him. He sees a man who with excitement builds a house in which he will never have a single meal in, since he will be dead by the time the house will be built.

The dialogue in itself was an exceptional read, but it was even more exceptional to read it in the heart of London, after all I was at Piccadilly Circus, right next to the famous Oxford Street.

The characters that Charon observed reminded me of figures I witness on the pages of news every day, many of them living in London, and since I was sitting in the café and reading this I couldn’t do anything but wonder how many of us, including myself, remind ourselves of Charon.

Towards the end of the dialogue Charon compares human lives to water bubbles formed by a splashing spring: some burst instantly, others swell larger before popping as inevitably.

At some point Charon wants to shout from the mountain peak to warn humanity about their mortality and the emptiness of their ambitions, but Hermes holds him back and says that humanity’s ears are so stuffed with deceit and ignorance - like Odysseus’s crew with wax - that no voice or waring can pierce through.

I raised my eyes again, took out my notebook, and wrote this question: What is the wax that we stuff our ears with today? The long stream of thought inevitably brought me to the excess of information that we consume today. It acts as wax to our thoughts, we are so busy taking in information that we have no time to think about it.

My readers have probably heard the fact that they check their phones on average 100 times each day, and most of these times it’s not because we have an important message, or that we intentionally need to find something on the web. Most of these 100 times are compulsive unintentional checks of our feeds on social media. We no longer have a space where our thoughts could breathe, question whether we live our live intentionally.

Charon asks Hermes to point out famous ancient cities like Nineveh, Babylon, Mycenae, and Troy. Hermes tells him that Nineveh has completely vanished without a trace, Babylon is crumbling, and even rivers eventually dry up, reminding him that cities die just as men do.

It was thought provoking to read this in the middle of a city such as London, that feels invincible in the size of its wealth, talent, and power. And yet, one does not have to be a historian or a journalist to see that we see slow glimpses of what ancient cities like Nineveh and Babylon once experienced. The end arrives less like a lightning and more like an autumn: it arrives gradually, leaves turn from green to yellow almost invisible to the eye.

The question that remained with me as I finished reading the dialogue and walked to the train station was: if a virtuous man and a man who led a life of vice are treated the same by death, then what is the point of being virtuous in the first place?

I think Lucian gives us a small glimpse of an answer if we pause and reflect. What we leave behind is not gold but the plot, plot of our life. Solon tells this to the king of Lydia, he says that man can call themselves fortunate or misfortunate only after their life is finished. The plot of our life is ever-changing: a man who lives in vice for most of his years can change his course and end his life with virtue. To roughly quote St.Augustine: “Every sinner has the future and every Saint had the past.”

It is remembering Charon that lets us change the direction of or life.

Genius & I…

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“The person who insists upon seeing her ugliness, like the person who would shine a hundred-candlepower light upon the picture alcove, drives away whatever beauty may reside there.”

— Jun’ichirō Tanizaki, In Praise of Shadows

Hello friends, and welcome!

For the next two weeks, we are going to read Jun’ichirō Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows.

I guess one could call me, to a degree, a domosed (домосед—from the Russian for “homebody”). In fact, perhaps I am an extroverted homebody. As an extroverted homebody, I know that I must shape my home, because my home, in turn, will shape me.

I warmly invite you to join me in reading Tanizaki.

I will be using the Vintage Classics edition, translated by Thomas H. Harper and Edward G. Seidensticker.

All you need to join is a copy of Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows. I hope to see you in the next editions and hear your opinion on this work as we read it together.

You Can Read the First (Introductory) Post Here:

Fabric

One of the finest exhibitions that I have ever visited was on traditional Japanese interiors held at the British Museum in London. Every room was exquisitely curated until the very end where one display broke the spell of that serene elegance: the beauty and harmony were shattered by a pair of gilded folding screens (byōbu).

For about an hour I was immersed into another world but in comparison to everything else the gold of these screens looked brazen and cheap, as if it belonged to another culture entirely.

It took reading of Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows several years later for me to understand that what I saw was not actually a failure of a civilisation but a failure of modern lighting.

The light flooded these screens and rendered the gild gaudy and ostentatious. But in his essay Tanizaki explained to me, that in the classical Japanese architecture, rooms used to sit deep within the structure so daylight had to travel across multiple layers and obstacles before it could reach the back of a room. In that gloom gold had an intensely practical job: it caught whatever stray glimmers came off the garden and threw a warm, ambient glow into corners the sun could never reach.

