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Faculty Editor Joseph Pucci<br />
Managing Editor Kitty Pucci<br />
Editorial Staff Jonathan Bolz<br />
Elizabeth Broadwin<br />
Amanda Earl<br />
Morgan Palmer<br />
Meredith Ringel<br />
Jackson Shulman<br />
Curtis Steyers<br />
Eleanor Thomas<br />
Cover design by Jenelle Sing<br />
“”<br />
This volume was published by the Department of Classics at <strong>Brown</strong> <strong>University</strong>.<br />
The Department gratefully acknowledges a subvention from Dean of the<br />
College, Paul Armstrong, and the continuing and unparalleled generosity of the<br />
Grimshaw-Gudiewicz Foundation.<br />
© <strong>2007</strong> <strong>Brown</strong> Classical Journal<br />
ISSN 1043-015<br />
ii
<strong>Brown</strong> Classical<br />
Journal<br />
<strong>Volume</strong> <strong>19</strong><br />
<strong>2007</strong><br />
iii
Law Codes of Gortyn, Crete, Greece, ca. 450 B.C.E.<br />
Original photograph by Pook Panyarachun. Used by permission.<br />
ii
In Memoriam<br />
W. Duncan MacMillan II<br />
Once a Student,<br />
Often a Benefactor,<br />
Always a Friend<br />
of the Classics Department<br />
at <strong>Brown</strong><br />
iii
Tholos Temple, Sanctuary of Athena Pronaia, Delphi, Greece, ca. 380 B.C.E.<br />
Original photograph by Amanda Earl. Used by permission.<br />
iv
<strong>Brown</strong> Classical Journal<br />
Vol. <strong>19</strong><br />
Hide and Seek with the Homeric Narrator in the Iliad and the Odyssey 1<br />
Sarah Grover<br />
Translation of Homeric Hymn No. 30: To Earth 7<br />
Jonah Rosenberg<br />
From Monster to Mother: The Tragic Death of Clytaemnestra 9<br />
Laura <strong>Brown</strong>-Lavoie<br />
The Historical Necessity of Political Justice in Aeschylus’ 13<br />
Prometheus Bound<br />
Lindsey Brett Meyers<br />
Major Opposition in Oedipus the King 21<br />
Mark Morales<br />
Fluency and Fear: An Investigation of Rhetoric as Presented 25<br />
in Euripides’ Medea<br />
Hillary Dixler<br />
The Hippocratic View of Epilepsy and Brain Function 31<br />
Eleanor Thomas<br />
Dining with Death: An Analysis of Attic White-Ground Lekythoi 39<br />
and Athenian Notions of the Afterlife in Classical Greece<br />
Maia Peck<br />
Giton, Pederasty, and Epic Self-Perception 47<br />
Matthew Nicholson<br />
“Meting Out” the Bones of Heroes in Ancient Greece 55<br />
Amanda Earl<br />
Cicero’s Popularity Struggle: Through the Moralizing Lens of Plutarch 63<br />
Stephanie Bernhard<br />
Thetis and Venus: Motherhood in Epic 67<br />
Martha Gimbel<br />
v
Livy’s Exemplary History 71<br />
Amy Hall Goins<br />
The Lament of Aeneas 77<br />
Ariayné Hilliard<br />
Love Displayed Through Nature and Changing Nature 81<br />
Scott Nelson<br />
Restoring the Old Republic: Augustan Moral Reform in 85<br />
Its Historical Context<br />
Curtis Steyers<br />
Oh, There Once Was a Young Man from Ilium… 93<br />
Virgilian Farce and the Death of Caucus<br />
Grainne O’Hara Belluomo<br />
Virgil in Love 97<br />
Peter Catsimpiris<br />
Love as Transformative Power in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 101<br />
Megan Cohen<br />
A Corruption of True Selfhood 105<br />
David Guttmann<br />
Lucian’s Allusive Journey 109<br />
Elizabeth Broadwin<br />
Augustine’s Imitatio Dei—A Rejection of Self Sacrifice 1<strong>19</strong><br />
Zohar Atkins<br />
The Inner World of the Pastoral: Virgilian Allusion in Sannazarro’s 125<br />
First Piscatorial Eclogue<br />
Francesco Pucci<br />
Writing, Translation, and Re-Constellation: The Authorial 131<br />
Authority of Gayatri Spivak and Matthew Arnold<br />
Morgan Palmer<br />
vi
List of Photographs and Illustrations<br />
Law Codes of Gortyn, Crete ii<br />
Pook Panyarachun<br />
Tholos Temple, Sanctuary of Athena Pronaia, Delphi iv<br />
Amanda Earl<br />
Tomb of M. Vergilius Eurysaces the Baker viii<br />
Morgan Palmer<br />
Ephesus 8<br />
Jennifer Grover<br />
March of the Living: Excavation of the Fortress of Masada 12<br />
David Guttmann<br />
Treasury of the Athenians, Delphi 20<br />
Amanda Earl<br />
Sketch of Nike Relief From the Balustrade of Athena’s Temple 24<br />
Maia Peck<br />
Column at Ephesus 46<br />
Jennifer Grover<br />
Tomb of Iltutmis, Qutub Minar Complex 54<br />
Kam Sripada<br />
Pyrrhus 76<br />
Nicholas Kay<br />
Laocoon. Vatican, Italy, c. 1st century B.C.E. 118<br />
Scott Nelson<br />
The Charioteer of Delphi. Delphi, Greece, 474 B.C.E. 124<br />
Scott Nelson<br />
vii
Tomb of M. Vergilius Eurysaces the baker in front of<br />
the Porta Maggiore, Rome, Italy, ca. 30 B.C.E.-20 B.C.E.<br />
Original photograph by Morgan Palmer. Used by permission.<br />
viii
Hide and Seek with the Homeric Narrator in<br />
the Iliad and the Odyssey<br />
Sarah Grover<br />
Throughout the Iliad and the Odyssey, the Homeric narrator is reluctant to step<br />
into the foreground. He manipulates knowledge, selecting different methods of<br />
conveying information to the narratees. Though he remains a heterodiegetic and<br />
extradiegetic narrator, concealing his personality, at times the narrator conveys<br />
judgment through the perspective of characters in the epics. To use a<br />
narratological term Gérard Genette describes in Narrative Discourse: An Essay<br />
in Method, the Homeric narrator often “focalizes” scenes and words through<br />
characters—that is, he conveys information through the perspective of<br />
characters. These variations in perspective, which can be analyzed as changes in<br />
focalization, can affect the clarity and completeness of the transfer of<br />
information to narratees. Conversely, at times the narrator steps into the<br />
foreground and gives “more [information] than is authorized in principle in the<br />
code of focalization governing the whole” (Genette, <strong>19</strong>80: <strong>19</strong>5). That is to say,<br />
paralepsis occurs when the Homeric narrator crosses an understood boundary of<br />
the characters’ knowledge and offers additional information, of which the<br />
characters are unaware, with the implication that the characters know.<br />
Throughout the epics, the Homeric narrator uses focalization and paralepsis as a<br />
means of creating a more comprehensible and compelling composition for the<br />
Iliad and the Odyssey, as well as providing supplementary clarification for his<br />
audience.<br />
On account of his reluctance to enter as a distinct voice in the narrative, the<br />
Homeric narrator avoids openly expressing judgment. He is nevertheless able to<br />
convey the perspective and judgment of his characters by employing secondary<br />
focalization. Due to the fact that both the Iliad and the Odyssey provide many<br />
examples of secondary focalization—focalized scenes and focalized singlewords—I<br />
have chosen to focus my study of focalized scenes to the Odyssey,<br />
while I dedicate my study of single-word focalizations to the Iliad. Throughout<br />
the Iliad, single-word focalizations demonstrate the sympathy of the focalized<br />
characters, which furthermore creates empathy in the readers.<br />
In Book 10 of the Iliad, the narrator demonstrates the focalization of the<br />
Trojans as Odysseus and Diomedes slaughter numerous Trojan warriors. “And a<br />
clamour rose up from the Trojans and a vast turmoil as they swept together in<br />
confusion and stared at the ghastly work done by these [two] men, before they<br />
went back to their hollow vessels” (Il. 10.523-5). The word “ghastly” demon-<br />
1
2 Sarah Grover<br />
strates the secondary focalization of the Trojans. It illustrates judgment and furthermore<br />
creates empathy for the victims of this slaughter. Moreover, by revealing<br />
the perspective of the warriors to create empathy for the Trojans, the narrator’s<br />
opinion is able to remain hidden and does not expose a preference for a<br />
particular side of the battle.<br />
In Book 14 of the Iliad, there is embedded focalization as the narrator<br />
depicts Nestor in action as he watches the scene. “Then he caught up a powerful<br />
spear edged in sharp bronze and stood outside the shelter and at once saw a<br />
shameful action, men driven to flight, and others harrying them in confusion, the<br />
great-hearted Trojans, and the wall of the Achaeans overthrown” (Il. 14.12-15).<br />
In addition to depicting Nestor’s perspective, the secondary focalization conveys<br />
his judgment. In this way, it enables the Homeric narrator to maintain his integrity,<br />
to portray himself as an unbiased narrator. Though Nestor passes judgment,<br />
considering what he sees to be “a shameful action,” the Homeric narrator does<br />
not reveal a preference for one side in the battle.<br />
Similarly, in Book 22 of the Iliad, the secondary focalization of Hektor’s<br />
wife, Andromache, expresses judgment. “But when she came to the wall . . . and<br />
caught sight of him as he was dragged before the city; and swift horses were<br />
dragging him ruthlessly toward the hollow ships of the Achaeans” (Il. 22.462-5).<br />
Despite the fact that this is a section of narrator text, the strong word “ruthlessly”<br />
shows the perception of Andromache. Reluctant to pass judgment by<br />
using such strong, evaluative words, the Homeric narrator offers us<br />
Andromache’s perception of the act, and thereby avoids giving a biased account.<br />
In addition to single-word focalizations, Homer illustrates the perspectives<br />
of individual characters through scene-related secondary focalizations. Throughout<br />
Books 1-7 of the Odyssey, various “Arrival Scenes”—scenes that portray the<br />
arrival of a character at a specific place—are focalized through the eyes of characters.<br />
This common type of scene allows the Homeric narrator to conceal himself,<br />
while allowing us to witness the scene through the perception of a character.<br />
In Book 1, Athena’s arrival at Odysseus’ palace marks the first description<br />
of the house. We witness the scene of the suitors through the eyes of Athena,<br />
disguised as Mentes:<br />
There she found the haughty suitors. They at the moment in front of the doors<br />
were amusing their spirits with draughts games, sitting about on skins of<br />
cattle whom they had slaughtered themselves, and about them, of their heralds<br />
and hard-working henchmen, some at the mixing bowls were combining<br />
wine and water, while others again with porous sponges were wiping the<br />
tables and setting them out, and others cutting meat in quantities. (Od. 1.106-<br />
109)<br />
Though the scene is narrated by the primary narrator, the narratee views<br />
the perception of a character, Athena. This technique gives the narratee a sense<br />
of proximity to the scene; it is as if we enter the scene with her. In addition, the<br />
text uses specific diction that portrays the perspective of Athena. The word
Hide and Seek with the Homeric Narrator in the Iliad and the Odyssey 3<br />
“haughty” reflects her opinion of the suitors. Similarly, the description of the<br />
scene conveys a lazy atmosphere with greedy, gluttonous, and arrogant suitors.<br />
They live off Odysseus’ lands and subsist on his produce and possessions,<br />
striving for his most prized possession, his wife. The juxtaposition of the “hardworking<br />
henchmen” and the image of the lazy suitors furthermore emphasizes<br />
the latter’s sloth. However, “hard-working henchmen” is most likely an epithet,<br />
chosen for purposes of meter rather than for the significance of the adjective<br />
itself. Even so, by focalizing the scene through the eyes of Athena, the Homeric<br />
narrator is able to pass judgment on the repulsiveness of the suitors, while<br />
remaining hidden.<br />
The level of information we receive through focalization directly corresponds<br />
to the knowledge of the focalized character. Due to the fact that Athena is<br />
immortal, she is more knowledgeable than a mortal character. While scenes<br />
that are focalized through mortal characters are more likely to be restricted<br />
and limited in knowledge, the gods, like Homer, are better informed and can<br />
manipulate knowledge. Disguised as Mentes, Athena is able to witness the<br />
scene with immunity; she recognizes others while remaining unrecognized.<br />
The disguise itself plays a role in the game of focalization; though the characters<br />
in the scene view Mentes, the narratees view the scene through the eyes<br />
of a god, not only increasing their confidence in what they see, but also creating<br />
the sense that they are present and more knowledgeable than the mortal<br />
characters.<br />
In Book 3 of the Odyssey, Telemachos’ arrival at Pylos with Athena and<br />
the sailors depicts secondary focalization. “They came to Pylos, Neleus’ strongfounded<br />
citadel, where the people on the shore of the sea were making sacrifice<br />
of bulls who were all black to the dark-haired Earthshaker” (Od. 3.4-6). The narratee<br />
visualizes the sacrifice and observes the land through the perception of the<br />
Telemachos, Athena, and the sailors. Homer’s reluctance to enter the scene creates<br />
a restriction. We view the scene through a specific, limited lens, which<br />
restricts our vision and forces us to focus on the sacrifice and actions of the<br />
inhabitants of the land. The restriction is apparent in the very fact that the narratees<br />
receive no background information on the location and do not know the<br />
names of the characters performing the sacrifice on shore. Nevertheless, the narratees’<br />
involuntarily restriction of knowledge brings them to the same level of<br />
knowledge as the characters, thereby increasing the narratees’ proximity to the<br />
text. In addition, the secondary focalization acts as a means of distancing the<br />
narrator from the characters. The detailed description of the sacrifice brings us<br />
down to an earthly level, leading us closer to the action. “[They] were making<br />
sacrifice of bulls who were all black” (Od. 3.5-6). The seemingly unnecessary<br />
preciseness with which the scene is described has a useful function: it gives the<br />
sense that the character is experiencing the scene as opposed to narrating it—<br />
that is, remembering it from a later perspective. This aspect draws us closer to<br />
the narrative and encourages our involvement in the scene.
4 Sarah Grover<br />
The focalization at the beginning of Book 4 of the Odyssey provides an<br />
opportunity for description. “They came into the cavernous hollow of Lakedaimon<br />
and made their way to the house of glorious Menelaos. They found him in<br />
his own house giving, for many townsmen, a wedding feast for his son and his<br />
stately daughter” (Od. 4.1-4). Again, this method of description draws the narratee<br />
closer to the scene without drawing attention to the narrator. Homer safely<br />
remains the bard, the storyteller, the intermediary, and the medium through<br />
which the Muse can convey her story.<br />
Similarly, the secondary focalization of Hermes upon his arrival at<br />
Kalypso’s cave functions as an opportunity for description. “But after he had<br />
made his way to the far-lying island. There the courier Argeïphontes stood and<br />
admired it” (Od. 5.55-75). The secondary focalization of Hermes not only brings<br />
the narratees closer to the scene, but also allows for a biased description of<br />
Kalypso and her cave. Hermes absorbs the sweet smells of the scenery and hears<br />
Kalypso “singing inside the cave with a sweet voice” as she weaves (Od. 5.61).<br />
This description requires several senses; smell, hearing, and vision are combined<br />
to create a great, albeit biased, portrait of the setting. For this reason, the<br />
employment of a character’s focalization is necessary. As an extradiegetic narrator,<br />
who for the most part attempts to remain unprejudiced and outside the<br />
story, Homer employs the charmed character, Hermes, in order to describe these<br />
senses from an internal perspective, and he thereby creates a detailed view of the<br />
scene.<br />
Odysseus’ arrival at the palace of Alkinoös demonstrates a similar function<br />
of secondary focalization. Homer describes the house and its environs as it is<br />
visualized through the eyes of our protagonist. “But now Odysseus came to the<br />
famous house of Alkinoös . . . [a]nd there long-suffering great Odysseus stopped<br />
still and admired it” (Od. 7.81-133). The Homeric narrator focalizes the scene<br />
through Odysseus, thereby focusing the narratees’ attention on the character of<br />
Odysseus. However, the fact that the narrator introduces more information than<br />
is known by Odysseus demonstrates paralepsis. The golden doors and silver pillars<br />
set in the brazen threshold with other metal works are described as “fashioned<br />
by Hephaistos in his craftsmanship and cunning, to watch over the palace<br />
of great-hearted Alkinoös” (Od. 7.92-3). Homer takes the privilege of informing<br />
the narratee about the fashioner of such metal as supplementary information.<br />
Likewise, Homer describes the interior of the palace: “There the leaders of the<br />
Phaiakians held their sessions and drank and ate, since they held these forever,<br />
and there were young men fashioned all of gold and in their hands holding flaring<br />
torches who stood on the strong-compounded bases, and shed a gleam<br />
through the house by night, to shine on the feasters” (Od. 7.98-102). Though<br />
Homer focalizes the scene through the eyes of Odysseus, he includes details of<br />
which the character is unaware. Odysseus observes the doors and rooms of the<br />
palace, but he is unaware of all the minutiae. He does not know if the sessions of<br />
the Phaiakians are recurrent and lengthy, as it is his first visit to the location.<br />
Thus, despite the fact that Homer uses Odysseus as a means to carry forth the
Hide and Seek with the Homeric Narrator in the Iliad and the Odyssey 5<br />
description, Homer finds the need to insert knowledge beyond Odysseus’ scope<br />
in order to better inform the narratee.<br />
Throughout the Iliad and the Odyssey there are instances when the<br />
Homeric narrator gives up his reluctance to step into the foreground. In Book 1<br />
of the Odyssey the narrator employs paralepsis, offering the narratee additional<br />
information of which the characters themselves are unaware:<br />
Now far the first to see Athene was godlike Telemachos, as he sat among the<br />
suitors, his heart deep grieving within him, imagining in his mind his great<br />
father, how he might come back and all throughout the house might cause the<br />
suitors to scatter, and hold his rightful place and be lord of his own possessions.<br />
With such thoughts, sitting among the suitors, he saw Athene and went<br />
straight to the forecourt, the heart within him scandalized that a guest should<br />
still be standing at the doors. (Od. 1.113-120)<br />
Despite the fact that Athene is disguised as Mentes, the Homeric narrator<br />
refers to her as “Athene.” This serves as a means of revealing her true identity to<br />
the narratees, even though Telemachos believes she is Mentes. This becomes<br />
clear at the end of the passage, when the Homeric narrator describes Telemachos<br />
as “scandalized that a guest should still be standing.” The use of the word<br />
“guest” makes it clear that Telemachos is unaware of her identity. Nevertheless,<br />
Homer informs the narratees in order to clarify the story and make it more<br />
intriguing.<br />
Likewise, in Book 3 of the Iliad, Homer employs paralepsis for the sake of<br />
clarification. “Next again the old man [Priam] asked her [Helen], seeing Odysseus:<br />
‘tell me of this one also, dear child; what man can he be. . .’” (Il. 3.<strong>19</strong>1-2).<br />
Though we view the scene essentially through the eyes of Priam, seated upon<br />
the Trojan walls, the Homeric narrator adds information, revealing the identity<br />
of Odysseus to the narratee. The very fact that Priam does not recognize<br />
Odysseus and must ask who he is demonstrates that Homer employs paralepsis,<br />
adding information and his own perspective as clarification for the narratee.<br />
In Book 16 of the Iliad, the Trojans see Patroklos in Achilles’ armor and<br />
assume it is Achilles himself. Though the scene is focalized through the eyes of<br />
the Trojans, Homer steps into the foreground and uses paralepsis, conveying<br />
additional information, which is unknown to the Trojans. “But the Trojans,<br />
when they saw the powerful son of Menoitios himself and his henchman with<br />
him in the glare of their war gear, the heart was stirred in all of them” (Il.<br />
16.278-9). The Trojans are not aware that the man wearing Achilles’ armor is<br />
Patroklos. Hence it is clear that the addition of the words “son of Menoitios” is<br />
used for the sake of clarifying his account.<br />
Through the study of focalization in the epics, it becomes clear that the<br />
Homeric narrator manipulates our knowledge. He focalizes scenes through characters<br />
in order to remain less visible. Nevertheless, these temporary lapses of the<br />
omniscient narrator—that is, the narrator who perceives the thoughts and sentiments<br />
of the characters—result in a type of restriction. The narratees’ perception
6 Sarah Grover<br />
is limited to the characters’ perception and we receive a restricted view. Conversely,<br />
at times the Homeric narrator adds additional information of which the<br />
characters are unaware. By these very alterations of perspective, the Homeric<br />
narrator is able to convey a different aspect of information. Ultimately, these<br />
techniques enable him to narrate a cohesive and stimulating epic, full of intrigue<br />
and suspense.<br />
References<br />
Genette, Gérard. <strong>19</strong>80. Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method. Trans. Jane E. Lewin.<br />
Ithaca: Cornell <strong>University</strong> Press.<br />
Homer. <strong>19</strong>99. Odyssey. Trans. Richmond Lattimore. New York: Perennial Classics.<br />
Homer. <strong>19</strong>99. The Iliad: <strong>Volume</strong> II, Books 13-24. Trans. A. T. Murray. Revised by<br />
William F. Wyatt. Cambridge, MA: Harvard <strong>University</strong> Press.
Translation of Homeric<br />
Hymn No. 30: To Earth<br />
Jonah Rosenberg<br />
To Earth, All-Mother, shall I sing: well-founded,<br />
most august, who nourishes all from the ground, as many as there are;<br />
those who walk just on the land, and just in the sea,<br />
and who but fly; each is nourished by your richness.<br />
From you spring fertile women and strong sons. 5<br />
From you, Sovereign, is life given and taken away<br />
from mortal men; blessed is he whom you would honour<br />
with earnest spirit. From you all things are bounteous.<br />
The life-bearing field is made heavy by you; throughout the land<br />
there is an abundance of flocks, and households are filled up with fruits. 10<br />
Those men rule over beautiful women in a city with just laws,<br />
and happiness and plenty and wealth attend;<br />
their sons rejoice with new mirth,<br />
and their pure daughters dance with joyful hearts over the many-flowered<br />
fields,<br />
playing games among the wild scattered blossoms; 15<br />
all this for those you would honour, revered goddess, bounteous divinity.<br />
Hail, mother of the gods, consort of starry Ouranos!<br />
Grant me freely, in return for this ode, a pleasing life,<br />
and I shall be reminded of you, and another song besides.<br />
7
8<br />
Ephesus.<br />
Original photograph by Jennifer Grover. Used by permission.
From Monster to Mother: The Tragic<br />
Death of Clytaemnestra<br />
Laura <strong>Brown</strong>-Lavoie<br />
Throughout much of the first two plays of Aeschylus’ tragic trilogy the<br />
Oresteia, the vengeful queen Clytaemnestra is characterized as a monster. She is<br />
repeatedly portrayed like a beast of prey or demon incarnate, with little effort on<br />
the part of the playwright to justify her demeanor. It is not as if her fury is<br />
unwarranted; her husband sacrifices her child, fights for ten years in a war caused<br />
by her sister, and returns with a conquered mistress. She kills him to avenge her<br />
daughter, and is, in return, murdered by her son. Clearly it would not be hard,<br />
as an author, to temper her evil characterization with some pity, yet Aeschylus<br />
chooses not to do so until moments before her death. The effect is breathtakingly<br />
tragic. For nearly two full plays, the audience is lulled into believing the representation<br />
of Clytaemnestra as an inhuman savage. When they are reminded by<br />
her final interactions with her son that she is actually a mother—one who has<br />
suffered immensely, and lost all that was dear to her—her death becomes emotionally<br />
complicated. With this reversal of characterization, Aeschylus brings<br />
incredible tragic thrust to the climax of his trilogy, and lends credence to Robert<br />
Fagles’ assertion in the introduction of his translation: “The play is named for<br />
Agamemnon, but the tragic hero is the queen” (Fagles, <strong>19</strong>66: 46).<br />
From her initial entrance at the beginning of Agamemnon, Clytaemnestra is<br />
established as inappropriate according to gender norms. She is assertive, powerful,<br />
persuasive, and manipulative, none of which are characteristics traditionally<br />
befitting a queen. At first, many of the references to her are based on this distasteful<br />
rejection of gender roles. After her triumphant speech about Greece’s<br />
victory in Troy, the leader of the chorus concisely lays out this paradox, remarking:<br />
“Spoken like a man, my lady . . . ” (Ag. 355). But it is not until the arrival of<br />
Agamemnon and his war prize, the prophetic Cassandra, that the dehumanization<br />
of Clytaemnestra truly begins.<br />
Cassandra is the ideal voice for characterizing the queen. She is established<br />
as a vessel of truth—Apollo’s curse has made her a prophet. The events she<br />
depicts will come to pass, so the audience is unlikely to doubt whether her<br />
description of people is accurate. Through Cassandra, Aeschylus is brutal. In the<br />
throes of prophecy, she bemoans Agamemnon’s fate, saying that he is “lost to<br />
that detestable hellhound who pricks her ears and fawns and her tongue draws<br />
out her glittering words of welcome” (Ag. 1237-39). She continues a few lines<br />
later:<br />
9
10 Laura <strong>Brown</strong>-Lavoie<br />
What to call that . . . monster of Greece . . . Viper coiling back and forth?<br />
Some sea-witch? Scylla crouched in her rocky nest—nightmare of sailors?<br />
Raging mother of death, storming deathless war against the ones she loves!<br />
(Ag. 1242-46)<br />
The queen, who was seen before as merely manly, has transformed into a<br />
base and vicious creature. Her body language is not human, with “flicking<br />
tongue” and “pricked ears.” The barrage of imagery is relentless: “[s]he is the<br />
lioness, she rears on her hind legs, she beds with the wolf when her lion king<br />
goes ranging” (Ag. 1274-76). Here her adultery becomes part of her bestial<br />
nature. Not only is she a scheming huntress, she is shown to be bedded with the<br />
enemy (which of course, she is: Aegisthus, her lover and co-conspirator, has an<br />
unsettled score with Agamemnon for the crimes of their fathers’ generation).<br />
But it is not only Cassandra who characterizes Clytaemnestra; some of the most<br />
powerful imagery comes at the end of the play in her triumphant closing scene<br />
after Cassandra’s death.<br />
When the doors are thrust open to reveal Clytaemnestra above the bodies<br />
of Agamemnon and Cassandra, she relishes the carnage sadistically:<br />
I coil him round and round . . . and then I strike him once, twice, and at each<br />
stroke he cries in agony . . . the life is bursting out of him—great sprays of<br />
blood, and the murderous shower wounds me, dyes me black and I, I revel<br />
like the Earth when the spring rains come down. (Ag. 1403-13)<br />
The gruesomeness of the scene is tangible: she comes off as some sort of<br />
serpent-woman drenched in blood. The chorus is scandalized as well and<br />
laments to its dead king, “Perched on the corpse your carrion raven glories in<br />
her hymn” (Ag. 1500-01). At this point, Clytaemnestra has become for the audience<br />
a sort of caricature. She is so possessed by the power of revenge that she no<br />
longer appears human. When the other side of her character is finally revealed it<br />
is too late, and the audience experiences a tragic recognition of her personhood.<br />
Signs of Clytaemnestra’s wronged and justified nature show up as early as<br />
the very end of Agamemnon. When she is rebuked by the chorus for her actions,<br />
she responds indignantly,<br />
And now you sentence me? You banish me from the city, curses breathing<br />
down my neck? But he names one charge that you brought against him then.<br />
He thought no more of it than killing a beast, and his flocks were rich, teeming<br />
in their fleece, but he sacrificed his own child, our daughter, the agony<br />
that I laboured into love. (Ag. 1437-43)<br />
This is an impassioned plea for pity, but pity is hard to gain when you are standing<br />
bloodied over your husband’s corpse. The real moment of recognition comes<br />
in the Libation Bearers, ironically in a moment of deception.<br />
Orestes has come to the house in disguise with the purpose of avenging his<br />
father. Clytaemnestra welcomes him and, in accordance with his plan, he
From Monster to Mother: The Tragic Death of Clytaemnestra 11<br />
informs her that Orestes is dead. For a moment, Clytaemnestra loses her impenetrable<br />
composure, and it is here that her character gains her heartbreaking other<br />
half. She receives the devastating news and allows the audience to glimpse her<br />
mother’s nature: “I, I—your words, you storm us, raze us to the roots . . . [y]ou<br />
strip me bare of all I love, destroy me, now” (Lib. 74-80). This demon-woman,<br />
whose ferocious ability with words has been well portrayed up to this point, is<br />
rendered speechless. And in this stuttering line, she is no longer a monster, but a<br />
mother wronged. All of her losses come flooding into the audience’s consciousness.<br />
Aeschylus offsets her grief with some foils: the chorus suggests that her<br />
mourning is put-on, for example, and the nurse serves to show how Clytaemnestra<br />
may not have actually played the mother’s role for Orestes. Nevertheless,<br />
she has been irrevocably humanized. As she exits to her doom, she cries a mother’s<br />
exclamation: “I gave you life!” (Lib. 914) And despite the countless times<br />
the audience has seen her as a monster, the horror of the matricide is palpable.<br />
After seeing Agamemnon, the audience is prepared to witness the bloodthirsty<br />
queen’s death in the name of justice. But Aeschylus is not content to give<br />
his tale with such a tidy conclusion. Instead he complicates the tragic law of “the<br />
doer suffers” by revealing the humanity of the guilty party. Clytaemnestra’s<br />
death is anything but conclusive. It leaves the audience wondering if revenge is<br />
ever really justified, because they have empathized with the villain. This is the<br />
essential dilemma that the characters, and the audience, must grapple with in the<br />
third play of the trilogy.<br />
References<br />
Aeschylus. <strong>19</strong>66. The Oresteia. Trans. Robert Fagles. New York: Penguin Books.
12<br />
Excavation of the Fortress of Masada, constructed ca. 37-31 B.C.E.<br />
Original photograph by David Guttmann. Used by permission.
The Historical Necessity of Political Justice<br />
in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound<br />
Lindsey Brett Meyers<br />
Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound is a masterful play that illuminates the dramatic<br />
tension between the immorality of tyrannical power and the struggle for political<br />
justice. Those who regard Greek tragedy from a purely literary perspective<br />
might chafe at such a political reading. However, any doubt that Aeschylus’ play<br />
is a political treatise as well as a great work of literature is readily resolved by an<br />
exegesis of its text and an analysis of its historical background. At its most basic<br />
level, the play concerns a political struggle that arises from a cosmic redistribution<br />
of material wealth. Aeschylus’ Zeus is a tyrant who punishes the just Prometheus<br />
for stealing fire from Olympus to improve the condition of a repressed<br />
humanity that lacks even the rudiments of civilized life. It is not surprising that<br />
Aeschylus explores dictatorial power in the play, for he personally experienced<br />
the tyrannical rule of the Pisistratids and the birth of the 5th century Athenian<br />
democracy. However, Aeschylus’ suggestion that Zeus is a political tyrant is<br />
strikingly radical, especially if we consider Hesiod’s canonic interpretation that<br />
Prometheus was a fraudulent trickster justly punished by Zeus. By challenging<br />
the morality of Zeus, Aeschylus questions the possibility of political justice, for<br />
if Zeus is an immoral tyrant, the political imprisonment of Prometheus cannot be<br />
normatively justified. However, the play foreshadows the intriguing possibility<br />
that reason will replace violence as the ordering principle of Zeus’ political justice.<br />
By thus rejecting the tyranny of Zeus and suggesting the possibility of<br />
reform, Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound is a political treatise, one that uses the<br />
power of great literature to vindicate the historical necessity of political justice.<br />
Aeschylus challenges our political understanding by exploring the tension<br />
between tyranny and justice. That the play is an extended meditation on political<br />
themes is immediately evident in the opening scene when Prometheus is dramatically<br />
dragged onto the stage as the political prisoner of Zeus. Having just<br />
defeated his father Cronus, Zeus exhibits the “harsh” authority that is a product<br />
of “power newly won” (Prom. 35). In his rage against anyone who challenges<br />
his authority, Zeus sends Strength and Violence, the agents of his tyrannical<br />
will, to seize and imprison Prometheus, who is a Titan and the son of Earth.<br />
Prometheus’ crime is that he has stolen fire from the gods. However, he has<br />
justly done so to save a suffering humanity from Zeus’ genocide. The inequity<br />
of Zeus’ rage against this beneficent act is so apparent that even the loyal<br />
Hephaestus is reluctant to punish Prometheus at Zeus’ behest. However,<br />
13
14 Lindsey Brett Meyers<br />
Hephaestus’ moral misgivings give way to his fear of Zeus, and he imprisons<br />
Prometheus on a remote summit.<br />
After his imprisonment, Prometheus is visited by the daughters of Oceanus<br />
and then by Oceanus himself. The Oceanids feel pity for Prometheus, while<br />
Oceanus advises him to appease Zeus. But Prometheus refuses to entreat Zeus<br />
because he knows that it would be futile to do so now. Just as he tells the visiting<br />
Io that she must suffer before she is released from her punishment, he foresees<br />
a future time when Zeus may set him free. But as that time has not come,<br />
Prometheus refuses to disclose to Hermes how Zeus will be deposed by a son<br />
who has not yet been born. Prometheus understands that this information will<br />
not purchase his freedom until the time is ripe. And so he remains silent even<br />
though it means his further imprisonment in the political gulag of Tartarus,<br />
where an eagle will eat his liver every day until Hercules rescues him from political<br />
bondage.<br />
That Aeschylus would write a play detailing the political injustice of tyranny<br />
is not surprising given the formative historical and political experiences of<br />
his own life. This is the conclusion that the scholar Timothy Wutrich makes in<br />
his book Prometheus and Faust. In his discussion of Aeschylus’ Prometheus<br />
Bound, Wutich observes:<br />
Athenian democracy was only a few decades old when Aeschylus was<br />
writing his last plays. Aeschylus was in fact born under the rule of the<br />
Pisistradids and experienced the change in government at Athens from<br />
tyranny to democracy. Throughout much of the Archaic age, the historical<br />
period that preceded the fifth century, tyranny, the absolute rule by one man<br />
who had gained power by force, was the standard form of government<br />
throughout the Hellenic world. (<strong>19</strong>95: 27)<br />
Because Zeus is a divine tyrant who seizes power by force, it is natural that<br />
Aeschylus uses him to represent the earthly tyrants who ruled Athens before the<br />
flowering of its democracy. Just as the worst of these tyrants served the selfinterest<br />
of the aristocrats at the expense of the less powerful in Athens, Zeus<br />
exalts the power of the gods at the expense of humanity. Thus, Wutrich quotes<br />
with approval the earlier observation of the classicist Anthony Podlecki that<br />
Prometheus Bound “gives us the first formulation of any length of the new<br />
(Athenian) democracy’s quarrel with the tyrant, who, as a law unto himself and<br />
beyond the check of legal redress, constituted an exact antithesis to the democratic<br />
process.” In the same manner that Zeus represents these Athenian tyrants,<br />
Podlecki “compares Prometheus to the fifth century enemies of tyranny” (<strong>19</strong>95:<br />
29). Wutrich intriguingly expands Podlecki’s historical insights by arguing that<br />
Prometheus represents the aristocrat Solon whose reforms made democracy in<br />
Athens possible. Thus, just as Prometheus was an immortal god who redistributed<br />
the wealth of the gods by giving humanity fire, Solon was an aristocrat who<br />
“rebelled against authoritarianism” by “protecting the commoners and<br />
introduceing the idea of rule by representatives of the people” (<strong>19</strong>95: 27).
