Polybius, in Book VI of the Histories, offers one of antiquity’s most perceptive accounts of constitutional change, arguing that every state begins in monarchy and then decays through predictable stages into collapse, a movement he describes as “the cycle of political revolution in which constitutions change, disappear, and finally return to the point from which they started.”

This sober reflection shatters the illusion of permanence that modern states so often find consolation in.

Rome, long regarded as one of the greatest imperial powers in history, provides the most compelling stage upon which this cyclical drama of political transformation unfolds. From the pastoral monarchy of Romulus to the centralised autocracy of Augustus Caesar, the Roman constitutional evolution reflects Polybius’ theory of anacyclosis with striking fidelity.

This cycle, Polybius argues, is governed not by caprice but by an immutable law – one as inexorable as nature itself, from which none can escape, and the modern world is no exception.

The Rule of One: Monarchy to Tyranny

The cycle of political constitutions begins with monarchy, the most primitive form of rule, in which a single sovereign governs for the common good. As Polybius observes, when humanity emerges from its savage and lawless state, it instinctively submits first to the strongest and bravest — one whose natural ability and character demands it.

Such was early Rome under Romulus and his successors — a rustic community united by kinship and piety. Romulus founded his city on the Palatine Hill, securing sole rule by slaying his own brother Remus. He then led a series of campaigns against the Sabines, and upon his death left Rome as one of the most formidable city-states on the Italian Peninsula.

Monarchy satisfies the primal human desire for security and paternal guidance. In a world fraught with social and political uncertainty, the figure of the king becomes a symbol of stability and a father to the tribe. Yet monarchy, like all things human, is perishable.

Although it is the most natural form of government, the fundamental flaw of monarchy is that when vicious men inherit positions of power, it exposes — or rather, magnifies — that they are undeserving of the office. Tyranny, which Polybius refers to as “the vicious form of monarchy” is marked by the ruler’s pursuit of private gain at public expense. Tyranny, swollen with hubris, drinks the intoxicating elixir of limitless power, and persuades men that they are somehow immune to the laws of those they are ordained to rule.

Lucius Tarquinius Superbus was the very image of tyranny. In 509 BC, the seventh king of Rome was overthrown after his son’s violation of Lucretia — a noblewoman who, overcome with shame, took her own life. The Roman response was radical: they abolished monarchy altogether and, in its place, established a Republic founded on the rule of the few thus moving the political cycle from tyranny to aristocracy.

The Rule of the Few: Aristocracy to Oligarchy

In Polybius’ cycle, aristocracy stands as the rule of the few whose merit and character set elevate them above the people, and for this purpose they are entrusted to govern. The early Roman Republic embodied this lofty ideal, its destiny shaped by the wisdom of the Senate, a venerable council of elders whose counsel carried the Mos Maiorum – the “Way of the Ancestors” and helped the Republic navigate through some of the most challenging periods of their history.

Yet aristocracy, too, is transient. Polybius warned that when the few grow accustomed to prosperity and success, they begin to indulge in the luxuries of power, becoming complacent and corrupt. In time, aristocracy degenerates into oligarchy, where the rule of the best gives way to the rule of the few – not because of virtue, but because of their ability to secure power through privilege.

By the second century BC, the Roman Senate had become an oligarchic enclave. The conquest of the Mediterranean poured wealth into patrician purses, breeding avarice and complacency among those once paragons of virtue, and weakening Roman institutions. Oligarchy thrives on exclusion, as a privileged few fortify themselves against the many, hoarding wealth and influence while cloaking their dominance in the rhetoric of stability.

Eventually, popular grievances grow so severe they can no longer be assuaged by words, and the masses turn to leaders who promise reform — or rather, salvation.

In Rome, this is most evident in Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus, whose meteoric rise and tragic fall testify to the precarious nature of oligarchy, marking a decisive turning point in the Republic’s descent toward destabilisation and civil war.

The Rule of the Many: Democracy to Ochlocracy

From oligarchy, the political cycle moves to democracy where the power of the few is transferred to the many. In Rome, this phase dawned with the rise of the populares, political reformers who sought to break the stranglehold of senatorial privilege by appealing directly to the people. Their rallying cry was justice for the dispossessed, and a redistribution of power and resources to restore balance within a society fractured by inequality.