There is nothing more repulsive to me than the ostentatious display of wealth and gold unfortunately was hijacked by this sin, but this misunderstanding by myself revealed a real divide between my modern corrupt thinking and the traditional one. In older buildings, materials had a purpose, and the purpose of gold was not meant to announce wealth under a lamp, it was a tool designed to bring daylight in exquisite form to the inner rooms.

The curators of that exhibition had done a marvellous job, but in the case of those screens they kept the object, but killed their purpose.

A similar use of light Tanizaki explores when he describes a Buddhist priest’s gold brocade surplice (kesa). In a dark mountain temple lit by small altar lamps the gold thread of the priest’s robes serves a particular purpose as well. It catches the flickering light and settles naturally against the old priest’s skin and grey hair.

The same robe loses its elegance completely if it is worn in a bright city temple, and become theatrical and gaudy. The dignity is not an inherent trait that was stitched into fabric but depends entirely on the light surrounding it.

The Stage

“Grace appears most purely in that human form which has either no consciousness at all or an infinite one—that is, in a puppet or in a god.”

— Heinrich von Kleist, On the Marionette Theatre

What is interesting however is that Tanizaki gives us also a kind of a masterclass in storytelling and stagecraft.

What is art if not a discipline of directing attention?

Tanizaki observes an obvious fact that anatomically his hands are no different from that of a the actor on the stage. When watching a master of the Nō drama performing on a stage Tanizaki says that what separates his hands from that of the actor is that they framed by dark robes and the shadows that deliberately make actor’s hands look otherworldly. It is the interplay of shadow and light that makes the illusion strong and powerful.

He contrasts it with Kabuki, which used to be performed under soft candlelight and oild lamps, where thick white face powder was hidden and made the actors look dreamlike. But once the modern Western floodlights were adopted by Japan the illusion was broken.

I’ve never attended a Kabuki, I certainly hope to do so one day, but when doing research for the mini read-along I watched some online. Perhaps, I ruined the experience even more than Tanizaki could have ever imagined and even through a laptop screen, the glare ruined it. Tanizaki was correct, even a hundred years later since he raised this, the white makeup still looks like cracked plaster in modern lights.

Even Nō drama or Kabuki did not suffer as much as did Osaka’s Bunraku theater, where a female puppet is literally a carved head made of wood witha.pair of hands sewn onto her empty sleeves. The puppet has no body and brings to mind paintings of Georges de Lat Tour, where the human figure is swallowed by pitch-black backgrounds with only faces lit up by a candle. Or, Heinrich von Kleist’s essay called On the Marionette Theatre where Kleist argued that inanimate puppet carries an effortless beauty that a human actor with their ego and burdened consciousness could never match.

Was Caravaggio a bad person?

There’s more to that puppet of course, because in Tanizaki’s view it was also an accurate picture of how women in pre-modern Japan actually lived. What follows are some of the most controversial lines of the essay, he writes that a women of the past existed, in his own words “only from the collar up and the sleeves out,'“ her body was hidden beneath layers of cloth and tucked away in the twilight of the home.

He recalls his own mother and how he watched her sew by the weak light coming in from their garden. He remembers her blackened teeth, her pale face and admit something remarkable: he cannot remember her body at all. This is remarkable because this is precisely how our memory works as well, it places our experiences under light and shadow, our attention illuminates a handful of details and lets the rest sink into obscurity.

It is unnecessary to draw the attention of my reader that passages like this have provoked plenty of debate among critics who focus on Tanizaki’s treatment of women and race but his observation points toward something very different in my opinion.

For the most of our history we knew our favourite artists or writers through their work alone. We stood in front of a Caravaggio painting and marvelled at its greatness before we read a detailed biography of his life. The work was their light while their private failings and cruelties remained in the dark.

Once we discover a work by a genius we become endlessly obsessed by their originality and become compelled to dig up every corner of artists’ personal history until we discover that some things had to stay in shadow.

When you shine floodlights over a figure like Caravaggio, you inevitably run straight into his brawls, the violence, and a murder, and the more we insist on unearthing every detail, the more you find things that you find hard to forgive.