The Historical Necessity of Political Justice in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound 15<br />
The tyrannical nature of Zeus in Prometheus Bound is made even more<br />
apparent if we compare Aeschylus’ version of the Prometheus myth to the one<br />
told by Hesiod in his seminal work the Theogony. Where Prometheus is a just<br />
defender of humanity for Aeschylus, he is a crooked schemer for Hesiod.<br />
According to the canonic interpretation of Hesiod’s Theogony, Prometheus<br />
wrongs Zeus on two accounts. First, he desecrates his altars by fraudulently layng<br />
out sacrifices to the gods; second, after Zeus punishes this desecration by foridding<br />
fire to humanity, Prometheus steals fire from heaven and gives it to<br />
humanty. As punishment for these crimes, Zeus “bound crafty Prometheus in<br />
inescapable fetters, grievous bounds, driving them through the middle of a pillar.<br />
And he set a great winged eagle upon him, and it fed on his immortal liver,<br />
which grew the same amount each way at night as the great bird ate in the<br />
course of the day” (Theo. 520-25). Hence, for Hesiod, Zeus is not a tyrant, as he<br />
acts justly by punishing the “skillful crook” Prometheus for transgressing the<br />
sacred order of the universe (Theo. 545). It is also instructive to note that<br />
Hesiod’s Zeus is omniscient in sharp distinction to the Zeus of Prometheus<br />
Bound who cannot foretell the fated conditions of his own destruction without<br />
the augury of Prometheus. This is significant because Zeus’ omniscience is a<br />
guarantee of divine political justice for Hesiod; for if the crimes of Prometheus’<br />
“labyrinthine mind” do not escape Zeus, we can be certain that an all-knowing<br />
Zeus will punish the wicked and reward the righteous (Theo. 522). As Hesiod<br />
says, “there is no way of deceiving or evading the mind of Zeus, since not even<br />
Iapetos’ son, sly Prometheus, escaped the weight of his wrath, and for all<br />
cleverness a strong fetter holds him in check” (Theo. 21).<br />
However, in Aeschylus’ radical retelling of the Prometheus myth, the just<br />
Zeus of Hesiod is portrayed as a political tyrant. Recall the mythological record<br />
that Zeus comes into power by overthrowing his father Cronus. And in this takeover,<br />
the primitive order of Cronus collapses and a new order is established<br />
under the sovereign authority of Zeus. Recall further that Prometheus is Zeus’<br />
ally in this takeover, 1 because he hopes to create a new political order based on<br />
reason and “cunning,” rather than “brute strength” and “violence” (Prom. 210-<br />
211). However, Prometheus tragically discovers that replacing Zeus for Cronus<br />
just serves to substitute one form of tyranny for another. It becomes clear to Pro-<br />
1 It is interesting to observe that Prometheus is not an ally of Zeus in Hesiod’s account<br />
of the war between Zeus and Cronus. In fact, Hesiod does not appear to make any reference<br />
to Prometheus in connection with this war in either his Theogony or Works and<br />
Days. This raises the interesting questions of whether Aeschylus invented this mythological<br />
account and, if so, why. Additional research would be required to answer the<br />
former question. However, one can respond to the latter question by suggesting that<br />
Aeschylus’ mythological account underscores the “black ingratitude” Zeus exhibits for<br />
Prometheus (Prom. 226). This ingratitude is bitterly ironic because it entails Zeus misusing<br />
the very power that Prometheus helped him to obtain. Moreover, this account<br />
emphasizes the nature of Zeus’ tyrannical will, while creating increased sympathy for the<br />
plight of Prometheus.
16 Lindsey Brett Meyers<br />
metheus that Zeus is a god both jealous of Prometheus’ prerogatives and selfish<br />
of Prometheus’ power, one who “keeps law within his own will” (Prom. 185).<br />
Though Zeus understands the sufferings of humanity, he is selfishly unwilling to<br />
share any of the blessings of the gods. By contrast, Prometheus has faith in<br />
humanity; for as he is the son of Earth, he pities mortals and believes them to be<br />
capable of almost infinite success. Thus, when Zeus “took no account” of<br />
“wretched humans [and] resolved to annihilate them and create another race,”<br />
Prometheus alone “dared to save the human race from being ground to dust,<br />
from total death” (Prom. 233-237).<br />
That the Zeus of Aeschylus would punish Prometheus for this praiseworthy<br />
act raises serious questions about the possibility of political justice. If Prometheus<br />
acted with great compassion for humanity, how can it be just for Zeus to<br />
punish him? And if Zeus immorally punishes Prometheus, how can political justice<br />
be possible in a universe governed by a divine dictator who serves the selfish<br />
benefit of the gods at the expense of humanity? At issue here is the very definition<br />
of political justice. For Prometheus, it is defined by what is fair and good.<br />
Thus, he gives humanity fire and teaches humans the necessities of civilized life<br />
because it is the morally correct action to take. In stark contrast, political justice<br />
for Zeus is defined by what serves the best interest of his will to power. Hence,<br />
he hoards fire for the gods because it serves his self-interest, even if it results in<br />
horrific misery for humanity. In thus failing to act morally, Aeschylus’ Zeus<br />
radically undermines the very nature of political justice in a way the more pious<br />
Zeus of Hesiod would have considered unthinkable. Unlike the Zeus of the<br />
Theogony, the Aeschylean Zeus does not guarantee political justice at the divine<br />
and human level. Instead of rewarding the good works of Prometheus, he punishes<br />
them. And in the process, he marks his opposition to the development of<br />
human justice that Prometheus’ gifts made possible. In addition to giving<br />
humanity fire, Prometheus taught humans every “human skill and science” that<br />
made the development of society and hence political order possible (Prom. 507).<br />
More than that, Prometheus gave humanity the gift of hope 2 that made social<br />
progress possible. Thus, in punishing Prometheus, Zeus also raises deeply disturbing<br />
questions about the human ability to create political justice in a universe<br />
governed by a tyrannical god.<br />
These normative political concerns become particularly poignant in<br />
Aeschylus’ masterful portrait of Io, the human woman tormented by Zeus’ passion.<br />
Io’s only crime is that her beauty evokes Zeus’ overmastering passion. As<br />
an innocent young woman, Io ought to be blessed, rather than punished, by the<br />
justice of Zeus. However, we have seen that Zeus defines justice by what serves<br />
2 Prometheus’ gift of hope to humanity is another intriguing distinction between the<br />
mythological accounts provided by Aeschylus and Hesiod. In Hesiod’s Works and Days,<br />
Zeus provides hope after cursing humanity with evil as punishment for Prometheus’ theft<br />
of fire. Thus, in Hesiod’s account Prometheus is a malefactor rather than a benefactor of<br />
humanity, while Zeus is a stern but nevertheless just god who unleashes evil but also<br />
creates hope.
The Historical Necessity of Political Justice in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound 17<br />
his best interest. Hence, for the Aeschylean Zeus, injustice is more favorable<br />
than justice because it allows him to seek whatever his will desires, regardless of<br />
the conesquences to those less powerful than him. Put otherwise, justice for<br />
Aeschylus’ Zeus results when the weak serve the will of the strong, which in<br />
this case is defined by his lust. Thus Zeus desires Io and must have her even if it<br />
means that the innocent young woman will be transformed into a cow and suffer<br />
the torment of being goaded to wander the world through the sting of a god-sent<br />
gadfly. In this manner, Io is a tragic human paradigm in the play for the injustice<br />
that results from tyrannical rule. 3<br />
While Aeschylus presents a deeply troubling, and some might say impious,<br />
view of the injustice of Zeus, he also foreshadows the redemptive possibility of<br />
a benevolent Zeus who will release both Io and Prometheus from the misery of<br />
their tragic suffering. Thus, Prometheus foretells how Io’s suffering will end as<br />
the “gentle touch” of Zeus’ hand impregnates her with a child (Prom. 848). And,<br />
intriguingly, the progeny of this child—Hercules—will free Prometheus from<br />
his political imprisonment. Though the remaining two plays that likely<br />
comprised Aeschylus’ Promethean trilogy are lost, the scholar Phillip Vellacott<br />
interestingly suggests that<br />
There is little doubt that by the end of the trilogy Zeus abandoned the use of<br />
force and opened negotiations with Prometheus, who then told him of the<br />
prophecy of the sea-nymph Thetis; that Heracles with the permission of Zeus<br />
set Prometheus free . . .; and that the final settlement recognized the supremacy<br />
of Zeus, the right of the human race to exist and develop, and the superiority<br />
of reason to violence. (Vellacott, <strong>19</strong>61: 9)<br />
If Vellacott’s argument is correct, Aeschylus’ portrayal of Zeus is not as<br />
impious as it seems. For if morality requires free will, not even “Zeus [can] fly<br />
from fate” (Prom. 518). Thus, the demands of inexorable fate may play the<br />
ultimate dictatorial role in the play. However, there is a providential design<br />
within Aeschylean fate that seems to entail an idea of historical development.<br />
Prometheus believes that “Time, as he grows older, teaches everything” (Prom.<br />
581). Thus, just as Athens evolved from tyranny to democracy, Vellacott<br />
suggests that there is a movement from violence to reason for Aeschylus in the<br />
development of political justice at both the human and the divine level.<br />
This political evolution that Vellacott suggests is implicit in the prophecy<br />
that Prometheus withholds from Hermes at the end of the play. If reason is to<br />
replace violence as the ordering principle of Zeus’ justice, Zeus must learn to<br />
3 By conjoining the suffering of Prometheus and Io, Aeschylus again radically departs<br />
from the mythological model established by Hesiod. In Hesiod’s tale, Prometheus is connected<br />
with Pandora who is sent to earth to release evil as punishment for Prometheus’<br />
theft of fire. Thus, where Io emphasizes the unjust suffering of Prometheus for Aeschylus,<br />
Pandora underscores Prometheus’ status as a wily criminal for Hesiod. Hence, the<br />
Zeus of Aeschylus is tyrannical in his punishment of Prometheus, while the Zeus of<br />
Hesiod is just in his sanctions.
18 Lindsey Brett Meyers<br />
sublimate his passion to his reason. Intriguingly, this is the very message of<br />
Prometheus’ prophecy to Zeus. As Zeus will be deposed by a lust-begotten son,<br />
he self-evidently must permit his reason to control his passion if he is to maintain<br />
his political order. However, if he moderates his passions, he will fundamentally<br />
transform the nature of his rule. Recall that that the Aeschylean Zeus<br />
defines political justice as that which serves his tyrannical desire. However, as<br />
that unchecked desire will result in his destruction, he must re-define political<br />
justice in terms of reason if he is to survive. Thus he imprisons Prometheus and<br />
seduces Io. While the idea of a morally evolving Zeus may be foreign to our<br />
modern understanding of a supremely perfect God, for Aeschylus both the<br />
human and the divine seem to evolve as fate reveals itself in history. For Zeus<br />
will sow the seeds of his own destruction if he couples with Thetis, since the<br />
child born of their sexual union will depose Zeus just as Zeus overthrew Cronus.<br />
In this sense, Zeus’ survival will be a product of his sexual sublimation, as his<br />
reason will control his passion to ensure the continuance of his political rule.<br />
However, this sublimation intriguingly suggests an evolution in the idea of political<br />
justice, one that bases morality on the principle of reason rather than the<br />
application of force. And if this was the case, perhaps Prometheus brought<br />
illumination to Zeus just as he provided the light of fire to humanity.<br />
Just as Prometheus transformed mankind with skill when he presented it<br />
with fire, one wonders whether Aeschylus, in the final act of his missing trilogy,<br />
allowed Prometheus to transform Zeus’ tyranny in telling his prophecy. It is<br />
fated that on the day when Zeus grants Prometheus’ freedom, Prometheus will<br />
tell Zeus that he must not couple with the goddess Thetis, lest he produce a son<br />
who would overthrow him. In this prophecy of Zeus’ doom, Prometheus held<br />
the promise of Zeus’ political salvation. Because Zeus’ conception of political<br />
justice is based on the satisfaction of his will to power, Zeus must understand<br />
that the passionate pursuit of power will be his political undoing. Zeus can only<br />
survive if he curbs his passion, for if he falters he will literally sow the seeds of<br />
his own destruction. That is, if he does not halter his tyrannical rule, in his<br />
coupling with Thetis, Zeus will produce a son who will overthrow him, just as<br />
he deposed his father Cronus.<br />
Because Prometheus can foresee the future, he has great power. That is, he<br />
can grasp the progressive march of political history in a way that Hermes cannot<br />
understand. Though Hermes tells Prometheus that “Time has not taught you<br />
self-control or prudence-yet” (Prom. 982), the truth is that Prometheus’<br />
understanding of the future gives him a privileged position to act as a political<br />
hero. For example, he will “drink the painful cup to the dregs until Zeus relaxes<br />
from his angry mood” because no one can “soothe the spirit” of Zeus until “the<br />
moment is ripe” (Prom. 374-378). So, just as Atlas bears the weight of the<br />
world, Prometheus heroically exercises his freedom to bear the political<br />
responsibility for the development of divine political justice. Thus, while<br />
Prometheus’ refusal to talk to Zeus may appear hubristic, it is really a<br />
recognition that history must evolve before Zeus will grant him political
The Historical Necessity of Political Justice in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound <strong>19</strong><br />
freedom. He knows that if Zeus comes to him that he will be able to bring<br />
illumination to the gods just as he provided it to humanity.<br />
References<br />
Aeschylus. <strong>19</strong>61. Prometheus Bound. Trans. Philip Vellacott. London: Penguin Group.<br />
Wutrich, Timothy Richard. <strong>19</strong>95. Prometheus and Faust: The Promethean Revolt in<br />
Drama from Classical Antiquity to Goethe. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press.
20<br />
Treasury of the Athenians, Delphi, Greece, ca. 510 B.C.E.<br />
Original photograph by Amanda Earl. Used by permission.
Major Oppositions in Oedipus the King<br />
Mark Morales<br />
Amphibology, the ambiguity of speech, plays a significant role in shaping the<br />
plot and tragic message of Sophocles’ Oedipus the King. Through the skillful<br />
use of language, Sophocles presents a series of positive and negative oppositions<br />
that accurately represent the play’s tragic figure, Oedipus. As the plot<br />
progresses, the oppositions collapse, and Oedipus discovers that he possesses<br />
both the positive and negative extremes of each character trait. By establishing a<br />
series of oppositions and collapsing them in the protagonist, Sophocles offers a<br />
tragic model of man that reflects the duality of humanity.<br />
In the opening scenes of the play, Sophocles constructs a set of oppositions<br />
that define Oedipus as a character. Sophocles characterizes Oedipus as both the<br />
savior and destroyer of Thebes. Oedipus rescues the people of Thebes from the<br />
deadly song of the Sphinx, and the priest says to him, “Your country calls you<br />
savior now for your zeal, your action years ago” (Oed. 59-60). However, Oedipus<br />
is also the destroyer of the city; his patricide and incest corrupt the land and<br />
bring about the devastating plague. Oedipus plays the role of both the detective<br />
who promises to track down the killer of Laius and the criminal responsible for<br />
the murder. Oedipus seeks to follow the “trail of the ancient guilt” by searching<br />
for clues and cross-examining witnesses, yet he himself is the criminal that he<br />
hunts (Oed. 124).<br />
Sophocles also characterizes Oedipus as the curser, the cursed, and the<br />
curse itself. Oedipus places a curse on the murderer of Laius to carry out his life<br />
in agony, but since he murdered Laius, Oedipus is also the cursed. His horrible<br />
crimes of murder and incest represent the curse itself; as Tiresias says, “You are<br />
the curse, the corruption of the land” (Oed. 401). Sophocles establishes another<br />
opposition between the one and the many. When a rumor circulates that a band<br />
of thieves, rather than a single person, killed Laius, Oedipus defends himself by<br />
stating, “One can’t equal many” (Oed. 934). The opposition also reflects the<br />
riddle Oedipus solves to free Thebes. Oedipus is only one character, yet he<br />
represents the three stages of life described in the riddle. Oedipus is the baby<br />
abandoned on Mt. Cithaeron, the young man who solves the riddle and marries<br />
Jocasta, and by the end of the play, the old blind man who must walk with a<br />
stick tapping before him.<br />
The most prominent opposition that repeatedly surfaces throughout the<br />
play is the contrast between blindness and sight. Sophocles emphasizes both<br />
physical eyesight and the ability to see the truth. In the beginning of the play he<br />
21
22 Mark Morales<br />
bombards the audience with the language of sight. The verb “to see” appears in<br />
lines 17, 28, 55, 70, 96, 121, 132, 136, 153, and 164, while the noun “eyes”<br />
appears in lines 28, 93, and 217. Sophocles twice uses the phrase “bring to light”<br />
to establish the purpose of the play; the plot of the play will bring to light the<br />
true nature of Oedipus’ identity (Oed. 116, 150) .<br />
The contrast between sight and blindness becomes more complicated with<br />
the entrance of Tiresias, the blind prophet who can see the future with the “eyes<br />
of Lord Apollo” (Oed. 323). Tiresias serves as the protagonist’s foil; Sophocles<br />
contrasts Tiresias’ physical blindness and ability to see the truth with Oedipus’<br />
physical eyesight and blindness to his own identity. Tiresias stresses Oedipus’<br />
metaphorical blindness by stating, “You with your precious eyes, you’re blind to<br />
the corruption of your life, to the house you live in, those you live with who are<br />
your parents?” (Oed. 470-473). Even with his eyesight, Oedipus cannot see the<br />
extent of his guilt and is unable to recognize that he has fulfilled the prophecy<br />
and corrupted Thebes. This scene provides effective dramatic irony, since the<br />
audience is familiar with the legend and realizes that Oedipus will soon blind<br />
himself when he sees the truth. Even though Oedipus claims that Tiresias’ words<br />
cannot hurt “anyone who sees the light,” Tiresias’ statements and prophecy set<br />
off a chain of events that lead to the tragic hero’s discovery of the truth (Oed.<br />
427).<br />
Sophocles continues to stress this opposition as Oedipus moves closer to<br />
meeting his tragic fate. The words “see,” “eyes,” and “blind” are used in the<br />
choral passage that follows Oedipus’ encounter with Tiresias, and Sophocles<br />
once again inserts irony into the contrast when Oedipus says to Creon, “I see it<br />
all” in line 597. References to Oedipus’ ability to see occur sixteen times<br />
between lines 597 and 1<strong>19</strong>0. Sophocles also characterizes Jocasta as blind, since<br />
she can see Oedipus yet cannot recognize him as her own son. When Oedipus<br />
asks her about Laius’ appearance, she says, “His build. . .wasn’t far from yours,”<br />
indicating that she notes a resemblance but cannot reach the conclusion (Oed.<br />
8<strong>19</strong>).<br />
The opposition between sight and blindness reaches its climax and collapses<br />
into ambiguity when Oedipus finally realizes his identity. Even against<br />
Jocasta’s warnings, Oedipus pushes forward with his investigation of his own<br />
identity, stating, “I must know it all, I must see the truth at last. . .I must see my<br />
origins face-to-face” (Oed. 1169-1170, 1185). After compelling the shepherd to<br />
reveal who handed him Oedipus as an infant, Oedipus discovers that he is<br />
Jocasta’s son, and the truth has “burst to light” (Oed. 1306). The further complication<br />
of the terms results from Oedipus’ decision to blind himself after discovering<br />
the truth. As soon as he finally sees the truth, Oedipus places himself in<br />
physical darkness, believing that nothing he can now see will ever bring him<br />
joy. The verb “to see” and the adjective “blind” can never fully describe<br />
Oedipus’ character. When he can see, Oedipus remains blind to his identity, and<br />
when he ultimately sees the truth, he blinds himself in order to remain in a state
Major Opposition in Oedipus the King 23<br />
of darkness. In this way, these opposing terms are collapsed into Oedipus’<br />
double character.<br />
The statement “I am Oedipus” undergoes a drastic change in meaning as<br />
the plot of the tragedy progresses and its action is reversed. The character of<br />
Oedipus includes both the positive and negative extremes of the oppositions; he<br />
is both a savior and a destroyer, a curser and the cursed, and a blind man who<br />
can see. Oedipus defies specific labels because, in his own words, “It’s wrong to<br />
name what’s wrong to do” (Oed. 1543). By collapsing oppositions in the character<br />
of Oedipus, Sophocles conveys the central tragic irony of the protagonist—<br />
his inability to divide his traits. Oedipus tries so hard to carry out his role as a<br />
savior, a detective, and the civic servant of his people, yet by doing so he reveals<br />
himself as the fulfillment of a terrible set of qualities. Oedipus diligently<br />
attempts to see the true nature of his identity, but when he succeeds, he blinds<br />
himself.<br />
Sophocles collapses a series of oppositions onto the character of Oedipus<br />
in order to convey his tragic vision of the duality of humankind. Oedipus<br />
embodies the polarization of human qualities, and his character reflects<br />
everything that man can be at his positive and negative extremes, from a noble<br />
king to an incestuous murderer. Even though man may view himself as a heroic<br />
figure of great intelligence and achievement, when he undertakes an<br />
investigation into his true identity, he may find that he is ignorant and corrupt.<br />
By characterizing Oedipus as the embodiment of both positive and negative<br />
qualities, Sophocles offers a tragic vision of a man divided against himself that<br />
reflects the duality of human nature.<br />
References<br />
Sophocles. <strong>19</strong>84. The Three Theban Plays. Trans. Robert Fagles. New York: Penguin<br />
Books.
24<br />
Sketch of Nike relief from the balustrade of Athena’s Temple<br />
on the Acropolis (ca. 420 B.C.E.) by Maia Peck.<br />
Used by permission.
Fluency and Fear: An Investigation of<br />
Rhetoric as Presented in Euripides’ Medea<br />
Hillary Dixler<br />
In his “Notes on the Balinese Cockfight,” anthropologist Clifford Geertz examines<br />
the implications of this seemingly obscure societal ritual. He argues that the<br />
performance “Of Cocks and Men” in Bali is ultimately “a story they tell themselves<br />
about themselves” (<strong>19</strong>73: 417, 448). Although the essay has a relatively<br />
narrow focus, the analysis points to a broader theory of performance within society.<br />
Geertz ultimately demonstrates that through performance, a society can<br />
show itself to itself. When looking at the text and conditions of performance of<br />
Euripides’ Medea, then, one might ask: what was Euripides showing the Greeks<br />
about the Greeks? Among several other cultural values and tendencies, Euripides<br />
expresses in his play a deep concern for the way rhetoric and words are used<br />
in his society. In its plot, themes, structure, and performance, Medea demonstrates<br />
a simultaneous dependence on and aversion to words, which constitute<br />
one of the definitional qualities of Greek drama and life.<br />
From the opening of his play, Euripides frames the story of Medea as one<br />
centered on words and their power. Explaining Medea’s history, the nurse introduces<br />
the theme of manipulation of words within the first few lines of the play<br />
saying, “Nor would she have persuaded the daughters of Pelias / To kill their<br />
father” (Med.II.9-20). Stressing the act of persuasion and its relation to the<br />
crime, Euripides creates a backstory for Medea that revolves around deceptive<br />
words. Medea herself, much later in the play, explains that her circumstances are<br />
in part due to the power of persuasive words to deceive. In her second long<br />
address to the chorus of Corinthian women, Medea explains, “My mistake was<br />
made the time I left behind me / My father’s house, and trusted the words of a<br />
Greek” (Med.II.784-785). The significance of spoken deception continues<br />
through the play as the characters emphasize the importance of promises,<br />
pledges, and oaths, all of which imply verbal agreements. Euripides shows that<br />
words are tremendously powerful in their ability to bind people to each other<br />
through such “contracts.” Yet, in showing the facility with which those same<br />
characters break oaths and use words to deceive, Euripides reveals a simultaneous<br />
respect for and distrust of words.<br />
Euripides more fully develops his hesitant relationship with rhetoric in his<br />
play through the character of Medea. Aside from attributing her downfall to<br />
believing Jason’s words, Medea further explains to the chorus the dangers that<br />
rhetorically fluent people present in general. The greatest crime, in Medea’s<br />
25
26 Hillary Dixler<br />
imagination, is to speak well but intend evil. This concern is articulated as both<br />
the literal and dramaturgical center of the play, when Medea, speaking to Jason<br />
and the chorus, says:<br />
Surely in many ways I hold different views<br />
From others, for I think that the plausible speaker<br />
Who is a villain deserves the greatest punishment.<br />
Confident in his tongue’s power to adorn evil,<br />
He stops at nothing. Yet he is not really wise. (Med.II.567-571)<br />
It is clear that Jason sees himself as a skilled orator. By engaging with Medea<br />
“as a rival rhetorician,” he relies on rhetoric to help him, acknowledging that he<br />
“must be no bad speaker” (Arnott, <strong>19</strong>91: 96; Med.II.510). However, Medea’s<br />
fear of rhetoric is undermined by her own fluency with the art of words.<br />
Throughout the play, Medea proves herself to be a powerful orator. In her<br />
first address to the women of Corinth, for example, Medea shows her facility<br />
with persuasive communication, crafting a speech that is emotionally resonant,<br />
inclusive, and effective. The chorus is convinced by her, affirming “You are in<br />
the right, Medea, . . . / In paying your husband back” (Med.II.265-266). Euripides<br />
grants Medea a technical virtuosity in rhetoric in her first encounter and<br />
ensuing argument with Jason. Referring to the speech delivered at line 454,<br />
R.G.A Buxton notes, “Medea introduces her defense with a formula that can be<br />
paralleled almost exactly from the extant works of legal speech-writers” (<strong>19</strong>82:<br />
162). Medea’s speech seems to follow the standard rhetorical pattern of proem,<br />
narrative, proof, and conclusion (Arnott, <strong>19</strong>91: 97). In dramatizing Medea as a<br />
rhetorically versed character who simultaneously exposes the dangers of such<br />
skill, Euripides heightens the tension between delivery and intention that he has<br />
been exploring throughout the play.<br />
While Medea’s own speeches are rhetorically informed, the framework<br />
within which they are presented is also heavily influenced by the practices of<br />
rhetoric. Scholars have pointed to the argument between Jason and Medea as a<br />
prime example of debate within the tragic framework. Debate informed both<br />
Greek political and judicial life, and, as several scholars rigorously argue, theatrical<br />
life as well. Theater historian William Arrowsmith writes, “with all the<br />
tricks of sophistic rhetoric, [the characters] put their cases in opposed speeches<br />
—often identical in length, as though timed by the waterclock of the Athenian<br />
dikastery” (<strong>19</strong>59: 37). The debate between Medea and Jason, Arrowsmith<br />
shows, follows the form of the debates in the Athenian court. In his “rebuttal,”<br />
for example, Jason responds to Medea’s complaints point by point, and as the<br />
scene progresses, the dialogue remains rooted in equally-timed claims and<br />
responses. Medea and Jason debate like defendants in the popularly controlled<br />
Athenian court, which commenced its jurisdiction about a decade before Euripides<br />
began competing in the City Dionysia. Similarly, in his writings on Medea,<br />
theater historian and critic Peter R. Arnott suggests that the play itself is<br />
structurally conceived as a debate. Although this reading is a bit extreme, it<br />
Amanda K Earl 3/11/07 8:02 PM<br />
Comment: This is contradictory: it’s hard to say<br />
his reading is radical and then agree with it. . .
Fluency and Fear 27<br />
points to the extent to which Medea has been intertwined with the practices of<br />
debate and rhetoric in the scholarly imagination. If one views Euripides’ work as<br />
“an open-ended debate,” then the play itself becomes analogous to the thematic<br />
concerns of its characters (<strong>19</strong>91: 128-129). In using debate to critique the mode<br />
of debate (i.e., rhetoric), Euripides again reveals his profoundly complex<br />
relationship with that mode of communication. On the one hand, the past crimes<br />
and current fears of his characters’ are shown to be based on the power of words<br />
and rhetoric to deceive, and yet he exposes those criticisms through eloquent<br />
speech and evocative debate.<br />
In examining what Euripides is showing the Greeks about the Greeks, it is<br />
important to recall the location of the exposition. In the grand Theater of Dionysus,<br />
it would have been difficult for an audience member to see the actor, which<br />
would arguably increase the importance of speech and its delivery (Arnott,<br />
<strong>19</strong>91: 112). Just as Medea depends on the mode she criticizes, so too does<br />
Euripides as he problematizes the significance of words in a venue where they<br />
were among the most important modes of communication with the audience.<br />
The conditions of Greek tragic performance further complicate Euripides’<br />
presentation of rhetoric. Contextually, tragedies such as Medea would have<br />
occurred as part of the state-sponsored City Dionysia. Politics and performance<br />
were also united in the very architecture of the Theater of Dionysos, virtually<br />
identical to that of the Athenian Assembly. Further, to be a successful speaker<br />
and legislator in the Assembly would demand many of the same skills as being<br />
an actor in the Theater of Dionysos. The necessity of possessing a strong voice<br />
and of commanding the attention of several thousand both contributed to the<br />
theatricalized presentations given in the theater and to the growing influence of<br />
the Sophists, who taught rhetoric and oration (Wiles, 2000: 54-56). So Euripides<br />
reveals this complex view of rhetoric in a space analogous to the politicized one<br />
in which rhetoric was most often demanded.<br />
If, as Geertz posits, performance is the medium through which cultures<br />
show themselves to themselves, Medea and its conditions of performance in the<br />
City Dionysia point towards a cultural ambivalence towards rhetoric, a simultaneous<br />
dependence on and distrust of a key form of social interaction. Where<br />
Geertz’s analyses of the Balinese performance falters, however, is that he does<br />
not include any observations from actual Balinese participants. If one uses<br />
Geertz’s theory to understand the relationship between a society and its performances,<br />
then one must also address the beliefs of multiple participants in the society<br />
to avoid the same interpretive myopia. In order to examine whether Euripides’<br />
play reveals a cultural ambivalence towards rhetoric, the work of Greeks<br />
other than Euripides must be noted as well. For example, Plato’s dialogue and<br />
Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War illuminate a broader cultural<br />
landscape and its subsequent perception of rhetoric.<br />
Plato, known through his writings for a strong aversion to dramatic arts,<br />
presents the issue of rhetoric as it relates to his search for truth. He attacks the<br />
Sophists who, as Wiles explains, teach the art of rhetoric. In The Sophist, Plato
28 Hillary Dixler<br />
assigns to the eponymous character all of the ideas with which Socrates<br />
disagrees and successfully discredits. He delves deeper into the meaning and<br />
implications of rhetoric, however, in Gorgias, a dialogue between Socrates and a<br />
famous rhetorician. In this dialogue, Socrates directly links sophistry to rhetoric,<br />
both being components of “flattery” (463a-b). Interestingly, Socrates criticizes<br />
rhetoric for the same reasons Medea does, arguing that rhetoric is indeed<br />
“persuasive but not instructive about right and wrong” (455a). Medea’s<br />
criticisms again line up with those of Socrates in the dialogue Phaedrus. Both<br />
emphasize the unique ability of polished speech to disguise the truth. (It is<br />
important to note, however, that while truth is of a personal nature for Medea,<br />
throughout the writings of Plato, truth is of universal significance). Medea’s<br />
distinction between confidence and wisdom, for example, are comparable with<br />
Socrates’ distinction between the persuasive and the just or good:<br />
[T]he plausible speaker<br />
Who is a villain deserves the greatest punishment.<br />
Confident in his tongue’s power to adorn evil,<br />
He stops at nothing. Yet he is not really wise. (Med.II.568-571)<br />
[T]here is no need for the budding orator to concern himself with the truth<br />
about what is just or good. . .In the law courts nobody cares a rap for the truth<br />
of these matters, but only about what is plausible. . .stick to that all through<br />
your speech, and you are equipped with the art complete. (Phaed.272d-e)<br />
Plato, it seems, documents distrust in rhetoric similar to Euripides, only fashioning<br />
his criticisms in an entirely different format. Like Euripides, Plato ultimately<br />
reveals a strong concern about the contradictions inherent in rhetoric, as is<br />
evidenced further in his famous piece Socrates’ Defense or The Apology of<br />
Socrates.<br />
In one of his strongest attacks against rhetoric, Socrates begins his defense<br />
by acknowledging how persuasive his accusers in court are. He says:<br />
I do not know what effect my accusers have had upon you, gentlemen, but for<br />
my own part I was almost carried by them—their arguments were so<br />
convincing. On the other hand, scarcely a word of what they said was true.<br />
(Ap.17a)<br />
Socrates acknowledges here the dangers of rhetoric, as he himself “was almost<br />
carried away” by the arguments made against him. However, though he<br />
describes himself as no “skillful speaker,” he proves to be just as verbally fluent<br />
as Medea (Ap.17b). In his Defense, he employs the very mode of communication<br />
he has consistently lambasted. Like Medea’s defense (as Buxton calls it),<br />
Socrates’ follows the common rhetorical pattern of proem, narrative, proof, and<br />
conclusion. Through his portrayal of Socrates, Plato here exposes a dependence<br />
on and facility with rhetoric which coexists with an intense aversion to and<br />
distrust of it.
Fluency and Fear 29<br />
Whereas Plato approaches rhetoric from a philosophical point of view,<br />
Thucydides encounters rhetoric as an historical condition. In his History of the<br />
Peloponnesian War, he chronicles several instances of rhetoric and its uses,<br />
most notably in Pericles’ funeral oration. While in this speech Thucydides<br />
presents an almost elegiac adoration for the tradition of Athenian oratory, there<br />
are several instances in his History where Thucydides notes different views of<br />
rhetoric. The most vigorous complaint against rhetoric is voiced by Cleon in the<br />
Mytilenian Debate. Cleon accuses the Athenian polity of favoring speech over<br />
action, becoming “victims of your own pleasure in listening and. . . more like an<br />
audience sitting at the feet of a professional lecturer than a parliament discussing<br />
matters of state” (His.3.38). Like Socrates, Cleon also acknowledges that<br />
speeches are not necessarily venues for just action with regards to state affairs.<br />
In the Melian Dialogue, the conquered Melians raise an indirect criticism of<br />
rhetoric:<br />
Athenians: . . .the standard of justice depends on the equality of power to<br />
compel. . .<br />
Melians: Then in our view (since you force us to leave justice out of account<br />
and to confine ourselves to self-interest). . .in the case of all who fall into<br />
danger. . .such people should be allowed to use and to pofit by arguments that<br />
fall short of mathematical accuracy. (His.5.89-90)<br />
In connecting “the power to compel” with “argument,” the Melians suggest<br />
a strong relationship between the two. Like Medea, the Melians see the abilty to<br />
argue as critical to the “power to compel” others. Like Socrates, though, they<br />
acknowledge that such arguments do not necessarily leave room for truth or<br />
justice.<br />
However, the only complaints against rhetoric discussed thus far have been<br />
lodged by non-Athenians. Given that Thucydides was writing as an Athenian, he<br />
might actually be criticizing critiques of rhetoric. However, in the section of his<br />
History describing the end of Plataea, an Athenian presents the view that Medea<br />
and Socrates share, namely that: “[g]ood deeds do not require long statements;<br />
but when evil is done the whole art of oratory is employed as a screen for it”<br />
(His.3.67). While it is hard to discern whether Thucydides himself agrees with<br />
the various complaints the speakers raise in his History, when he attributes to<br />
Athenians and non-Athenians alike a shared distrust in rhetoric and oratory, he<br />
certainly acknowledges the ambivalent status of rhetoric within his society. On<br />
the one hand, powerful orators like Pericles serve as proud reminders of what<br />
Athens stands for, yet Athenians themselves note that words and rhetoric can be<br />
“a screen” for evil intentions.<br />
Euripides’ Medea, then, does show something about the Greeks to the<br />
Greeks, as Geertz would suggest. Among other values and attitudes certainly<br />
uncovered in his tragedy, Euripides simultaneously exposes and confirms the<br />
contradictory nature of rhetoric and the tension inherent in the very mode of<br />
communication that informed Athenian political, intellectual, and theatrical life.