Figures such as Gaius Marius embodied this democratic impulse, leveraging the grievances of the plebs to challenge the entrenched aristocracy. His famous Marian Reforms in 107 BC – namely, expanding admission of the legions to the landless poor — not only democratised military service but effectively transformed the army into a political weapon that could be wielded by generals against the state.

Thus began an era of mass politics, where the voice of the people could elevate ambitious men to unprecedented heights so long as they continued to represent the people’s interests.

However, students of history are all too familiar with the repercussions of this phase of the cycle, as society begins to fragment under the weight of competing factions with competing interests.

Democracy, by its very nature, is unstable and prone to volatility, a truth laid bare in the late Republic and its Civil Wars. Electoral corruption, factional strife, and the excesses of demagogues steadily eroded civic harmony. The assemblies, once keystones of Roman order, devolved into arenas where sophistry, bribery, and rhetoric held ultimate sway, until debate gave way to bloodshed. In this way, democracy degenerates into ochlocracy, as the passions of the many give way to lawlessness and unleashed chaos upon the state.

Ochlocracy, or the rule of the mob, is the death throe of government, for once government is severed from law and order it convulses and consumes itself until collapse. In essence, ochlocracy embodies the psychology of despair: when institutions disintegrate, the people, overcome by chaos, turn desperately to a saviour who promises deliverance from violence in the form of law and order.

Rome’s descent into civil war — first Caesar versus Pompey, then Antony versus Octavian — reflects Polybius’ grim prognosis. The Republic, riven by ambition and anarchy, expired on the field of Actium and in its ruins arose a new monarchy cloaked in republican regalia – the Principate of Augustus.

Thus the cycle, having run its course, returns to the point from whence it came.

“But when a new generation arises and the government falls into the hands of the children of its founders, they have become so accustomed to freedom and equality that they no longer value them, and begin to aim at pre-eminence; and it is chiefly those of ample fortune who fall into this error.

So when they begin to lust for power and cannot attain it through themselves or their own good qualities, they ruin their estates, tempting and corrupting the people in every possible way. And hence when by their foolish thirst for reputation they have created among the masses an appetite for gifts and the habit of receiving them, democracy in its turn is abolished and changes into a rule of force and violence.

For the people, having grown accustomed to feed at the expense of others and to depend for their livelihood on the property of others, as soon as they find a leader who is enterprising but is excluded from the houses of office by his penury, institute the rule of violence; and now uniting their forces massacre, banish, and plunder, until they degenerate again into perfect savages and find once more a master and monarch.

– Polybius (Histories)

The Moral of the Cycle

Polybius’ theory, though conceived in the crucible of Hellenistic thought, finds in Rome its most vivid representation. The cycle of constitutions is not a mechanical determinism but a moral drama, wherein virtue sustains and vice subverts the very fabric of political order.

Rome’s story affirms Polybius’ axiom that “the best constitution is that which blends the three forms” — namely, a mixed government that integrates monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy. This serves as a balance of powers that aligns with the hierarchical order of nature while allowing for civic engagement and representation, making it the most resilient and sustainable. At its height, the Roman Republic was the closest approximation to this ideal, but its decline and fall illustrates the perils of complacency that can undermine even the strongest societies.

Polybius’ anacyclosis offers more than political commentary; it provides an anthropological framework. He conceived of the state as an organism made up of individuals, and just as individuals embody conflicting impulses, anacyclosis reflects the complexity and unpredictability of human desire — the need for order and security, the hunger for power, and the intoxication of freedom.

As long as human nature remains unchanged, the anacyclosis will continue, reminding us that political order is inseparable from the moral character of those who sustain it.

Modern art, music, literature, and film are often criticised for their decline in quality.

Many argue that this is because we have “run out of things to say”, but the problem is more structural than imaginative.

We live in an era with unprecedented access to knowledge, technique, and technology. We can study any tradition, analyse any method, and reproduce almost any artistic process at a scale that would have been unimaginable even a generation ago. Yet this abundance has not translated into a corresponding improvement in the quality of our art.

The reality is that the overwhelming majority of contemporary artists lack disciplined training in the fundamentals of their craft. Rather than developing technique, structure, or form, many pursue “transgression” as an end in itself — a stance adopted before any real understanding of what is actually being transgressed.

The result is rebellion without comprehension and provocation without purpose.