We believe in our day that exposure is equivalent to understanding. As Tanizaki puts it: the person who demands to see every blemish is like someone shining a hundred-candlepower bulb directly into a traditional alcove. In the rush to expose everything you drive away the very quality that made it worth looking at in the first place.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armenikus.substack.com/subscribe

What do we lose when a new technology enters our homes and we can no longer refuse it? In this episode of the Genius & Ink Podcast, Vashik Armenikus reads through the first part of Jun'ichirō Tanizaki's In Praise of Shadows, the classic 1933 essay on Japanese aesthetics, light and darkness. We follow Tanizaki as he tries to fit electric light, glass and white tile into a traditional Japanese house, and discover why technology is never quite democratic. We look at how he writes about the most ordinary room in the house without a trace of vulgarity, and what the Russian word poshlost has to do with too much light. And we trace how one borrowed invention, the fountain pen, quietly reshaped Japanese writing, music and thought. Along the way, we ask what artificial intelligence, built in a few places and largely in one language, might do to the way the rest of us think. This episode is part of the Genius & Ink read-along of In Praise of Shadows, where thousands of readers explore the great masterpieces of literature together. Read the full essay, with images and notes, and join the read-along:

https://armenikus.substack.com/p/tanizaki-how-to-make-a-home-beautiful

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armenikus.substack.com/subscribe

Join our two-week read-along of Jun’ichirō Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows as we delve into architecture, aesthetics, and how the places we inhabit mirror our inner lives.

Read the full essay & join the discussion: https://armenikus.substack.com/p/junichiro-tanizaki-in-praise-of-aesthetics

for future read-alongs: armenikus.substack.com

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armenikus.substack.com/subscribe

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit armenikus.substack.com

“The immortality the Greeks understood was of other people remembering you and telling your stories — as we are still doing with Odysseus.”

— Emily Katz Anhalt

Hello friends,

Some of you decided to reward my work by becoming paid subscribers, so while this episode is available for everyone to watch for free, there is a deep-dive section attached below for paid subscribers only, as a ‘thank you’ for rewarding my work and to be honest making it possible to do this at all.

~ Vashik Armenikus

Emily Katz Anhalt is Professor of Classics at Sarah Lawrence College, where she has spent her career asking what ancient Greek literature still has to teach us about how to live.

She is the author of Enraged: Why Violent Times Need Ancient Greek Myths, Embattled: How Ancient Greek Myths Empower Us to Resist Tyranny, and Ancient Wisdom for Polarized Times: Why Humanity Needs Herodotus, the Man Who Invented History. You can also read her wonderful piece for the American Scholar here

In this episode, we talked about: Why does one of the greatest poems ever written begin not with its hero, but with a son who has never met his father? Why do the gods keep appearing — and what are they really? And why does Homer build his entire epic around a man who is, by his own admission, a brilliant liar? Professor Anhalt has spent her career inside these questions. In this conversation, she opens them up completely.

For the deep dive, including five quotes from this conversation I haven't stopped thinking about; a reader's guide to the Odyssey's first four books and everything Professor Anhalt said about what this poem does to the way you live — consider becoming a paid subscriber to access the material below.

Emily Katz Anhalt Deep-Dive Notes

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit armenikus.substack.com

Hello friends,

I recorded this podcast in March 2025. So, about a year ago!

I don’t know why this recording stayed in the vault for such a long time, but here we go.

It is free for everyone to listen to, but paid subscribers will get the full transcript, summary and a reading list below the paywall.

I hope you will enjoy this episode.

~ Vashik Armenikus

Philosophy as medicine

Epicurus on How to Clear Your Mind

In this episode of Genius & Ink 🖌, we explore the ancient Greek thinker Epicurus, who viewed philosophy not as a cold profession, but as a daily healing practice for the soul.

Epicurus teaches us that clarity, not consumption, is the true key to happiness.

He suggests that freedom from fear: fear of the divine, of death, and of unbridled desire is more nourishing than any feast. By inviting us to examine what we believe, what we want, and what we dread, he offers a philosophy of simplicity, courage, and tranquility. It is, in essence, a quiet revolution in how we live.

We follow Epicurus through his most powerful teachings, including:

* Lifelong Learning: Why philosophy should be studied at any age.

* Inner Peace: How superstitious beliefs can corrupt our mental state.

* Mortality: Why death is truly nothing to fear.

* Desire: How to categorise our needs for greater mental clarity.

* Pleasure: Redefining its true nature.

* Virtue: Why sound judgment is the root of a good life.

This episode is based on Epicurus’ Letter to Menoeceus, a foundational text that redefines what it means to live wisely and peacefully.