30 Hillary Dixler<br />
Through the structural, thematic, and performative condition of rhetoric and<br />
words in Medea, Euripides articulates the same fluency and distrust, dependence<br />
and aversion to rhetoric, oratory, and words that Plato and Thucydides expose in<br />
their own works. When examined within that sort of contextual framework,<br />
Medea can be seen to embody the cultural milieu as it is echoed in these other<br />
remnants of contemporaneous Greek culture. In so doing, Medea not only tells<br />
one woman’s story to the Greeks, but their own story as well.<br />
References<br />
Arnott, Peter D. <strong>19</strong>91. Public and Performance in Greek Theater. London: Routledge.<br />
Arrowsmith, William. <strong>19</strong>59.“The Criticism of Greek tragedy.” Tulane Drama Review,<br />
III, 3: 31-57.<br />
Buxton, R.G.A. <strong>19</strong>82. Persuasion in Greek Tragedy: A Study of Peitho. Cambridge:<br />
Cambridge <strong>University</strong> Press.<br />
Euben,, J. Peter. <strong>19</strong>90. The Tragedy of Political Theory: The Road Not Taken. Princeton:<br />
Princeton <strong>University</strong> Press.<br />
Euripides. Medea. 2004. Trans. Rex Warner in The Wadsworth Anthology of Drama, ed.<br />
W.B. Worthen, pp. 66-78. Boston, MA: Wadsworth.<br />
Geertz, Clifford. <strong>19</strong>73. The Interpretation of Cultures. New York, NY: Basic Books.<br />
Plato. <strong>19</strong>89. The Collected Dialogues of Plato. eds. Edith Hamilton and Huntington<br />
Cairns. Princeton: Princeton <strong>University</strong> Press.<br />
Thucydides. <strong>19</strong>72. History of the Peloponnesian War. Trans. Rex Warner. London: Penguin<br />
Books.<br />
Wiles, David. 2000. Greek Theatre Performance: An Introduction. Cambridge: Cambridge<br />
<strong>University</strong> Press.<br />
Worthington, Ian, ed. <strong>19</strong>94. Persuasion: Greek Rhetoric in Action. London: Routledge
The Hippocratic View of Epilepsy<br />
and Brain Function<br />
Eleanor Thomas<br />
The Sacred Disease by Hippocrates is a fifth century treatise which attempts to<br />
explain the symptoms, causes, and prognosis of a person suffering from epilepsy.<br />
It also seeks to debunk claims by magicians and other sources considered<br />
disreputable that epilepsy is a “sacred disease,” ordained by the gods and<br />
curable through religious and magical expiation. In proposing a model of brain<br />
function, it asserts that epilepsy is a legitimate physical disease, like any other,<br />
and that it originates in the brain, when specific pathophysiological processes<br />
disrupt normal functioning.<br />
One can learn much about the cultural environment and prevailing attitudes<br />
towards illness from The Sacred Disease. Prognosis, and not treatment, is the<br />
primary focus of the text. Hippocrates makes powerful arguments about the usefulness<br />
of accurate prognosis to a physician, as it gives him credibility. However<br />
in the modern sense the utility of The Sacred Disease is very limited, since treatment<br />
is neglected in favor of prognosis. Though the author at times appears<br />
overly preoccupied with arguments against superstitious explanations for epilepsy,<br />
Hippocrates’ treatise on epilepsy is notable as an ancient model for how<br />
the brain works and consequences of disruption of function; he provides a logical<br />
and consistent system of cognition.<br />
Since Hippocrates argues so vehemently against the sacred origin of epilepsy,<br />
the meaning he ascribes to the term the “sacred disease” is a logical starting<br />
point in an analysis of this treatise. Is in fact epilepsy what ancient authors<br />
have in mind when they describe the “sacred disease?” There is much evidence<br />
that most did, and Hippocrates’ description of the disease is certainly very consistent<br />
with the modern conception of epilepsy. When Herodotus describes<br />
Cambyses, a Persian monarch, he states that “from his birth he was afflicted<br />
with a dreadful disease. . . which some call the sacred sickness” and also<br />
comments that “it would be by no means strange, therefore, if his mind were<br />
affected in some degree, seeing that his body labored under so sore a malady”<br />
(Rawlinson, <strong>19</strong>42: 227). Herodotus’ use of the term “sacred sickness” does not<br />
conclusively refer to epilepsy, as it merely identifies the “sacred sickness” as an<br />
illness seated in the brain, not definitely distinguishing it from other mental<br />
illnesses, such as mania.<br />
One of Hippocrates’ most convincing arguments for a biological origin of<br />
epilepsy is that although a number of different diseases can cause mental illness,<br />
31
32 Eleanor Thomas<br />
only one of them is considered sacred. He distinguishes the “sacred disease”<br />
from other mental disorders:<br />
Then again one can see men that are mad and delirious from no obvious<br />
cause, and committing many strange acts; while in their sleep, to my knowledge,<br />
many groan and shriek, others choke, others dart up and rush out of<br />
doors, being delirious until they wake, when they become as healthy and<br />
rational as they were before, though pale and weak. (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:141)<br />
When Hippocrates uses the term “sacred disease,” he clearly has something specific<br />
in mind and is not using this term to describe all mental illnesses (Temkin,<br />
<strong>19</strong>71:15-21). Hippocrates sees similarities between epilepsy and mania, which<br />
form the basis for his argument; since they appeared to be such similar<br />
disorders, it was inconsistent to define one as a disease with a physiological<br />
origin, and another as having magical derivation. Nevertheless, Hippocrates also<br />
suggests in this statement that despite the similarities between these disorders,<br />
people at the time were able to clearly discriminate between epilepsy and other<br />
mental diseases.<br />
Humoral theory dominated Hippocrates’ view of physiology and formed a<br />
basis for his treatments for illness. The ancients believed that four elements<br />
existed: earth, air, fire, and water. They then assigned two of four qualities to<br />
each of the elements. Earth was cold and dry; fire was hot and dry; air was hot<br />
and wet; and water was wet and cold. The ancients expanded this view of the<br />
physical world in order to explain physiological phenomena. They identified<br />
four humors and used the same qualities to describe these humors as they did the<br />
four elements. Accordingly, they described black bile as cold and dry, yellow<br />
bile as hot and dry, blood as hot and wet, and phlegm as cold and wet (Finger,<br />
2000:31). Two of these theoretical humors, phelgm and bile, are integral to the<br />
Hippocratic explanation of epilepsy.<br />
While the four humors provided a theoretical framework for pathophysiology<br />
and treatment, Jones points out in his essay on prognosis that the medical<br />
treatments available to a physician during the time of Hippocrates were very<br />
limited. In regards to two of the most common diseases, pneumonia and malaria,<br />
a doctor’s best recourse was to help the patient fight the disease by preventing<br />
irritation and providing comfort. Thus dietary regimens were paramount in the<br />
treatment of an illness. The goal of the physician was “to do good, or at least to<br />
do no harm” (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23: xiii). Hippocrates generally wished to alter the patient<br />
as little as possible. He advised against radical procedures, and his main objecttive<br />
was to counteract imbalances in a patient’s system resulting from an excess<br />
of any of the four humors (Pagel, <strong>19</strong>39:389). He did not regard sickness as a set<br />
of diseases with very specific symptoms, but believed all illnesses resulted from<br />
humoral imbalance.<br />
The first three sections of The Sacred Disease are almost wholly devoted<br />
to polemic, as Hippocrates discredits people who he believes are swindlers and<br />
quacks and blames them for the term “sacred disease.” Since they have no medi-
The Hippocratic View of Epilepsy and Brain Function 33<br />
cal knowledge, they are unable to effectively treat anyone suffering from epilepsy,<br />
and for this reason they chose to call it “sacred” so that they could not be<br />
blamed for their ineffectual treatment and would be “sheltered in superstition”<br />
(Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:141). Hippocrates describes their treatments as extreme, and at<br />
best, harmless. These treatments include directives against baths, against the<br />
consumption of many foods, and against wearing black or goats skins. The foods<br />
banned are foods that the Greeks generally believed were unhealthy for sick<br />
people, and wearing black was also considered to be a bad omen for all that are<br />
sick, since it is the “sign of death” (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:143).<br />
Hippocrates in fact believed that it was sacrilegious to blame the gods for<br />
epilepsy. Since the gods were completely holy, he did not believe that they<br />
would cause corruption in humans: “However, I hold that a man’s body is not<br />
defiled by a god, the one being utterly corrupt the other perfectly holy” and even<br />
if impurity exists in humans “a god is more likely to purify and sanctify it than<br />
he is to cause defilement” (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:149). In his invective against a superstitious<br />
view of epilepsy Hippocrates includes an interesting description of the<br />
symptoms of epilepsy. He states that men assigned blame to a different god for<br />
each of the signs of the “sacred disease”:<br />
If the patient imitate[s] a goat, if he roar[s], or suffer[s] convulsion[s] in the<br />
right side, they say that the Mother of the Gods is to blame. If he utter[s] a<br />
piercing and loud cry, they liken him to a horse and blame Poseidon. Should<br />
he pass some excrement, as often happens under the stress of the disease, the<br />
surname Enodia is applied. If it be more frequent and thinner, like that of<br />
birds, it is Apollo Nomius. If he foam[s] at the mouth and kick[s], Ares has<br />
the blame. (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:149)<br />
Though Hippocrates’ goal was not to describe the basic symptoms of epilepsy,<br />
he did so in a way that is very consistent with the modern conception of the<br />
disease—convulsions, cries, and foaming at the mouth.<br />
Hippocrates gives a complete and systematic description of what he<br />
believes to be the cause of epilepsy. According to him the defining feature of<br />
epilepsy is that it affects people who are phlegmatic but not bilious. He believes<br />
that it is a hereditary illness and that it begins in the embryo (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:151).<br />
The embryonic brain according to his philosophy undergoes a natural cleansing<br />
process while it is still in the womb, eliminating impurities before birth. If this<br />
process is well regulated and not disturbed, a normal infant will be born. However,<br />
if in the process of the brain driving out impurities, it eliminates too much,<br />
the infant will have a “diseased head” (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:155). If the reverse happens<br />
and there is too little purging, the brain becomes “congested” and the infant will<br />
be phlegmatic (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:157). Purging can still take place during childhood<br />
and happens when a child breaks out in sores or has excessive mucus. Children<br />
that do not undergo this process run the risk of developing a number of disorders.<br />
Excessive phlegm can make its way to the heart and veins, in the heart<br />
causing difficulty breathing and palpitations and in the bowels causing diarrhea.
34 Eleanor Thomas<br />
On the other hand, if it arrives in the veins, it results in the symptoms of epilepsy<br />
(Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:157-158).<br />
Hippocrates describes in detail how each of the symptoms of epilepsy can<br />
be caused by excess phlegm. For instance, speechlessness can occur by phlegm<br />
obstructing the entry of air into the veins or the brain. According to the Hippocratic<br />
view of physiology, when a person inhales a breath it goes to the brain<br />
first, then the stomach, then lungs, and then into the veins. The veins then<br />
disperse this air to the rest of the body, and it eventually ends up back in the<br />
brain. This flow of air causes intelligence and movement, and if it is interrupted<br />
so is cognition and movement of the limbs. Paralysis occurs when the flow of air<br />
in the veins is completely obstructed by phlegm, and if incomplete obstruction<br />
occurs the eyes may roll. Foaming at the mouth however occurs when the<br />
movement of air is disrupted in the lungs. As a result, the air bubbles and exits<br />
from the mouth. A patient defecates involuntarily when pressure is applied to<br />
the bowels, diaphragm, and liver, and this occurs when the flow of air through<br />
the body is disrupted. Kicking can also occur when the normal air flow is cut<br />
off, because phlegm “[rushes] upwards and downwards through the blood [and]<br />
causes convulsions and pain” (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23: 161). If the phlegm is abundant and<br />
viscous, a personal will die, but if the abnormal flow can be mixed with warm<br />
blood and diluted a person will gradually regain consciousness.<br />
Hippocrates’ explanation of the causes of epilepsy is so logical that it is<br />
impressively forceful, despite its inaccuracy. In his scheme each symptom is<br />
assigned a cause which is consistent with the underlying cause of the “sacred<br />
disease,” excess phlegm. He not only describes what happens, but he explains<br />
why. Hippocrates is then able to base his prognosis and treatment upon his proposed<br />
cause of the disease. In this respect, his methodology approaches contemporary<br />
scientific practice, even though his explanation, prognosis, and treatment<br />
are all based on false information. He used what tools were available to him,<br />
namely his senses, and the rest was left to his power of deduction.<br />
Prognosis held tremendous importance to Hippocrates, and he devotes<br />
much of The Sacred Disease to description of the general course of epilepsy. He<br />
makes predictions of the course of the disease for patients who suffer their first<br />
attack in various age groups. Before examining Hippocrates’ various prognoses<br />
for people suffering from epilepsy, it is worth investigating the Hippocratic attitude<br />
towards prognosis. In a time when effective treatment was limited, a physician’s<br />
credibility lay in his ability to predict what would happen to a patient having<br />
a given illness. Hippocrates even wrote a treatise entitled Prognosis in which<br />
he assigns a dual importance to prognosis; it not only gives a physician credibility,<br />
but it aids in his treatment because he will be able to predict future ailments:<br />
I hold that it is an excellent thing for a physician to practice forecasting. For<br />
if he discover[s] and declare[s] unaided by the side of his patient the present,<br />
the past and the future, and fill[s] in the gaps in the account given by the sick,<br />
he will be the more believed to understand the cases, so that men will confidently<br />
entrust themselves to him for treatment. Furthermore, he will carry out
The Hippocratic View of Epilepsy and Brain Function 35<br />
the treatment best if he knows beforehand from the present symptoms what<br />
will take place later. (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:7)<br />
Pagel argues that prognosis is given even greater value than diagnosis. He<br />
believes that the emphasis upon prognosis is a result of the inadequate treatment<br />
available at the time: “The physician, knowing the limitations of his art the<br />
comparatively small range of medical interference, makes prognosis the field of<br />
his special interest” (Pagel, <strong>19</strong>39:389).<br />
While it is certainly the case that physicians had a very limited repertoire<br />
of therapies, more general cultural factors may be involved in the Hippocratic<br />
preference for prognostication. Oracles played a very significant role in Greek<br />
society (Pagel, <strong>19</strong>39:390). They were routinely consulted before city-states went<br />
to battle and even before making mundane day-to-day decisions. Consequently<br />
high importance was placed upon prediction of the future, and it is not surprising<br />
that Greeks held their physicians to the same standard. The values and morays of<br />
Greek society cannot be ignored when examining the Hippocratic approach to<br />
medicine.<br />
Hippocrates predicts different outcomes for a patient with epilepsy based<br />
upon when he or she is first attacked and the severity of the attack. Small children<br />
have very different prognoses based up the degree of attack or flow of<br />
phlegm. If the phlegm is abundant and thick, then death is likely. The phlegm<br />
overwhelms small veins and causes the patient’s blood to coagulate. However, if<br />
the initial attack is minor the child will eventually recuperate, but will endure<br />
lasting, though slight deformation wherever the phlegm filled the vein, for<br />
instance the hand, eye, mouth or neck (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:163). He makes separate<br />
predictions for the old and the very old. People who are old are not killed by<br />
attacks of epilepsy due to the nature of their veins, which are large and filled<br />
with hot blood. Thus phlegm is not able to chill the blood and cause it to clot.<br />
The prognosis for the very old, however, is less optimistic—death or paralysis.<br />
Their veins are relatively empty and contain blood, which is thin and watery<br />
(Jones, <strong>19</strong>23: 165). Hippocrates here not only identifies very specific prognoses<br />
of people with a variety of different characteristics, but provides detailed explanations<br />
of the reasons for these prognoses which are consistent with his overall<br />
view of disease.<br />
Hippocrates regards epilepsy stemming from infancy as a special case. He<br />
believes that when the disease originates in infancy, it is nurtured, becoming a<br />
habit, able to occur with slight provocation by weather or wind. According to<br />
Hippocrates epilepsy is unique in infants because their brains are especially wet.<br />
Consequently phlegm can more easily accumulate there, and it is difficult for the<br />
body to remedy the large quantity of phlegm in this area through drying. In this<br />
category of people epilepsy becomes “chronic” and “incurable” (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:<br />
169). The brains of these people degenerate and they thus undergo seizures more<br />
often.
36 Eleanor Thomas<br />
In Hippocratic medicine the external environment plays an enormous role<br />
in induction and prevention of illness. An entire treatise is devoted to this<br />
notion, On Airs, Waters, and Places. Winds from certain directions at certain<br />
times are favorable. In the case of epilepsy the south wind is especially<br />
injurious, while winds from the north are considered beneficial. The north<br />
wind’s positive effect on epilepsy is attributed to its ability to remove wetness<br />
from the air and purify it. The south wind on the other hand is heavy, damp, and<br />
stagnant. Thus wind from the north is cathartic, while wind from the south<br />
exacerbates the phlegmmatic nature of epilepsy. Hippocrates concludes this<br />
explanation of the causes of epilepsy by reiterating his point that epilepsy is<br />
caused by natural causes, and is consequently not “sacred.”<br />
The Sacred Disease culminates with Hippocrates’ explanation of the functions<br />
of the brain:<br />
Men ought to know that from the brain and from the brain only, arise our<br />
pleasures, joys, laughter, and jests, as well as our sorrows, pains, griefs and<br />
tears. Through it, in particular, we think, see, hear, and distinguish the ugly<br />
from the beautiful, the bad from the good, the pleasant from the unpleasant<br />
. . . It is the same thing which makes us mad or delirious, inspires us with<br />
dread and fear, whether by night or by day, brings sleeplessness, inopportune<br />
mistakes, aimless anxieties, absent-mindedness, and acts that are contrary to<br />
habit. (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:175)<br />
Hippocrates uses epilepsy as a model for his conception of the brain. He attributes<br />
cognitive and sense functions to the brain, and when it is impaired during<br />
mental illness senses and thinking are impaired. Since someone suffering from<br />
the sacred disease loses consciousness, the defect must therefore emanate from<br />
the brain. Due to excessive wetness the brain becomes displaced, and this distorts<br />
hearing, sight, and speech.<br />
Hippocrates is able to expand his argument in order to include other mental<br />
ailments. For instance, the brain not only malfunctions as a result of excess<br />
phlegm, but copious bile can also cause madness. Whereas people with superfluous<br />
phlegm are rendered mute, those with excess bile become mad. They are<br />
“noisy” and “restless.” When someone has excess bile, it rushes to the brain and<br />
overheats it—it actually boils. Terror and anxiety associated with madness are<br />
results of this overheating of the brain. When the brain chills after it overheats,<br />
this also causes the patient some discomfort as well as memory loss. This process<br />
also occurs when the patient is sleeping; they wake up screaming at night<br />
and suffer from bad dreams (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:177). Mania reaffirms Hippocrates’<br />
analysis of epilepsy by illustrating what happens in the reverse, when there is<br />
too much bile rather than too much phlegm.<br />
After providing extra evidence for his theory, he restates his point<br />
regarding the importance of the brain:
The Hippocratic View of Epilepsy and Brain Function 37<br />
In these ways I hold that the brain is the most powerful organ of the human<br />
body, for when it is healthy it is an interpreter to us of the phenomena caused<br />
by the air, as it is the air that gives it intelligence. Eyes, ears, tongue, hands<br />
and feet act in accordance with the discernment of the brain. (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:<br />
183)<br />
According to Hippocrates’ model of cognition, air is responsible for intelligence,<br />
and its flow through the body is essential for human thought and awareness.<br />
Mania and epilepsy both stem from obstruction of the flow of air through the<br />
brain, either through the accumulation of bile or phlegm.<br />
Hippocrates provides few comments on therapy for epilepsy. His therapy is<br />
based on the premise that since epilepsy is not sacred, but a result of natural<br />
causes, it is treatable. Treatment consists of understanding the various causative<br />
factors of epilepsy and how weather and wind affect them so that their symptoms<br />
can be effectively treated. A physician can alleviate symptoms of epilepsy<br />
by manipulating the same factors that caused it. For instance, if a certain food is<br />
deemed harmful, then an epileptic would eat this food’s opposite. His central<br />
tenet is to antagonize the causes of epilepsy by utilizing the opposite:<br />
For in this disease as in all others it is necessary, not to increase the illness,<br />
but to wear it down by applying to each what is most hostile to it, not that to<br />
which it is conformable. For what is conformity gives vigour and increase;<br />
what is hostile causes weakness and decay. (Jones, <strong>19</strong>23:179)<br />
If Hippocrates’ therapy for epilepsy seems simplistic and vague, it is because his<br />
emphasis is not on therapy, either because that is not his or his readers’ interest<br />
or because there was little to say. Likely most common therapies for epilepsy in<br />
the ancient world were based upon superstitions, which Hippocrates sought to<br />
discredit.<br />
Hippocrates’ views on epilepsy are remarkably logical and consistent.<br />
They are based on the central tenet that there must be balance between the four<br />
humors and that imbalance in this system causes disease. After attributing epilepsy<br />
to an overabundance of phlegm, he describes how this works in the<br />
patient’s system. His style of thinking is characteristically Greek with its emphasis<br />
on deductive logic: if x is y, and y is z, then x is z. If phlegm is cold and wet,<br />
then if it accumulates it causes the patient’s veins to become cold and wet,<br />
which causes blood to chill and clot, which causes spasms and impairment<br />
wherever in the body the blood has clotted. He is also able to apply his method<br />
of deductive logic to illnesses associated with excess bile. Furthermore, he is<br />
able to incorporate his way of thinking into a model for the function of the brain.<br />
If epilepsy disturbs cognition and sensation and this deficit stems from the brain,<br />
then the brain must be critical for these two processes.<br />
Next he is able to identify the medium necessary for proper functioning of<br />
the brain—air. Its flow is essential to thought, and if something obstructs this<br />
flow, the brain’s functions are compromised. He assimilates this idea well with
38 Eleanor Thomas<br />
his idea of the phlegmatic origin of epilepsy. Phlegm must be the agent which<br />
causes the symptoms of epilepsy, through its disruption of air, the brain’s<br />
medium. According to Hippocrates’ logic a model and an understanding of the<br />
four humors, are all that are necessary to properly treat illness. If a physician<br />
understands the cause of disease in a patient, he can then easily inhibit the presumed<br />
cause of the disease and eliminate its symptoms. He is careful, however,<br />
to point out in his treatise that cases of epilepsy that have become habitual are<br />
not curable. He admits that there are limits to what a physician can do, but in<br />
general treatment according to his model will result in successful alleviation of<br />
the symptoms of diseases of the mind.<br />
The unity of Hipprocates’ explanation of the causes of epilepsy in The<br />
Sacred Disease is remarkable. He is able to integrate various mental disorders,<br />
humoral theories of disease, and brain function in order to create a model which<br />
completely explains the progression and pathophysiology of epilepsy, as well as<br />
the prognosis of patients suffering from it. He is able to use his own<br />
observations and deductive logic to infer how the brain might work. Although<br />
one purpose of The Sacred Disease is to discredit and refute superstitious and<br />
magical ideas concerning epilepsy, it also contains a remarkably logical,<br />
harmonious theory of physiology and pathophysiology.<br />
References<br />
Finger, Stanley. 2000. Minds Behind the Brain. Oxford: Oxford <strong>University</strong> Press.<br />
Herodotus. <strong>19</strong>42. The Persian Wars, trans. George Rawlinson. New York: Random<br />
House.<br />
Hippocrates. <strong>19</strong>23. The Sacred Disease. Trans. W.H.S. Jones. Cambridge: Harvard <strong>University</strong><br />
Press.<br />
Jones, W.H.S. <strong>19</strong>23. Hippocrates. Hippocrates. Cambridge: Harvard <strong>University</strong> Press.<br />
Pagel, Walter. <strong>19</strong>39. “Prognosis and Diagnosis: A Comparison of Ancient and Modern<br />
Medicine,” Journal of the Warburg Institute, Vol. 2 (<strong>19</strong>39), 382-298.<br />
Temkin, Owsei. <strong>19</strong>45. The Falling Sickness. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Press.
Dining with Death: An Analysis of Attic<br />
White-Ground Lekythoi and Athenian<br />
Notions of the Afterlife in Classical Greece<br />
Maia Peck<br />
Some of the most valuable and unusual visual records of Athenian concepts of<br />
the afterlife, the soul, and death in Classical Greece are Attic white-ground, funerary<br />
lekythoi from the sixth and fifth centuries B.C.E. Despite the fact that<br />
these polychromatic, ceramic oil vessels were a short-lived phenomenon that<br />
emerged out of Classical red-figure pottery (ca. 450-425 B.C.E.) (Cook, <strong>19</strong>60:<br />
172), and were predominant grave offerings in Athens only from circa 560<br />
B.C.E. until the end of the fifth century (Oakley, 2004: 9), to archaeologists and<br />
art historians alike, they are remarkable not only for the wealth of information<br />
they offer as tomb artifacts used for ritual libations and as burial gifts, but also<br />
for their uncommon iconography. Their imagery documents both the Athenian<br />
burial rites involving food and drink and the Attic notion of the deceased’s<br />
journey to the afterworld during the Classical period (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 107-8).<br />
Indeed, the white-ground, funerary lekythoi are especially notable for their<br />
depictions of tomb visits, unprecedented among pottery vessels of this type, and<br />
for their portrayals of the Greek soul bearers such as the ferryman Charon and<br />
the god Hermes (Beazley, <strong>19</strong>38: 8). Although these faded relics leave many<br />
questions unanswered, a few scholars have been able to surmise what social and<br />
religious factors, and what new Athenian attitudes toward death and the afterlife<br />
may have led to this deviation from the popular mythological subjects depicted<br />
on black- and red-figure funerary pots. By exploring issues of food and drink in<br />
relation to sixth and fifth century B.C.E. white-ground, funerary lekythoi, this<br />
essay aims to demonstrate that the elite Athenians during the Classical period<br />
conceived of their afterlife as a material reality.<br />
Examination of sixth and fifth century B.C.E. Attic white-ground, sepulchral<br />
lekythoi reveals that there was a deliberate attempt to link the world of the<br />
living with the world of the dead at a basic level. Their form and function are<br />
obviously utilitarian, even though they mainly served a funerary purpose, as is<br />
evidenced by the fact that their coat of delicate white slip proved unsuitable for<br />
everyday handling (Beazley, <strong>19</strong>38: 6). Contemporary Attic black- and red-figure<br />
types, which were more resilient than the white ground (Beazley, <strong>19</strong>38: 6), were<br />
popularly used for toiletry and household purposes, holding perfumes of scented<br />
oils and olive oil for cooking (Clark, et al., 2002: 112). From the abundance of<br />
39
40 Maia Peck<br />
pottery excavated at Attic gravesites, some dating as early as the middle of the<br />
eleventh century B.C.E., archaeologists can further infer that the ancient Athenians<br />
had a longstanding tradition of burying their deceased with lekythoi as well<br />
as other kinds of pottery such as ceramic storage vessels called neck-amphorae,<br />
and certain types of wine jugs called trefoil-mouthed oinochoai (Cook, <strong>19</strong>60: 7-<br />
9). Even if it is impossible to prove definitively why the ancient Greeks preferred<br />
to inter their dead with utilitarian objects, it is worth noting that the presence<br />
of these practical items unearthed in or near tombs suggests, at the very<br />
least, that there was a desire to transmit aspects of the living world to that of the<br />
dead.<br />
While it was common among many ancient civilizations to bury the dead<br />
with everyday objects, what is most notable and exceptional about the whiteground,<br />
funerary lekythoi is that they visibly tie these two antithetical states of<br />
existence. In a sense, these vessels are the medium that joins the realm of the<br />
living and the world of the dead; in some cases, they literally juxtapose living<br />
persons with the deceased. On one Athenian polychromatic, white-ground<br />
lekythos attributed to ‘Group R,’ a group of artists associated with the so-called<br />
Reed Painter (last quarter of the fifth century B.C.E.), the young man who sits<br />
on the base of the grave stele holding a spear is most likely an image of the<br />
deceased, what is known as an eidolon (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 128), while the young<br />
woman holding his helmet and another young man situated on each side are<br />
probably mourners (Osborne, <strong>19</strong>98: <strong>19</strong>2-<strong>19</strong>5). The warrior’s disconnected gaze<br />
and the fact that he and the two other figures do not seem to be aware of each<br />
other implies that, although all the individuals graphically share the same setting<br />
and picture plane, the central figure is in a state of remove, perhaps even in<br />
another dimension (Osborne, <strong>19</strong>98: <strong>19</strong>5). The tomb, which itself provides the<br />
central axis of the composition, is the connecting piece between the two levels<br />
of existence. As the renowned art historian Sir John D. Beazley succinctly<br />
remarks on a similar scene of a young woman visiting the grave of a soldier,<br />
“the tomb is the link in the picture” (Beazley, <strong>19</strong>38: 10). Nevertheless, the<br />
figures’ impression of detachment expresses both the sense of loss and the<br />
reality of the deceased’s departure from the living—two sentiments that pervade<br />
the imagery of Classical white-ground lekythoi.<br />
Unlike the mythological and domestic scenes that dominate the decoration<br />
of black- and red-figure types, the white-ground lekythoi, which appear to have<br />
drawn away from the dramatic narratives of mythical figures and creatures<br />
around 470 B.C.E. (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 125), tend to concentrate on funerary iconography.<br />
They depict intimate and “more contemplative scenes” (Osborne,<br />
<strong>19</strong>98: <strong>19</strong>0) from life of departing warriors, souls of the deceased at their tombs,<br />
visits to the tomb, and, in rare instances, the preparation of the dead (Garland,<br />
<strong>19</strong>85: 28), and the deposition of the body (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 35; Osborne, <strong>19</strong>98:<br />
<strong>19</strong>0; Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 107-8). Though the white lekythoi provide little visual<br />
evidence concerning the elaborate Greek burial rituals, that is, the “laying out of<br />
the body (prothesis), its conveyance to the place of internment (ekphora), and
Dining with Death 41<br />
finally the deposition of its cremated or inhumed remains” (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 21),<br />
scholars can infer from other kinds of Attic pottery and literary sources what<br />
role these vessels played in the funeral proper. During prothesis lekythoi filled<br />
with oil were placed around the bier that held the corpse, perhaps to purify the<br />
deceased and the living (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 26, 43; Oakley, 2004: 11). While there<br />
are few explicit descriptions of the significance of olive oil in the funerary<br />
context, the extensive usage of this substance in all sorts of religious rites,<br />
competitions, etc., as well as in major literary works indicates that the Greeks<br />
thought it possessed auspicious qualities. In the Odyssey, the “olive is the plant<br />
of civilization, whose shade covers Odysseus on his return to Ithaca. A stake of<br />
wild olive is used to blind the man-eating Cyclops.” Furthermore, in the great<br />
Panathenaic games, a jar of olive oil was awarded to the victors (Wilkins and<br />
Hill, 2006: 135). When the body or ashes were interred, white-ground lekythoi<br />
were also used for libations of oil (Burkert, <strong>19</strong>85: <strong>19</strong>4; Oakley, 2004: 206, 208)<br />
that were sometimes mixed with wine and honey (Burkert, <strong>19</strong>85: 72). In the fifth<br />
century B.C.E. Greek play The Persians by Aeschylus, “the queen brings milk,<br />
honey, water, wine, and oil and also flowers to the grave of the dead king”<br />
(Burkert, <strong>19</strong>85: 71). According to one late fifth century B.C.E. law from Iulis in<br />
Keos which prescribed that “up to three measures of wine and one of oil may be<br />
brought to the tomb” (Kurtz, <strong>19</strong>71: 200), there were also restrictions on the<br />
amount of oil given.<br />
Furthermore, white-ground lekythoi were burial offerings for the deceased,<br />
sometimes discovered piled inside the grave with other gifts around the body or<br />
broken and burnt with food offerings (holokautomata) (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 113;<br />
Oakley, 2004: 11) in special ditches called opferinnen (Kurtz, <strong>19</strong>71: 204; Garland,<br />
<strong>19</strong>85: 36). Indeed, a few Athenian white-ground lekythoi which portray<br />
broken vases by the stele suggest that some of the pots and food may have been<br />
purposefully destroyed so that they might symbolically “die.” Consequently,<br />
perhaps, they could then be accessible to the dead (Kurtz, <strong>19</strong>71: 215-16; Oakley,<br />
2004: 205) or could aid the deceased souls on their journey to the afterlife (Garland,<br />
<strong>19</strong>85: 113). Thus, archaeological excavations of Attic white-ground, sepulchral<br />
lekythoi together with ancient written sources further confirm that the<br />
Athenians of Classical Greece incorporated material substances from life into<br />
the world of the dead, the ekei, literally meaning the place “there” (Garland,<br />
<strong>19</strong>85: 128).<br />
Moreover, white-ground lekythoi are particularly valuable for the details<br />
they disclose about Athenian burial offerings, including those of food and drink.<br />
Many of the tomb visitation scenes portray one, two or three persons, mostly<br />
women, coming towards the stele bearing gifts (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 108). The most<br />
common funerary offering is a long, shallow basket, possibly crafted out of reed<br />
or cane, called a kaneon or kaniskion (Oakley, 2004: 203; Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 108).<br />
On one Attic piece by the Timokrates Painter, two women each carry one of<br />
these baskets, containing lekythoi and ribbons for decorating the stele or its base<br />
(Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: xvi, 111). The kaena contain vases (usually lekythoi), wreaths,
42 Maia Peck<br />
fruits, and sometimes eggs and cakes (Oakley, 2004: 203). Unfortunately, it is<br />
difficult for the most part to identify indisputably what foods were given to the<br />
dead. Speculation is primarily based on other archaeological findings, such as<br />
terracotta shaped fruits and eggs, and literary sources like Aristophanes’s<br />
Lysistrata which refers to honey-cakes called mellitouttata (Oakley, 2004: 208;<br />
Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 113). However, in a few instances pomegranates, bunches of<br />
grapes and eggs are distinguishable (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 113; Oakley, 2004: 206).<br />
Although the reasoning behind the offering of certain foods is also hard to<br />
validate, there are a few credible hypotheses. In the ancient Greek myth of the<br />
rape of Persephone, the daughter of Demeter (the goddess of grain and<br />
agriculture) must reside in the netherworld for half of every year after eating<br />
seeds of a pomegranate, a fruit of the dead. As a result, Demeter’s grief over her<br />
daughter’s absence from earth causes the cycle between winter and spring, the<br />
metaphorical death and rebirth of the seasons. (Grimal, <strong>19</strong>96: 359). From this<br />
famous myth, it is plausible to presume that the Greeks once associated the<br />
pomegranate with death and the afterworld, and likewise, it is appropriate to<br />
reason that they wished to bestow this fruit of the dead upon the deceased. In a<br />
series of 4 th century B.C.E. Totenmahl reliefs the pomegranate reappears in the<br />
funerary context; these death-feast reliefs commonly depict a man reclining with<br />
“a table beside him laden with various kinds of food, including cakes, fruit,<br />
pomegranates and eggs ” (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 70, 113). Yet, it is worth noting that<br />
these fruits do not exclusively denote death. According to the art historian John<br />
H. Oakley, the seeded nature of the pomegranate, and even that of the grapes,<br />
“makes them a sign of life and fertility, and like the wreaths and sprigs, their use<br />
in funerary cult signaled a hope for continuing life after death” (Oakley, 2004:<br />
206). The gifts of eggs, obviously symbols of birth and regeneration, most likely<br />
served a similar purpose to that of the pomegranate. Although it can never be<br />
known for certain, perhaps these foods were emblematic of the deceased’s soul<br />
entering a new state of existence. In this new state, the deceased were not mere<br />
shadows of their former selves, but were, in some way, still conscious entities<br />
that needed material sustenance from the earthly realm (Kurtz, <strong>19</strong>71: 204).<br />
This notion of the soul’s continuing existence after death is further implied<br />
in the portrayals of the offering of choai or libations for the grave (Kurtz, <strong>19</strong>71:<br />
150). One white-ground lekythoi depicts a liquid being poured from an alabastron,<br />
another type of oil and perfume container, at the grave (Oakley, 2004:<br />
206). Among several other grave visit scenes on white-ground lekythoi, the<br />
steles are also anointed with oil and garlanded as if they are the deceased who,<br />
“like the living, are anointed and wreathed for the festival” (Burkert, <strong>19</strong>85: 72). .<br />
On a piece by the Woman Painter (ca. 420 B.C.E.), one of the women to the left<br />
of the stele tips a hydria, a type of water vessel, and pours its contents into a<br />
phiale held by another female attendant (Oakley, 1004: 206; 209). Just as oil<br />
was thought to possess beneficial powers, water was viewed as a “primary<br />
cathartic element, especially water from the sea since it was considered less<br />
susceptible to pollution” (Kurtz, <strong>19</strong>71: 149). During prothesis it was used both
Dining with Death 43<br />
to purify the corpse and the living, and, as the above example illustrates, as a<br />
common liquid offering in honor of the deceased (Kurtz, <strong>19</strong>71: 149-150).<br />
Although there is little mention of the purposes these libations served for<br />
the Athenians, the existence of a cult to the dead and the numerous gestures of<br />
piety by means of burial gifts and annual funerary rites suggest that the libations,<br />
not to mention food, somehow nourished and mollified the deceased person’s<br />
soul (Kurtz, <strong>19</strong>71: 145; Burkert, <strong>19</strong>85: 72-73). In the Classical Athenian cult of<br />
the dead, souls were believed to retain some level of consciousness, a shadowy<br />
likeness of themselves when alive, and possibly a few faculties of a living<br />
person. The Roman rhetorician and satirist Lucian wrote in a diatribe against<br />
burial practices: “the dead are thought to be sustained by our offerings, and that<br />
without them they starve” (Kurtz, <strong>19</strong>71: 206). Of course the souls would not die<br />
if they were not fed; however, they could become angry and thereby retaliate<br />
against the living (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 120). It appears that the core reasoning behind<br />
the offering of food and drink is rooted in the ancient Greek religious concept of<br />
do ut des, that is, “I give that you may give”; the relations of the deceased performed<br />
acts of piety to the dead so that in return the deceased would help fulfill<br />
the requests of the living (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 120). Records of annual celebrations<br />
such as Genesia, Nemesia, Nekysia and Epitaphia also document how the<br />
Athenians continually sought to pay their respects to the dead. In short, the act<br />
of bestowing libations, food and other material gifts upon the dead was a display<br />
of familial piety, one of the most important virtues in Greek culture (Kurtz,<br />
<strong>19</strong>71: 73).<br />
In addition, choai may have also served as a means to contact and perhaps<br />
summon the deceased (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85:114). Instead of the dead being totally<br />
cloistered in their afterworld, oblivious to the happenings on earth, it appears<br />
that in the Classical Athenian cult of the dead the deceased could attain access to<br />
the world of living through their tombs (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 118). Many Attic whiteground<br />
lekythoi depict pots besides lekythoi, such as cups, aryballoi, kantharoi,<br />
oinochoai and pyxides being transported in the funerary baskets, standing at the<br />
base or on top of the stele, or being held by some of the people (Oakley, 2004:<br />
205, 208). Some of these vessels probably contained choai (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85:<br />
115). As the art historian Walter Burkert wrote, “as the libations seep into the<br />
earth, so it is believed, contact with the dead is established and prayers can reach<br />
them” (Garland, <strong>19</strong>84: 115). In general, choai, mostly composed of honey, milk,<br />
water, wine and oil, were typically poured at the tomb on the steps of its base or<br />
over the shaft (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 115). Unlike spondai, which usually refer to<br />
small libations of unmixed or mixed wine that were also drunk by the offerers<br />
(such as during the symposium), from pottery analysis and descriptions of<br />
libations in Classical Greek tragedy, choai seem to have been solely meant for<br />
the dead and for chthonic deities (Burkert, <strong>19</strong>85: 70-71; Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 115).<br />
Moreover, with spondai the liquid was poured in a controlled manner, whereas<br />
with choai the vessel’s contents were emptied entirely onto the ground (Burkert,<br />
<strong>19</strong>85: 70). To put it simply, this semantic difference between spondai and choai
44 Maia Peck<br />
suggests that the ancient Greeks tried to separate the living from the dead by<br />
performing different libation customs. In a way, the offering of choai, and even<br />
other foods given to the dead, helped remove the deceased from the living world<br />
by distinguishing the dead souls as “other” beings that drank special libations<br />
forbidden to living humans (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 110).<br />
This effort to distinguish the dead individual as an “other” being is further<br />
emphasized by depictions of the soul’s journey to the afterworld on Attic whiteground<br />
lekythoi (Sourvinou-Inwood, <strong>19</strong>95: 327). Unlike the iconography of<br />
other white-ground lekythoi that portray the soul in real-life settings, the representations<br />
of the soul guided by divine beings called psychopompoi (leaders of<br />
souls) portray the deceased entering into a new, alien state of existence, a mythical<br />
reality (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 52; Souvinou-Inwood, <strong>19</strong>95: 327). Yet unlike the<br />
representations of sphinxes and winged demons on preceding archaic<br />
monuments that convey a threatened response toward death, these Classical<br />
representations of the soul’s journey to the afterlife possess a remarkably<br />
empathetic sensibility (Osborne, <strong>19</strong>98: <strong>19</strong>2; Oakley, 2004: 144). Many of these<br />
crossings over to death scenes, the most common of which portrays the soul<br />
waiting on a bank alone and facing Charon as he guides his boat across the river<br />
Styx, which separates the worlds of the dead and living, capturing the pain of<br />
loosing a loved one, the natural unwillingness to die, and the acceptance of<br />
human mortality (Sourvinou-Inwood, <strong>19</strong>95: 322-23; Oakley, 2004: 144).<br />
Moreover, the psychopompoi are often depicted in a sympathetic light; in<br />
contrast to an early representation of Charon, which one scholar called<br />
“repulsive,” most often the ferryman is portrayed as a benevolent guide, caringly<br />
leading women, children and youths toward their final resting place (Garland,<br />
<strong>19</strong>85: 56). In some instances, a second bearer to the land of the dead, such as the<br />
god Hermes, is shown escorting the soul to the bank of the Styx where Charon<br />
awaits (Sourvinou-Inwood, <strong>19</strong>95: 305-6; Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 54). On another Attic<br />
white-ground lekythos (ca. 440-430 B.C.E.), Hermes sits on a rock while he<br />
waits for the woman to finish adjusting her hair before she finally departs to the<br />
netherworld (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 55; 57). More rarely, there are illustrations of the<br />
two divinities Hypnos (Sleep) and Thanatos (Death), who usually lead the souls<br />
of soldiers (Sourvinou-Inwood, <strong>19</strong>95: 326). Thus, although the number of<br />
portrayals of the soul’s journey to the afterworld on Classical white-ground<br />
lekythoi is small, probably approximately five percent, these vessels are key<br />
visual documents of the change in Athenian attitudes toward death, the chthonic<br />
gods, and the afterlife during the Classical period (Oakley, 2004: 144). Through<br />
these lekythoi we can trace the movement from a conception of the deceased<br />
and the afterlife as forbidding and frightening to a still apprehensive view<br />
toward mortality, but a more compassionate sentiment toward death and<br />
departure from the living world (Garland, <strong>19</strong>85: 122-23).<br />
While these Attic polychromatic, white-ground, funerary lekythoi from the<br />
sixth and fifth centuries B.C.E. never illustrate a scene set in the netherworld,<br />
their archaeological context and unusual iconography of tomb visits and of jour-
Dining with Death 45<br />
neys to the world of the dead offer many clues that permit scholars at least to<br />
catch a glimpse of the Classical Athenian notions of the afterlife as a material<br />
reality. In both their form and function they acted as medians between the living<br />
and deceased. They not only link the worlds of the living and the dead by portraying<br />
offerings of utilitarian objects and the nourishment of food and drink to<br />
the deceased, but they also visually join the two in their imagery of tomb visits<br />
and metaphorical crossings over to death. Even though these vessels did not outlast<br />
the end of the fifth century B.C.E. (they were replaced by another oil container,<br />
the fusiform unguentariaum), their intimate and moving scenes of departure<br />
strike an emotional chord that resonates even to this day.<br />
References<br />
Beazley, J.D. <strong>19</strong>38. Attic White Lekythoi. London: Oxford <strong>University</strong> Press, Humphrey<br />
Milford.<br />
Burkert. Walter. <strong>19</strong>85. Greek Religion. Trans. John Raffan. Cambridge: Harvard <strong>University</strong><br />
Press.<br />
Clark, Andrew J., Maya Elston, and Mary Louise Hart. 2002. Understanding Greek<br />
Vases: A Guide to Terms, Styles and Techniques. Los Angeles: Getty Publications.<br />
Cook, R.M. <strong>19</strong>60. Greek Painted Pottery. 3 rd Ed. London & New York: Routledge.<br />
Garland, Robert. <strong>19</strong>85. The Greek Way of Death. Ithaca: Cornell <strong>University</strong> Press.<br />
Grimal, Pierre. <strong>19</strong>96. The Dictionary of Classical Mythology. Trans. A.R. Maxwell-<br />
Hyslop. <strong>19</strong>86. Malden: Blackwell Publishing.<br />
Kurtz, Donna C. and John Boardman. <strong>19</strong>71. Aspects of Greek and Roman Life. Ed. H.H.<br />
Scullard. Ithaca: Cornell <strong>University</strong> Press.<br />
Oakley, John H. 2004. Picturing Death in Classical Athens: The Evidence of the White<br />
Lekythoi. Cambridge: Cambridge <strong>University</strong> Press.<br />
Osborne, Robin. <strong>19</strong>98. Archaic and Classical Greek Art. Oxford & New York: Oxford<br />
<strong>University</strong> Press.<br />
Sourvinou-Inwood. <strong>19</strong>95. ‘Reading’ Greek Death: To the End of the Classical Period.<br />
Oxford: Carendon Press.<br />
Wilkins, John M. and Shaun Hill. 2006. Food in the Ancient World. Malden: Blackwell<br />
Publishing.