All sensation, no substance.

One cannot effectively subvert artistic forms — structure, genre, proportion, narrative, or visuals — without first mastering them.

The major innovators of the twentieth century — Pablo Picasso, Miles Davis, T. S. Eliot, and Stanley Kubrick — were all classically trained, and all masters of their respective disciplines.

They broke the rules carefully and effectively because they understood the rules intimately.

By contrast, much of today’s avant‑garde operates without this foundation. It often mistakes intensity for insight, inversion for innovation, and novelty for genius. The result is work that appears radical but is frequently derivative of earlier movements whose original force depended on a level of mastery that is now largely ignored or forgotten.

This is not a rejection of artistic experimentation, but rather, an argument that experimentation only becomes meaningful when it is careful and intentional.

In the rush to distance themselves from tradition, many contemporary artists have abandoned the very skills that make true innovation possible.

For this reason, a classical training is not just nostalgic but necessary. Without it, art continues to degenerate into an increasingly provocative and performative expression, increasingly self‑referential, and increasingly detached from the standards that once enabled progress.

This is why so much modern art, music, literature, and film has declined in quality — not because the age lacks ideas, but because it lacks the training necessary to express them.

The human spirit is marked by a restless striving for excellence, a desire for honour, and a natural inclination toward competition in the public arena – whether it be the sporting or the battle field. This relationship between sport and warfare is not accidental but essential.

Both sport and warfare arise from the same impulses of competition, courage, and the pursuit of glory. Sport, in its noblest form, is a facsimile of warfare – an imitation of combat that channels martial prowess into a controlled and constructive arena free from the penalties of death.

But like all human endeavors, it becomes a vice when taken into excess. When sport ceases to cultivate virtue and instead becomes a narcotic spectacle, it risks becoming what Juvenal derided as “panem et circenses” — or bread and circuses — an opiate that distracts men from their civic duties.

Sport as a Facsimile of Warfare

In his Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle clearly articulated the foundational ethical principle that “virtue is in the mean”, and that human passions and activity, though potentially destructive when unrestrained, can be ordered toward the good when governed by reason. Sport exemplifies this principle as it provides a regulated outlet for aggression and competition — impulses that, if left unrestrained, can precipitate civil unrest and violence.

In the arena, these impulses are disciplined by rules, enforced by referees, and performed within strict boundaries, transforming destructive tendencies into displays of skill and endurance. Sport, like war, is a theater of activity where courage, endurance, and discipline are tested. Yet unlike war, its stakes are not life and death but recognition, honour, and praise.

The martial character of sport is evident in its elaborate organisation and rich symbolism. Teams are arranged like armies, with coaches as generals, players as units, and strategies described in tactical terms. Uniforms, anthems, and ceremonial openings evoke the solemnity of military ritual. International competitions, in particular, resemble symbolic battles between nations, where flags, medals, and trophies replace the traditional spoils of war.

Thus, sport functions as a controlled facsimile of war that imitates the structure and spirit of combat while mitigating its destructive consequences.

Cultivating Character Through Competition

Properly ordered, sport cultivates virtues essential both to the individual and to the polity. It promotes physical health, discipline, teamwork, and resilience. Furthermore, it cultivates – primarily within children – the virtues of perseverance in adversity and magnanimity in victory.

The Roman orator Marcus Tullius Cicero recognised the formative power of physical exercise in children, writing in his Tusculan Disputations that “It is exercise alone that supports the spirits, and keeps the mind in vigour”. This principle which served as the basis for Roman pedagogy was not exclusive to the Roman Republic alone, but echoed the even more ancient example of the Greeks.

The celebrated warrior and philosopher Xenophon wrote in his Memorabilia that “Those who do not train the body cannot perform the functions proper to the body, so those who do not train the soul cannot perform the functions of the soul”. Both Cicero and Xenophon maintained the ancient wisdom that strong citizens are those of strong bodies and strong minds, and strong citizens make strong states.

This perspective was further refined by the Scholastics of the Middle Ages. In his Summa Theologiae, St Thomas Aquinas praises the virtue of eutrapelia (playfulness or recreation) as the mean between excessive seriousness and frivolity. Sport, Aquinas argued, is a form of leisure that refreshes the soul, prepares man for higher pursuits, and considered it a remedy to hagiosthenia or spiritual fatigue.