Four Ideas of Epicurus to Keep in Your mind:

* Epicurus does not deny the divine but rejects the "angry/jealous" versions created by the masses. He literally says:

"The irreligious man is not the one who destroys the gods of the masses, but the one who imposes the ideas of the masses on the gods".

2025 was one of the most transformative years of my life, mainly due to the Dante read-along, which many of you have been following closely.

I was inspired by Gustave Doré, one of my favourite illustrators, who, in his youth, decided to select a list of masterpieces of world literature that he wanted to illustrate before he died. Such meticulous planning, such focus, such knowledge of what your life is going to be dedicated to — I found this incredibly, unbelievably, almost indescribably inspiring. I followed in his footsteps, and I did not regret it.

In 2026, I would like to continue this journey. I’ve selected, for now, several books that I would love to read carefully, in the same spirit in which we read Dante’s Divine Comedy. What you’ll find below is the list of works we’re going to explore in 2026. It’s a short list, but an important one.

Read-Alongs 2026

* Sophocles’s Antigone (February, approx. 3 weeks)

* The Captive Mind by Czeslaw Milosz (April, approx. 4 weeks)

* The Odyssey by Homer (June-July, approx. 6 weeks)

* Memoirs of Hadrian by Marguerite Yourcenar (September - October, 6 weeks)

Philosophical Exercises

I believe that we can sculpt ourselves in the same way Michelangelo sculpted his figures.

In life, we are given the material — our bodies, our time, our consciousness. And I believe that we can chisel away certain parts in order to sharpen others, shaping our lives into something deliberate and meaningful. If we are attentive enough, disciplined enough, we can turn a human life into a kind of sculpture — something worthy, something precise — not unlike Bernini’s Persephone or Michelangelo’s David.

Literature, as the philosopher Pierre Hadot once argued, can serve exactly this purpose. Reading, when done properly, is not entertainment or information, but a form of inner work. The read-alongs revolve around this philosophical idea. Each of these books was chosen with a specific purpose in mind.

Sophocles’ Antigone explores our responsibility towards a divine order — or, more broadly, towards something higher than convenience, power, or obedience. It forces us to confront the cost of standing by one’s conscience.

Czesław Miłosz’s The Captive Mind offers a defence against manipulation and ideology. It teaches us how easily the mind can become imprisoned, and how often that imprisonment is voluntary. It is a book about preserving inner freedom in an age that quietly erodes it.

Homer’s Odyssey is a journey of its own. It would be difficult to exhaust its depth in a few sentences, but I trust that many of you already know this work’s power. It shows how a human being can be tested, weakened, tempted, and yet still return — changed, but intact. It, too, teaches us how to chisel away our weaker parts in order to form a stronger self.

Memoirs of Hadrian by Marguerite Yourcenar has already had a profound influence on my life. The book takes the form of a series of letters written by the dying Emperor Hadrian to his successor, Marcus Aurelius. In them, Hadrian reflects on what life taught him — about power, restraint, love, loss, and limits — and passes those lessons on before his time runs out.

This is the unifying thread that runs through these works. They are not chosen at random. Each one offers a different kind of philosophical exercise — a different way of shaping the self.

Sophocles’s Antigone

( Starting Sunday 1st of February - Finishing 15th of February)

The first work I would like to explore together is Sophocles’ Antigone. I’ve always been fascinated by the tension in the play between earthly law and divine law, and I want to explore how I perceive this conflict through my own eyes.

Antigone is fighting for the right to honour what she believes to be higher than any political decree: the demands of conscience, memory, and the dead.

In our own lives, this tension appears whenever obedience clashes with inner conviction, whenever following the rules means betraying something essential within us. Antigone asks a difficult question that never loses its urgency: what do we owe the law, and what do we owe the truth as we see it?

The Captive Mind by Czeslaw Milosz

( Starting Sunday 4th of April - Finishing 25th of April)

The Captive Mind is an extraordinary book for our day and time, when the human mind is so often taken hostage by ideology.

Miłosz is not interested in crude propaganda, but in something far more dangerous: the quiet, almost invisible ways in which intelligent people surrender their inner freedom. One of the great dangers of our age is that nobody is more enslaved than those who believe themselves to be free. We may think we are independent thinkers, while in truth our assumptions, language, and values are shaped by ideological premises we rarely examine. Miłosz offers not slogans, but clarity a kind of an antidote to the captive mind.

This book was recommended to me by Christopher Hitchens.