46<br />
Column at Ephesus.<br />
Original photograph by Jennifer Grover. Used by permission.
Giton, Pederasty and Epic Self-Perception<br />
Matthew Nicholson<br />
In the Satyricon, Petronius depicts a series of events in the life of the hapless<br />
narrator, Encolpius. By and large these incidents consist of vague social misunderstandings<br />
that unilaterally escalate into full-scale debacles, which necessitate<br />
Encolpius’ hasty flight into similar disasters. Besides Encolpius, only the<br />
curiously subservient Giton appears in all extant portions, in which, more often<br />
than not, he attracts the attentions of one hopeful erastes after another. This perpetual<br />
cycle (i.e. the problems caused by the affections of these lascivious<br />
gentlemen) drives the narrative and provides the typically hazy transitions from<br />
one scene to the next. But to assert that Giton serves merely to advance the plot<br />
of the novel would be to ignore his more subtle and important role. To discern<br />
this narrative function, however, we must first turn back to Encolpius.<br />
Upon even the most cursory reading of the Satyricon, one notices Encolpius’<br />
proclivity to interpret the events of his life through the lens of classical<br />
literature. Hardly a chapter elapses in which he does not invoke the labors of<br />
Aeneas through Virgil’s epic, the rage of Achilles as set down in the Iliad, or the<br />
imprisonment of Theseus in the labyrinth. And in almost every instance Giton is<br />
either a participant in, or catalyst of, this epic self-perception. Though it is difficult<br />
to gauge Petronius’ complete intent as concerns Giton from the fragmentary<br />
text, in what remains of the work this superbly beautiful young man functions as<br />
Encolpius’ link to the epic past. Thus Giton unites various seemingly independent<br />
mythical overtones employed by the narrator. And as an approximation of a<br />
perfect Greek eramenos he facilitates Encolpius’ desire to affirm his participation<br />
in heroic society; the repeated coincidence of mythical and classical<br />
allusion with pedophilic interactions demonstrates Giton’s critical role as<br />
conduit into legend.<br />
Even at the very inception of what survives of the novel, we find the<br />
characters already imbuing their world with classical import, which appropriately<br />
centers around Giton. Having returned wearily from a debate through<br />
the labyrinthine cityscape, Encolpius yearns “to bring back the old method with<br />
Giton,” which implies (though vaguely, to be sure) Encolpius’ desire to return to<br />
a state of unfettered classical pederasty (Ch. 10, sec. 7). The historical and<br />
classical atmosphere intensifies when Giton describes his attempted rape by<br />
Ascyltos, Encolpius’ fellow con-artist: “He began to want to rend me of my<br />
honor, and when I started shouting, he drew his sword and said, ‘If you are<br />
Luctretia, you’ve found your Tarquin.’” (Ch. 9, sec 4-5).<br />
47
48 Matthew Nicholson<br />
This assumption by Giton of the role of Lucretia evinces his function as<br />
epic catalyst and plays directly into the fancy of Encolpius, whose outrage at this<br />
malefaction seems exceeded only by his readiness to act as an avenging Collatinus.<br />
The threat, however, of Encolpius “putting up his dukes in Ascyltus’<br />
face” is equally fictional (Ch. 9, sec. 6). The situation deteriorates into a<br />
squabble in which Encolpius and Ascyltos make veiled assaults on each other’s<br />
virility, but it also explicates the role of Giton by his marked absence from the<br />
content of their argument. In fact, on viewing the scene as a whole, we see that<br />
Giton, having thoroughly roused Encolpius into his mythic fervor, recedes<br />
quickly into the background of Encolpius’ fantasy. Clearly Encolpius exhibits<br />
genuine attachment to Giton throughout the novel, but this scene blurs the<br />
distinction between that attachment and Encolpius’ desire to assert his potency<br />
by using Giton as fodder for his role-playing.<br />
To cast Encolpius as the sole agent of these histrionics, however, would be<br />
a drastic underestimation of the role of Giton. Not only does he incite these<br />
scenae, but he often actively participates in them. Being constantly ushered back<br />
and forth between amorous pursuers, he frequently reverts to the role of Lucrece<br />
in half-hearted attempts to end the squabbles. In Chapter 94, for example, he<br />
attempts to cease the feuding of Encolpius and Eumolpus by first threatening<br />
and then acting out suicide. Thinking the attempt serious, Encolpius “seeks the<br />
road to death by means of the same iron sword” (Ch. 94, sec. 13). In addition to<br />
his threatening to enact the end of the Lucrece legend, a contemporary reader<br />
would most likely have noticed a striking similarity of this scene to the conclusion<br />
of typical Greek novels, or, even more likely, to the conclusion of the Pyramus<br />
and Thisbe tale told by Ovid, the corresponding line of which matches<br />
Encolpius’ dictum in tone and content: (“he fell on the ready steel sword,<br />
through the depths of his chest” ( Met.IV.162-3).<br />
A second episode in which Giton threatens self-mutilation makes even<br />
more explicit the link between his importance as sexual object and actor in<br />
mythical recreations. After fleeing by ship as stowaways in a missing piece of<br />
the text, they discover “that Tarentine Lichas was the captain of this particular<br />
ship, which bore wandering Tryphaena to Tarentum, and these were the very<br />
ones they were fleeing” (Ch. 101, sec. 1, 6). Presently they find themselves<br />
thrust into a scene vividly reminiscent of An Ephesian Tale by Xenophon, in<br />
which two kidnapped lovers shun the advances of their pirate captors and, at one<br />
point, plot shared death as a means to eternal union. Giton takes up the transgendered<br />
role of Anthia and furthers the parody by ironically suggesting that the<br />
pair “tie themselves together with their clothes together and plunge into the<br />
deep” (Ch. 102 sec. 16). Just as Anthia’s remarkable beauty saves her from<br />
certain death, so too “Giton disarmed the sailors with his wondrous appearance”<br />
(Ch. 105, sec. 7), yet again illustrating the importance of pederasty in these epic<br />
parodies. When a fight breaks out, Giton again attempts to end it in his<br />
accustomed fashion and “he held a cruel razor up to his genitals”, immediately<br />
halting the strife (Oakley, 2004: 144). In so doing, he centers the parody of An
Giton, Pederasty and Epic Self-Perception 49<br />
Ephesian Tale appropriately on his own genitals, the fear of harm to which<br />
reveals the motivations of the scene’s other players. Clearly, the success of his<br />
theatrics hinges upon his capability to function sexually, or, to be more specific,<br />
to remain in a state in which to be enjoyed by others.<br />
Faced with the very real threat of shipwreck, his love of Giton allows<br />
Encolpius to delve into a classical fantasy vivid and satisfying enough to prepare<br />
him for a regretless death. His “final” words exhibit a telling melancholy and<br />
show that Encolpius, with the aid of his tragic lover, believes in the sanctity of<br />
his pedophilic relationship to the extent that death threatens no misery:<br />
This we have earned from the gods: that they join us together in a shared<br />
death. But cruel fate does not allow it. Mark! The embrace of lovers will part<br />
the angry sea. Therefore, if you truly esteem your Encolpius, give me a kiss<br />
while you may; snatch this last joy from the speedy fates. (Ch. 114, sec. 8-9)<br />
Following the banquet at Trimalchio’s, Giton assumes several additional<br />
mythic personae in quick succession, resulting in another episode in which<br />
Encolpius takes a page from the classical canon. Having hastily fled the dinner,<br />
the protagonists wander through the labyrinthine environs, “dragging their<br />
bloody feet over protruding shards of jars,” a plight notably similar to that of the<br />
blinded Oedipus (Ch. 79, sec. 3). From there, Giton takes up the ostensible guise<br />
of Ariadne when Encolpius explains that “he marked all the pillars and columns<br />
with chalk, outlines which overcame the most pervasive evening,” just as Ariadne<br />
makes clear the way for Theseus to escape the labyrinth (Ch. 79, sec. 4).<br />
One issue that must presently be addressed is the conspicuous absence of<br />
commentary from Encolpius relating to this specific myth. Admittedly a reader<br />
might chalk this up to coincidence, assuming that the events occur without<br />
Encolpius realizing their mythical “potential”. And while indeed this supposition<br />
bears consideration, an alternative must also be appraised. Namely, Petronius<br />
uses narratorial authority to suggest that Encolpius’ habit of role-playing has<br />
become inextricably bound to his mental processes to the extent that his description<br />
of the events unconsciously inherits this epic significance. In other words,<br />
by employing a first person narration and relating the story in a manner that<br />
immediately invokes these myths, the reader feels as if Encolpius, as narrator,<br />
must be aware of the mythical aspect in order to convey it. As for Giton, while<br />
he does not explicitly facilitate the Oedipus correlation, the success of the<br />
Theseus / Ariadne reference hinges entirely on his androgynous appearance and<br />
classical foresight.<br />
Back at the inn, the tirelessly protean Giton assumes the role of Briseis and<br />
thereby allows Encolpius to act, however briefly, as a melancholic Achilles.<br />
Having abandoned Encolpius’ bed in the night, Giton awakes to Encolpius’<br />
blows and the clamor of his verbal joust with Ascyltos. Giton urges them not to<br />
forsake their friendship and prays “that no peasant in the tavern consider them<br />
Thebans” (Ch. 80, sec. 3), fanning the flames of Encolpius’ epic self-perception<br />
by this reference to Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes, in which Oedipus’ sons
50 Matthew Nicholson<br />
do battle. Encolpius adopts this language of military epic when he languishes in<br />
misery, citing, as the only reason against immediate suicide, that he “begrudges<br />
his enemy victory.” Additionally, he envisions Ascyltos, his “previously dearest<br />
ally,” as “haughtily indulging in his spoil,” explicitly recalling the militant<br />
despondence of Achilles in Book I of the Iliad (Ch. 80, sec. 7). To Petronius’<br />
audience, these lines must have recalled the following passage from the epic in<br />
which Achilles rails against the hypocrisy of Agamemnon’s theft of Briseis.<br />
And of such things you heed not, nor have any regard,<br />
and you even threaten that you will take my reward from me,<br />
for which I toiled greatly, and which the sons of the Achaeans gave me.<br />
The ensuing episode in which Encolpius laments his loss further demonstrates<br />
his assumption of epic importance. His speech smacks of epic themes, especially<br />
his request for mythic sporagmos—“Thus why cannot the earth engulf me in<br />
ruin?” And his implicit sympathy with the trials of Aeneas—“[f]oresaken, in the<br />
Greek city”—recalls Aen. II, 664-72 (Ch. 81, sec. 3). Giton plays a crucial role<br />
in perpetuating these fantasies since his effeminate charm and appearance allow<br />
him to serve as either male or female according to the mandates of the various<br />
myths chosen by Encolpius. Encolpius himself makes note of this fact when he<br />
ironically comments that “even he who thought he was a man considered him as<br />
much a girl” (Ch. 81, sec. 5), unaware that the indefinite pronoun in the phrase<br />
describes him as well. Having thus characterized Giton, Encolpius immediately<br />
realizes the opportunity to prove his manhood in the fashion of a mythical hero,<br />
proclaiming “either I am not a man and a free citizen, or I will avenge my<br />
wounds with guilty blood” (Ch. 81, sec. 6). Then he “girds his waist with<br />
sword” (Ch, 82, sec. 1) in the fashion of Aeneas. But when he encounters a<br />
soldier on his quest for vengeance, the guise is discovered, and having been<br />
disarmed Encolpius abandons the mythic mindset “despoiled, with vengeance<br />
cut short” (Ch. 81, sec. 4). The egregious metaphorical emasculation of the<br />
scene clarifies the function of Giton within the mythical context; Encolpius<br />
derives virility from Giton, and from that virility equates himself with classical<br />
heroes.<br />
This function of Giton as mythical catalyst is addressed later in the novel<br />
with continued reference to the rage of Achilles. The opening of Chapter 129<br />
weaves together the themes of pederasty, sexual potency, and epic heroism.<br />
Consider the following lines, in which Giton’s role as eramenos is identified as<br />
responsible not only for Encolpius’ manhood, but his stance as epic hero as well:<br />
“I do not know myself to be a man, I do not feel it. Dead and buried is that part<br />
of my body, by which once I was Achilles” (sec. 1). Here Encolpius expressly<br />
equates his ability to assume these roles as mythic heroes with his potency to<br />
perform sexually with Giton. Just as his surrender to the soldier in Chapter 81<br />
robbed him of masculinity and epic vengeance, here too his failure to perform<br />
the offices of a traditional Greek erastes deprives him of the satisfaction of continued<br />
fantasies.
Giton, Pederasty and Epic Self-Perception 51<br />
Encolpius’ tendency to equate sexual potency with classical literature<br />
becomes even clearer in the early Eumolpus episodes. Having recovered the<br />
snatched Giton only minutes before, Encolpius welcomes as a dinner guest<br />
Eumolpus, who, upon arrival, offers the following ill-omened praise of Giton: “I<br />
praise this Ganymede. Today will inevitably be well”(Ch. 82, sec. 3). Encolpius<br />
objects to the greeting ostensibly on the grounds that he fears a reoccurrence of<br />
the quarrel with Ascyltos. And while it is certainly not to be doubted that<br />
Encolpius fears the possibility of another kidnapping, the significance of this<br />
passage lies in the mythical framework in which it is presented. Indeed one<br />
might expect Encolpius to parry Eumolpus’ quip with a brief discourse on the<br />
myth of the rape of Ganymede, thus picking up the reference of the latter and<br />
expanding it into an expression of his fear in classical terms. But given<br />
Encolpius’ habit of conglomerating mythical roles with sexual potency, the<br />
refusal to frame the narrative mythically (at first a seemingly drastic oversight)<br />
corroborates this facet of his personality. Because Encolpius associates his<br />
ability to appropriate myth with his control over, and sexual enjoyment in,<br />
Giton, this problematic greeting should be viewed as an assault, every bit as<br />
important as those made by the soldier and his own physical limpidity, on his<br />
ability to simultaneously control his mythic imagination and his virility, of<br />
which sexual control over Giton is the primary source. By his immediate<br />
assumption of the role of the rapacious Zeus, Eumolpus not only challenges this<br />
sexual control but he also usurps the mythological authority on which it is<br />
founded.<br />
Not to be outdone, Encolpius quickly finds the opportunity to reassert his<br />
control over both Giton and classical allusion. When Ascyltos brings a policeman<br />
to search Encolpius’ quarters for Giton, Encolpius commands him “to go<br />
quickly under the bed and hook his hands and feet onto the straps, as once Odysseus<br />
clung to the ram,” then notes that Giton “outdid Odysseus by like cunning”<br />
(Ch. 97, sec. 4-6). Not only does this further expose Encolpius’ tendencies, but it<br />
also clarifies the occasions on which he makes use of them. In this episode he<br />
struggles to retain Giton, who is reduced, by the contention of the three suitors,<br />
to a mere sexual device; that he hides within the bed nicely completes the metaphor.<br />
As the novel nears its conclusion, a final incident confirms the link<br />
between Encolpius’ classical centricity and Giton’s erotic and androgynous<br />
beauty. In a fragment presumably preceded by a lament of impotence by Encolpius,<br />
Giton unleashes a singularly self-aware and bitingly sarcastic consolation:<br />
“Therefore I give you thanks on this account, because you love me with Socratic<br />
honesty. Not as untouched laid Aclibiades in the very bed of his teacher” (Ch.<br />
128, sec. 7).<br />
While this appears at first to be nothing more than a harmless zinger<br />
between lovers, a careful reading sensitive to the correlation between classical<br />
referencing and pederasty proves it to be a truly loaded statement. On the purely<br />
literal level this barb hits its mark in mocking Encolpius’ sexual flaccidity.
52 Matthew Nicholson<br />
Alcibiades, in Plato’s Symposium, commends Socrates’ chastity, recounting his<br />
own vain attempts to woo the philosopher; but here the sardonic praise instead<br />
exposes the obstruction of Encolpius’ will by physical defect. On the metaphorical<br />
level, Giton’s conceited simile announces the utter exclusion of Encolpius<br />
from the realms of classical literature; Encolpius fails to assert heroism by fulfilling<br />
his sexual cravings, yet can not enjoy a reputation of classical purity.<br />
Additionally, through this philerasteia, Giton subverts Encolpius within the<br />
sexual dynamic, assuming the role of the erastes and relegating Encolpius to a<br />
purely pathic erotic status. The various episodes of symbolic emasculation<br />
throughout the novel confirm this role reversal; Giton threatens to cut off his<br />
genitals but other characters stop him for want of them, while Encolpius, preoccupied<br />
with asserting masculinity and attaining sexual authority through a<br />
pedophilic relationship, repeatedly fails at the task.<br />
After scrutinizing these episodes in the Satyricon and having agreed on<br />
their participation in an extended metaphor linking child love and classical<br />
inheritance, the careful reader will continue to question Petronius’ stance on,<br />
and the moral issues surrounding, this theme. Unfortunately the fragmentary<br />
nature of the work discourages the attempt to assign a definite morality and a<br />
certain social commentary to the author. The tone of what remains also creates<br />
doubt; the uniformly ironic and sarcastic narrative voice adumbrates the<br />
distinction between objects of genuine cultural criticism and the phenomena that<br />
face Petronius’ biting wit as a result of circumstance. One possible interpretation<br />
with at least enough evidence to warrant its investigation is that Petronius<br />
includes pederasty among the luxuries which he implicates in societal decay.<br />
Given Encolpius’ impractical attitude and outdated ideals, Petronius frames him<br />
as a personality incongruous with Neronian society. By describing the typically<br />
unpleasant trials facing an individual of that disposition he implies that Encolpius’<br />
insistence to live mentally in a bygone era (and the pederasty that lies at<br />
the heart of his willful self-deception) prohibits him from fully participating in<br />
contemporary civilization. If Petronius is in fact calling this very attitude to task,<br />
then assuming that he takes issue with pederasty does not overstep the bounds of<br />
common sense and sensitive readership. Additional episodes lend support to this<br />
interpretation. For example, Eumolpus’ rehashing of Lucan’s Bellum Civile,<br />
which attempts to yoke mythology with very recent history, supports the argument<br />
that Petronius disapproves of purposeless clinging to classical ideology. It<br />
should also be noted that Eumolpus, a symbol of the epic poet having outlived<br />
his utility, praises pederasty in his account of the Pergamine boy and yet denies<br />
such a beloved topic the honor of his incessant versification.<br />
Of the myths that Petronius weaves into the Satyricon, the two most structurally<br />
important and ubiquitous are those of the wanderings of Odysseus and<br />
the rage of Achilles. Encolpius wears these masks throughout. As Achilles, he<br />
seeks Giton as the reward for, and embodiment of, his masculinity, and as<br />
Odysseus, he labors to abandon his nomadic life style and eliminate the<br />
bothersome suitors who perpetually ply Giton with blandishments as well as
Giton, Pederasty and Epic Self-Perception 53<br />
force. And while we cannot responsibly assign a moral stance to Petronius based<br />
on the extant text, we may yet make conjectures about his intent in employment<br />
of mythic cycles. The Odyssey ends with comedic union and the restoration of a<br />
divinely appointed kingdom, while the Iliad ends with the destruction of a<br />
legendary city. In the Satyricon, Petronius depicts a new Ilium, one not brought<br />
low by the strength of legendary heroism or war, but rather decaying from the<br />
inside with rotten and vapid luxury. As it stands now, the text demonstrably<br />
leans towards a negative portrayal of pederasty as a once divine institution<br />
having degraded into a social ill, by which men are made slaves to libido and<br />
carry themselves around pretty boys as if having guzzled draughts of satyrion.<br />
References<br />
Petronius. <strong>19</strong>97. Satyrica. Trans. Branham, R. Bracht and Daniel Kinney. <strong>University</strong> of<br />
California Press.
54<br />
Tomb of Iltutmis, 1235, Qutub Minar complex, Delhi, India.<br />
Original photograph by Kam Sripada. Used by permission.
