et en arcadia ego...

...is the title of two famous pastoral paintings by Nicolas Poussin (1594–1665). In Latin it roughly translates to, "Even in Arcadia I am," as though spoken by death personified. As the paintings demonstrate, it's typically a rather solemn, dark, even morbid declaration, a warning that death is ever present with us, even in our most idealized moments. At least, that's how I always trained to interpret it.

But that was before I read "Arcadia," by Tom Stoppard.

In the middle of one of busiest semester of my life, I read "Arcadia" in preparation for the MA exam; it's already made the exam worth it. It was that rare work where when I finished, I simply sat there and let my body soak up the aesthetic thrill that resulted; I didn't want to analyze it, re-read it, or move on to other homework, I simply wanted to sit there and feel it. This reaction was all the more unexpected because 1) the plot revolves around comic early-19th century regency intrigue, and modern-day Byron scholars pouring documents (hardly what you'd call captivating material), and 2) I'd already read Stoppard's earlier "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead," which while also funny, is much more saturated in existential despair (as the indistinguishable leads realize they are minor characters in someone else's play).

But of course the plot is no more the play than the canvas or oils are the painting; it is only a single element of the entire artistic effect, and I wish I could preach that from the rooftops so all would hear. And as for the existential terror, Stoppard certainly hasn't avoided that here either; part of the denouement is when both 1809 Septimus and the modern-day scholars realize that young Thomasina has overthrown Newtonian physics through an iterated algorithm--all will eventually burn out, all heat will dissipate, we're all doomed. And what's more, even the Byron scholars frankly confess that everything they're doing is trivial. Even Byron wrote a poem predicting entropy before the scientists.

But then Hannah declares, "It's wanting to know that makes us matter." And the overthrow of Newtonian physics also clears the air of Newtonian determinism, freeing us up for all the possibilities of existence, and the documents uncovered by these scholars confirm what Septimus told Thomasina, that all that was lost will one day be recovered, or re-formed, re-born, that if everything winds down then perhaps it winds up again, who knows, they sure don't, but when Septimus says "So the Improved Newtonian Universe must cease and grow cold. Dear me," Thomasina responds, "Yes, we must hurry if we are going to dance," and the play ends with a waltz, and perhaps the most touching waltz I've ever read.

Et en Arcadia ego, death is ever-present, but in Stoppard's Arcadia, this isn't reason to cower or fear, but rather a cause of wonder, a liberation, a joy, and a reason to waltz. Death here isn't a creeping terror, but rather an old friend to cherish and trust.

I've grown to be more careful with the word "sublime" ever since I took a course on the Romantics, but "Arcadia" is a work where I feel comfortable using it.