The Odyssey

( Starting Sunday 31st of May - Finishing 5th of July) .

The third work is Homer’s Odyssey. Reading the Odyssey has been a goal of mine for a very long time. I’ve read it several times, and yet I still feel that I don’t fully understand it. Odysseus — or Ulysses — was omnipresent throughout Dante’s Divine Comedy. Dante had not read Homer’s version of this journey, and yet the figure is there, unmistakably. That alone makes me want to return to Homer and look again, more carefully, at this wandering hero.

Perhaps coincidentally, Christopher Nolan is releasing his cinematic interpretation of the Odyssey in July 2026. We’ll finish reading, interpreting, and trying to understand the poem first, and then we can head to the cinema with our own vision of this great masterpiece.

Memoirs of Hadrian by Marguerite Yourcenar

( Starting Sunday 6th of September - Finishing .October 11)

The final work on this list is one of my favourite books of all time, comparable in its impact on me to Dante’s Divine Comedy: Marguerite Yourcenar’s Memoirs of Hadrian. It’s been five years since I first read it. I’ve returned to it many times since — sometimes in part, sometimes in full — but I’ve never read it with the same discipline and attention that I brought to Dante. That is something I would like to do now.

This is a book about power seen from the inside. Hadrian looks back on his life not as a conqueror, but as a man reflecting on love, responsibility, loss, ageing, and limits. It asks what it means to rule others without losing oneself, and what remains when ambition gives way to memory.

These are the four books. Below, you’ll find all the practical details — dates, structure — and you’re free to join or opt out of any read-along, depending on what resonates with you.

🐙 2027 Read-Alongs?

Those of you who thought that the Dante read-along marked the end of the read-along series on Genius & Ink — I’m happy to surprise you. Read-alongs on Genius & Ink are going to continue throughout the years.

There are, of course, two things that could stop this journey. The first is obvious: life is finite. Still, I hope that we have many years ahead of us to explore some of the great masterpieces of world literature together. The second possibility is more prosaic. At some point, I might be forced to abandon this project in order to pursue a mediocre job, simply to put food on the table. Before that happens — and I hope it will take a very long time — I trust that, with your support, I’ll be able to continue this work for as long as it is humanly possible.

Because of time constraints and the need to prepare properly, I had to omit several great works from the 2026 read-alongs in order to focus fully on the four books I’ve outlined above. That does not mean these works have been abandoned. On the contrary, they remain very much part of the long-term vision for Genius & Ink.

One such work is Virgil’s Aeneid. I had to exclude it from 2026 because it is a magnificent text that deserves its own time and attention. I hope that by 2027 I’ll be ready to explore the Aeneid together.

Other works I deeply wish to explore include Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso. I would also love to devote time to the plays of Aristophanes, as well as to the poetry of Lord Byron — particularly The Corsair and Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables is another work I feel drawn to, though it would once again require an entire year due to its sheer scale.

Among other books that stand high on my list are Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain, Hermann Hesse’s The Glass Bead Game, and, of course, Cervantes’ Don Quixote — one of the absolute essentials. I would also love to explore Seven Pillars of Wisdom by T. E. Lawrence.

Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra remains near the top of the list, as do the works of Vladimir Nabokov — perhaps even Pale Fire, if I have the courage to take it on. Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound is another work I would love to explore, alongside Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound. And, of course, Goethe’s Faust is a work I feel continually drawn back to. I’ve already explored parts of it in earlier posts, but it remains a text I would love to return to in full.

As you can see, the list is ambitious — and it is only the beginning. There are countless other masterpieces of world literature that deserve careful attention and slow reading. That is why I say that the Dante read-along was not the end of this endeavour, but only its beginning. I hope we’ll continue this journey together, year after year.

Genius & Ink 🖌 is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

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Beauty awakens the soul to act.

~ From The Divine Comedy

Hello friends,

I am so excited to announce this read-along that I have been working since mid-2024 (or one could say for 8 years since 2017!). Treat this post as a personal invitation and a welcome-pack with all the sources that you will need to join this exciting journey.

(If this email appears truncated, click here to read the full piece on Substack)

An invitation ✉️

Hello friends,

I’m excited to invite you all to join my Dante Read-Along in 2025! Together, we’ll embark on a deep exploration of The Divine Comedy, my favourite book of all time.

So, what do I mean by a read-along?