“Meting Out” 1 the Bones of<br />
Heroes in Ancient Greece<br />
Amanda Earl<br />
Those who won the worship of the ancient Greeks can be as enigmatic and difficult<br />
to study as the events of Greek history itself. There is much debate surrounding<br />
the dates and circumstances of the establishment of ancestor and hero<br />
cults and the transferal of heroic bones in ancient Greece. Some scholars have<br />
argued that the claim to or appropriation of a mythological or epic hero by a<br />
region in the seventh or sixth century B.C.E. served primarily geopolitical or<br />
propagandistic purposes. Others have challenged this analysis by pointing out<br />
the “internal” circumstances and collective identity of the city-state at the time<br />
of the appropriation (De Polignac, <strong>19</strong>95). Despite this debate, the involvement<br />
of heroes of various types in the telling of history aids one’s understanding of<br />
the emergence of the archaic Greek city-state if viewed from a more<br />
comprehensive viewpoint that takes into account both the political and<br />
psychological changes of the Greeks during the 6 th century B.C.E. By examining<br />
the context of heroic bone transferals in Herodotus and Plutarch, it can be<br />
surmised that such “cult warfare” in places like Sikyon, Sparta, and Athens<br />
occurred as city-states tried to cope with the changing power dynamics of this<br />
period. By “meting out” a particular currency of power, namely the bones of<br />
heroes, powerful city-states were able to justify themselves both politically and<br />
religiously.<br />
Based on archaeological evidence Carla Antonaccio has concluded that<br />
contrary to the bias Homeric epic spreads, early cults were not necessarily hero<br />
based but rather tomb based, more kinship or family-oriented, and shorter in<br />
duration (49). This distinction provides a new perspective on the establishment<br />
of hero-cult because it points to the development of archaic Greek society as a<br />
whole. Whereas in the Bronze Age and into the Iron Age “tomb cult” and<br />
certain burial practices such as tomb reuse represented the reverence of the<br />
family for their own dead individual or ancestor, with the emergence of the citystate<br />
and political consolidation in archaic Greece, respect for individual<br />
families produced tension and gave way to a need for a more communal form of<br />
worship (Antonaccio, <strong>19</strong>93: 49-50; De Polignac, <strong>19</strong>95: 132-133).<br />
Heroes are different from leaders of a community, though often founders<br />
of a city (archegetai) and extremely popular political figures are compared or<br />
1 Hdt. (1.67, 35).<br />
55
56 Amanda Earl<br />
likened to heroes. According to archaeological evidence, hero cults did not<br />
appear until around the late 8 th and early 7 th centuries, and were not centered on<br />
actual burial and tombs (Antonaccio, <strong>19</strong>93: 54). Instead of directly continuing<br />
from earlier worship of ancestors as some have thought, hero cults seem to have<br />
been inspired by Homeric epic and also to have been dependent “on differences<br />
in power relations within these regions and competition among their communities”<br />
(Antonaccio, <strong>19</strong>93: 61). Hero worship was more widespread and “corporate;”<br />
the objects were named, famous, and given a special sanctuary/place of<br />
worship and enduring reverence. Thus with the spread of epic poetry, pottery,<br />
and pan-Hellenic festivals and games, mythical heroes became accessible to all<br />
of Greece and so became available for use as currency or commodity in the<br />
ideological warfare of power struggles.<br />
A growth in pan-Hellenism as well as the growth of colonization and tyranny<br />
accompanied the growing population, wealth, and colonization of the 7 th<br />
and 6 th centuries. The structure of society was changing. Whether a certain land<br />
was being conquered (e.g., Messenia) or looking to conquer (e.g., Sparta), individual<br />
kings gave way to powerful aristocratic families and tyrants who were<br />
trying to satisfy citizens whom they might or might not have been related to. A<br />
new kind of hero was needed. More inclusive heroes upon whom might be conferred<br />
“a heroic identity derived from the myths of their region or even of a particular<br />
canton of that region” were needed (De Polignac, <strong>19</strong>95: 140). A cult<br />
“establish[ed] a link between the previous and the existing masters of the land<br />
and, through the sanction that the past thereby seemed to provide, legitimated<br />
the present state of things” (De Polignac, <strong>19</strong>95: 140). As new “upstarts” such as<br />
the tyrant Kleisthenes of Sikyon came onto the scene pushing for social reform,<br />
they were looking for ways to legitimize their own power and their reforms<br />
(Sealey, <strong>19</strong>76: 45). But hero-worship involved religious sanction and the whole<br />
community, and so only in the cases of well-sanctioned leaders or groups that<br />
established enduring political prestige was the currency of heroes valuable.<br />
The actions of Kleisthenes of Sikyon stand as a good example of the tyrant’s<br />
attempt to restructure social hierarchies and their objects of reverence in<br />
the face of changing power dynamics (though in his case this restructuring was<br />
never fully accomplished). It is significant that Herodotus describes the actions<br />
of Kleisthenes in the context of the emergence of democracy in Athens (a major<br />
political change) under Kleisthenes’ own grandson, Kleisthenes of Athens. In<br />
this way hero transport to Sikyon is not successful in itself, but is used by the<br />
historian only as a foil for what will happen in Athens and elsewhere. He begins<br />
by stating that through his tribal reforms Kleisthenes of Athens was “imitating”<br />
the actions of his grandfather in Sikyon (Herodotus.I.67). This makes sense if<br />
one is to interpret both of their tribal reforms as anti-aristocratic. Because the ten<br />
new tribes of Athens were geographic, they allowed the people to begin to identify<br />
themselves according to demes instead of patronimically, encouraging a certain<br />
leveling of the Athenian population. In the same way, Kleisthenes of<br />
Sikyon, a pre-Dorian champion as Sealey would describe him, had renamed the
“Meting Out” the Bones of Heroes in Ancient Greece 57<br />
three traditionally Dorian tribes and added a new “leader” tribe, the Archelaoi,<br />
in which he placed himself. Thus his actions too had weakened the aristocracy<br />
and replaced it with a more state-oriented tyranny. But his were more mocking<br />
than genuine, more selfish than revolutionary.<br />
The transferal of heroic bones involved in Kleisthenes of Sikyon’s rise to<br />
power is also portrayed by Herodotus in a way that serves to underscore and<br />
praise the eventual rise of isonomia in Athens (De Polignac, <strong>19</strong>95: 147; Boedeker,<br />
<strong>19</strong>93: 172). Because Argos was a rival of Sikyon in the time of Kleisthenes’<br />
tyranny, the tyrant not only banned from the city Homeric rhapsodes who tended<br />
to glorify Argos, but he also sought to drive out the Argive hero Adrastos from<br />
Sikyon and replace him with a borrowed hero, Melanippus of Thebes. It does<br />
not matter much that at the time Argos was promoting its Achaean history. The<br />
appropriation of a new hero was needed by Kleisthenes anyway, not only to<br />
spite the Argives, but also as affirmation for his state as a whole that the change<br />
he was bringing about was legitimate. This endeavor intended to serve two purposes:<br />
both to claim supremacy over Argos (rather than to distinguish Sikyon<br />
from Argos) and to further unify the citizenry under a new leader. But it was not<br />
one-sided, points out De Polginac, since recent discoveries in the agora of Argos<br />
point to a “heroon of the Seven against Thebes’” erected at around the same<br />
time as the activities of Kleisthenes. Thus at this time “cult warfare” was developing<br />
not simply as a conniving maneuver to be used by the arrogant tyrant, but<br />
as a legitimate currency through which to negotiate (or fight over) power relations.<br />
Yet the larger picture is the more important one: whatever Kleisthenes’<br />
personal or political motives, he had to “contrive” to secure the bones of a new<br />
hero because the endeavor was not completely legitimate according to the dominant<br />
religious authority at the time, the oracle at Delphi, and therefore<br />
according to the people (Herodotus.I.67). The oracle actually opposes the<br />
tyrant’s intention in Herodotus, and indeed a cult is never really established for<br />
Melanippus, nor do Kleisthenes’ new tribes endure long after his death. As<br />
McCauley states: “Negative responses are given, as a rule, to impious requests”<br />
(<strong>19</strong>99: 92). The historian ends the account of Sikyon by adding that the<br />
“Sikyonians” themselves (and not a specific leader) kept the names of the tribes<br />
for sixty years after the tyrant’s death and then renamed them after their old<br />
hero, Adrastus. (Herodotus.I.68) Clearly the new hero was never fully accepted<br />
into the society; the people never changed their identification from Adrastus to<br />
Melanippus and thus Kleisthenes’ actions were never fully justified. This<br />
“heroic manipulation” ultimately failed, points out Herodotus, and a similar<br />
endeavor by a specific leader does not succeed until Kleisthenes’ grandson at the<br />
end of the same century establishes “isonomia” and his city-state eventually<br />
becomes worthy in the eyes of the oracle and of Herodotus of a “democratic”<br />
hero (Theseus) and eventually an empire.<br />
The instance of the transferal of Orestes’ bones in Herodotus is most interesting<br />
when viewed, as Deborah Boedeker suggests it should be, as a means of
58 Amanda Earl<br />
contrasting Sparta with the state of Athens in the mid-sixth century (<strong>19</strong>93: 172).<br />
Furthermore, as a transferal by the people, this acquisition for Sparta stands as<br />
an example of the successful exchange of the currency of bones as opposed to<br />
the Sikyonian example. By the time of the Persian Wars Sparta was arguably the<br />
most powerful city-state in Greece. Yet it was the changes Lycourgos instituted<br />
that led to Sparta’s good government and consequently its acquisition of Orestes’<br />
bones. When Herodotus introduces Sparta’s development of good laws or<br />
eunomia, it is right after he finishes describing the rise to power of Peisistratos<br />
in Athens, a rise which Boedeker describes as “a mere sham concocted by a selfserving<br />
tyrant (a scheme even worse than the hero cults manipulated by Kleisthenes<br />
of Sikyon)” (<strong>19</strong>93:172). The same word even, “contrivance,” is used to<br />
describe the tyrant’s plot; he makes hostages of some Athenians, expelling them<br />
from the city, and he digs up dead bodies in Delos (Herodotus.I.63). All this certainly<br />
stands in contrast to the more popularly sanctioned actions of the government<br />
of Sparta.<br />
Lycourgos is a good example of a type of political hero of Sparta. While<br />
not much is known of his real person or date, his figure is credited by ancient<br />
authors for much of the structure of Spartan society: similar to cult practices,<br />
Spartan boys learned together and ate together in common mess halls called<br />
syssitia and the society was very communal. Before Lycourgos, Spartans “had<br />
been the very worst governed people in Greece, as well in matters of internal<br />
management as in their relations towards foreigners” (Herodotus.I.65;<br />
Boedeker, <strong>19</strong>93). But by the time this reformer who was sanctioned and even<br />
praised at Delphi (the priestess says she hopes he will “prove a god”), indeed,<br />
Sparta had in place eunomia mediated by the Great Rhetra which gave a certain<br />
power to the people (Herodotus.I.65). Herodotus even says:<br />
On the death of Lycourgos they built him a temple, and ever since they have<br />
worshipped him with the utmost reverence. Their soil being good and the<br />
population numerous, they sprang up rapidly to power, and became a<br />
flourishing people. In consequence they soon ceased to be satisfied to stay<br />
quiet. (Herodotus.I.66)<br />
It is only when Sparta is thus well-governed and able to look to foreign affairs<br />
that it develops the need to acquire new bones and the ability to do so!<br />
It is then that, having acquired Messenia, Sparta looks to conquer the land<br />
it has not been able to, the land of Tegea. While the oracle has made them “confident”<br />
of their ability to “enslave,” they are not conniving but endeavor to collectively<br />
“mete out” or take action themselves positively to fulfill the oracle.<br />
The point is that the Spartans do make good out of the oracle whereas the<br />
Sikyonians do not. Herodotus does glorify Sparta for its good rule and<br />
aristocratic ideals, but according to the facts they deserve this praise furthermore<br />
because they acquire their power honestly. They get a fairly enigmatic answer<br />
when asking the oracle how to conquer Tegea, but an Agathoergos, one of many<br />
knights of Sparta whose job it was to do good for “the State,” interpreted the
“Meting Out” the Bones of Heroes in Ancient Greece 59<br />
oracle “by his own wisdom” and brought Orestes’ bones home for the benefit of<br />
all (Herodotus.I.68).<br />
In this case, a representative of the “good” people of Sparta carried out the<br />
transferal which was made legitimate in part because, as Boedeker points out,<br />
Tegea did not even know the bones existed (167). Tegea had no need for them.<br />
Sparta, on the other hand, whether the Pelopid dynasty was native to Lakonia or<br />
not (as Boedeker asserts it was), earned the right to have the bones because they<br />
needed them to justify and legitimate the power they demonstrated in getting<br />
into the position to obtain the bones in the first place. In other words, “Herodotus’<br />
account implies that the hero simply accomplishes what he was sought to<br />
do” (Boedeker, <strong>19</strong>93: 165). Rather than simply announcing a change in its foreign<br />
policy from conquest to alliance (by identifying with the Achaean population<br />
of the Pelopponese), the hero acquisition fulfilled an “internal” demand<br />
(Boedeker, <strong>19</strong>93: 168). Yes, by acquiring the enemy’s hero the power was transferred<br />
from Tegea to Sparta and Sparta might have tried to duplicate this by<br />
transferring the bones of Teisamenos from Helike (D.M. Leahy in Boedeker,<br />
<strong>19</strong>93: 166). However, the transferal of bones is only a symbol or metaphor for<br />
the transferal of power: “modern distinctions between sacred and secular (in this<br />
case, propagandistic) motives do not apply to archaic Greek use of religious<br />
conventions. Cynical manipulation of hero cult is unlikely for any sixth-century<br />
polis . . . especially for Sparta, whose ‘religiosity’ is so abundantly documented”<br />
(Boedeker, <strong>19</strong>93: 166).<br />
Because of “social and political problems” within the state (such as tensions<br />
between aristocratic families and economic/land reforms, struggles<br />
between kings and ephors), Sparta both needed a claim to power in the<br />
Pelopponese but more so to power and support within the city itself. The bones<br />
did not give them actual power over others, but rather reaffirmed the power they<br />
had gained while more importantly satisfying the people of the city-state by<br />
establishing a national identity with which they could all identify. This transferal,<br />
then, “can be seen as a way to guarantee Spartan military superiority by<br />
installing a hero who transcended familial claims, in complete accord with the<br />
spirit of the ‘constitutional’ reforms” (Boedeker, <strong>19</strong>93: 169). Sikyonian society<br />
had never been placed before the desires of its leader; but the people of Sparta<br />
were able to reassert their national identity by installing a hero who was truly<br />
national not because he represented the autochthonous origin of the Spartans,<br />
but because he had no ancestral link to any leading family (Boedeker, <strong>19</strong>93:<br />
170). It is convenient that this same hero also showed Argos that Sparta was<br />
becoming a formidable power in the Pelopponese.<br />
And so the successful appropriation of heroes, as De Polignac points out,<br />
demonstrates that the city-state and its leader are justified religiously and politically<br />
(for the two go hand in hand in ancient Greece) and therefore serves a psychological<br />
purpose for the leader and his state. A political reform or a change in<br />
government is justified by virtue of its effectiveness; the bones of a hero only<br />
reinforce its legitimacy. It is not that the citizenry of these states or Herodotus
60 Amanda Earl<br />
naively believe in the magical power of bones, per se. As Barbara McCauley<br />
points out when describing the transferal of Orestes’ bones to Sparta, “it is not<br />
the bones themselves which are important so much as the fact of their possession.<br />
Once a cult has been established in the newly relocated hero’s honor, it is<br />
assumed that the hero himself will lend his support to his new worshippers”<br />
(<strong>19</strong>99: 95). Sikyon never really conquered Argos: they were rivals. But both<br />
Sparta and later Athens did gain enough political and territorial power to appropriate<br />
by their own virtue other lands’ heroes.<br />
Again a contrast is drawn between Sparta and Athens during this period.<br />
Sparta was superior to Athens in the time of Croesus, as is shown by the juxtaposition<br />
in Herodotus of Lycourgos with the rise to power of Peisistratos<br />
(Boedeker, <strong>19</strong>93: 173). This is why Croesus ultimately chooses to ally with<br />
Sparta instead of Athens to fight the Persians. It is not until after the Persian<br />
Wars and the Battle of Marathon that Athens, enjoying isonomia, will be able to<br />
appropriate a newly “democratic” hero (De Polignac, <strong>19</strong>95: 147). While the<br />
transferal of Theseus’ bones from Scyros to Athens can be seen as more<br />
imperial and aggressive than Sparta’s acquisition of Orestes’ bones, both are<br />
examples of powerful city-states acquiring renown and divine sanction because<br />
they have enough political and social organization to do so. Both also involve<br />
transcendence of the political body over the elite. De Polignac mentions<br />
Kleisthenes’ of Athens preliminary hero manipulations as a beginning of the<br />
consolidation of people-powered government in Athens. He says that:<br />
. . . the figure of the king Erechtheus and that of its political founder, Theseus,<br />
were both remodeled in conjunction with the image of the foundation of<br />
the city . . . Kleisthenes brought Erectheus ‘down’ from the acropolis into the<br />
new space shaped by isonomia by making him the eponymous founder of one<br />
of its ten tribes, and the simultaneous diffusion of representations of the cycle<br />
of myths about Theseus seems to have been inspired by the same antityrannical<br />
ideology. (De Polignac, <strong>19</strong>95: 147)<br />
Just as Sparta had embarked earlier in the sixth century on an anti-tyrannous<br />
campaign in the Pelopponese, so now Athens, as a growing imperial power is<br />
trying to assert its identity as a polis inclusive to all its citizens (though not to its<br />
kleruchies such as Scyros). “With the help of a divinely sent omen,” Kimon finally<br />
brings back the bones of Theseus to Athens by his own might and good<br />
sense when waging battle in Scyros (Plutarch in McCauley, <strong>19</strong>99: 87). And<br />
whether the oracle was faked by Kimon for his own advantage or not, the citizens<br />
of Athens were at a point where they were proud of their government, tired<br />
of being victims, and desiring to assert their authority: they needed justification<br />
and affirmation of themselves.<br />
Thus while the transferal of Theseus’ bones might have afforded Kimon<br />
political advantages through restoring pride in the government and Miltiades’<br />
victory at Marathon, there was clearly a reason why the Athenian citizens were<br />
vulnerable to such propaganda at this time. Not only did the men of Athens
“Meting Out” the Bones of Heroes in Ancient Greece 61<br />
desire praise themselves for the Battle of Marathon and their subsequent military<br />
actions, but they needed and were able to obtain validation of their territorial<br />
claims by essentially “demanding the submission” of Scyros in the affair<br />
(McCauley, <strong>19</strong>99: 95). Thus, both the external and the internal political and<br />
psychological demands of the state of Athens required the transferal of bones,<br />
and consequently of power at that time (Boedeker, <strong>19</strong>93: 173). Just as the<br />
Spartans had become “masters of most of the Pelopponese” by the Persian Wars,<br />
so Athens had become much more of a centralized, imperial city by the time of<br />
the Pelopponesian Wars (Herodotus.I.68).<br />
The bone transferals illustrate this dynamic change in power in Herodotus.<br />
When religiously sanctioned power was obtained by a leader or body and its territory,<br />
these transferals were successful and represented legitimate exchanges of<br />
a kind of symbolic currency between the emerging city-states or poleis (Shapiro,<br />
<strong>19</strong>99: 99). More than mere examples of political propaganda, these exchanges<br />
are important because they demonstrate the tension and changing dynamic<br />
which grew within the city-state and then between states as each region<br />
embarked on a kind of search for self. Both religious and political, these<br />
incidences are examples of the new need for divine sanction of territorial and<br />
ideological conquest as well as for political and social group identification and<br />
affirmation at this point in Greek history (Boedeker, <strong>19</strong>93: 173). The possession<br />
of a famous mythological hero gave to Sparta and Athens the psychological and<br />
religious sanction they were seeking in the domination of “others.” Thus the<br />
worship of heroes was intimately related with practical concerns of the state and<br />
its citizens.<br />
References<br />
Antonaccio, Carla. <strong>19</strong>93. “The Archaeology of Ancestors,” in Cultural Poetics in<br />
Archaic Greece: Cult, Performance, Politics. Ed. C. Dougherty and L. Kurke, pp.<br />
46-70.<br />
Boedeker, Deborah. <strong>19</strong>93. “Hero Cult and Politics in Herodotus: the Bones of Orestes,”<br />
in Cultural Poetics in Archaic Greece: Cult, Performance, Politics. Ed. C.<br />
Dougherty and L. Kurke, pp. 164-177.<br />
De Polignac, Francois. <strong>19</strong>95. Cults, Territory, and the Origins of the Greek City-State.<br />
Trans. Janet Lloyd. Chicago.<br />
Dougherty, Carol and Leslie Kurke. ed., <strong>19</strong>93. Cultural Poetics in Archaic Greece: Cult,<br />
Performance, Politics. Cambridge.<br />
Hägg, Robin., ed. <strong>19</strong>99. Ancient Greek Hero Cult. Stockholm.<br />
Herodotus. <strong>19</strong>42. The Persian Wars. Trans. George Rawlinson. New York.<br />
McCauley, Barbara. <strong>19</strong>99. “Heroes and Power: The Politics of Bone Transferal,” in R.<br />
Hägg, 85-98.<br />
Sealey, Raphael. <strong>19</strong>76. A History of the Greek City States: 700-338 B.C. Berkley.<br />
Shapiro, H.A. <strong>19</strong>99. “Cult Warfare: the Dioskouroi between Sparta and Athens,” in R.<br />
Hägg, 99-107.
62 Amanda Earl
Cicero’s Popularity Struggle: Through<br />
the Moralizing Lens of Plutarch<br />
Stephanie Bernhard<br />
“It must be borne in mind that my design is not to write histories, but lives,” the<br />
Greek biographer Plutarch writes in the introduction to his biography of Alexander<br />
the Great (Alexander, 1). Whereas a historian might attempt to paint a broad,<br />
objective picture of a conflict, a trend, or an era, Plutarch focuses instead on the<br />
moral character and “natural dispositions” of the individuals who initiate or<br />
become enmeshed in historical events (Demosthenes, 3). In doing so, he leaves<br />
the background story blurry. When portraying the life of the orator and consul<br />
Cicero, for example, Plutarch neglects to describe Cicero’s sprint up the cursus<br />
honorum and barely touches upon the role Cicero plays in promoting Octavian’s<br />
rise to power. He writes that “moral good. . .has a power to attract towards itself.<br />
It is no sooner seen than it rouses the spectator to action, and yet it does not form<br />
his character by mere imitation, but by promoting the understanding of virtuous<br />
deeds it provides him with a dominating purpose” (Pericles, 2) Only traits that<br />
incite such action, Plutarch argues, deserve attention in a biography. The opportunity<br />
to turn Cicero’s dynamic career as a statesman into a moral lesson interests<br />
Plutarch more than an analysis of his ability as a great orator or his<br />
extraordinary rise to power as a novus homo. In his biography of Cicero, Plutarch<br />
focuses most of his attention on small-scale anecdotes in order to emphasize<br />
Cicero’s moral struggle to adhere to his values even in the face of unpopularity.<br />
Plutarch stresses the importance of Cicero’s disdain for popularity and<br />
attempt to lead a righteous political life from the moment he begins his description<br />
of Cicero’s career. He writes in the introduction to his life of Timoleon that<br />
his goal is to “select from [great mens’] actions all that is noblest and worthiest<br />
to know. . ..what more effective means to one’s moral improvement” (Timoleon,<br />
1)? By introducing Cicero’s recurring demon quickly, Plutarch prepares the<br />
reader to view Cicero’s life in the context of his moral struggle with the desire<br />
for popularity. In order to set the tone for Cicero’s career in terms of popularity,<br />
he tells the story of Cicero consulting an oracle to learn how to succeed as a<br />
politician. According to Plutarch, the priestess tells Cicero that “his guide in life<br />
should be, not popular opinion, but his own nature” (Cicero, 5). From the very<br />
outset of his career, therefore, Cicero knows he must strive to be true to his own<br />
nature—though, as Plutarch shows, this goal will forever challenge him because<br />
of his great desire for praise.<br />
63
64 Stephanie Bernhard<br />
Plutarch portrays Cicero achieving his greatest early victory—in both<br />
moral and political terms—when as praetor he convinces the public that he is<br />
correct in speeding up the trial of Manilius. Though the trial is politically significant<br />
only insofar as it involves Cicero defending a friend of Pompey, Plutarch<br />
devotes nearly as much text to it as he does to the trial of Verres, which involves<br />
the famous advocate Hortensius and the results of which help return the Republic<br />
to a pre-Sullan state (Ward et al., 2003: 189). Plutarch considers this allocation<br />
appropriate because, as he writes in the introduction to “Alexander,” he has<br />
“chosen rather to epitomize the most celebrated parts of the story, than to insist<br />
at large on every particular circumstance in it” (Alexander, 1). In the trial of<br />
Manilius, the people are at first indignant at Cicero because they think he is<br />
being unjust. When the tribunes challenge Cicero, however, he refuses to allow<br />
Manilius more time to prepare a defense or to change his decision in any way.<br />
Plutarch thus shows that Cicero’s moral character, not popular will, guides him<br />
to do what is right. Instead of bending to the will of the people, Cicero rather<br />
uses his words to convince the people that he is acting rightly, in accordance<br />
both with justice and with the good of the people. Plutarch writes that his words<br />
“produced a remarkable change in the feelings of the people. They praised him<br />
to the skies” (Cicero, 9). In this historically minor story, Plutarch provides an<br />
example of when it is acceptable for Cicero to receive the praise of the people<br />
because he earns it through adhering to his moral code, not through bending to<br />
the popular will.<br />
Plutarch also uses Cicero’s actions at the beginning of his consulship in 63,<br />
just when rumors of Catiline’s conspiracy are beginning to circulate, as material<br />
to teach a moral lesson about the importance of earning success through<br />
integrity rather than pandering to the public. When the tribunes propose a law to<br />
form what would essentially be a new decemvirate, Plutarch portrays Cicero<br />
using his eloquence alone to convince the senate and tribunes that the law will<br />
not benefit the Republic. Plutarch writes that when summoned to appear before<br />
the people, Cicero leads the way “without the slightest fear.” He does not worry<br />
that his opinion will make him unpopular and he convinces them instead of<br />
yielding to them. Plutarch affirms that Cicero’s superior oration overpowers the<br />
arguments of the tribunes “by the force of his eloquence,” causing the law to be<br />
rejected and leaving the subversive elements with no choice but to drop their<br />
platform (Cicero, 12). Plutarch offers a further editorial comment to explain<br />
why Cicero provides such a valuable moral example to the reader:<br />
Cicero, more than anyone, made the Romans see how great is the charm<br />
which eloquence confers on what is good, how invincible justice is if it is<br />
well expressed in words, and how the good and efficient statesman should<br />
always in his actions prefer what is right to what will win popularity, and in<br />
his words should express the public interest in a manner that will please<br />
rather than prove offensive. (Cicero, 13)
Cicero’s Popularity Struggle: Through the Moralizing Lens of Plutarch 65<br />
In this one statement, Plutarch summarizes the main values he intends to promote<br />
by writing a biography of Cicero. He argues that, in politics, the proper<br />
decision can always be expressed in words in such a way that every individual<br />
will be able to understand why to choose it. The morally virtuous statesman will<br />
seek to determine the proper choice and explain to the people why it is so—he<br />
will not simply gauge what the people already prefer and pretend that he agrees<br />
with them in order to win popularity.<br />
Just as Plutarch uses Cicero as a model of how a politician can overcome<br />
pressure from the crowd, so does he use Cicero as an example of the when politicians<br />
place too much weight on public opinion. Plutarch writes that when<br />
Cicero goes into exile, Clodius passes a resolution forbidding any man to provide<br />
Cicero with water or fire within 500 miles of Italy, but Cicero is so admired<br />
that most Italians ignore the decree. Indeed, according to Plutarch, many visit<br />
him in exile. Instead of being grateful for the hospitality of his friends, however,<br />
Plutarch writes that Cicero becomes depressed at the thought of the admiration<br />
he has lost and at the betrayal of a few of his former friends. Plutarch attributes<br />
Cicero’s malaise to the poison of public opinion:<br />
Public opinion . . . has the strange power of being able . . . to erase from a<br />
man’s character the lines formed there by reason and study; and by the force<br />
of habit and association, it can impress the passions and feelings of the mob<br />
on those who engage in politics, unless one is very much on guard and makes<br />
up one’s mind that in dealing with what is outside oneself one will be concerned<br />
only with the practical problems themselves and not with the passions<br />
that arise out of them. (Cicero, 32)<br />
Plutarch suggests that the public opinion has a dehumanizing effect on any politician<br />
who tries to make himself amenable to it. The force is so strong that it can<br />
overcome a man’s background and education; it can blind him to everything that<br />
is just, reasonable, and logical. And it is with this force, Plutarch moralizes, that<br />
Cicero must contend if he is eventually to be viewed as a great man worthy of<br />
admiration.<br />
Desiring as he does to explore moral virtue by writing about the “marks<br />
and indications of the souls of men,” Plutarch includes extensive examples of<br />
the witty, sarcastic, and abrasive comments with which Cicero often lambastes<br />
his opponents (Alexander, 1). Sections 7, 25, 26, 27, and 37, among others,<br />
include long lists of anecdotal evidence of Cicero’s derisive remarks. Plutarch<br />
explains that “Cicero’s propensity to attack anyone for the sake of raising a<br />
laugh aroused a good deal of ill-feeling against him” (Cicero, 27). These seemingly<br />
minor qualities are at first glance peripheral and unimportant, but they provide<br />
the reader with a thorough sense of Cicero’s nature and are therefore valuable<br />
for Plutarch’s agenda in writing his biography. Indeed, to Plutarch the quips<br />
may be just as valuable as Cicero’s greatest speeches and boldest actions. He<br />
writes: “the most glorious exploits do not always furnish us with the clearest<br />
discoveries of virtue or vice in men; sometimes a matter of less moment, an
66 Stephanie Bernhard<br />
expression or a jest, informs us better of their characters and inclinations . . .”<br />
(Alexander, 1). This passage reveals a pettiness in Cicero that would elude a<br />
reader of his political resume.<br />
Thus Plutarch often praises Cicero’s morally upright nature, but he also<br />
concedes Cicero’s vices of arrogance and self-love. He stresses, however, that<br />
Cicero’s shortcomings do not take away from his status as a great and admirable<br />
man because they are not moral failures. In his introduction to “Cimon,” Plutarch<br />
writes that “[w]e must not dwell on [errors] too emphatically in our<br />
history, but should rather show indulgence to human nature for its inability to<br />
produce a character which is absolutely good and uncompromisingly dedicated<br />
to virtue” (Cimon, 2). Fittingly, Plutarch chooses to portray all significant<br />
aspects of his subject’s character and explains that Cicero was pompous and<br />
often abrasive. But he also qualifies these faults: “He made himself obnoxious to<br />
a number of people, not because of anything which he did wrong but because<br />
people grew tired of hearing him continually praising himself and magnifying<br />
his achievements” (Cicero, 24). According to Plutarch, then, the qualities of<br />
humility and especially likeability are less important than right acts; for he does<br />
not deny Cicero’s greatness.<br />
Plutarch uses his biography of Cicero to illustrate the danger of bending to<br />
public opinion to gain popularity and the importance of heeding one’s personal<br />
instincts when making decisions. Though many of Plutarch’s reflections on<br />
Cicero’s character remain ambiguous, as he describes both his successes and<br />
shortcomings, they form an overall picture of Cicero as a principled man who<br />
stood up for his beliefs and convinced others to follow causes he believed would<br />
benefit the Republic. Plutarch writes that “[m]y method is, by the study of<br />
history, and by the familiarity acquired in writing, to habituate my memory to<br />
receive and retain images of the best and worthiest characters” (Timoleon, 1).<br />
The text of “Cicero” shows that Plutarch considers the great orator, though<br />
flawed, to possess a moral character worth remembering.<br />
References<br />
Plutarch. 2001a. Plutarch’s Lives, Vol. 1. Trans. John Dryden. New York: Random<br />
House.<br />
———. 2001b. Plutarch’s Lives, Vol. 2. Trans. John Dryden. New York: Random<br />
House.<br />
Ward, Allen, Heichelheim, Fritz, and Yeo, Cedric. 2003. A History of the Roman People,<br />
4 th ed. New Jersey: Pearson Education.
Thetis and Venus: Motherhood in Epic<br />
Martha Gimbel<br />
Thetis and Venus present two different pictures of divine motherhood. While<br />
Thetis plays a very personal role, Venus appears more like a divine patroness<br />
than a mortal mother. Thetis embraces her son and discusses different courses of<br />
action with him, while Venus usually appears to her son in disguise and works<br />
for the well-being of her son only as it affects the future of her city-state. Thetis<br />
cares only for the happiness and prosperity of Achilles, while Venus views<br />
Aeneas as a means to her own glory. As Thetis gets closer to her son, and adopts<br />
a more personal role, she loses power. Venus, on the other hand, remains aloof<br />
and focuses on her divinity. Thus Venus has more power to affect the course of<br />
her son’s life, while Thetis can only soothe and comfort her son.<br />
Venus uses her divine power to help Aeneas survive his trip to found<br />
Rome. In doing so she acts like a divine patroness of a city or a people. She<br />
never discusses her plans for Aeneas’ future with him. Instead she goes straight<br />
to other gods and uses them to affect the course of Aeneas’ life. She first appears<br />
approaching Jove and asking him for reassurance that the Trojan toils will come<br />
to an end and that “there the Romans will be with the years rolling by, there they<br />
will be leaders from the called back blood of a Trojan, Romans who will hold<br />
the sea and all the lands by their power” (Aen.I.234-6). She never mentions<br />
Aeneas’ safety or that of her grandson Ascanius. Instead she worries about the<br />
future of her “leaders” and the “blood” that will make up Rome. The closest she<br />
comes to mentioning the issue of Aeneas’ safety is when she asks, “What end of<br />
labors do you give, Great King” (Aen.I.241)? She mentions Aeneas himself only<br />
when asking what he has done to anger Jove (Aen.I.231-2). She worries not<br />
about the fate of her son, but of the glory that he will bring to her by surviving to<br />
found a city.<br />
Her second plea to a god comes in Book V when she asks Neptune for a<br />
safe journey for the fleet across the sea. Once again her concern appears not to<br />
be with the safety of her son; for she never mentions Aeneas, not even obliquely.<br />
Instead she asks that the fleet be able to reach, and found, Rome: “if it is allowed<br />
to touch the Laurentine Tiber. . .if the Fates give those walls” (Aen.V.797-8).<br />
When Jove orders the gods to refrain from the fighting, Venus agrees, although<br />
she reminds him that the Trojans came to Italy to found an empire under his<br />
auspices. She claims that “I am no longer moved by empire, those things I hoped<br />
for” (Aen.X.43), but then she asks for one concession. She begs that, no matter<br />
what, Ascanius be spared. She wants the line to be continued. Thus, even if<br />
67
68 Martha Gimbel<br />
Aeneas should perish, the next generation can continue her dreams of divine<br />
glory. Once again Venus’ concern is for the future of Rome, not for the future of<br />
her son. Her role as a divine patroness of a city is more important to her than her<br />
role as a mother.<br />
Venus continues to act as a divine patroness when she arranges for Vulcan<br />
to make her son a shield (Aen.VIII.372). Unlike her earlier discussions with<br />
deities, this time she mentions the tragedy of her son and begs Vulcan to help<br />
him. She reminds Vulcan of her concern for Aeneas during the Trojan War, saying<br />
“I wept often for the hard labor of Aeneas” (Aen.VIII.380). She acts as a<br />
suppliant and refers to the desires of a mother, crying “therefore I come as a suppliant.<br />
. .I ask for arms, a mother for her son” (Aen.VIII.382-3). Because in her<br />
pleas she now mentions her role as a mother, it does not mean that her goals<br />
have changed; rather, she is adapting her wiles to the situation at hand. Vulcan is<br />
a domestic god, a familial character. Thus, like Thetis and Aurora, she uses tears<br />
and personal references to persuade Vulcan because such methods sway him:<br />
“the daughter of Nereus, the wife of Tithonia was able to bend you with tears”<br />
(Aen.VIII.383-4). Those goddesses persuaded Vulcan by focusing on their<br />
maternal needs, and she is adapting successful past methods to her own needs.<br />
By focusing on the love she has for Aeneas, she presents herself as a vulnerable<br />
female in need, which convinces Vulcan to help her. He comes completely<br />
under her control as “the known heat entered his marrow and ran through his<br />
shaken bones” (Aen.VIII.389-90). But once she has persuaded Vulcan to craft<br />
the armor she returns to her old persona. She appears as “a shining goddess<br />
among the clouds bearing gifts” (Aen.VIII.608-9), the ideal picture of a gift<br />
bearing, divine patroness and thus remaining aloof from her son. While she does<br />
embrace him, Venus never touches her son in an affectionate, maternal manner,<br />
rather acting as a remote divine patroness who arms her hero. Indeed, she<br />
resembles Athena arriving with winged sandals and the aegis to arm her hero,<br />
Perseus. Venus focuses on her divine, not her maternal, role.<br />
Venus carefully remains a distant, unrecognizable character for Aeneas.<br />
The first time his mother appears to him, she appears “bearing the mouth and<br />
clothing of a virgin and the arms of a Spartan maiden” (Aen.I.315-6). Aeneas<br />
certainly recognizes her as a goddess, he cries out “O, goddess for certain. Are<br />
you the sister of Phoebus? Or one of the blood of the Nymphs?” (Aen.I.328-9).<br />
But even though he can perceive her divine nature, he cannot identify her as his<br />
mother. He thinks she may be Diana, or even a lesser goddess such as one of the<br />
nymphs. He later regrets this lack of a real relationship with his mother, crying<br />
out, “Why is it not given to join right hand with right hand, and to hear truths<br />
and exchange voices” (Aen.I.408-9)? She does appear to him in her true form at<br />
Troy, but although undisguised she still must reveal herself to him—“having<br />
confessed herself to be a goddess” (Aen.II.591): he cannot recognize her on his<br />
own. Even then mother and son never embrace: she appears as a typical goddess<br />
messenger with little personal connection to her listener. She holds him back<br />
from killing Helen with her hand—“[s]he held him apprehended by her hand”
Thetis and Venus: Motherhood in Epic 69<br />
(Aen.II.592)—but this is not exceptional behavior for a divine messenger. In the<br />
Iliad, Athena stops Achilles from killing Agamemnon in that exact same way.<br />
Venus also takes on a traditional divine role when she heals Aeneas in Book<br />
XII, as she never actually appears to him. Once again “having surrounded her<br />
appearance with a misty cloud” (Aen.XII.416), she slips him the herb without<br />
revealing herself. Although she does aid her son, she never does so in a<br />
personal, maternal way. Rather, all the aid is that of a divine patroness.<br />
Aeneas himself perceives his mother as a divine, rather than maternal, figure.<br />
Although at times he does try to relate to her as a maternal character, he recognizes<br />
that only failure will result. Trying to embrace her when she appears in<br />
Book I, he is frustrated, crying “Why so often, you so cruel, do you delude your<br />
son with false images” (Aen.I.407-8). More often he treats her as a distant deity.<br />
When he lands in Thrace he offers sacrifices to her as “the Dionean mother”<br />
(Aen.III.<strong>19</strong>). Certainly the Romans honored ancestors and the deification of<br />
Julius Caesar had brought gods even closer than they had been before, but it was<br />
unusual for a Roman man to sacrifice to his mother. Aeneas communicates with<br />
his mother through votive offerings because only through prayer can he connect<br />
with her. When he “prays” that the golden branch will show itself to him at<br />
VI.187-9, his mother’s birds—doves—immediately appear to him as messengers.<br />
Aeneas rejoices in their leadership, saying, “You don’t fail in dubious<br />
affairs, O divine parent” (Aen.VI.<strong>19</strong>6-7). He can communicate with her only<br />
through prayer, as one would communicate with a deity.<br />
Thetis, on the other hand, takes on a more maternal role. Even when her<br />
son does not call out or pray to her, she can hear his pain and will immediately<br />
arrive to comfort him. When he laments his dishonor at Agamemnon’s hands,<br />
she hears him while “sitting in the depths” (Il. I.358), and comes to him. She<br />
appears as human and maternal figure to her son, as she “takes him by the hand”<br />
(Il. I.361). In addition, she begs her son to tell her of his difficulties so that the<br />
two of them together may share in them. In Book XVIII when Achilles mourns<br />
Patroclus, again from the deep she hears Achilles groaning and comes to his side<br />
and puts her arms around him. Unlike Venus, she often touches her son to<br />
comfort and reassure him, and Achilles recognizes this connection. In contrast<br />
with Aeneas, he talks about his mother to his companions, mentioning “my<br />
mother Thetis” (Il. IX.410) to Agamemnon’s messengers. Aeneas, on the other<br />
hand, never brings up his divine parentage to anyone.<br />
Achilles’ and Thetis’ discussion of their plans reflects this close relationship.<br />
Unlike Aeneas, who often has no idea what his mother has planned for<br />
him, Achilles acts as a full partner in Thetis’ actions. In fact, he uses imperatives<br />
when discussing the actions she should take with Zeus. When Achilles becomes<br />
determined to rejoin the battle after Patroclus’s death, he uses an imperative<br />
again. The use of the imperative rather than the subjunctive reflects his<br />
dominant role in the relationship (Il. I.394). Although Thetis does make him<br />
promise to wait until she comes back with the armor, she cannot truly direct his<br />
path, she can only help him along. Thetis acknowledges her own ineffectiveness.
