Tag Archives: Goethe

The Legacy of Fencing and Duelling in the European Identity

Fencing is to European culture, what Archery is to Confucian culture. Fencing is not just a martial skill, but also a spiritual and ethical discipline that defines a man’s character. Fencing and duelling are deeply rooted in the chivalric codes and aristocratic honor that define West European culture and history.

Going back as far as the Roman Empire, duelling developed through the Middle Ages and reached its peak days during the 17th and 18th century. While initially fought with swords, duels in the late 18th century transitioned primarily to pistols.

Duelling codes, or Code Duello, developed alongside with strict, highly formalized sets of rules during the Renaissance and Enlightenment. Defamation and libel laws and the ethical belief that a person’s public standing and dignity must be legally protected from malicious untruths is a direct evolution of this duelling mindset.

Duels also play a key role in European literature, from “The Sorrows of Young Werther” (1774) by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe to “The Brothers Karamazov” (1879-1880) by Fyodor Dostoevsky and “Eugene Onegin” (1825-1832) by Alexander Pushkin.

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Moments in History – Many is Man

Many is man, Prigozhin said. He chewed on a carrot stick, which had snapped off from its stem held in his right hand, his mouth gaped open, his thick underlip protruded sadly, the ring of his mouth opening and closing repeatedly, while with every bite he gently squeezed his buttocks together in tight harmony, as flighty words and sweet carrot mingled into half reason, half prime. Many is man, he repeated. The ring begins Prigozhin said, quiet, listen. The water of the Rhine rippled from its source, barely audible, quietly swelling, from the Lake Toma at the Oberalp Pass. You have to see to hear it, only then to rise to waves and flow around the castle of man. Prigozhin was a boor, but don’t be fooled by his simple, crude appearance, he was sophisticated. Many years later, I would think back of this scene, as Prigozhin had risen and he had long forgotten about me or the carrot he had chunked on quietly, but I remembered it indistinguishably like a great silent moment in history, the flapping of a butterfly’s wings.