We’ll read one canto per week (each only 2-3 pages long), taking the time to uncover the rich symbols, allegories, and hidden meanings behind each one. Some call this a ‘slow-read,’ but I believe the key isn’t in speed of reading but in the quality of it; it’s about savouring the story as deeply and joyfully as possible. We will descend to Inferno and then climb up to Purgatorio until we finally ascend to Paradiso!

While Dante’s The Divine Comedy is a book that can be read and re-read countless times, revealing new insights with each encounter, my hope for this read-along is that we can walk away feeling we truly know the work. To me, knowing means it has changed the way we live and act in the world.

Every week I am going to read one canto with all of you and will be sending you a post with short summary of the canto (to refresh your memory); with some philosophical exercises (more on this later); and a detailed description of characters, symbols, and references so you could enjoy the book fully. Each article will have a voiceover so you can listen to it if you don’t have time to read; there will be also a chat-discussion group for each canto where you can share impressions or ask questions to other readers.

But first, let’s explore briefly why one should read Dante in the first place?

1) Why should you read The Divine Comedy? 🌑

I could easily write an entire book on this topic (and next week, I will share a full article delving into my love for The Divine Comedy), but here are three brief reasons:

* It’s truly beautiful, and you’ll see it for yourself as soon as you read the opening lines.

* Michelangelo, Leonardo, Botticelli, Chaucer, Milton, Tchaikovsky, Liszt, Borges, T.S. Eliot and infinite amount of other artists, authors, composers were inspired by Dante’s masterpiece and considered it to be divine.

* Dante’s The Divine Comedy is for anyone who has reached a painful point in life where the past has ceased to make sense and the way forward is unclear. Anyone facing the future with confusion, anxiety, despair.

When the American writer William Styron emerged from his first major bout of depression, he described the experience by quoting a single line from Dante, the last line of Inferno, saying that he "came forth and once again beheld the stars": e quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle.

It is strange that sometimes you have to go through hell to reach paradise. So, imagine you’re in a bad or confusing place psychologically - Dante finds himself in the forest dark - and you try to find out where did everything go wrong, how did you end up in a place you are right now. But while some writers and artists only point to disaster but not the way out, Dante shows us sublimely and beautifully the way out, how we can examine the levels of our morals, ideas, thoughts and beliefs to beheld the stars again!

2) What do I need to begin?🌒

* You’ll need a copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy (of course!)—I’ll discuss which edition to choose in the next section.

* Turn on the notifications. Make sure that the toggle on ‘Dante Read-Along’ is turned on like on the screenshot below. (Click here to jump to your notification settings. If any problems feel free to email me [email protected] )

* That’s pretty much it! It would be great if you could download the free Substack App (IOS, Android), which will allow you to join Dante Read-Along chat, access podcast episodes and voice-overs)

3. Which edition should I choose?🌒

Everyman edition with Allen Mandelbaum’s translation.

There are many excellent editions available, but my favourite English translation is Allen Mandelbaum’s, published by Everyman.

When I had journeyed half of our life’s way,I found myself within a shadowed forest,for I had lost the path that does not stray.

(Mandelbaum)

Mandelbaum’s translation is smooth and accessible, includes all three parts of The Divine Comedy (unlike some editions that only feature Inferno, just one-third of the work), and offers helpful explanatory notes at the back. It also has wonderful illustrations by Botticelli. This is the translation I am going to use.

Arcturus Epic Classics edition with Henry Longfellow’s translation.

MIDWAY upon the journey of our lifeI found myself within a forest dark,For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

(Longfellow)

Longfellow’s translation is a classic. Readers can compare the first three lines of Inferno I shared above to decide which translation suits their reading style. The edition I mentioned is beautifully designed, featuring Gustave Doré’s iconic illustrations, though it lacks explanatory notes at the back.

Penguin edition with the translation by Robin Kirkpatrick

At one point midway on our path in life,

I came around and found myself now searching

through a dark wood, the right way blurred and lost.

(Kirkpatrick)

Penguin edition of Inferno is the one you will see more often in the bookshops. Once again feel free to compare the first three lines that I included above and see if it suits you better.

While one or five dollars may not matter in the grand scheme of things, it’s worth noting the differences: the Everyman edition includes all three books of The Divine Comedy, explanatory notes, and Botticelli’s illustrations for £17; the Arkturus edition features Longfellow’s translation, all three books, and Doré’s stunning illustrations for £19; and finally, the Penguin edition contains only the first book (Inferno), with no illustrations, for £16.