70 Martha Gimbel<br />
She cries, “I am not able to be of use to him” (Il. XVIII.62), repeating the same<br />
statement at XVIII.443. Even when she warns him that death will come if he<br />
fights Hector, Achilles ignores her advice. Despite her emotional support, Thetis<br />
has no power to affect the course of her son’s life.<br />
While Venus affects the course of actions in the Aeneid, Thetis has no<br />
power to influence her son. Venus can convince Vulcan to make Aeneas a<br />
shield, get Neptune to provide safe passage to her son and send doves to guide<br />
Aeneas to the golden branch. Thetis, on the other hand, remains powerless to<br />
change the course of her son’s life. Even when she gets Achilles the shield, she<br />
does so in accordance to Achilles’ orders, and it cannot ultimately save his life.<br />
She can never convince Achilles to do anything, and in fact usually follows his<br />
orders. Achilles often specifically orders her to follow his will. The powers of<br />
the two goddesses do not differ—Thetis even had the power to nurse Hephaestus<br />
back to health and help him avoid Zeus’s anger—rather, the difference results<br />
from their different relationships with their sons. Since Venus remains focused<br />
on her divinity, never embracing her maternity except when it can help her goal<br />
of founding an empire, she never becomes a human character. Therefore her<br />
divine power remains intact. Thetis, on the other hand, ignores her divinity for a<br />
more personal relationship with her son; thus taking on a more traditional female<br />
role and coming under the sway of her son.<br />
References<br />
Homer. <strong>19</strong>20. Homeri Opera in Five <strong>Volume</strong>s. Oxford, Oxford <strong>University</strong> Press. [All<br />
citations were translated by the author.]<br />
Virgil. <strong>19</strong>84. Aeneid. Ed. by H. E. Gould & J.L. Whiteley. Duckworth Publishing,
Livy’s Exemplary History<br />
Amy Hall Goins<br />
In the preface to his Early History of Rome, Livy encourages his readers to recognize<br />
and benefit from the lessons history has to offer. In the historical record,<br />
Livy writes, “you can find for yourself and your country both examples and<br />
warnings; fine things to take as models, base things, rotten through and through,<br />
to avoid” (Livy 1.1). Livy’s history is rife with exempla; however, these anecdotes,<br />
which present events and characters intended to teach a moral lesson, are<br />
not included simply for dramatic effect. Rather, Livy structures his history<br />
around these examples in order to show late Republican readers that Rome’s<br />
past has many lessons they would do well to heed. This essay will highlight<br />
several of these exempla and assess their effectiveness and impact on Livy’s<br />
historical writing. By structuring his history around exempla, Livy conveys to<br />
his readers the value of learning from the past. This essay focuses on anecdotes<br />
concerning three important themes in Livy’s history: the threat of monarchical<br />
ambition, the importance of unity in the face of foreign dangers, and the<br />
necessity of faith and religious observance.<br />
Book I of Livy’s history ends with the abolition of the monarchy and the<br />
exile of Tarquin the Proud in 509 B.C.E. After Tarquin raped the virtuous<br />
Lucretia, Brutus’ speech incited the citizens to overthrow Tarquin’s tyrannical<br />
reign by reminding them of his worst offenses. According to Livy, Brutus’<br />
words had an immediate effect on the citizens, who later elected him one of the<br />
first two consuls of Rome (Livy 1.59). This episode made the Romans fearful of<br />
monarchical ambition not only in the years immediately following Tarquin’s<br />
exile, but throughout the history of the early republic. Accordingly, this lesson is<br />
not only one which Livy repeats throughout his work, but one which the<br />
Romans recall and respond to over generations. The following two anecdotes<br />
illustrate Livy’s use of exempla to reinforce the danger of monarchy.<br />
As part of a peace agreement in 486 B.C.E. the Hernici ceded two-thirds of<br />
their land to Rome. Spurius Cassius, one of the consuls, intended to make half of<br />
this territory a gift to the plebeians. The nobility did not approve of his offer,<br />
fearing it might pave the road towards restoration of the monarchy. The commons<br />
did not support Cassius’ plan either, although a gift of land would certainly<br />
have improved their situation. According to Livy, they were mindful of<br />
the warnings of the other consul, Verginius, who warned that “gifts of land<br />
would bring slavery” (Livy: 2.41). When his proposal failed to gain support,<br />
Cassius offered to repay the money received from the sale of Sicilian grain.<br />
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72 Amy Hall Goins<br />
Once again, the plebeians rejected this offer, recognizing it as an attempt to buy<br />
power. At the end of his consulship, Cassius was tried, convicted, and put to<br />
death. Livy reports that one account had Cassius punished and executed by his<br />
own father (Livy 2.41).<br />
Spurius Maelius attempted a similar plot forty-six years later. In an effort<br />
to gain the loyalty of the commons, Maelius bought grain from Etruria and gave<br />
it away to the poor. Livy notes that the commons were at first won over by his<br />
generosity. Seeing his public image improve among the plebeians, Maelius eyed<br />
the throne. He began assembling a cache of weapons and making secret plans.<br />
Lucius Minucius, the Controller of Supplies, caught wind of Maelius’ plot and<br />
alerted the Senate to his treacherous intentions. The consul Titus Quinctius Capitolinus<br />
appointed Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus as dictator so that he would<br />
have the power to squelch the political threat posed by Maelius. Gaius Servilius<br />
Ahala, whom Cincinnatus appointed as his Master of Horse, attempted to apprehend<br />
Maelius in order to bring him to trial, but was forced to kill him when he<br />
fled. Cincinnatus’ speech in the aftermath of Maelius’ death is a perfect example<br />
of how Livy’s earlier exempla manifested themselves in the actions and words<br />
of later Romans. The dictator reminded the crowd that Maelius should have<br />
known better than to covet the throne, since he knew as well as any Roman what<br />
the consequences would be. Cincinnatus recalls the expulsion of Tarquin, the<br />
execution of Tarquin’s nephews, the forced resignation of the consul Tarquinius<br />
Collatinus, and, most recently, the execution of Spurius Cassius. “All of this<br />
Maelius knew, yet in this same city of ours he himself dared hoped to reign”<br />
(Livy 4.14).<br />
Both of these exempla show that Livy intended to give a firm warning to<br />
his readers about the dangers of monarchy. Livy included these anecdotes to<br />
demonstrate that Rome’s commitment to republicanism was strengthened by the<br />
city’s collective remembrance of and aversion to the monarchy (especially the<br />
tyrannical reign of Tarquin the Proud). In case there was any threat of a return to<br />
monarchy in the late Republican era, Livy wanted his leaders to learn from the<br />
experience of their predecessors and maintain an aversion to the throne.<br />
The anecdote about Spurius’ plot also reinforces the idea of putting Rome<br />
before the interest of one’s self or social class, another theme Livy emphasizes<br />
throughout his history. Although the plebeians would have benefited from the<br />
gift of land and money, they valued their liberty too much to accept a gift which<br />
could pave the way for a return to monarchy. The citizens of the early republic<br />
had not forgotten their forefathers’ experience of Tarquin the Proud and the dangers<br />
of monarchy. Livy’s narrative of the “struggle of the orders” includes<br />
several other exempla intended to highlight the importance of unity above class<br />
interests.<br />
During a war with Rome’s Latin neighbors in 494 B.C.E., there was growing<br />
discontent among Rome’s commons due to a debt crisis. The conflict escalated<br />
until many of them left the city in protest, taking refuge on the Sacred<br />
Mount north of Rome. Since Rome could not raise an army without the coopera-
Livy’s Exemplary History 73<br />
tion of the plebeians, their secession during a time of war might have threatened<br />
the city’s existence. “Clearly the only hope lay in finding a solution for the conflicting<br />
interests of the two classes in the state,” wrote Livy (Livy 2.33). The<br />
patricians sent Menenius Agrippa as an envoy to the plebeians, expecting that,<br />
as a fine orator and a plebeian himself, he would be well-received. Menenius<br />
told the plebeians a fable about the revolt of the body’s members and their<br />
conspiracy to starve the belly. “But alas! While they sought in their resentment<br />
to subdue the belly by starvation, they themselves and the whole body wasted<br />
away to nothing.” By applying this fable to the current circumstances in Rome,<br />
Menenius convinced the plebeians to abandon their class interests, at least<br />
temporarily, for the sake of unity in the face of a foreign threat (Livy 2.33).<br />
Forty-eight years later, tensions between the patricians and plebeians again<br />
threatened the survival of the city. In 446 B.C.E., Rome seemed especially weak<br />
due to internal struggles, and her neighbors began preparing to make war against<br />
the city. Following the raid upon Rome by the Volscians and the Aequians, the<br />
consul Titus Quinctius called a mass meeting to admonish the citizens. “The<br />
truth is that our communal life is poisoned by political discord. . .and it was that<br />
which raised [the enemy’s] hopes of destroying us, seeing, as he did, [the plebeians’]<br />
lust for liberty in perpetual conflict with [the patricians’] lust for power”<br />
(Livy 3.68). Although this speech laid blame on the populace for Rome’s ill fortune,<br />
“even the young men who were accustomed in such moments of crisis to<br />
consider the refusal to enlist their best weapon against the nobility” greeted<br />
Quinctius’ speech with enthusiasm (Livy 3.69).<br />
These two anecdotes are intended to convey the importance of unity to<br />
readers in the late republic. Although the Romans faced ongoing internal conflicts<br />
which threatened to divide their city, the characters in Livy’s history,<br />
through their actions and speeches, convinced the citizens to put the interests of<br />
the city before their own personal or class interests. Livy surely anticipated that<br />
class struggle in Rome might continue to be a problem and he wanted to teach<br />
his contemporaries, through history, to remain united in order to survive as a<br />
state and as a people.<br />
Another theme which Livy emphasizes throughout his history is the<br />
importance of tradition and religion. Marcus Furius Camillus provides a particularly<br />
effective vehicle for Livy’s moral lessons in this area. Camillus served as<br />
dictator during the Gallic sack of Rome in 390 B.C.E. and led the army to success<br />
in driving the Gauls out of the city. “In accordance with his character as a<br />
man with the strictest sense of his religious duties,” Livy writes, Camillus’ first<br />
act after his triumph over the Gauls was to secure a senatorial decree which<br />
declared that all sacred buildings occupied by the Gauls should be restored and<br />
purified according to a formula which the Sybilline books would provide (Livy<br />
5.49). Next, Camillus proposed a treaty with Caere, since that city had helped<br />
ensure the stability of Roman religion by sheltering priests and holy object. Finally,<br />
Camillus instituted the Capitoline Games to celebrate the preservation of<br />
the temple of Jupiter.
74 Amy Hall Goins<br />
Though Livy certainly admired these religiously-minded acts, Camillus<br />
had a greater contribution to Roman history in Livy’s narrative. When the<br />
Senate advocated a migration to Veii and the citizens seems poised to accept the<br />
proposal, Camillus felt compelled to speak out against this plan. Livy ends Book<br />
Five of his history with Camillus’ impassioned speech, in which he urges the<br />
Romans not to abandon their city and their history. Camillus chastises the crowd<br />
for preparing to leave the city and flout the will of the gods. “Only consider the<br />
course during these latter years; you will find that when we followed God’s<br />
guidance, all was well; when we scorned it, all was ill” (Livy 5.51). Camillus<br />
reminds the crowd that the Romans triumphed over Veii only when they heeded<br />
the gods and drained the Alban lake. The present state of affairs had befallen<br />
Rome only after its citizens ignored the divine warning that the Gauls were<br />
coming, and failed to punish its envoys who violated international law, thereby<br />
shirking her duty to the gods. Rome’s suffering and defeat at the hands of the<br />
Gauls, claimed Camillus, ensued because of her faithlessness. Only when the<br />
Romans recalled their faith by seeking shelter and divine protection on the Capitol<br />
and securing protection for the priests and religious articles did the city prevail<br />
against its aggressors .<br />
Camillus’ words and deeds constitute one of Livy’s most effective exempla.<br />
He includes the description of Camillus’ pious acts as dictator to show his<br />
readers the importance and centrality due to religion in Roman culture. Just as<br />
Camillus prioritized religion over all other concerns, readers of Livy’s history<br />
should remember to pay tribute to the gods or else risk incurring their wrath.<br />
Camillus’ speech also highlights the importance of tradition, religious obligation,<br />
and history. He cites specific instances in which Rome’s piety or impiety is<br />
directly connected with her success or misfortune. Through his words and deeds,<br />
Camillus shows his fellow citizens that Rome’s future is dependent upon her<br />
remembering and embracing the past.<br />
Gary B. Miles characterizes Livy’s history as one in which Romans are<br />
constantly “recalling their past, being influenced by it, evoking it to influence<br />
others—and deliberately shaping the way in which the past will be remembered<br />
by posterity” (Miles, <strong>19</strong>95: 69). Indeed, the most distinctive feature of Livy’s<br />
history is not his attention to good and bad characters and the moral lessons they<br />
provide, but his portrayal of the characters within his story as figures who<br />
remember and reference history. The words and actions of the characters in<br />
Livy’s history show us that the author’s moral lessons were alive within his<br />
work. Exemplary Romans such as Camillus remembered the lessons of the past<br />
and made dramatic speeches reminding their fellow citizens to do the same.<br />
Those who ignored the guidance of history, like Spurius, suffered grave consequences.<br />
Livy’s exempla are effective both within the text and without: they<br />
feature characters responding to moral lessons from exemplary individuals and<br />
they prompt readers to take the same lessons to heart. The aversion to monarchy,<br />
the importance of unity in the face of external threats, and the importance of<br />
religious tradition and obligation were historical lessons which resonated deep
Livy’s Exemplary History 75<br />
within the Roman psyche. Through the historical technique of utilizing exempla<br />
to teach moral lessons, Livy demonstrated to his late Republican readers that<br />
history could and should be an important lens through which to view their own<br />
actions. In this way, Livy successfully made the history of the Roman republic<br />
meaningful for and relevant to the future of the Roman state.<br />
References<br />
Livy. <strong>19</strong>71. The Early History of Rome. Trans. by Aubrey de Sélincourt. London: Penguin.<br />
Miles, Gary B. <strong>19</strong>95. Livy: Reconstructing Early Rome. Ithaca, NY: Cornell Press.
76<br />
Pyrrhus.<br />
Sketch by Nicholas Kay. Used by permission.
The Lament of Aeneas<br />
Ariayné Hilliard<br />
Character List<br />
Aeneas<br />
Chorus (shades of Aeneas’ crew)<br />
Shade of Dido<br />
Opening Scene: The stage is empty, except for bed that will remain unnoticed<br />
until its use. The lights are low/dim and fog swirls about. There is a lone, dull<br />
spotlight fuzzily focused on Aeneas. As he restlessly paces back and forth, he<br />
mutters to himself deep in thought.<br />
Aeneas: Some would lament my condition. Some would<br />
hate my situation. I, th’ unwittng<br />
victim of the gods, have taken up<br />
arms and fought my way home. ‘Tis far too easy<br />
to run upon a sword, recall my<br />
once beloved Dido, queenly woman no<br />
warrior blood beneath her skin beat fast<br />
ruler of a nation, for a time this<br />
man too. Lord his own, founder of an<br />
empire. Old age creeps merciless, but<br />
at what cost, yes, ‘tis true an unfair contrast<br />
I do make. The gods, aye the gods! Call<br />
me forth, their choice son, bearer of a<br />
message. My heart shan’t fall prey to my<br />
mind. Aeneas, forget not yourself lest<br />
in doing so, you lose sight of your<br />
task. Pace; keep walking for once you lie down<br />
you will be as one amongst the shades. Hark,<br />
a noise? A foot fall p’rhaps? Some slight<br />
whimper reaches my feeble ears. Draw the<br />
covers round, pitiful fool, once fearless one.<br />
Steal your courage for you are but alone.<br />
Th’ encircling shadows round you come, gird<br />
your heart as a soldier of old. In bed I lie,<br />
dwell here thoughtfully. Make not a sound,<br />
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78 Ariayné Hilliard<br />
then will I remain unnoticed and<br />
they will not seek to tear me limb from<br />
limb, wrest poor suffering sinew from tired tendon.<br />
Enter Chorus as shades of Aeneas’ men. They are pale and wan; it is clear that<br />
they are dead. Silently they glide about, with bedraggled armor and old battle<br />
wounds.<br />
Chorus: O sorrowful Aeneas, only now you<br />
realize your loss. We redouble your words<br />
we say what we will with glad meter we<br />
mock you, employ all our skill. Shortly we<br />
will teach you whatever lesson you must learn<br />
lest in Hades’ fires you shall burn.<br />
Yet you cower beneath your covers, though we<br />
do not offer harm frightfully await<br />
us, dreading in alarm. You claim the<br />
hands of Fate hath laid you down so low<br />
regret fully you speak, for only now<br />
do you know. Listen as we lesson,<br />
learn what once you spurned. For all<br />
trust you’ve lost, you must seek to earn.<br />
Clearly we aim to impart whatever still<br />
remains deep in your heart. Mix not love<br />
and civics, it encourages a cynic.<br />
Lo, another shade calls quiet your squalls.<br />
Enter the shade of Dido. She is dressed as a Queen, but, like the other shades, it<br />
is clear that she is dead.<br />
Dido: Oh my Aeneas, you I forgive though<br />
we met once before, long you shan’t<br />
live. During the night it is deemed that<br />
you expire and rather than let you<br />
roast alone in the fire, I, as a shade,<br />
stand here and address, while you in your<br />
bed fretfully digress. I give<br />
you some time to retrieve your thoughts, gather<br />
your mind, forget what you’ve lost. I bear<br />
no grudge, I come with words of love, not<br />
the kind you once endowed me, but<br />
that of a friend to family. Receive and<br />
reciprocate. Don’t renounce and reprobate.<br />
The men have a point, they gathered here for
Exeunt Omnes.<br />
you. To tell you only what they think<br />
true. Having taught you a lesson I<br />
know you won’t forget, it is I, not<br />
they, who says, to whit: follow implore<br />
don’t dwell here too long. I see you<br />
weaken, your heart is not strong. What I suggest<br />
I only mean for you to have the best.<br />
The Lament of Aeneas 79<br />
Aeneas: Hapless Dido, the victim of a cursed<br />
stroke! Thought so much of me, so little of<br />
self that she did smote. But though she<br />
is dead, an untimely word I<br />
offer, tis time for me to make it better.<br />
love be the tie that binds we now<br />
and forever more. The men astutely<br />
adjudge what I must do. They who fought<br />
and died for me, now have the dubious<br />
dishonor of seeing their former leader<br />
imprisoned by his own wretched demons.<br />
Was it worth the torment? How fare’s my<br />
Rome? What, have I done? P’rhaps my actions,<br />
as heinous as they may seem, will<br />
augur the future of Rome as a great city.<br />
The best even the world has ever<br />
known. A bloody scourge to many lands,<br />
my life, as its founder, will serve as<br />
Harbinger. Stray not too far from what<br />
is right. For surely these shades were sent<br />
By the gods; who, think me unfit.<br />
Let me make the journey from the<br />
realm of the living to the dead, with<br />
my last thoughts as a comfort to me.<br />
Dido, stretch forth your hand. It is she whom<br />
I shall follow into the great beyond.<br />
Behold! Above! A light! I go. . .<br />
Chorus reenters the stage, and surrounds the bed as Aeneas feverishly<br />
collapses. In his current emotional and dying state, he fails to notice his former<br />
companions as they summarize the play.<br />
Chorus: Of arms and a man, yes Virgil<br />
did sing. And now the bell for his hero<br />
doth ring. Tolling his downfall, man of
80 Ariayné Hilliard<br />
honor, bringer of truth. Slayer of<br />
the just and mighty, forsooth. We<br />
tried at last, too little, too late.<br />
Aeneas, we hope we changed<br />
your Fate. For now having told you<br />
all that we are privy to know, there’s<br />
nothing more for us to do. Bless’d<br />
Dido, saintly queen, full of compassion<br />
it would seem. We bore little grudge,<br />
come we not here to judge. But merely<br />
out of duty, charged with the task<br />
by Hades. Sins have we too, but forgive<br />
must we you. At the end you proved our<br />
lesson learned. All respect have you rightly<br />
earned. Let his example serve a notice to all<br />
in the mixing of love and politics<br />
wherein lies your wretched downfall.<br />
Aeneas: Shade after shade enters my sight entreating<br />
the end must be nigh, bid adieu and<br />
farewell. Only now do you achieve some<br />
peace at the end of your days. No<br />
strength have I left, once fearsome warrior<br />
is now the most fearful worrier.<br />
The gods play with men, always has<br />
this been true. But you have paid more<br />
than your fair share in debt. Too little<br />
too late, a reprieve for Dido.<br />
Love of war, is no place for the<br />
Heart. The skies darken above the air<br />
Thickens below. The weather grows cruel.<br />
An old man gives his regrets feeble<br />
though they may seem, thus with one sigh<br />
My wand’rings end . . .<br />
As he finishes his monologue, Aeneas rests his head against the pillows, never to rise as a<br />
mortal again.
Love Displayed through Nature<br />
and Changing Nature<br />
Scott Nelson<br />
Fortunatus employs natural imagery in many of his poems, including “To Radegund<br />
on Violets” and “To Radegund on Her Return.” In the former, Fortunatus<br />
makes use of flowers as an evolving symbol of love throughout the poem. In the<br />
latter, the natural imagery of the harvest captures Fortunatus’s emotions for<br />
Radegund after returning from her forty day Lenten retreat. The natural imagery<br />
employed in the two poems is distinct. In the first poem, natural symbols mutate<br />
due to human emotions, and in the second, they statically represent the joys and<br />
love incorporated into a lover’s return. Fortunatus utilizes different aspects of<br />
nature in both poems for these separate purposes; in the first poem, he creates<br />
floral images that develop with the lines, but in the second poem, he uses<br />
descriptions of fruit and of the ripe harvest. Despite interpretive differences,<br />
similarities exist between the two pieces, especially in terms of diction. These<br />
poems both employ nature to express emotion, but they take very different<br />
approaches in their imagery. They ultimately convey that love has the power to<br />
alter the perception of nature and distort it to serve love.<br />
In “To Radegund on Violets,” Fortunatus compares the natural imagery of<br />
flowers to the human emotions attributed to the flowers. As the name suggests,<br />
the poem revolves around flowers and their meaning for Fortunatus. At the<br />
beginning the white lily (candida lilia) and the sweet red rose (suave rubore<br />
rosa) are introduced as ideal flowers to signify his love. Fortunatus would pluck<br />
them from a poor garden (legens. . .pauperis horti) and send them as a gift. It is<br />
not that he would simply send them as a gift, but he would gladly (libens) send<br />
them in return for a generous present (magnis). Since the lilies and the roses<br />
come from a simple garden and yet can be traded for great gifts, this implies a<br />
high potential value for the flower’s beauty. The value of nature changes with<br />
human contact. The flower comes from a simple garden or a rural field, but once<br />
it is plucked and thought of as a gift its beauty will make it worthy of royalty.<br />
The flower is a gift of love, and, because of the love between two people, the<br />
flower becomes more valuable to the recipient. The idea that simple and base<br />
roots are worth more through human contact is continued throughout the poem.<br />
Since the seasons are not producing the customary lilies and roses for Fortunatus,<br />
he wishes for a second flower to bestow on Radegund. He is somewhat<br />
embarrassed by this new plant, the weeds. He hides the weeds (vicias) in the<br />
middle of the line, where they end his wish instead of start it. He will send the<br />
81
82 Scott Nelson<br />
weeds, which he assures Radegund, are roses when brought in love. The roses<br />
have metrical emphasis, located at the end of the line. Again, the worth of the<br />
flowers changes due to human contact and love. The weeds are transformed to<br />
roses as a result of the love and thought their plucking involves. The weeds continue<br />
to evolve and take on greater worth throughout the poem.<br />
In line six, the first line of the second half of the poem, Fortunatus refers to<br />
his gift of love as fragrant herbs (odoriferas herbas). He uses the same verb<br />
(mittere) in reference to these fragrant herbs as he uses in line four in describing<br />
the lily and roses. Thus he provides a dictional link between the two gifts of<br />
nature. In the next line, the identity of the love flowers changes once more, now<br />
to shoots (germen). They are shoots of purple violets (purpurae violae) and they<br />
hold a noble place (nobile habent). These sprouts from the lowly field are now<br />
associated directly with royalty through the looks and smells they will<br />
eventually exhibit. Then entering into the final couplet, Fortunatus’s intentions<br />
become clear: the smell is the true gift. Since these are perennial flowers which<br />
are not victim to the fickle seasons alluded to in line one, the smell and beauty<br />
will return unceasingly each year. The gift of the weeds is filled with various<br />
components, the actual plants, the aroma, and Fortunatus’s love. Fortunatus<br />
chooses this flower since its beauty and growth and promise all reflect different<br />
aspects of his love.<br />
In “To Radegund on Her Return,” Fortunatus adapts nature in a different<br />
way. The natural images show the effects Radegund and her presence have on<br />
his life. In the first two couplets, he uses only one natural image. In the first line<br />
he compares Radegund’s face to the sun, a radiant light (radianti lumine). Then<br />
after a bare spell with no reference to nature, he begins to and through the<br />
remainder of the poem portray Radegund as his personal fertility goddess. Outside<br />
on this Easter Day, the crops just now rise (modo surgere semina sulcis).<br />
Fortunatus reaps a harvest that same day (hodie meto). Once again, nature is<br />
under the influence of humans and their emotions. The return of Radegund and,<br />
by metonymy, his joys (recovas mea gaudia) cause a figurative harvest. For Fortunatus<br />
the fruits, the sheaths of grain, the grape, the apples and the pears are<br />
now all before him. Time is confused. April now does the job of August (quod<br />
solet Augustus mensis, Aprilis agit). Human emotions have distorted the course<br />
of nature.<br />
Radegund creates a figurative harvest, a premature ripening, a disorder<br />
amongst the seasons, with her return. However, the ripening and harvesting do<br />
not occur in reality. Fortunatus makes this clear several times. First in lines five<br />
and six, he says that the sprouts are just starting to grow, yet he can harvest<br />
them. In lines nine and ten, the vines and buds are just beginning to come out,<br />
yet the grape of August is ready for Fortunatus (et licet. . .uva simul). These<br />
side-by-side comments, in which one line states the crops are just beginning and<br />
the next says Fortunatus can now reap the bounty, dramatize the division<br />
between real nature and the imaginary one. In the final couplet, he says that<br />
while the land is bare and no ears of grain are showing, all the plenty is shining
Love Displayed Through Nature and Changing Nature 83<br />
when she returns (quamvis nudus. . .intent). Here, he confirms the division<br />
between the real world and the world of his love. Radegund has caused an<br />
emotional harvest in which the fruits, symbols for joy and love, are being reaped<br />
by Fortunatus.<br />
There exist technical similarities between these two poems. Both are written<br />
in elegiac couplets, though this is not entirely unique since Fortunatus wrote<br />
many poems in this meter. Also, in the standard format of Fortunatus, the last<br />
couplet in both poems is a revelation when compared to the preceding lines. Finally,<br />
there are similarities in diction between the two poems. Both poems use<br />
“odor” as a way to involve more of the senses and to create a realistic picture. In<br />
“To Radegund on Violets,” odor takes a prominent role; it is repeated three<br />
times in the poem. The odor saturates the leaves of the flowers (et saturat foliis<br />
hinc odor). In the same poem, the ending reveals that the smell is the true gift of<br />
flowers. In “To Radegund on Her Return,” odor is used to enhance the natural<br />
imagery. The apples and pears pour forth pleasing smells in line eleven. The<br />
olfactory sense plays a role in understanding the natural world and, through<br />
symbolism, the emotions in this relationship.<br />
Another similarity between the two poems is the confusion of time,<br />
although this confusion occurs for different reasons. In “To Radegund on Violets,”<br />
the seasons do not produce the traditional flowers for Fortunatus. His<br />
desire to give a perpetual gift in the first poem causes this confusion. The smell<br />
of the weeds and violets is perpetual unlike that of the lilies and roses. In “To<br />
Radegund on Her Return,” the seasons have changed roles, with April performing<br />
the tasks of August in line eight. The confusion is due to the presence of<br />
overwhelming emotions. The return of the radiant light and Fortunatus’ joys fill<br />
his personal world with an emotional harvest that overrides reality.<br />
While there are technical similarities between the poems, their natural symbols<br />
and their messages uses diverge considerably. In “To Radegund on Violets,”<br />
Fortunatus uses flowers alone for the poem’s imagery. His gift evolves<br />
through various types of flowers, but he does not use other natural images. The<br />
flower starts off simple, and then, as it grows, it gains beauty as the petals<br />
emerge. Then once fully grown its fragrance magnifies its beauty. The metamorphosis<br />
occurs in the lines of the poem, starting with the flowers being plucked<br />
and culminating in the profusion of smell at the end. The evolution of the flowers<br />
symbolizes the intensity of love increasing throughout the lines of the poem.<br />
The love starts off simple and hidden, like the sprout concealing its potential<br />
beauty. Then as time passes and the lines of poetry progress, both the flower and<br />
love blossom. The smell of the flower adds an invisible beauty, implying a mental<br />
and intellectual attraction to Radegund that is not based on appearances. The<br />
importance placed on smell at the end of the poem shows that a mental relationship<br />
rather than a physical one exists.<br />
The fruit, the focus of the second poem, shows the significance Radegund<br />
has in Fortunatus’ life. In “To Radegund on Her Return,” Fortunatus uses the<br />
images associated with harvests, fruits, grains and grapes. In this poem, Fortu-
84 Scott Nelson<br />
natus’ love and desire for Radegund culminate and ripen, hence the harvest<br />
images. Her absence nourishes his desire and love. The maturation of his love<br />
occurs unlike the maturation of a harvest. His sun, Radegund, is gone (radianti<br />
lumine). The desires are nourished by the absence of their source, not to blossom<br />
until her final return. The blossoming suggests a more developed and physical<br />
relationship than presented in “To Radegund on Violets.” Here the natural<br />
images consist of ripe and fertile fruit. Fruit is enjoyed by handling and eating,<br />
by physical contact. This is a very different connotation than flowers, which are<br />
aesthetically pleasing and do not demand physical interaction. Fruit imagery<br />
symbolizes the physical desires that grew over the preceding forty days.<br />
There are other differences between “To Radegund on Violets” and “To<br />
Radegund on Her Return” as well. The structure of the poems differs. In “To<br />
Radegund on Violets,” the poem is symmetrical. Line six, the end of the third<br />
couplet, marks the midpoint of this poem. The significance is not that the couplets<br />
evenly divide, but that the midpoint marks an important change in the intent<br />
of the poem. The first half explains what Fortunatus lacks from nature, while the<br />
second half discusses what Fortunatus will give to Radegund in love. In “To<br />
Radegund on Her Return,” the numerical midpoint of the poem is line seven.<br />
However, this occurs in the middle of a couplet. There is no real division in this<br />
poem, as each couplet builds upon the previous until the final couplet. The concluding<br />
couplet provides the poem with a final revelation, to which Fortunatus<br />
alludes repeatedly: Radegund’s return has created a division between reality and<br />
the imaginary for Fortunatus.<br />
Fortunatus uses nature for different purposes in his poems. In “To Radegund<br />
on Violets” and “To Radegund on Her Return” nature is tied to human<br />
emotions. “To Radegund on Violets” shows love changing nature and its beauty.<br />
In “To Radegund on Her Return” natural imagery independently represents love<br />
and desire. In the first poem, nature is directly controlled by humans and their<br />
emotions. In the second, it is a symbol. Since each poem applies nature in a different<br />
way, they need and use different aspects of nature to convey their<br />
respective intents: different images, different structures, different purposes<br />
differentiate the natural aspects of the poems. However, in both the power of<br />
love can transform nature, turning simple roots into royal gifts or sprouts into a<br />
bountiful harvest. In their unique way both these poems proclaim the power of<br />
love through nature.
Restoring the Old Republic: Augustan<br />
Moral Reform in Its Historical Context<br />
Curtis Steyers<br />
When Augustus began to institute his program of moral reform in the late first<br />
century B.C.E., he was acting partly out of self-interest. To secure his own position<br />
of prominence in the state, he sought to reestablish the hierarchical social<br />
structure of the old republic and to reinforce the moral and religious values<br />
which supported it. Augustus’ reforms were not purely selfish in nature, however.<br />
They came at a time when there was a heightened national conscience of<br />
morality and a general interest in reestablishing the religious and social mores of<br />
old. Reflected in landmark episodes throughout the history of the late republic,<br />
there was in Rome, at least among the high-minded nobility, a sense that the disintegration<br />
of the state was concomitant with a profound moral decline. Augustus’<br />
attempt to return the values of the old republic to Rome reflects a similar<br />
mindset. This essay seeks to situate Augustus’ program of moral reform in the<br />
context of popular views of morality in the late republic. I will first trace a few<br />
historical events which represent key instances of moral failure. Next, by examining<br />
the works of Livy, Sallust, and Cicero, I will analyze how the major voices<br />
of this period understood the moral status of the republic. Positioning Augustus’<br />
reforms in their historical context illuminates the underlying forces which<br />
compelled him to initiate such sweeping social and religious legislation.<br />
Augustus’ moral reforms aimed at two chief goals: curbing female promiscuity<br />
and restoring traditional family values. He attempted to accomplish these<br />
reforms by passing the Julian Laws of 18 B.C.E. and the lex Papia Poppaea of 9<br />
C.E. These reforms encouraged marriage and childbearing while punishing<br />
adultery and inappropriate marriages across class boundaries. Augustus’<br />
aggressive religious revival constitutes an attempt to reconstruct the torn social<br />
fabric of the republic. Restoring the pax deorum was a means not only to ensure<br />
good favor with the gods, but, perhaps more importantly, to replace the lost<br />
sense of fides, a religiously-charged ideal which once governed contracts and<br />
social behavior in general. With these two categories of reform in mind, we can<br />
now turn to the conditions which prompted them.<br />
Instances of perceived immorality are abundant in the late republic, and<br />
doubtless remained permanently ingrained in the minds of the prominent men of<br />
the period. As Rome expanded its dominion over the Mediterranean, its corrupttion<br />
grew accordingly. The notorious abuse of power by provincial governors is<br />
a recurring example of such foreign corruption. Financially hard-pressed from<br />
85
86 Curtis Steyers<br />
the expenses of competitive public life in Rome and subject to virtually no<br />
supervision or regulation, senators viewed provincial governorships as<br />
opportunities to amass riches through illegitimate means. 1 A paradigmatic<br />
example of this corruption is the extortion trial of C. Verres in 70 B.C.E., whom<br />
Cicero prosecuted and whose exile he ultimately procured. In addition to general<br />
greed and ambition, the late republic saw a growing disregard for the institutions<br />
and procedures essential for maintaining political order. Revolutionaries such as<br />
Tiberius Gracchus, followed by Marius, Sulla, and Caesar, represent a waning<br />
reverence for the traditional Roman political process. Beyond a simple disregard<br />
for tradition, these revolutionaries displayed a dangerous willingness to use<br />
violence to achieve their ambitions. Augustus, emerging as the sole master of<br />
Rome in the wake of these civil wars, saw the need to eradicate this violent<br />
behavior in order to entrench himself in his position of princeps civitatis. There<br />
is more than self-interest at work, however. The loose morals of elite men such<br />
as C. Verres engendered a widespread belief that the decline of the republic was<br />
facilitated by a disintegration of morality.<br />
The female parallel of male corruption, according to Roman values, was<br />
sexual liberation and promiscuity. As women grew increasingly important in<br />
late republican political and intellectual life, their independence attracted much<br />
negative attention. 2 That stories of uninhibited sexual activity were documented<br />
so extensively is indicative of their effect on the traditional Roman mind.<br />
Clodia, the alleged lover of Catullus and M. Caelius Rufus, provided an<br />
infamous example of unscrupulous sexual conduct. Pompeia, Caesar’s wife, was<br />
involved in a notorious affair with P. Clodius Pulcher, which was made public<br />
by the disgraceful Bona Dea scandal in 62 B.C.E. The customs of women had<br />
always been a point of contention in Rome. During the Second Punic War, the<br />
lex Oppia (215 B.C.E.) was passed, effectively censoring the amount of wealth a<br />
woman could accrue and display. The uninhibited behavior of prominent women<br />
in the late republic therefore must have been a glaring reminder that the<br />
traditional morals of the state had changed, or had perhaps disappeared.<br />
Historians writing before and during the reign of Augustus provide useful<br />
insight into the commonly-held beliefs of the time. Livy, whose life coincides<br />
roughly with Augustus’, is particularly useful due to his moralizing tendencies.<br />
In fact, Livy’s literary didacticism is similar to Augustus’ moralizing legislation:<br />
3 Both men attempt to instill a sense of old republican virtues into<br />
contemporary Romans. Livy makes his purpose clear from the beginning of his<br />
history:<br />
I would then have him trace the process of our moral decline, to watch, first,<br />
the sinking of the foundations of morality as the old teaching was allowed to<br />
1 Ward discusses this repeatedly, particularly on pp. 188, 235 for Verres’ corruption.<br />
2 See p.238 for Ward’s discussion of late republican women.<br />
3 Ogilvie’s introduction to Livy: “There is, therefore, a real sense in which Livy’s<br />
History was deeply rooted in the Augustan revival” (Livy, 2002: 6).
