A review of Stephen Greenblatt’s The Swerve: How the World Became Modern.
Josh Blake
Staff Writer, The Buckley Beacon
I am not a monk. If you have met me, I would like to think this is obvious. (Why this is relevant will become apparent later.) For now, I mention it because I believe a fair evaluation of Stephen Greenblatt’s The Swerve must be grounded in personal experience.
Since my first semester at Yale, I have worked at the Beinecke Rare Books and Manuscripts Library. My official title is “Student Scanning Specialist,” which means people request materials from our collections for research use. I scan them, digitize them, and process their delivery. I always told my friends, “It’s a great job, but the one library job you can’t do homework at.” But I could still listen to music, lectures, movies, and podcasts. So, trying to make good use of my time, I began The Swerve at work on audiobook.
Stephen Greenblatt, known for previous works such as Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare, won the Pulitzer Prize for his 2011 work The Swerve. Why this is the case becomes rapidly apparent early on in Greenblatt’s writing. As the subtitle to The Swerve suggests, it is a story of “How the World Became Modern,” and, to Greenblatt, one ancient work deserves much of the credit: Roman poet and philosopher Lucretius’ “On the Nature of Things.”
Greenblatt emphasizes this poem as the definitive work of Epicureanism, a school of thought which emphasizes a good-willed, qualified pleasure-seeking as the root of meaning in life. Greenblatt argues the foundations for modernity are rooted in this poem and its philosophy. As such, he explores its inception, diminution into the recesses of monastic libraries—and subsequent rediscovery—to analyze its effects on the western world.
Greenblatt begins by illustrating the trials and tribulations of Poggio Bracciolini, who worked as a papal secretary near the dawn of the fifteenth century until the expulsion of Antipope John XXIII from Rome. Lacking a job but equipped with impeccable skill in dictation, Latin, and the skills necessary to become a “book hunter,” he went about various abbeys attempting to tap into the treasure troves of manuscripts held by monastic societies. From these, he sought great works of history which he could rediscover, transcribe, and reproduce to his relative fame and prosperity. He succeeded.
In The Swerve, Greenblatt moves back and forth between centuries, describing the environment of first century Rome which was conducive to Lucretius’ poem, “On the Nature of Things.” Greenblatt asserts that the “poem yokes together moments of intense lyrical beauty, philosophical meditation on religion, pleasure, and death, and complex theories of the physical world, the evolution of human societies, the perils and joys of sex, and the nature of disease.” A little something for everyone, it would seem.
The “swerve” is itself a key concept in Lucretian philosophy, describing the random, unpredictable movement of atoms in assembling the universe—without the intelligent design of a god (or several gods). For Greenblatt’s book, the “swerve” describes how this philosophy helped swerve history off course. Lucretius’ poem, according to Greenblatt, symbolizes how the Renaissance shattered the constraints on individuality, creativity, and intellectualism. What Greenblatt calls the “startling recognition of key elements of modernity in antiquity” defines the poem, and asserts the world would’ve been on track towards intellectual and cultural oblivion without it.
Greenblatt makes use of every page to impart on his reader just how important this “swerve” was, how the philosophy of one man informed the minds and disciplines which would transform people’s lives in Europe and beyond. He tells the story of the poem, the man who discovered it, and what followed to emphasize the appearance of Epicurean beliefs in some of our most foundational modern texts. From Shakespeare to Galileo to Darwin to Jefferson, the ideas which have formed modernity could not have come to be without the spread of Epicureanism—and the spread of Lucretius’ work which so excellently encapsulated it.
No story of the spread of knowledge is told without resistance, and Greenblatt is sure to touch on the backlash from early church fathers towards Epicurean leaders and those proclaiming Lucretius’ ideas. Despite their efforts, these ideas are now implicitly underscored in our everyday lives. Humanity changed its course irreversibly, and for the better.
Greenblatt’s words are strong and relevant as we consider for ourselves where our own ideas come from. One begins to question whether any discovery isn’t some form of rediscovery and whether that ought to be the case. Either way, it is impossible to put down The Swerve and not be thinking of things in a new light.
So why does my being (or not being) a monk matter?
Greenblatt paints a vibrant picture of monastic society, where monks were often plucked from peasantry simply because they needed a place they could live and be fed. Monastery monks’ primary job was to transcribe copies of manuscripts in their collections, and they did so day in and day out. Monasteries were collections of knowledge—oftentimes deeply guarded knowledge which people like Poggio sought to bring out into the light. In one German monastic library, probably Fulda, according to Greenblatt, there lived Lucretius’ “On the Nature of Things,” long forgotten until Poggio discovered it. This discovery, Greenblatt claims, is what caused such an “unexpected, unpredictable movement” or “swerve” of history.
The rest of the book hinges on what Poggio does with his discovery, how he advances not just his own life but the lives of millions as he disseminates Lucretius’ work into the modern world. From this poem comes the development of modern thought, art, culture, and everything in between. Greenblatt traces the line from the middle years of Rome to the Renaissance to the present by exploring the evolution of the poem’s impact. Without it, our world would be entirely different.
The spirit of discovery is one which animates Greenblatt’s The Swerve. I look at the idea of discovery and often see a romantic thing. It is easy to picture the grandeur of the moments of discovery in history. Take any discoveries like Archimedes’ “Eureka!” the uncovering of the Terra Cotta Warriors, and Lewis and Clark’s grand descriptions of their expedition; they account for some of the most vibrant stories in our history books. But the more personal, smaller moments of discovery which animate our day-to-days have the same significance. These are the things which may not fill historic timelines but which help us to understand ourselves better.
I detailed the beginning of this book, namely the monasteries, so intricately because it gave me one of those moments of discovery. As I sat there, listening to my audiobook, scanning page after page, I thought about what I was doing. Perhaps it wasn’t so silly to think what I was doing wasn’t so different. I was preserving a piece of knowledge Beinecke had held onto thus far and creating another copy so it could soar further.
I stopped scanning for a moment. I grabbed my phone and began scrolling through my “Beinecke” album of scanned documents. I had made treasured discoveries of my own: I had captured letters from John Hancock to Ben Franklin and Sesame Street scripts with original handwritten markups. I had seen Gary Trudeau’s sketchbooks and Psalms printed in the 19th century. I had collected doodles drawn, scribbles scrawled, and flowers pressed in journals written by people long since passed. I had pressed my face against the glass looking at John Audubon drawings and the Gutenberg Bible.
You may say these are trivial discoveries and you’d be right. It’s not likely any of these will change history (most of them had already been discovered and rediscovered, after all). I had kept a record of them because of what they meant to me. They meant not just looking at or preserving history but carrying it on. Every one of those pieces was copied for someone trying to research on their own (and, more often than not, texted to my dad). Now, those pieces will mean something to them as well.
Greenblatt’s The Swerve encourages us to explore. There is something to be found not just in dim libraries, but in oneself and their place. Poggio’s story of discovery and its ramifications on modernity show the chain of knowledge preservation and rediscovery remains unbroken and optimistic. The Swerve is a lucid reminder that, whether at a candlelit desk in 1417 or in a fluorescent basement in 2025, our search for knowledge hasn’t changed much. Perhaps with the romantic idea of discovery in mind, we may all search a little more eagerly.
Since the release of The Swerve, Greenblatt has continued his work with The Rise and Fall of Adam and Eve and Tyrant: Shakespeare on Politics. As John Cogan University Professor of the Humanities at Harvard University, he carries on opening people’s horizons.