He concluded that sport is a good insofar as it is proportionate, ordered to the cultivation of virtue, and reflective of man’s natural desire for excellence. Yet it becomes vicious and disordered when it degenerates into mere entertainment and divorced from the higher ends of civic responsibility and moral formation.

The Political Power of Spectacle

“Man is by nature a political animal”, and to this end, sport also fulfills man’s natural inclination towards community. Supporters of a team form a kind of civic body, united by chants, colours, and symbols where victories and defeats are shared collectively, ultimately strengthening tangible bonds of identity and solidarity — a spectacle which is most evident in international events such as the Olympics.

However, this can degenerate into hostility when exercised disproportionately, as communal spirit degenerates into tribalism, and support is translated into justification for tangible conflict. In these instances, the very same passion that unites supporters can also be the very same passion that incites violence against rivals, which removes the proverbial veil, giving the public a glimpse of the real violence that sport aims to replicate – or rather domesticate.

Pleasure as a Path to Passivity

St Augustine of Hippo recognised that the martial spirit displayed in the Roman games, when rightly ordered, was necessary in serving the common good. However, in his magnum opus, the City of God, he warned of the dangers of confusing symbolic combat with true virtue, “For the shows, when they are frequented, draw men away from serious occupations and useful business, and lead them to vain and wicked things”.

As with many Romans of his time, Augustine emphasised the challenge lies in ensuring that sport remains a school of discipline rather than a theater of distraction.

Following this, St Thomas Aquinas warned of the dangers of disordered loves as part of his wider exploration of the ordo caritatis (order of charity). When inordinate attachments to lesser goods — such as sport and entertainment — eclipses or rather distracts from greater goods, these inevitably engender effeminacy within the individual and the collective, making them both spiritually and morally weak as the body adjusts itself to the operations of the soul.

From Discipline to Decay

When sport becomes an end in itself, detached from the cultivation of virtue, it risks degenerating into a pointless spectacle. In his time, Augustine lamented the Roman obsession with gladiatorial games, where citizens, “drunk with the madness of the shows”, abandoned their civic responsibilities and “anxiously hoped for just two things: bread and circuses”.

In the modern age, the commercialisation of sport reduces athletes to commodities and supporters into consumers. The relentless cycle of games, commentary, and gambling fosters a culture of distraction, where civic engagement is replaced by passive entertainment, and young men are diverted from their dual end towards a perpetual state of arrested development.

At times, it risks subjugating and domesticating, and rather than cultivating virtue and excellence, it cultivates vice, encourages passivity, and normalises complacency.

Echoes of an Empire

The decline and fall of the Roman Empire illustrates the dangers of excessive devotion to spectacle. As political corruption deepened in the third and fourth centuries, the populace turned increasingly to gladiatorial combat and chariot racing for solace. These entertainments provided a superficial sense of unity while masking the decay of civic virtue and impending collapse of society.

Writing in the aftermath of Rome’s sack by the Visigoths, Augustine argued that “the destruction of the city was the punishment of its vices”, as he believed that the Romans’ inordinate attachment to the games distracted them from their civic duties, and in doing so, hastened its moral collapse.

From its foundations, the strength of Rome was forged “through care and force of discipline” as Vegetius observed. Citizens, hardened by manual labour and bound by duty, sought glory not in idle spectacles but in the defense of their fatherland whether in the political arena or on the battlefield. Yet as the empire expanded and the corrupting influence of wealth crept in, the spirit of the Roman people turned from arms to amusements, and rather than turning to the temple, they turned to the circus. They raised men who lived for the sensationalism of combat — the facsimile of war — rather than war itself, and until they were conquered by a people who still lived by the sword.

The Cost of Complacency

So too in our own age, men surrender their strength to diversions. The contests of athletes, though of no consequence to the fate of nations, consume the passions once reserved for civic duty and sacrifice. As in Rome, rulers find in such entertainments a ready means of pacification, for a people absorbed in games is easily governed, content to cheer from the stands while others shape their destiny.

The lesson of history is clear: when a society exalts performative feats and spectacles above discipline, it sows the seeds for its own subjugation as man places himself in invisible shackles.

Rome, the greatest of empires, was not defeated by her enemies, but by the weakness and effeminacy bred within her walls, and modern man, if he persists in this course of action, may follow her example.