Restoring the Old Republic 87<br />
lapse, then the rapidly increasing disintegration, then the final collapse of the<br />
whole edifice, and the dark dawning of our modern day when we can neither<br />
endure our vices nor face the remedies needed to cure them. (Livy, 2002: 30)<br />
Livy’s lamentation over moral decline is a direct commentary on contemporary<br />
Rome. While the exact date of The Early History is unknown, it was<br />
probably begun shortly after the Battle of Actium in 31 B.C.E. and completed<br />
several years later. Livy, like Augustus, is attempting to instruct a new generation<br />
of Romans in the customs of pre-Sullan Rome. He asserts that the “dark<br />
dawning” of contemporary Rome is a direct consequence of moral failure, and<br />
that the only remedy is a complete moral overhaul.<br />
Moralizing moments are not confined to overt prefatory statements. Livy<br />
uses particularly dramatic historical episodes to editorialize and draw attention<br />
to moral lessons. The rape of Lucretia by Sextus Tarquinius is illustrative:<br />
“Never shall Lucretia provide a precedent for unchaste women to escape what<br />
they deserve” (Livy, 2002: 102). These words, spoken by Lucretia before her<br />
suicide, resonate with Augustus’ social reforms aimed at promoting chastity and<br />
preventing adultery. Lucretia’s death is a direct consequence of her loss of virginity,<br />
regardless of her innocence. Livy thus provides a brutal example for<br />
contemporary Roman women: an honorable woman, such as Lucretia, would<br />
defend her chastity to the death.<br />
In a more extensive effort to demonstrate the disastrous effects of moral<br />
decline, Livy renders his account of the Gallic sack of Rome in such a way that<br />
the losses sustained by the Roman army are portrayed as the consequences of<br />
their moral shortcomings. Throughout this episode in The Early History, the<br />
reader is consistently reminded that the Romans did not adequately cultivate the<br />
established traditions of their ancestors. 4 Livy articulates this succinctly through<br />
the words of the great general Camillus:<br />
You will find that when we followed God’s guidance all was well; when we<br />
scorned it, all was ill. . . . Evil times came, and then we remembered our religion.<br />
. . . Therefore it is that heaven has given us back our city and restored<br />
us to victory and the old martial glory we had forfeited. (Livy, 2002: 430)<br />
Livy’s message is clear: if Rome abandons her traditions, she will perish.<br />
History has provided numerous examples, the most famous being the disastrous<br />
Battle of Allia in 390 B.C.E., when Rome was nearly sacked in a Gallic<br />
invasion. Again, Livy is commenting on contemporary Rome. The republic has<br />
fallen because its citizens have neglected the customs of their ancestors and the<br />
gods who are responsible for maintaining the state. Rome must not only<br />
reinstate the virtues of old, but must also restore pax deorum; a suggestion<br />
echoed in Augustus’ revitalization of religious life.<br />
4 Oakley discusses this in his Appendix to The Early History, pp. 448-451.
88 Curtis Steyers<br />
Few historians of Rome are fonder of moralizing than Sallust. That he<br />
lived through some of the darkest years of the republic (86–ca. 35 B.C.E.) suggests<br />
that Sallust was acutely aware of the general sentiment among the Roman<br />
cultural elite that the republic was failing due to a decline in morality. These<br />
views permeate his two surviving histories. In Cataline, he describes Cataline’s<br />
character: “He was incited also by the corruption of a society plagued by two<br />
opposite but equally disastrous vices—love of luxury and love of money”<br />
(Sallust, <strong>19</strong>63: 178). Cataline, says Sallust, was a product of a society which<br />
cultivated corrupt values. This comment is directed towards Sallust’s<br />
contemporary Rome, as he proceeds to recount the early history of Rome,<br />
starting with the story of Aeneas, detailing the transformation of cultural values<br />
at each step along the way. The vices which plagued Rome in the late republic<br />
are manifest in the figure of Cataline—the disaffected noble, hungry for power<br />
and notoriety, impeded by no common sense of morality.<br />
Sallust does not confine his admonishment of Roman morality to corrupt<br />
men. He provides a colorful and disapproving evaluation of Sempronia’s character,<br />
a woman alleged to have been involved with Cataline:<br />
There was nothing that she set a smaller value on than seemliness and chastity,<br />
and she was as careless of her reputation as she was of her money. Her<br />
passions were so ardent that she more often made advances to men than they<br />
did to her. Many times already she had broken solemn promise, repudiated a<br />
debt by perjury, and been an accessory to murder. At once self-indulgent and<br />
impecunious, she had gone headlong from bad to worse. (Sallust, <strong>19</strong>63: <strong>19</strong>3)<br />
Sempronia, like Cataline, is a vehicle for Sallust’s moralizing efforts. She<br />
embodies all that is corrupted in the current state of the republic. Sallust lists her<br />
sexual liberation, susceptibility to passions, and lack of modesty among her<br />
character flaws. More importantly, however, is her lack of integrity, demonstrated<br />
by breaking promises, perjury, and murder. These faults undermine the<br />
fabric of Roman society, representing the same loss of fides as corrupt<br />
provincial governors who plunder their provinces for financial gain. For Sallust,<br />
Sempronia is a case study for the decline of Roman morality: she, like the late<br />
republic, has fallen from her prior moral pedestal.<br />
Augustus’ religious reform represents an attempt to solve the social problems<br />
of the late republic from a different angle. Cicero, who witnessed the rise<br />
and fall of Caesar, provides a view from the senatorial aristocracy at a time<br />
when the senate had lost its power. In De Officiis, Cicero’s prevailing conviction<br />
that the republic was on the verge of destruction is clear, and he makes<br />
numerous references to contemporary examples of immorality. Cicero is<br />
particularly hostile towards the recently assassinated Caesar: “in the<br />
unscrupulous behavior of Caius Caesar, who has ridden roughshod over all laws<br />
both human and divine to attain that dominion which he had dreamed of in the<br />
depraved perversion of his own mind” (Cicero, <strong>19</strong>67: 48). Cicero is explicit in<br />
his assertion that Caesar’s behavior was strictly in opposition to established
Restoring the Old Republic 89<br />
customs and religion. While Cicero is excessively hostile to those who would<br />
subvert the power of the senate (and by extension Cicero’s influence), he is also<br />
legitimately concerned with what he views as a general moral degradation: “And<br />
yet I am aware that because of our declining moral standards such an action is<br />
not considered immoral or to be condemned from the point of view of the law”<br />
(Cicero, <strong>19</strong>67: 160)<br />
For Cicero, Rome’s declining moral standards are intimately related to the<br />
rise of powerful men like Sulla and Caesar. As the moral fiber which underlies<br />
all behavior begins to fray, men are gradually released from the bond of goodfaith<br />
that governs society. Cicero states: “For there can be no firmer cement for<br />
national unity than good faith” (Cicero, <strong>19</strong>67: 132). Although this passage is<br />
excerpted from a discussion of debt, the principle is universal: the intangible<br />
bond between two parties in a contract is maintained by a common<br />
understanding of fides. While Cicero explains fides in secular philosophical<br />
terms, fides represents a deeply religious agreement supervised by the god,<br />
Fides, herself. Therefore, a lapse in religious conviction precipitates a loss of<br />
fides. Augustus’ religious revitalization can thus be understood, in part, as an<br />
effort to restore the notion of divine presence prevailing over human affairs. If<br />
Augustus could restore fides to the Roman psyche, he could perhaps abrogate<br />
the excessive corruption plaguing the empire.<br />
Augustus’ religious revitalization constituted an effort to institute a broad<br />
reform to effect change across all areas of life. Roman culture is characterized<br />
by the ubiquitous force of religion. The gods are inextricably intertwined with<br />
every facet of life; any change in religious values inexorably affects the social<br />
and political environment. Therefore, when Augustus sought to reestablish<br />
archaic religious rites and reenergize religious practices in Rome, he was<br />
attempting to effect change in every sphere. A revitalized religious life would<br />
affect both female chastity and modesty as well as the loss of fides manifest in<br />
extortion cases and day-to-day obligations.<br />
It is by now clear that there was a consensus among privileged Romans in<br />
the late republic: there had been a general moral decline in Rome, and this<br />
decline was in part responsible for the recent political turmoil. Augustus was<br />
undoubtedly aware of this sentiment, and was perhaps in agreement. It is not<br />
sur-prising, then, that his moral reforms appear to target the same aspects of<br />
Roman social life that are ridiculed in Livy, Sallust, and Cicero. There must also<br />
have been a sense of hope for the future. The Augustan age came at a time when<br />
Rome had been racked by civil war for decades. When Augustus emerged as the<br />
sole ruler of the empire in 31 B.C.E., hope for peace and a restoration of the<br />
republic abounded. Even before the Battle of Actium, when Antonius was still a<br />
dominant force in Rome, there was measured hope that the dawning of a new<br />
age would come, free from the troubles of political corruption and civil war.<br />
Virgil reflects this hope in his prophetic Eclogue 4:
90 Curtis Steyers<br />
Now the last age of Cumae’s prophecy has come;<br />
The great succession of centuries is born afresh.<br />
Now too returns the Virgin; Saturn’s rule returns;<br />
A new begetting now descend from heaven’s height.<br />
O Chaste Lucina, look with blessing on the boy<br />
Whose birth will end the iron race at last and raise<br />
A golden through the world; now your Apollo rules. (Virgil, <strong>19</strong>80: 57)<br />
Virgil predicts a profound transition to the golden age of Saturn, a stage in the<br />
mythical cycle of the ages characterized by peace, lack of fear, and virtue.<br />
Augustus’ moral reforms embraced Virgil’s prophetic hope. He attempted to<br />
bring about this new Saturnian age by legislating morality. Augustus was a<br />
shrewd politician and had a brilliant propagandist in Maecenas. He knew that his<br />
success depended on both securing political stability and promoting the image of<br />
a restored republic. His moral reforms thus functioned in two important ways:<br />
On the one hand, they were intended to influence behavior such that the radical<br />
and corrupt activity lamented by the historians would be scarce, thereby<br />
protecting the state from political upheaval. On the other hand, they functioned<br />
as a visible acknowledgement and condemnation of the moral decline of the late<br />
republic and symbolized a transition into the new, peaceful, and virtuous golden<br />
age of Saturn. In such a way, Augustus at once entrenched himself in his role as<br />
the sole ruler of Rome and engendered a genuinely grateful reception by the<br />
war-weary Roman populace.<br />
References<br />
Cicero. <strong>19</strong>67. On Moral Obligation. Trans. J. Higginbotham. Berkeley: Univ. Calif.<br />
Press.<br />
Livy. 2002. The Early History of Rome, trans. A.de Selincourt. Introduction R.M.Ogilvie.<br />
Preface S.P. Oakley. London: Penguin Books.<br />
Sallust. <strong>19</strong>63. The Jugurthine War. Trans. S.A. Handord. London: Penguin Books.<br />
Virgil. <strong>19</strong>80. Eclogues. Trans. G. Lee. London: Penguin Books.<br />
Ward. 2003. A History of the Roman People, 4 th ed. New Jersey: Prentice Hall.
Oh, There Once Was A Young Man<br />
From Ilium . . .Virgilian Farce and<br />
the Death of Cacus<br />
Grainne O’Hara Belluomo<br />
A Brief Summary of the Epic:<br />
“weapons, warriors bard”<br />
—James Joyce, Finnegan’s Wake<br />
Virgil’s Aeneid has been read in many ways—an epic tale of heroism, a fascinating<br />
piece of propaganda, and a veiled critique of the Augustinian state to name<br />
a few—but rarely is it read as broad comedy. This could be for any of a number<br />
of reasons, the most compelling of which is that Virgil’s epic simply is not<br />
particularly funny. Certainly, the great poet presents his readers with many<br />
moments of irony and a certain raised-eyebrow wryness, but out-and-out<br />
laughs? Unlikely. But is Virgil’s magnum opus completely devoid of cheap<br />
laughs? Its interpretive afterlife suggests that it is not. Certainly, James Joyce<br />
was able to mine Virgil’s epic for a wealth of bathroom humor, most notably his<br />
bawdy play on the golden bough. In two different instances in Finnegan’s Wake<br />
Joyce gilds his bough with a golden shower rather than a precious metal. 1<br />
Joyce’s sophisticated potty mouth aside, the Aeneid does indeed have its<br />
moments of low-brow humor—albeit with their own purpose. In the Cacus<br />
episode in particular, Virgil interweaves both his own ironic voice, bits of broad<br />
comedy, and literary allusions that all come together to create a moment of<br />
Roman farce within his grand epic.<br />
Evander’s retelling of the battle between Cacus and Hercules in Book VIII<br />
can be read not only as an origin story, but as a moment of grotesque farce<br />
within the Aeneid. The over-the-top battle between Hercules and Cacus mirrors<br />
the ridiculous stage violence typical of Roman farce. The humor is at once<br />
visual and verbal, original and referential.<br />
Much of the farcical humor in the Cacus episode is rather overt: in fact,<br />
even the mythic behemoth’s name makes him a bit of a punch line. In Latin and<br />
Roman Culture in Joyce, R.J. Schork gives a brief but illuminating etymology of<br />
1 Joyce specifically mentions his own special take on the golden bough twice in<br />
Finnegan’s Wake: “boughpee. . .” (Joyce, <strong>19</strong>62: 239) and “Let her be peace on the<br />
bough” (Joyce, <strong>19</strong>62: 239).<br />
91
92 Grainne O’Hara Belluomo<br />
the name Cacus. Originally derived from the Greek adjective kakos, meaning<br />
“bad,” “evil,” or “ugly,” it also shares its root with the verb “kakko” which<br />
means “to defecate.” Thus, Schork concludes, “Virgil’s giant is literally an evil<br />
shit” (Schork, <strong>19</strong>97: 132). It is hard to imagine that this wordplay went completely<br />
unnoticed by Virgil’s contemporary audience. Similarly, Virgil’s label<br />
for Cacus—semihominis (“half-human”) (Aen. VIII.<strong>19</strong>4)—makes him almost<br />
laughably monstrous. He is half-human. The other half may be terrifying, or it<br />
may be amusing depending on the reader’s fancy. Perhaps Virgil intended for<br />
this semihominis creature to call to mind the satyrs of early Greek comedy.<br />
Despite the human remains on his foribus . . . superbis (“haughty doorposts”)<br />
(Aen. 8.<strong>19</strong>6), Cacus’s behavior in the Aeneid seems more fitting for one of these<br />
mischievous woodland troublemakers than for an ominous mythological giant.<br />
Though Evander introduces Cacus as having a facies. . .dira (“dread face”)<br />
the monster proves himself to be more of a bumbling coward than a real threat<br />
(Aen. VIII.<strong>19</strong>4). Cacus instigates his battle with Hercules not with violence but<br />
with trickery. Virgil’s depiction of the act of stealing cattle—a typical “crime”<br />
in ancient farce—as a product of “Caucus’s wits wild with the Furies” (Aen.<br />
VIII. 205) drips with sarcasm. The Aeneid is full of characters—both human and<br />
divine—who are carried off to madness by the furies. Generally these episodes<br />
end in monumental storms, or battlefield killing sprees. Cacus, however, has<br />
other plans. Virgil continues the self-referential joke when he goes on to write<br />
that Cacus is so wild that ne quid inausum aut intractatum scelerisve dolive<br />
fuisse (“nothing of crime or of sorrows would remain untried or untested”) (Aen.<br />
VIII.206). Here, Virgil flirts with self-parody. Generally in the Aeneid, when<br />
someone is leaving nothing inausum (“untried”) the consequences are emotionally<br />
dire. In Book IV, Dido tries over and over to convince Aeneas to stay,<br />
unwilling to leave any method untried by which she might preserve her love,<br />
and save her own life. 2 The reference to leaving nothing untried also prefigures<br />
the frantic pre-death scrambles of Euryalus and Turnus, who both seek out every<br />
method possible to prolong their lives. In this light, Cacus’s horrible deed seems<br />
a bit trivial.<br />
All four of these characters—Dido, Turnus, Euryalus and Cacus, meet their<br />
respective ends because the “Furies” have clouded their better judgment—essentially,<br />
they are all victims of death by mens efferta. However, in the cases of the<br />
first three, these lapses of sense are either moments of profound rage and<br />
haughtiness on the battlefield, or blindness brought on by love. Stealing cattle<br />
doesn’t really seem to rank here. By holding Cacus’s pre-mortem mindset up to<br />
three epic death scenes, Virgil makes the monster’s forthcoming demise an<br />
2 Ire iterum in lacrimas, iterum temptare precando/cogitur et supplex animos summittere<br />
amori/ne quid inexpertum frustra moritura relinquat (“she is driven again to go into<br />
tears, again to try with praying, and, as a suppliant, to raise the spirits of love, lest she,<br />
about to die in vain, leave anything untried”) (Aen. 4.412-415).
Oh, There Once Was a Young Man from Ilium 93<br />
exaggerated send-up of the brutal and dramatic moments of death so often found<br />
in the epic.<br />
Once he has made off with the cattle, the situation gets a bit sticky for<br />
Cacus. The terrifying son of Vulcan is, in fact, out-smarted (or at least out<br />
maneuvered) by a cow. By giving forth a loud bellow, this bovine stool pigeon<br />
“baffles the hope of Cacus” (Aen. VIII.218). Of course, the comic implications<br />
of a very powerful and threatening giant being thwarted by a cow are hard to<br />
miss. The notion of the raging tormentor of an entire town being undone by<br />
livestock is a perfect comedic reversal, and Virgil certainly makes the most of it,<br />
quickly reducing his villain from hulking menace to panicking mess.<br />
Once Cacus realizes that Hercules will soon be coming after him, he displays<br />
what can only be described as hysterical and sublime cowardice:<br />
Then first our folk saw Cacus afraid and with trouble in his eyes: in a<br />
twinkleing he flees swifter than the East wind and seeks his cavern; fear lends<br />
wings to his feet. (Aen. VIII.222-224)<br />
Rather than use his demonic strength, Cacus flees Hercules with such zeal, that<br />
he becomes a laughable spectacle to the same people who once feared him.<br />
Enraged by the theft of his cattle, Hercules goes in search of Cacus and,<br />
given the nature of this particular episode, does not fare much better in terms of<br />
maintaining his mythic dignity. He too is fervidus ira (“boiling with rage”) (Aen.<br />
VIII.229), never a good sign for Virgil’s heroes (or villains for that matter), and<br />
he too comes off as a bit inept. While seeking out Cacus, Hercules goes through<br />
an almost vaudevillian process of “three times he tries the rock thresholds in<br />
vain, three times he, wearied, sits back down in the valley” (Aen. VIII.231-232).<br />
The image of an enraged Hercules repeatedly trying the same means of entrance<br />
only to be knocked back on his rear is more than slightly amusing. The fact that<br />
the supposed hero of this episode becomes enraged not because of the terror<br />
Cacus has waged upon the town, but because of the theft of his cows—cows that<br />
he himself took from Geryon (after slaying him, of course) only serves to<br />
deepen the irony at play.<br />
Of course, once the violent clash between these two titans begins, it<br />
becomes slightly more difficult to find obvious instances of broad comedy, and<br />
yet Virgil still offers up a scene of somewhat chaotic ineptitude. Most of the battle<br />
consists of Hercules and Cacus blindly hurling anything available at one<br />
another—including themselves—in a smoke-filled cave. Farce is not simply outlandish<br />
pratfalls and laughs, it also extends to moments of the extreme grotesque.<br />
In this light, Cacus’s death is the farcical coup-de-grace of the entire episode.<br />
The final image of his corpse being dragged out by the feet, complete with<br />
bulging-out eyes and a bizarre covering of shaggy fur, is nothing short of carnivalesque.<br />
Virgil’s final tableau of Cacus’s corpse certainly appeals to the Roman<br />
affinity for this brand of theatrical, perverse burlesque spectacle.<br />
Virgil’s Cacus episode can certainly hold its own as an example of farcical<br />
comedy based solely on its visual content and wry verbal irony. However, Virgil
94 Grainne O’Hara Belluomo<br />
also makes sure that his foray into the comedic genre is full of references to<br />
other works in the cannon of ancient farce. The possibility that that the moniker<br />
semihominis is partially intended to call to mind the satyrs of earlier Greek and<br />
Roman comedy is made significantly greater by the clear references to Sophocles’<br />
own satyr play Ichneutae (“The Trackers”). This play also deals with the<br />
theft of a special bunch of cows, although in Sophocles’s comedy the pilfered<br />
herd belongs to Apollo, not Hercules, and the thief is the young god Hermes.<br />
Apollo enlists Silenus, father of the satyrs, promising him a handsome reward if<br />
he finds his cattle. With the help of a chorus of satyrs, Silenus embarks on his<br />
mission, which is complicated by Hermes’ rather brilliant strategy. After following<br />
bovine tracks to several dead ends, the chorus remarks, “as Zeus as my witness,<br />
the tracks turn around and go backward” (Ich. 120). In Virgil’s version of<br />
the great cattle heist, Cacus employs the exact same trick:<br />
And these, that there might be no tracks pointing forward, he dragged by their<br />
tail into his cavern, and, with the signs of their course thus turned backwards,<br />
he hid them in darkness. (Aen. VIII.209-211)<br />
By referencing Sophocles’s play, Virgil places the Cacus episode firmly within<br />
the generally light-hearted satyr tradition. The cartoonish, if not disturbing,<br />
image of a raging Hercules also fits quite well into Virgil’s mini-homage to the<br />
satyr plays since, traditionally, the genre constituted a sort of carnivalesque<br />
mythology that offered up traditionally revered gods and heroes as objects of<br />
ridicule.<br />
The extreme violence in the Cacus episode does not serve to undermine its<br />
comedic nature. In fact, the outlandish sadism that concludes the episode only<br />
pushes the whole Cacus affair further into the realm of parody. But Virgil went<br />
even further to portray the bloodshed in this episode in a ridiculous light. By<br />
drawing on Plautus’ tradition of over-the-top brutality, Virgil manages to maintain<br />
the comedic undertones of the Cacus episode even as he raises dark questions<br />
about the nature of heroism and its complicated relationship to violence.<br />
The chaotic portrait of Hercules hurling himself headlong at Cacus in the smoke<br />
filled cave—he throws himself into the fire with a headlong leap” (Aen. VIII.<br />
256-257)—resembles a scene of similarly disorganized violence in Plautus’s<br />
Aulularia in which Euclio beats Strobulius, a slave, whom he calls, “Oh you<br />
most beatable rogue, do you even ask, you not a thief but a triple thief” (Aul.<br />
636). Despite the fact that Euclio cannot prove any theft, he continues with the<br />
rather sloppy beating. Here again Virgil forces us, through his use of comedic<br />
allusion, to question Hercules’s actions. Enraged, he pummels someone for<br />
stealing from him what he himself has claimed as spoils from someone else.<br />
This does not exactly fall under the traditional banner of heroic behavior.<br />
It is possible that this allusion to Aulularia is merely incidental. However,<br />
a much more overt reference to Plautus makes it clear that Virgil was absolutely<br />
trying to call to mind the works of the famous humorist. In Book VIII of the<br />
Aeneid, Cacus meets a bloody end wherein Hercules corripit in nodum com-
Oh, There Once Was a Young Man from Ilium 95<br />
plexus, et angit inhaerens elisos oculos (“embracing, he seizes [Caucus] into a<br />
knot and, clinging, he throttles his popped-out eyes”) (Aen. 8.260-261). In Plautus’<br />
Rudens, Trachalio (one of the play’s many insolent slaves) begs Daemones<br />
to help him stop the lecherous Labrax from tormenting young women at the<br />
temple. Trachalio entreats the older man to iube oculos elidere [order that their<br />
eyes be dashed out] (Rud. 659). Being an upstanding member of society,<br />
Daemones makes his best effort to send aid at Trachalio’s behest. Cacus’s death<br />
can also be read as a fulfillment of Trachalio’s plea—the tormentor is<br />
vanquished and his eyes are gouged out—but Virgil’s complex layering of<br />
comedy and more ominous strains create doubts as to the virtuous nature of<br />
Hercules’ purpose.<br />
This farcical reading of the Cacus episode carries with it interesting implications<br />
for the Aeneid as a whole. First, Cacus is not the only butt of the joke in<br />
this episode. Hercules also takes his fair share of punches. If Virgil is willing to<br />
lampoon not only the monster, but the monster slayer as well, what does that say<br />
about the meaning of heroism in Virgil’s poetic universe? At the beginning of<br />
the episode, Cacus’ foribus . . . superbis mark him as an arrogant braggart. Several<br />
lines later, Hercules is also described as being Geryonae spoliisque superbus<br />
(“haughty with the killing of Geryon”) (Aen. VIII.202). Both figures share a<br />
level of haughtiness, and both prove themselves capable of giving in fully to furriis.<br />
Notably Junonian language, words like dolor, furias and ira, are all used to<br />
describe Hercules at some point in the episode. Finally, the appearance of the<br />
word fervidus in line 229 calls to mind the final description of Aeneas at the end<br />
of the epic when hoc dicens ferrum adverso sub pectore condit fervidus (“saying<br />
this, furious, he plunged the sword into the chest opposite him”) (Aen. 12.950-<br />
951). Combined with the overall sense of parody, this Hercules-Cacus blending<br />
becomes even more distressing.<br />
This reference to the final lines of the poem brings in another possible<br />
function of this brief journey into farce in the Cacus episode. Though it is distinguished<br />
by its references to other comedic works, and its rather ridiculous<br />
causes, the fight between Hercules and Cacus is not much more extreme than the<br />
other intense battles that take place throughout the epic. If this instance can be<br />
read as one of grotesque farce, then what of the other struggles of the Aeneid?<br />
The climactic encounter between Turnus and Aeneas is compared to “when two<br />
bulls charge brow to brow in mortal battle” (Aen. XII.716-717). This simile does<br />
recall another epic battle involving cattle. Perhaps the farcical nature of the<br />
Cacus episode provides a frame of reference for the confounding closing lines of<br />
the epic. Is Aeneas’ questionable slaying of a man asking for mercy meant to be<br />
read with a level of ironic removal? Perhaps Virgil’s final lines constitute an act<br />
of subversive self-parody, one in which he acknowledges not only the fallibility<br />
of human nature, but the ridiculousness of a quest for a paradigm of human virtue.<br />
Such unrealistic expectations can only end in farce.<br />
Based on the etymology of Cacus’ name alone, it is not surprising that<br />
James Joyce was particularly attracted to this episode of the Aeneid. Its wealth
96 Grainne O’Hara Belluomo<br />
of subversive humor also provided a well-spring of material for his own epic,<br />
Ulysses. Joyce’s ability to twist Virgilian references into rather sophomoric<br />
(albeit quite opaque) jokes is impressive. More intriguing however is Joyce’s<br />
reinterpretation of Virgil’s Cacus in the form of Ulysses’ primary brute, the<br />
Citizen. In Joyce’s “Cyclops” chapter, the Citizen appears “seated on a large<br />
boulder at the foot of a round tower. . . broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbed<br />
frankeyed. . .shaggybearded. . .exploded volcano, the darling of all countries<br />
and the idol of his own” (Joyce, <strong>19</strong>99: 243, 258). The notion of the Citizen<br />
as a volcano is a reference to Cacus’s father, Vulcan, as well as to his “vomiting<br />
black flames from his mouth” (Aen. VIII.<strong>19</strong>9). Joyce’s Citizen is also somewhat<br />
more, or less than human, disproportionately loud, large and hairy. In Ulysses,<br />
however, instead of enacting his will on a terrified town, the Citizen is reduced<br />
to mistreating his dog and goading the seemingly equally defenseless Leopold<br />
Bloom. The Citizen, is, in a sense, completely farcical, robbed of all ability to do<br />
any real harm.<br />
It makes sense then that Joyce pays his own brand of homage to Virgil’s<br />
brief broad comedy. Virgil’s comedic reasoning prefigures the modern-day<br />
Aeneases of contemporary literature. In Ulysses, Joyce builds upon the veiled<br />
logic that Virgil’s farcical undertones create and takes that logic to its natural<br />
conclusion. In Joyce’s vision, all of life is a farce, and the ones who make it<br />
through are the Leopold Blooms, the sometimes petty, sometimes noble,<br />
occasionally ridiculous, thoroughly human heroes.<br />
References<br />
Joyce, James. <strong>19</strong>62. Finnegan’s Wake. New York, NY: Viking Press.<br />
Joyce, James. <strong>19</strong>99. Ulysses. New York, NY: Vintage Books.<br />
Plautus. <strong>19</strong>13. Aulularia. E.G. Thomas, ed. Oxford: Clarendon Press.<br />
Plautus. 1891. Rudens. Edward A. Sonnenschein, ed. Oxford: Clarendon Press.<br />
Schork, R.J. <strong>19</strong>97. Latin and Roman Culture in James Joyce. Gainesville, FL: <strong>University</strong><br />
Press of Florida.<br />
Sophocles. <strong>19</strong><strong>19</strong>. Ichneutae. Trans. Richard Johnson Walker. London: Burns and Oates<br />
LTD.<br />
Virgil. <strong>19</strong>18. The Aeneid. Trans. H. Rushton Faiclough. Cambridge, MA: Harvard <strong>University</strong><br />
Press.
Virgil in Love<br />
Peter Catsimpiris<br />
Throughout his first two collections, the Eclogues and the Georgics, Virgil presents<br />
an unchanging vision of love, the consistency of which is accentuated by<br />
the very disparate settings of these two works. In the Eclogues, Virgil presents<br />
an idyllic world of harmonious union between man and nature. This “Saturnian”<br />
universe is one bereft of serious labor and concerns, a realm in which shepherds<br />
must merely find suitable grazing ground for their flocks and cool shade in<br />
which to recline and compose poetry and song. In stark contrast to this utopia<br />
stands the “Jovian” world of the Georgics, in which “everything by nature’s law<br />
tends to the worse, slips ever backward” (Geor. 1.200-01). In this, his second<br />
collection, Virgil imparts to the reader the grim reality that man and nature are<br />
not perfectly reconciled to each other, but rather human beings must labor incessantly<br />
to give form to natural disorder. While these two very distinct outlooks<br />
seem to conflict, making plausible an interpretation that Virgil’s outlook on our<br />
world in general may have evolved over the course of his career, the poet presents<br />
a complex yet consistent stance on love throughout both of these books.<br />
Virgil’s warning against the destructive potential of uncultivated love is ubiquitous,<br />
but he also characterizes it as instrumental in sparking artistic creativity<br />
when properly yoked. Virgil can thus be said to view love through the sober lens<br />
of the Georgics: as it is a part of nature, man must not cave under the destructive<br />
influence of this most fundamental emotion, but rather harness its potential as an<br />
inspiring creative force.<br />
Virgil portrays the devastation unbridled love can cause in an<br />
anthropomorphic example in Book 3 of the Georgics. Relating the violent tale of<br />
two bulls competing for a single heifer, Virgil vividly describes the gruesome<br />
result of allowing “the goads of blinding Venus” free reign to prod as they will<br />
(Geor. 3.210). “The bulls contend. . .many a wound is opened, dark blood<br />
streams down their sides, and horn to horn they butt each other bellowing<br />
terribly” (Geor. 3.2<strong>19</strong>-22). According to the poet, this destructive tendency is in<br />
danger of harming not merely irrational beasts incapable of properly tending to<br />
love, but “all species in the world,” including human beings (Geor. 3.242). As<br />
such, an analysis of the tale of the sparring bulls as a direct allegory to loveobsessed<br />
youths is both appropriate and inevitable, and it thus serves as a<br />
warning against the harm that unconstrained love threatens to cause any who fall<br />
victim to it.<br />
97
98 Peter Catsimpiris<br />
Immediately after recounting another tale of love’s excesses and the devastating<br />
effects that they can have on human life, Virgil abruptly shifts to describing<br />
his own devotion to relating beauty through his poetry—“love transports me<br />
to Parnassus’ steeps; . . . [d]own to Castalia’s spring. Now, gracious Pales,<br />
inspire me now to sing in lofty tones” (Geor. 3.290, 3.293-4). Virgil thus<br />
presents a perspective on love seemingly incongruous with his characterization<br />
of the feeling as brutal and destructive in nature: while he earlier spoke of it<br />
resulting in actual bodily harm to those who felt it too strongly, the poet now<br />
attributes to this powerful emotion the special ability to transport the human soul<br />
to the very font of beauty represented by the mountain of the Muses and<br />
Castalia’s spring. While this presentation of love’s essence as at once terribly<br />
harmful and yet uniquely capable of affording man transcendence past the veil<br />
of physical reality to the realm of beauty and truth is paradoxical, Virgil<br />
reconciles these two disparate powers of love by maintaining that it need not be<br />
injurious, but may in fact be molded into a beneficial force, so long as it is<br />
properly tended.<br />
Virgil first relates the need to cultivate love in the story of the shepherd<br />
Corydon’s unrequited affection for the youth Alexis in Eclogue II. No longer<br />
able to enjoy the cooling shade synonymous with balance in pastoral imagery,<br />
Corydon’s lustful obsession condemns him to painfully “burn in love’s fire” (Ec.<br />
2.68). Unable to “set bounds to love,” Corydon succumbs to its negative pressure,<br />
pursuing Alexis like a mere animal “at pleasure’s pull” and wandering<br />
aimlessly, spewing an “artless monologue” lamenting his situation (Ec. 2.68,<br />
2.65, 2.5). Distraught with his inability to woo the lad with his rustic gifts, the<br />
shepherd bewails his lack of refinement—“Corydon, you’re a yokel”—realizing<br />
the internal damage that his consequent lack of control over his passion has<br />
caused —“[a]las, what have I done, poor lunatic, unleashing Auster on flowerbeds<br />
and wild boar on clear springs!” (Ec. 2.56, 2.58-9). Thus recognizing that<br />
he has been overtaken by dementia at the hands of his own obsession, he sees<br />
that he has left the “vine” of his own emotions “half-pruned upon a leafy elm,”<br />
having neglected to work against their detrimental tendencies in order to mold<br />
them into feelings capable of spurring creation rather than destruction (Ec. 2.70).<br />
It is in the final lines of Eclogue II that Virgil reinforces the notion that love is<br />
quite dangerous which he presented in the tale of the sparring bulls, but he also<br />
maintains that it can be cultivated and “pruned” so as to yield beneficial results.<br />
Thus Corydon realizes that he should turn from pointlessly wallowing in the<br />
pain caused by his rejection and instead, “at least prepare to weave of osiers and<br />
supple rushes something practical” (Ec. 2.71-2). In stressing art as the proper<br />
application of Corydon’s devotion and the gift of a skillfully woven basket as<br />
sophisticated enough to impress his would-be lover, Virgil reconciles the two<br />
seemingly contradictory viewpoints put forth in Book 3 of the Georgics: while<br />
love left unchecked works against man’s interest, if it is harnessed, its power can<br />
lead to the creation of great art and even to its own satisfaction.