Final note:

It doesn’t matter which edition or translation you choose, as long as you can immerse yourself in the flow of Dante’s mind and fully embrace the experience. All of the editions mentioned above are excellent publications that you’ll be glad to have on your shelf.

4. Meet the Team!🌒

O human race, born to fly upward, wherefore at a little wind dost thou so fall?

I feel privileged and fortunate enough to have two amazing people on the team. Lisa Statler as the editor and contributor (you will meet her in her own words), and Luana Montebello as our illustrator whose beautiful drawings will embellish this read-along.

Here’s Luana’s amazing logo for our read-along:

5. Can I read at my own pace?🌒

Yes, absolutely! Every post, discussion thread, and character page will be carefully organised, allowing you to read at your own pace while staying connected to our reading community.

Just keep in mind, the goal of this project is to make reading Dante both enjoyable and deeply meaningful for you.

6. Any other questions?🌒

If you still have questions, feel free to send me a direct message by clicking the button below. (you can also send me an email enquiries @ artidote.uk)

7. Is the read-along free?🌙

Yes, all the main material (weekly posts, character profiles, deep-dives and podcast) is going to be free of charge. But you’re welcome to support this project by becoming a paid member.

8. When does it begin?☀️

The first post will arrive in your inboxes on Sunday, January 12th, 2025. From that day forward, we’ll embark on our journey, reading one canto per week. If you’re joining us, be sure to have your copy of The Divine Comedy ready by then!

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armenikus.substack.com/subscribe

Hello friends,

This article explores one of the most haunting paintings I have ever seen, and perhaps the most significant piece I have ever written.

The story behind Géricault’s ‘The Raft of Medusa’ left me sleepless for many nights ever since I wrote about it. I write to preserve the greatest stories I encounter— in books, films, paintings, or sculptures. I revisit my pieces to refine my writing skills and to remind myself of the stories that captivated me at the time. Yet, since I wrote about The Raft four years ago, I have avoided revisiting it. The images of this horrifying story are too vivid, but as you will see, they still have a lesson to teach to those whose hearts are open to empathy.

Vashik Armenikus 🍂

‘Géricault allowed me to see his Raft of Medusa while he was still working on it. It made so tremendous an impression on me that when I came out of the studio I started running like a madman and did not stop till I reached my own room.’

~ Eugène Delacroix, Diaries 1817

Delacroix was not the only one who was driven close to madness by Gericault’s painting. Since its creation ‘The Raft of Medusa’ instilled a fanatical and even religious devotion among its admirers. This is not surprising since it is impossible not to go mad when you face the unimaginable horror that it depicts.

Towards the Catastrophe

In June 1816, a French frigate named Medusa with two other ships in its convoy departed from the French port of Rochefort. Medusa carried 400 people on board and was bound for the port of Saint-Louis in Senegal.

The captain was Viscount de Chaumereys, an aristocrat appointed to the position by King Louis XVIII, but who had not sailed in the last 20 years.

In an attempt to make good time, de Chaumereys decided to overtake two other ships, Echo and Argus, but due to his inexperience and poor navigation, the ship drifted 100 miles off its course.

A day later, on the second of July, de Chaumereys ran Medusa aground off the coast of West Africa. Due to the lack of lifeboats on board it was not possible to evacuate all 400 passengers at once, the plan was to make two trips to the shore and back. The supplies that remained on board were planned to be towed with the use of a small makeshift raft.

Alexandre Corréard, a young engineer from Paris, started constructing the raft. It had to be strong enough to carry many barrels of wine, food, passengers’ belongings, and no more than 10 people who would help steer while it was being towed.

Not long after the construction of the raft, Corréard noticed that Medusa’s bow was slowly beginning to collapse and leak. The fear among those who remained on board increased as the weather began to change and brought strong ocean waves which hit the doomed Medusa with increasing ferocity.

This created a panic amongst the passengers who were considered to be ‘low-ranking’ members of the ship, which included the soldiers, sailors and Corréard himself. The spaces on the lifeboats were already taken by their superiors. Moreover, since the captain ordered to load the makeshift raft with the supplies first, the space on it was getting scarce as well.

In fear of drowning, the remaining 147 passengers jumped on the small raft that was towed by the lifeboat. The raft went well beyond its capacity. Throwing some of the barrels and provisions overboard did free up space, it did not decrease the weight of it quite enough.

