Welcome to the first installment of "De Spectaculis". An introduction of some sort is, therefore, in order: forewarned being forearmed.
Your host, Martial, is inconsistent and Janus-faced. Adrift in melancholy, he tends toward exuberance, while in his enthusiasm Martial collapses toward bitterness. An excellent sophist, he can always argue both sides and, unfortunately, is almost always of two minds. In particular, Martial's soul is fired and his blood stirred by war's trumpets and their clarion call. But Martial's gentle heart would prefer nothing else than to sit under the arbor in his garden, with a jug of wine close to hand, and to discourse with his wife about poetry.
De Spectaculis is a child of dark night. Looking forward through mists of dream toward the dawn of the Empire, Martial wonders if he has awoken once more into the nightmare of history or if the fiery glow on the horizon heralds a bright new day. Several questions about the Empire arise at three AM with our insomniac. What path shall we travel to get there? Who will stand forth to lead us? What foolhardy and courageous souls will try to hold the bridge for the old Republic? By what spectacles will the plebeians be distracted and cajoled? How will the elites be distracted and co-opted? These are the quotidian, fascinating details of life in America today.
Someday, all of this that matters so very much to us will be viewed through the sepia shades of nostalgia. The questions of the age will be buried under the easy answers called history and the spiritual truths called myth. But before that day comes the living will, as always, stumble and second-guess, persevere and, perhaps, prevail.
De Spectaculis hopes to capture some of this struggle.
Furthermore, Martial will never, ever refer to himself in the third person ever again. Unless absolutely necessary.
Posted by Martial