Step by step they were led to things which dispose to vice, the lounge, the bath, the elegant banquet – all this in their ignorance they called civilisation, when it was but a part of their servitude. – Publius Cornelius Tacitus (Agricola)

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The greatest threat to Western Civilisation today is the subtle bifurcation of the Church – not necessarily across denominational lines, but within the life of the individual Christian.

As Christians, we readily engage in scholarship, contemplative prayer, and charitable works, but for too long we have neglected discipline, ascetic militancy, and spiritual warfare.

St Thomas Aquinas argued that “grace does not destroy nature but perfects it” and if we read the story of civilisation through this lens, we understand that the West is the historic fusion of the European spirit and the Christian faith.

The West is this complimentary blend between these two forces of chaos and order, savagery and discipline, vitality and refinement.

We build citadels and cathedrals.

Armouries and monasteries.

Siege-engines and spires.

Ramparts and reliquaries.

Cardinals and cavaliers.

Soldiers and saints.

Western Civilisation cannot have one without the other because truth, goodness, and beauty need courage, order and justice in order to flourish.

Power makes poetry possible.

How did a humble settlement on the banks of the Tiber rise to become the greatest empire in Western history?

Was it chance, fortune, geography, or something more profound?

In order to understand Roman civilisation, one must look beyond its political institutions and military conquests to the ideals that forged Roman identity, setting these conquerors apart from those they conquered. At the heart of this identity stood two guiding principles – the Mos Maiorum and Romanitas.

Together, these ideals illuminate the Roman worldview and reveal how the Romans conceived of themselves as a civilisation destined for greatness.

Mos Maiorum: The Way of the Ancestors

The Mos Maiorum or “way of the ancestors” were the unwritten traditions and practices handed down from Rome’s forefathers from its foundation. Although these were not codified in law, the Mos Maiorum represented the accumulated wisdom of past generations, and as a result, were considered binding on the present.

At the centre of the Mos Maiorum was the Via Romana or “the Roman Way” – the virtues that every Roman man and woman was expected to exemplify. A senator was expected to uphold dignitas in preserving the honour and prestige of his office, to demonstrate fides in remaining loyal to his allies and obligations, and to exercise prudentia in guiding the affairs of state with wisdom and foresight.

Similarly, a centurion was expected to uphold disciplina in drilling his legionaries, to display fortitudo in the face of danger, and to exercise auctoritas in commanding respect through the strength of his character. Finally, a matriarch was expected to embody pietas in her devotion to the household gods and family, to display frugalitas in managing the resources of the home with prudence, and to uphold dignitas by maintaining the honour and reputation of her lineage.

The Mos Maiorum was also evident in Roman religion and politics. Elaborate religious rituals were carefully crafted over centuries with rubrics meticulously observed as they were believed to have been instituted by the ancestors. Similarly, political institutions such as the Senate derived their authority from their continuity with tradition effectively blurring the lines between the sacred and the secular.

Echoing the sentiments of his Roman contemporaries, Marcus Tullius Cicero wrote in his De Legibus that “Many things were admirably established by our ancestors and ought to be preserved by us as sacred”. He believed that the Mos Maiorum served as a safeguard against novelty and innovation, and to deviate was to undermine the very foundations upon which Roman Civilisation was built.

Romanitas: What it Means to be Roman

The term Romanitas was not one the Romans themselves commonly used, but later historians have adopted to describe the values, practices, and attitudes that Romans believed distinguished them from other peoples. Popularised in the 3rd century by the Christian apologist Tertullian, Romanitas referred to “Romanness” or the constellation of cultural values, political ideals, and social practices that defined what it meant to be a Roman.

Unlike other ancient powers, Rome did not merely subjugate conquered peoples but it sought to integrate them into its civic framework by extending citizenship and legal rights in a gradual but deliberate manner. This inculturation, though hierarchical, was a hallmark of Roman identity and is what drove many former barbarians into the Roman fold.

Such a policy was not only pragmatic but also ideological as it reinforced the notion that Roman identity was expansive and capable of absorbing diverse peoples into the orbit of Romanitas — but this process was always approached with proportionality and moderation.

The Roman sense of cultural superiority was also bound up with this concept. To be Roman was to embody order, rationality, and discipline, in contrast to the perceived chaos or effeminacy of other peoples.