The panic among those on the raft increased and some tried to jump on the lifeboat towing it. At that moment the captain made the decision that later became a symbol and an allegory of injustice — he cut the rope between the two vessels sending the members of the raft adrift 13 days.

The bitter taste of despair

Insomnia drove the French painter Théodore Géricault mad after he read about the fate of those 147 people on board of the raft. Only fifteen survived and only two out of the fifteen were willing to tell what happened afterwards. One of the two was the young engineer Alexandre Corréard.

The year after the tragedy, Géricault met Corréard in the former’s home, and some say he was mystified by the fact that Corréard was eating whole lemons whilst he recounted the events.

Corréard’s story was not one of hope and heroism, but of madness and despair. This went against the accepted notion that the intellectuals of France had at the time. French political philosophers portrayed the human nature as essentially good. They claimed that all existing evil was born from the corrupt institutions that spoil human nature. ‘Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains’ said the French political philosopher Rousseau.

But the story that Corréard told Géricault proved Rousseau’s theories absolutely wrong.

For the next 13 days, each passenger of the doomed raft fought for his own survival against everyone else. This was not the world of ‘good natured’ people that was described by Rousseau, but it was the world described by another more pragmatic philosopher — Thomas Hobbes — who wrote that ‘the condition of man… is a condition of war of everyone against everyone.’

It took only three days, since the ‘Medusa’ ran aground, for the first cases of cannibalism to occur on the raft. At first, they did not kill to eat, only those who drowned were eaten. But it was not long after when the strong and healthy began to kill those who were weak and ill.

When small mutinies threatened to leave no one alive on board, the passengers of the raft agreed to throw their weapons into the sea. But, that did not help to avoid more deaths from violence.

On the eleventh day, fate mocked them cruelly. A butterfly flew next to the raft and then landed on a barrel. Those doomed passengers saw this as if God was communicating with them through nature. The butterfly reminded them of the Biblical story of Noah who received an olive branch in the beak of a dove after surviving the Great Flood.

Two days later, the raft was spotted by an English ship ‘Argus’, only 15 out of 147 people initially on board remained alive at that time. The English captain and his crew were so horrified by what they witnessed that some historians write the captain went insane months later.

Géricault soon understood why Corréard was eating lemons in such large quantities. The acid taste of the fruit helped the young engineer to rid of the foul taste of human flesh he devoured whilst on board that damned raft.

The Anatomy of the Painting

Well, so which moment of this catastrophe did Géricault choose to draw?

He could have drawn the moment when the Medusa struck the reef; or the moment the captain cut the towropes; or the murderous mutinies at night; or the moment when the butterfly landed on the raft.

But he didn’t. Instead, he chose the moment when the passengers of the raft saw the ship in a far distance. We might think that this is the moment when the English ship ‘Argus’ rescued the doomed sailors of the raft.

In truth, Argus did not initially notice the raft when it passed it for the first time. It appeared on the horizon for half an hour (far but close enough for the members of the raft to see) and then disappeared. Géricault focused his work on this moment of sudden intense hope and the equally sudden and intense despair.

‘Some believe it is still coming towards them;’ — writes Julian Barnes in his book Keeping an Eye Open — ‘some are uncertain and waiting to see what happens; some know that it is heading away from them, and that they will not be saved. This figure incites us to read ‘The Shipwreck’ as an image of hope being mocked.’

But the painting — or any artwork — that survives is the one that outlives its story. If Géricault wanted momentary fame at the risk of creating a political scandal, he could have drawn the moment of cutting the towrope, or the scenes of cannibalism.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armenikus.substack.com/subscribe

In this episode we explore three thought provoking ideas.

First, we delve into Boris Pasternak’s quiet stand against Stalin—a testament to poetry’s power against oppression. Then, a single line from philosopher Mircea Eliade reminds us that to truly grow, one must embrace life’s darker transformations.

Lastly, Roberto Calasso warns of creativity’s erosion in our automated age, urging a return to genuine ritual over mindless procedure. Join me in this exploration of words, resistance, and renewal.

Thank you House Of Neglected Poetry for sharing Pasternak’s story!

💭 Interesting links

* George Steiner’s story of Pasternak’s courage.

* Mircea Eliade’s Wiki

* Calasso’s book

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* Instagram 📷 - 👉 https://www.instagram.com/armenikus/

* Podcast 🎤- 👉 https://artidote.uk/

* YouTube Channel 🍿 👉 Find Here

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armenikus.substack.com/subscribe