Although he was dealing primarily with military affairs, the Roman author Vegetius comments at length on what separated the Romans from their foes. While there were a greater multitude of Gauls and the Greeks were superior in wisdom, Vegetius observed that, “the Romans owed the conquest of the world to no other cause than continual military training, exact observance of discipline in their camps and unwearied cultivation of the other arts of war”.

Romans believed that warfare was the most perfect expression of their culture, and it was through this “exact observance” and inculturation of Romanitas that they conquered the Gauls and Greeks, eventually welcoming former foes into the Roman fold once they too had adopted these values.

The Interplay between Romanitas and Mos Maiorum

Though distinct, Romanitas and Mos Maiorum were deeply interconnected. The former provided the ideological content of Roman identity, while the latter supplied the moral and cultural framework that sustained it. Together, they created a powerful sense of individual purpose inextricably connected to the collective.

Thus, a Roman citizen could see himself as a singular part or instantiation of a civilisation destined to rule the world, not merely because of their military might, but because of the moral superiority conferred by adherence to ancestral custom.

This interplay is evident in Rome’s political culture which always walked a delicate balance between innovation and tradition. Rome was rife with ambitious leaders who sought glory and reform, but these rarely stepped outside the strict bounds of ancestral precedent and tradition. reflecting the belief that Rome’s greatness lay in its ability to adapt to new challenges while remaining faithful to its values and traditions.

Understanding the Romans as a Civilisation

By examining Romanitas and Mos Maiorum, we gain insight into the Romans’ conception of themselves as a people destined for greatness. Unlike the Greeks, who defined themselves through philosophy and art, or the Persians, who emphasised monarchy and divine kingship, the Romans defined themselves through moral and civic ideals. Their identity was not static but dynamic, capable of incorporating new peoples and practices, yet always anchored by the authority of the ancestors.

These concepts also explain the extraordinary resilience of Roman civilisation. The Republic endured centuries of internal conflict and external threats, yet the ideals of Romanitas and Mos Maiorum provided a unifying social and political framework.

Even under the Empire, when the constitution of the state has been fundamentally altered in everything but name, the rhetoric of ancestral custom and Roman identity continued to shape and provide legitimacy to those in positions of power. Augustus, for example, presented his regime as a restoration of tradition, claiming to revive the Mos Maiorum even as he transformed the political order into something very new.

Ultimately, the Romans saw themselves as the custodians of an exceptional moral and cultural inheritance which they were destined to spread throughout the world.

Admittedly, the Patrician class remained a distinct group from other citizens insofar as they could trace their lineage back to founding members of the Roman state which placed them in the highest rungs of the social ladder, but social progression was not limited to birthright alone as Novi Homines or “New Men” such as Gaius Marius, Marcus Tullius Cicero, or the Emperors Trajan and Diocletian demonstrate that those who embraced Romanitas and the Mos Maiorum could rise to the heights of Roman society.

To be Roman, therefore, was not limited to those who lived in the city of Rome or to those in the provinces who held Roman citizenship, but to those who perfectly embodied what it means to be a Roman.

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At last the armies clashed at one strategic point, they slammed their shields together, pike scraped pike with the grappling strength of fighters armed in bronze and their round shields pounded, boss on welded boss, and the sound of struggle roared and rocked the earth. Screams of men and cries of triumph breaking in one breath, fighters killing, fighters killed, and the ground streamed blood.

Wildly as two winter torrents raging down from the mountains, swirling into a valley, hurl their great waters together, flash floods from the wellsprings plunging down in a gorge and miles away in the hills a shepherd hears the thunder — so from the grinding armies broke the cries and crash of war. – Homer (The Iliad translated by Robert Fagles)

Over the centuries, Western warfare has been defined by thunderous collisions of heavy infantry, fought face-to-face, and settled in moments of unforgiving clarity on the battlefield.

Historian Victor Davis Hanson calls this tradition the “Western Way of War” — a cultural legacy forged in ancient phalanx formations that still echo into modern politics today.

In The Western Way of War (1989), American historian Victor Davis Hanson argued that from the hoplite phalanx to modern armies, Western warfare embodies a distinctive synthesis of cultural values, civic institutions, and tactical habits.

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This preference, Hanson contends, is no accident of geography or technology, but rather, has deeply embedded itself in Western consciousness due to our shared Homeric past.

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