Virgil in Love 99<br />
Finally, this “georgic” view of love is epitomized in the story of Aristaeus,<br />
Orpheus, and Eurydice that appears at the end of Book 4 of the Georgics. A tale<br />
within a tale, the story of Eurydice’s death fleeing the advances of the shepherd<br />
Aristaeus and her husband Orpheus’ subsequent quest to bring her back from the<br />
underworld is deftly set within the larger myth of Aristaeus’ mission to restore<br />
his beloved bees which he had inexplicably lost “through famine and disease”<br />
(Geor. 4.3<strong>19</strong>). Calling to his mother, the sea nymph Cyrene, Aristaeus pleads<br />
with her to tell him how to recover his lost bees. When she urges him to seek an<br />
answer from the watery, shape-shifting seer Proteus who knows “[a]ll that has<br />
been, is now, and lies in store,” Aristaeus sets off to “capture him with ruthless<br />
force and fetters” in order to coerce the reluctant god into revealing the cause of<br />
the mysterious disease (Geor. 4.393, 4.398-9). Proteus, thus forced, reveals that<br />
Aristaeus’ hardships have arisen as a result of his guilt in the death of Orpheus’<br />
wife, Eurydice (Geor. 4.457).<br />
It was as she fled Aristaeus’ lustful advances across a stream that Eurydice<br />
was killed by the bite of “a monstrous serpent” hidden in the grass on the riverbank<br />
(Geor. 4.459). Devastated by his loss, Orpheus, the greatest of minstrels,<br />
made his way to the underworld in order to free his young wife from an<br />
untimely death. The sheer power of his music warmed “hard hearts no human<br />
prayer can hope to soften,” and it afforded him the rare opportunity to bring<br />
Eurydice back from the dead, so long as he did not glance back at her until they<br />
had exited the underworld. On their journey upward, however, “a madness<br />
overcame” Orpheus, who, “yielding in his will, looked back at his own<br />
Eurydice,” thus voiding his noble efforts to bring her back from the grave (Geor.<br />
4.489-91). Orpheus then wandered the earth ceaselessly lamenting the second<br />
loss of Eurydice for months on end until Bacchic Thracian women tore him to<br />
shreds in anger over his devotion to his dead wife.<br />
Thus learning the reason for the destruction of his bees, Aristaeus obeys<br />
his mother’s instructions to restore them by sacrificing animals for Orpheus and<br />
Eurydice in a very peculiar fashion: leaving the carcasses of sacrificed bulls out<br />
in the open for many days to rot. “Then, after the ninth rising of the dawn . . .<br />
there suddenly is seen a miracle: throughout the putrid flesh of the oxen’s<br />
innards bees are buzzing” (Geor. 4.552-57).<br />
These two brilliantly spun tales illustrate Virgil’s “georgic” assessment of<br />
love as a volatile emotion capable of both causing great destruction if left uncultivated<br />
and also of fueling great artistic efforts and yielding creative miracles if<br />
properly attended to. Like Corydon in Eclogue II and the sparring bulls in Book<br />
3 of the Georgics, Aristaeus suffers for his inability to control his own passion.<br />
Wantonly chasing Eurydice to her death due to unchecked lust, he loses his precious<br />
bees as a result of his inability to control himself. By binding the watergod<br />
Proteus, however, thus commanding nature to do his bidding, and by carefully<br />
performing a ritual sacrifice, thus molding the very bodies of his sacrificial<br />
victims to suit his own needs, Aristaeus is able to restore his lost bees through<br />
carefully-directed labor inspired by his love for them. Orpheus, whose story runs
100 Peter Catsimpiris<br />
counter to that of Aristaeus, originally loses his beloved wife through no fault of<br />
his own. Seeking to bring her back from the realm of the dead, he moves the<br />
cold heart of Pluto and forces Cerberus’ “three mouths agape” by cultivating his<br />
love into music of nonpareil beauty (Geor. 4.484). It is when he later loses his<br />
composure, caving under the overwhelming burden of his love and glancing<br />
back at his wife but a moment too soon, that Orpheus is bereaved of Eurydice<br />
for the second time, his unparalleled power over nature destroyed when he loses<br />
self-control.<br />
To conclude, Virgil presents a clear and consistent analysis of love<br />
throughout both the Eclogues and the Georgics. Portraying it as an emotion at<br />
once frightful for its sheer destructive power and stunning in its capacity to stimulate<br />
the creation of great beauty, the poet views love in a “georgic” light, as a<br />
part of the natural world in need of proper cultivation: that is, if left unchecked it<br />
can lead to terrible harm and even the loss of life as in the case of Orpheus and<br />
Eurydice, but, when tended properly, it has the unique ability to afford the loverartist<br />
as much as complete power over the realm of the dead, a privilege Virgil<br />
denies even a deified Caesar Augustus in Book 1 of the Georgics. Despite the<br />
short-lived success of Orpheus and the more permanent triumph of Aristaeus<br />
over the destructive tendencies of this most pungent emotion, like man’s struggle<br />
with nature, which inevitably ends in death, Virgil believes that “love conquers<br />
all: we also must submit to Love” (Ec. 10.69). Although human beings<br />
may not be able to gain ultimate control over love, if man remains a faithful<br />
servant to this, the most fearful of masters, he can cultivate beauty through selfcontrol<br />
and dedicated labor.<br />
References<br />
Virgil. <strong>19</strong>80. Eclogues. Trans. Guy Lee. London: Penguin Books.<br />
———. <strong>19</strong>66. Georgics. Trans. L.P. Wilkinson. London: Penguin Books.
Love as Transformative Power<br />
in Ovid’s Metamorphoses<br />
Megan Cohen<br />
Love plays a central role in many of the myths in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. It<br />
drives grief-stricken lovers to jump off cliffs into the sea, turns enraged mothers<br />
against their children, and leads lovers to exact their revenge. It can also turn<br />
men into gods, unite lovers in death, and potentially bring the dead back to life.<br />
Even gods are subject to the effects of love. Indeed, some speculate that the<br />
motive force of nearly all the metamorphoses is the jealous burning of Juno,<br />
punishing innocent mortals out of her own, often betrayed, love for Jove.<br />
Though there are many permutations of love that exist in the Metamorphoses,<br />
they can be divided into four main categories. There is the erotic love that exists<br />
between lovers, alternately comprising lust, desire, devotion, passion, and<br />
romance; the familial love of parents and offspring, brothers and sisters; the love<br />
and worship of the gods; and the love of country.<br />
The primary mode of love that operates throughout the Metamorphoses is<br />
that of the erotic. Ovid shows erotic love working in many different ways,<br />
depending on the component emotion that is predominately displayed, and the<br />
feelings or attitudes of both the lover and the beloved. In this way, erotic relationships<br />
can be broken down into another four subdivisions: unrequited love or<br />
lust, forbidden love, jealous love, and pure love. Though a common form unites<br />
all of these—that of the erotic—each tends towards a different type of transformation,<br />
just as each has a different motivation.<br />
In the first case, sexual desire is the defining element in the lover’s pursuit<br />
of the beloved. This also can take several forms. It can be the result of a blind<br />
passion artificially induced, such as Apollo’s desire for Daphne that stems from<br />
Cupid’s arrows. On the other hand, it can be a true desire arising from the<br />
beloved’s beauty, as in the case of Salmacis’ love for Hermaphroditus, Neptunes’<br />
rape of Caenis, or Alpheus’ pursuit of Arethusa. Either way, whenever<br />
this all-consuming sexual desire is unreciprocated, it leads to a transformation.<br />
When a male is pursuing a female, the beloved transforms to escape the clutches<br />
of the lover, like Daphne’s transformation into a tree. However, in the case of<br />
Salmacis and Hermaphroditus, Hermaphroditus’ transformation does not allow<br />
him to escape Salmacis, but rather joins him to her after he refuses to indulge<br />
her desires, to form a half-man, half-woman creature. In this way, we can see<br />
unrequited sexual desire as one of the primary driving forces of transformations.<br />
The implication is that love is such a powerful force that the object of affection<br />
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is forced to either attempt escape or be punished for the spurning of a would-be<br />
lover.<br />
A potential twist on the theme of lust and unrequited love is that of forbidden<br />
love. In several stories in the Metamorphoses, forbidden love also leads to a<br />
transformation, emphasizing the idea that the lack of love fulfillment can be a<br />
powerful force. Here, we see Byblis fall in love with her brother and Myrrha<br />
join with her father. For her sin Myrrha turns into a tree, while Byblis, rejected<br />
by Caunus, melts into a fountain from all her weeping. In a way, too, Narcissus’<br />
transformation into a flower after falling in love with himself can be seen as the<br />
result of a forbidden love. Though he desires himself, he wants what he cannot<br />
have. In all of these cases, a change arises as a type of punishment for the<br />
lovers’ unnatural desires, and it is the lovers themselves who are transformed, as<br />
opposed to the beloved in the case of pure lust.<br />
Jealousy also is a strong motive force in the myths. It manifests itself as the<br />
snubbed lover, betrayed by their beloved for another. Jealousy seems to be perhaps<br />
the most destructive of the effects of love. Though it leads to concrete<br />
transformations into different beings as is the norm, it can also lead to a more<br />
subtle transformation—that of death and destruction. So while Juno, consistently<br />
abandoned by Jove for other women, turns Io into a bull, she also leads to the<br />
downfall of Cadmus’ entire line, driving Athamas to kill his children and<br />
causing Io to jump into the sea. Similarly, Deianira’s desire to win back<br />
Hercules causes him to burn alive, though she does not know that her actions<br />
will have this effect. Medea, however, ruefully kills her children after Jason<br />
marries another woman, while Phineus’ claim to Andromeda sets off an<br />
enormous fight at the wedding feast leading to a rampage of death and later<br />
transformation to stone. The story of Cephalus and Procris best illustrates the<br />
tragic effects of jealousy, as both are subject to mistrust of their partners in the<br />
relationship, leading to Procris’ eventual unwarranted and unnecessary death<br />
after a simple misunderstanding.<br />
Although in the absence of trust and reciprocal, natural love, transformations<br />
can be negative and can be punishments for wrongdoings, in the presence<br />
of these elements, transformations can also be positive, even leading to<br />
salvation. As Achelous says in his retelling of the story of Baucis and Philemon,<br />
“the gods look after good people still, and cherishers are cherished” (VIII. 725-<br />
726). For their love and pure devotion, as well as their devotion to the gods,<br />
Baucis and Philemon are allowed to remain united even in death, and are spared<br />
from ever having to spend a moment apart, both turning into intertwined trees<br />
simultaneously upon death. Likewise, Alcyone’s love for Ceyx transforms him<br />
even after his death into a bird, so that they can stay together. Pure love, then, is<br />
seen as the strongest bond between lovers, even in death. Taking death as a<br />
transformation again, this is what drives Thisbe, Alcyone, and Hylonome to take<br />
their lives after their lovers die. For, as Thisbe laments, “I will follow you in<br />
death, be called the cause and comrade of your dying. Death was the only one<br />
could keep you from me, death shall not keep you from me” (IV.152-155).
Love as Transformative Power in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 103<br />
Familial love also plays a large role in the transformations throughout the<br />
myths. It is commonly manifested as either the avenging of a family member, or<br />
sorrow for the loss of a loved one. In the first case, the resulting transformation<br />
is once again death. Both Procne and Althaea must choose between their love<br />
for their sons and avenging the wrong done to their siblings. It is interesting to<br />
note that both choose loyalty to their siblings over their sons, Procne killing Itys<br />
to harm Tereus for his sins against Philomena, and Althaea punishing Meleager<br />
for killing her two brothers. Althaea becomes “devoted to appease with blood<br />
the shades of her own blood-kin, she must spill the blood of her own son, a<br />
mother undevoted” (VIII. 476-478). Thus, it seems that blood-kin is placed<br />
higher than one’s progeny. When family members die, those left are often<br />
behind transformed out of their sorrow. In another instance of the tie between<br />
blood-kin, Phaethon’s sisters turn into trees after his death. Similarly, most of<br />
Meleager’s sisters become birds from their mourning. However, in the case of<br />
Niobe, it is her grief over the loss of her children that leads her to turn to stone<br />
after their deaths. Clearly, the tie between parents and offspring is also strong. It<br />
leads Ceres to pursue the returning of Proserpina after her rape by Pluto, which<br />
results in her having her back for half the year. Similarly, the love between<br />
Jason and his father motivates Medea to bring Aeson back to the vigor of youth.<br />
In this way, familial love can also be seen as a restorative force.<br />
Though they have a lesser presence in the work, the love of gods and the<br />
love of country also have a great influence in many of the myths. Worship of the<br />
gods sometimes leads to positive transformations, benefiting Baucis and Philemon<br />
as mentioned above, and saving Acoetes from Pentheus. However, it is the<br />
absence of worship that has the greatest effect on the transformations in the stories,<br />
which is understandable given that it is the gods’ wrath at having been<br />
neglected which often leads to transformation in the first place. Nearly every<br />
god has a transformation story associated with an instance of a mortal’s<br />
improper or negligent treatment of that god, from Minerva’s turning Arachne<br />
into a spider, to Ceres’ punishment of Erysichthon, to Bacchus’ causing<br />
Pentheus to be torn apart by his family members. The gods can in a way be<br />
construed as the jealous lovers in this case. They themselves desire to be loved<br />
and respected, and they enact their revenge when not given their proper due.<br />
Thus, this is one of the most destructive forms of love, or absence of love, as is<br />
jealousy between romantic or erotic lovers.<br />
Love of country becomes most important towards the end of the work,<br />
when Aeneas, Romulus, and Caesar are all deified for their contributions to<br />
Rome, as Ovid goes into the history of Rome in that section of the poem.<br />
However, love of country is really ever-present throughout the work as well, just<br />
in more subtle ways. It manifests itself as Jove’s love of Arcady, Minos and<br />
Aegeus’ connection to Crete and Athens, and the distinction between the Greeks<br />
and the Trojans. This leads to another type of transformation—that of war,<br />
which also leads to death and destruction. In this way, love of country also
104 Megan Cohen<br />
becomes a driving force in the lives of the mortals, compelling them to fight for<br />
their homeland.<br />
Clearly, then, the various forms of love greatly influence the metamorphoses,<br />
whether it is the more concrete kinds that change humans bodily into<br />
animals or plants, or the more subtle types that alter human civilization or lead<br />
to loss of life. It appears from the analysis of the role that love plays in these stories<br />
that it is its absence or its incorrect, impure, or incomplete manifestation<br />
that leads to the most gruesome or destructive changes. While this makes for the<br />
most interesting story, it also becomes the form that is most commonly<br />
expressed in the work. However, love can clearly be a positive, restorative, and<br />
unifying force as well, provided that it is in its purest form. In these cases, the<br />
transformations, whether bodily, spiritual, or fatal at the very least benefit the<br />
lovers and help them achieve their desires, whereas with transformations stemming<br />
from the improper expression of love, change is generally detrimental and<br />
undesirable.<br />
References<br />
Ovid. <strong>19</strong>55. Metamorphoses. Trans. Rolfe Humphries. Bloomington: Indiana <strong>University</strong><br />
Press.
A Corruption of True Selfhood<br />
David Guttmann<br />
Horace portrays a somewhat tragic view of selfhood. Although he constructs a<br />
written framework that leaves room for the existence of the self in Roman society,<br />
he allocates limited space for it. Unlike some of his literary predecessors, he<br />
envisions a self that exists within the world, not one that encompasses and can<br />
become the world. Horace recognizes true selfhood only as an idealized concept.<br />
In examining Horace’s Odes 1.1 and 1.22, we find a self believed to exist in<br />
such a limiting, corrupted and withered condition. His words represent a<br />
yearning to revisit the forgotten era in which the fully liberated self can survive<br />
freely and autonomously.<br />
Horace leaves us hope in Ode 1.1 that notions of complete individuality are<br />
tenable in Roman society, portraying a romanticized vision of the self. Starting<br />
from the Ode’s midpoint, Horace presents a selfhood characterized by the<br />
individual, one that can exist as a self-sufficient entity. In his opening<br />
description of constitutive members of Roman society, Horace depicts men of<br />
leisure, explaining they “devote a substantial / part of the day to stretching their<br />
limbs beneath the verdant arbutus or by / the quiet spring of some holy stream”<br />
(Horace 1.1.20-4). Horace legitimizes and idealizes the quest to indulge in<br />
selfish pleasures, such as immersing oneself in isolating tranquility beside a<br />
rolling stream. External society need not impinge on such self-indulgence.<br />
Horace further validates his conception of ideal selfhood with examples<br />
from the other extreme. He describes the soldier surrounded by the danger and<br />
havoc of war, “the sounding of trumpets mixed / with fifes, and the wars that<br />
mothers hate, enthuse so many” (Horace 1.1.25-7). Horace’s description of war<br />
as an endeavor “that mothers hate” underscores the selfhood that soldiers who<br />
engage in battle celebrate. The warriors seem to act without recognition of their<br />
own mothers. In doing so, they define their selfhood irrespective of exterior<br />
influences. In a similar manner, the “hunter stays out / under heaven’s chill, forgetful<br />
of his wife” (Horace 1.1.27-8). He too neglects familial ties in lieu of<br />
engaging in self-fulfilling pursuits. Moreover, the hunter evokes a sense of<br />
isolation similar to that of the leisurely man, targeting his prey under the immensity<br />
of “heaven’s chill.” Finally, at the poem’s conclusion, we are left with<br />
Horace himself, who asserts that poetry allows him to remain “apart from the<br />
masses” (Horace 1.1.34). Like the above individuals in his ode, Horace is seemingly<br />
left alone to assert his selfhood among the vast emptiness of his surround-<br />
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ings. Each character relies on an autonomous, all-encompassing selfhood to fill<br />
the void.<br />
In the context of the entire ode, however, Horace clearly denies the legitimacy<br />
of a self that can truly exist independent of exterior influences. Rather,<br />
selfhood exists only within a larger social or global context and can only be fully<br />
realized within such a frame. The form of the poem is the first clue to such an<br />
interpretation. Until the ode’s midpoint, as will soon become apparent, Horace<br />
puts forth his argument of the socially-constrained self. Only after reaching the<br />
poem’s middle does Horace entertain the idea of a self that forms the world<br />
instead of one that exists within it. At the poem’s conclusion, he returns to a self<br />
that is socially defined. He therefore frames his elaboration on ideal selfhood<br />
within a socially-restricted context.<br />
Examining the words alluded to above suggests further interpretive levels.<br />
Horace begins the poem as a tribute to his friend Maecenas, who he addresses as<br />
“descended from olden kings” (Horace 1.1.1). Thus, from the outset, the individual<br />
is defined within a larger social and historical milieu. Horace then goes on<br />
to praise the athlete who “lift[s] to the Gods” (Horace 1.1.5) and the politician<br />
who “delights if the crowd / raise him up to triple honors” (Horace 1.1.7-8).<br />
Both men rely on external factors, not the self, to elevate them in achieving their<br />
earthly goals. Without a larger social perspective, both the athlete and politician<br />
seek futile ends.<br />
Horace then writes about the devoted farmer, for whom “[n]ot even<br />
Attalian terms could ever seduce / to become a fear-fraught sailor . . . the man<br />
who is glad to work with his hoe / his father’s fields” (Horace 1.1.11-15).<br />
Interestingly, Horace depicts the farmer devoted to his trade as part of a legacy<br />
that traces through his genealogy. In contrast to the selfhood Horace presents in<br />
the latter half of the poem, regarding the solider deliberately severing familial<br />
connections, the farmer here relies on his father to fulfill his selfhood; the two<br />
are intimately connected.<br />
The ode finally concludes with Horace’s own reliance on the external to<br />
define his selfhood. First beckoning the Muses and then Maecenas, Horace<br />
insists “should you list me among the lyric bards / I shall nudge the stars with<br />
my lifted head” (Horace 1.1.37-8). Implicit in Horace’s success are the Muses’<br />
assistance and his best friend’s praise and admiration. Horace himself relies on<br />
external influences to elevate him to the place of isolation where he can<br />
actualize his selfhood. Full immersion in it requires external assistance.<br />
Ode 1.22 further highlights Horace’s withered notion of selfhood and<br />
represents a pining for a past idea of the self that is now dead. He begins the<br />
ode, “The man of upright life and free from sin / requires no Moorish spears nor<br />
bow / and quiver laden with poisoned / arrows” (Horace 1.22.1-4). Horace’s<br />
tone evokes lamentation. He yearns for a time when man was “free from sin.”<br />
“Sin” conjures the idea of a humanity that is scarred, fallen, and irredeemable. In<br />
the past, Horace contends, life was simpler and the constraints of our social<br />
conventions allowed the self to exist more liberally. The “Moorish spears” and
A Corruption of True Selfhood 107<br />
“quiver laden with poisoned arrows,” both symbols of war, civilization, and<br />
human-imposed order, had been marginally useful. Now, however, the context<br />
in which we live is corrupted. The self is burdened by the weight of society and<br />
its constructions. Horace longs for the days in which such paradigms did not<br />
exist to impinge on the freedom of the self.<br />
In pining for the past, Horace insists that we attempt to return to the era in<br />
which the self could exist free from social constraints; he sees a full reversion as<br />
an unattainable goal. The impossibility to escape the constrained expression of<br />
selfhood is embodied in the form of Ode 1.22. The poem is composed in the<br />
established parainetic style. However, the verse itself, as will become evident,<br />
advocates an escape from such formality in self expression. Such a paradox is<br />
illustrative of Horace’s entire dilemma. He cannot fully break from the formal<br />
restraints on the self, though he can acknowledge the selfhood he strives to<br />
attain in a conceptual sense.<br />
For Horace, it is necessary to try to abandon prevalent cultural biases and<br />
literary conventions to return to the days of lyric and recapture lost elements of<br />
the self. Song represents the ultimate form of free expression and selfhood. Horace<br />
recounts a personal anecdote to serve as an instructive example of how,<br />
theoretically, to execute his plan. First, he deliberately displaces himself from<br />
the confines of Roman society, recalling how he “wandered free from care /<br />
singing of Lalage in Sabine / woods, unarmed, beyond my bounds” (Horace<br />
22.9-11). That Horace walks “Free from care,” paralleling language in the<br />
opening line of the poem in which he longs for a state “free from sin,” signifies<br />
his attempt to wander “beyond [his] bounds.” Though he cannot fully escape<br />
man’s sin of constraining the self, he mimics an escape from Roman society in<br />
wandering beyond the reaches of his property.<br />
While there, he sings of Lalage, suggesting that he is not, himself, chanting<br />
in incoherent tongues. Rather, he recalls aloud their beauty from an external<br />
perspective. Again, the act reflects his inability to fully abandon his Roman heritage<br />
despite his attempt to do so. As Horace encounters a wolf who flees from<br />
him in the wood, he notes that “warlike / Daunia does not rear [such a beast] in<br />
her widespread / groves of oak” (Horace 1.22.13-15). Horace highlights his<br />
homeland as a warlike society, again summoning thoughts of civilization and an<br />
ability to transcend beyond it by escaping society and submerging himself in<br />
liberal expression.<br />
Horace clings to unstructured expression as he endeavors to establish a<br />
self-sufficient identity. He instructs the reader to “put me in uninhabitable /<br />
regions beneath the Sun’s close car— / and I’ll love my Lalage’s sweet talk /<br />
and sweeter laugh” (Horace 1.22.21-4). The language in Horace’s closing lines<br />
harkens back the words in Sappho’s lyric, recalling expressions of self that are<br />
free from the constraints of form and style. Through Lalage, Horace can<br />
approach a selfhood that exists beyond the reach of social influences and even<br />
serves to nurture him through the type of isolation described above in Ode 1.1.<br />
However, by personifying Lalage as a woman, Horace expresses a love for an
108 David Guttmann<br />
external object, not as an internalized aspect of his self expression. Such<br />
external love signifies and reinforces the idea that while he can partially assume<br />
less restrictive selfhoods, societal constraints will forever be present to prevent<br />
their full internalization.<br />
The selfhood that Horace presents in Odes 1.1 and 1.22 leaves us somewhat<br />
unfulfilled. Long gone are the days of Catullus in which the self defined<br />
the world, casually decorated by exterior influences. Here, Catullan selfhood<br />
exists as an inaccessible yearning, only to be approximated through a deep<br />
desire to abandon the defining tenets of Roman society. Such social<br />
establishments are ultimately inescapable, however. Horace strives to enjoy a<br />
liberated selfhood and fails, though he ironically can conceive of the goal he<br />
attempts to achieve. Such is the source of his ultimate frustration, leaving us<br />
equally confused about how to define Horace’s complex sense of selfhood.<br />
References<br />
Horace. <strong>19</strong>83. The Complete Odes and Epodes. Trans.W.G. Shepherd. London: Penguin<br />
Books.
Lucian’s Allusive Journey<br />
Elizabeth Broadwin<br />
Lucian of Samosata’s satirical narrative A True Story offers a parody of various<br />
geographic, ethnographic, and travelogue texts through allusion and mimesis<br />
with a specific focus on the works of Homer, Herodotus, and Aristophanes.<br />
Probably born ca. AD 125 in modern day Syria, with the proper irreverence and<br />
irony of a second-sophistic intellectual, Lucian levels jocular attacks against<br />
those who claim to represent the truth about the world but in actuality spin fanciful<br />
yarns about dog-headed men in faraway places. Lucian claims that his narrative<br />
is of a better quality than those that he criticizes, for while he tells of even<br />
more unbelievable places, peoples and events, he creates no pretense that his<br />
falsehoods represent the truth. Through his satirical text, Lucian encourages his<br />
readers not to behave like the unsophisticated “Phaeacians” (Lucian, 2004: I.3)<br />
but rather to be critical readers.<br />
Lucian juxtaposes various narrative styles and rhetorical flourishes with allusions<br />
to a plethora of figures, philosophies, and works. He claims that the motivation<br />
for this narrative journey, which goes from the far reaches of the moon to<br />
the bowels of a whale, is an intellectual one: “I had a motive for my journey—<br />
intellectual curiosity” (I.5). The pastiche, the intertextuality, the literary and<br />
philosophical allusions, like the pretense of his journey, are narrative devices<br />
which provide Lucian a medium through which he discusses his own society,<br />
culture, and the nature of an aesthetic truth. Lucian creates a hierarchy of truths<br />
with his narrative’s disparate treatment of Homer, Herodotus, and Aristophanes.<br />
Though all three authors present travel narratives with The Odyssey, Histories,<br />
and The Birds respectively, Lucian treats them differently based on the stated<br />
and perceived truths within each text.<br />
Lucian’s predilection for literary parody is manifested in the very title of<br />
his work. The translation of the Greek title Alethe Diegemeta as either A True<br />
Story or True Histories in the English does not fully capture Lucian’s punning<br />
and use of allusion. According to Sidwell, “the word translated ‘histories,’<br />
diegema, could mean ‘an unsubstantiated or false tale,’ and the combination<br />
alethe diegemeta possibly alludes to a passage of Polybius (Histories I.I4.6),<br />
where the historian (ca. 200-after 118 B.C.) says: ‘when the truth (aletheia) is<br />
removed from history (historia) the residue is a useless yarn (diegema)’ (in<br />
Lucian, 2004: 307). Given that explanation, True Tall Tales might have been a<br />
more appropriate translation of Lucian’s work. Not only does Lucian’s intertextuality<br />
begin before his narrative does, but the title also provides an honest<br />
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110 Elizabeth Broadwin<br />
heading to his work. Lucian’s title is a pun rather than a misnomer, for, as he<br />
says in the prologue, he has “produced a plethora of diverse falsehoods with<br />
convincing verisimilitude” (Lucian, 2004: I.2). The narrative does offer a true<br />
“story” for it is composed entirely of falsehoods or fictions. It becomes a story<br />
in its truest aesthetic sense.<br />
The prologue further elucidates the suggestion created in the title of A True<br />
Story. Lucian introduces the work as offering a necessary respite from “serious<br />
materials” and says, “everything in my story is more or less comical parody of<br />
one or another of the poets, historians, and philosophers of old, who have<br />
written much that smacks of miracles and fables” (I.2). Lucian’s work presents<br />
fables that “smack” of the works of these historians and philosophers and he<br />
says that he would “cite them by name, were it not that you yourself will<br />
recognize them from your reading” (I.2). Like most of Lucian’s claims, this one<br />
too must be taken lightly, for in fact, while he makes use of figures “of old,” he<br />
often does so while attacking his contemporaries, not least of all his readers. The<br />
parody depends on the reader’s willingness to engage in an intellectual journey<br />
because “instead of affording just pure amusement based on wit and humor,” A<br />
True Story “also boasts a little food for thought that the Muses would not<br />
altogether spurn” (I.2). Lucian’s narrative adopts the rhetoric and style of<br />
various geographic and ethnographic works, creating an intellectual game of<br />
allusion for the reader. Just as Herodotus, Homer, Aristophanes, and various<br />
other travel and itinerary writers offer journeys in their narratives, Lucian<br />
presents a journey in his text, albeit an intellectual rather than a physical one.<br />
Just before the narrative begins (from the Pillars of Hercules as tradition<br />
dictates), Lucian makes the facetious claim, “I had nothing true to tell, not<br />
having had any adventure of significance, I took to lying. But my lying is far<br />
more honest than theirs, for though I tell the truth in nothing else, I shall at least<br />
be truthful in saying that I am a liar” (I.4). Lucian’s narrative serves as<br />
“appropriate recreation” because it not only offers a break from those more<br />
serious works but also acts as a kind of guide to them. A True Story, if read as “a<br />
little food for thought,” compels the reader to think critically and question the<br />
content of any text which claims to offer the truth (I.2).<br />
Lucian’s travel narrative is rife with Homeric allusions, epic language and<br />
rhetorical flourishes which serve the parody in multifaceted ways. The first such<br />
reference arrives near the end of the prologue and functions both as a warning to<br />
Lucian’s readers and as a further explanation of the narrative that follows.<br />
Lucian writes:<br />
There have been many others who, following the same design as them, have<br />
written of the wanderings and foreign travels they claim to be their own, telling<br />
tales of huge beasts, cruel men and strange lifestyles. But the founding<br />
father of this sort of buffoonery and their instructor in it was Homer’s<br />
Odysseus, who regaled Alcinuous’ court with stories of the bondage of<br />
winds, one-eyed men, cannibals, savages. . . . He talked a great deal of such
Lucian’s Allusive Journey 111<br />
marvel-ridden stuff to the Phaeacians, unsophisticated people that they were.<br />
(I.3)<br />
Thus this sort of buffoonery, which Lucian also propagates, is attributed to the<br />
epic figure of Odysseus. Lucian’s travelogue is rooted in an epic tradition; it<br />
comprises a genre of exaggerated deeds and stories. Lucian qualifies his use of<br />
falsehoods by associating with wily Odysseus: Lucian, like the artist Homer and<br />
the character Odysseus, makes use of these tales as part of a narrative strategy<br />
rather than a historical or truthful account. Before Odysseus begins to recount<br />
his tales to Alcinuous he says, “My Lord Alcinuous, what could be finer than<br />
listening to a singer of tales such as Demodocus, with a voice like a god’s . . .<br />
But you have a mind to draw out of me my pain and sorrow . . . where shall I<br />
begin, where end my story” (Homer, <strong>19</strong>61: 9.5-15)? The juxtaposition of Odysseus<br />
with Demodocus, a storyteller, reminds the audience that the stories of the<br />
bondage of winds, one-eyed men and Sirens are simply tales. Homer as the<br />
narrator distances his voice from Odysseus’ fanciful stories. Lucian’s<br />
association with Odysseus further emphasizes his own text’s fiction. This<br />
association also speaks to the structure of Lucian’s narrative for, like Books IX-<br />
XII narrated by Odysseus, A True Story offers a first-person retrospective.<br />
Discussion in the prologue of Odysseus’ narrative strategy also serves as a<br />
critique and warning to Lucian’s readers not to behave like “the Phaeacians,<br />
unsophisticated people that they were,” but to be active, critical readers.<br />
Lucian employs a number of Homeric allusions to further his narrative<br />
journey. That Homer’s epic tales appear alongside allusions to Herodotus’<br />
Histories and other references to historical and geographic texts forces the<br />
reader to consider the truthfulness of what is recorded. Lucian succinctly mimics<br />
the hyperbole of epic and exaggerates it in narrative. For instance, Lucian<br />
weathers a storm which takes on epic proportions and lasts seventy-nine days.<br />
The inclusion of epic flourishes and allusions to the Odyssey seem exaggerated<br />
given that the pastiche is primarily one of travel writing, and not epic. However,<br />
by referencing Homer, Lucian may also be poking fun at various historians’ and<br />
geographers’ uses of Homer as a reliable and truthful source. If Pomponius Mela<br />
can refer to Homer’s Iliad to suggest that the known world is surrounded by<br />
water 1 and Strabo can give Homer the title and privilege of “founder of the<br />
science of geography,” 2 then Lucian’s inclusion of such Homeric locations as<br />
Calypso’s island has a precedent. That Lucian chooses those elements of Homer<br />
that seem the most fanciful or allegorical again forces the reader to question<br />
retrospectively the works of scholars who have accepted the historical and<br />
geographic descriptions in Homer as the truth.<br />
In addition to informing Lucian’s narrative style, the use of Homer as a figure<br />
in the text Homer’s appearance in the text allows for playful commentary on<br />
1 Hom. Il 21.<strong>19</strong>6-97, From Mela. 3.45<br />
2 From Strabo, I.2
112 Elizabeth Broadwin<br />
Lucian’s contemporaries. Though much of Lucian’s parody involves the examination<br />
of archaic texts such as Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, Lucian’s intertextual<br />
play must be placed within a distinct culture and society. As the narrative voice<br />
of travelogue, Lucian engages Homer in a dialogue: “I asked him (among other<br />
questions) about his birthplace, mentioning that this was still an unresolved<br />
enigma, hotly debated in our world” (Lucian, 2004: II.20). According to Jones,<br />
“the subject of Homer’s birthplace was not merely a learned controversy, but<br />
involved the prestige of many cities. Aelius Aristides, for example, vaunts the<br />
claims of Smyrna, which are also represented on its coins” (<strong>19</strong>86: 55). Lucian<br />
pokes fun at the municipal efforts invested in the project of discovering Homer’s<br />
biographical information. Lucian engages one of his oldest literary predecessors<br />
in order to discuss his own society’s preoccupations. The comic aspect of this<br />
episode then is the ease with which Lucian obtains the information which many<br />
men in his own society have sought at considerable cost; Lucian ends the controversy<br />
simply by asking Homer.<br />
After Homer answers that “every last one [of his verses] was original,”<br />
Lucian again alludes to his contemporaries: “that was when I began to condemn<br />
the grammarians in the school of Zenodotus and Aristarchus for purveying nonsense”<br />
(2004: II.20). While he harkens back hundreds of years, “Lucian is not<br />
lost in the past. Epigrammatists of the imperial period still joke about ‘the puppies<br />
of Zonodotus’ and ‘the bookworms of Aristarchos’ tribe.’ The business of<br />
interpolating Homer continued to flourish” (Jones, <strong>19</strong>86: 55). Homer serves<br />
Lucian’s narrative strategy and becomes a medium through which Lucian can<br />
compel his readers to think critically about their own society. Lucian satirizes<br />
Greek and Roman societies’ preoccupation with uncovering the past and also<br />
seems to comment on the laborious process of historical research.<br />
Lucian’s narrative, free from the constraints of time and reality, not only<br />
uses Homeric references to allude to contemporary figures, but also has Homeric<br />
figures interact with people from Greek society and history. In Book II, when<br />
the narrator relates a contest held on the Isle of the Blessed, he says, “Carus,<br />
Heracles’ successor, won the wrestling, defeating Odysseus for the crown. The<br />
boxing was a tie. The contestants were Aerius the Egyptian, who is buried in<br />
Corinth, and Epeius” (Lucian, 2004: II.22). According to Jones’ scholarship,<br />
Carus was not a figure from lore but a real athlete who was victorious at the<br />
Olympics in 212 B.C., and Aerius too was most likely “a real person, probably<br />
of the imperial period” (Jones, <strong>19</strong>86: 55). Lucian makes use of the epic tradition<br />
of relating contests and even figures made famous in the epic form to add<br />
popular knowledge to his work. The combination of elements known from epic<br />
literature with those known from popular culture and history serves to remind<br />
the reader of different classifications of knowledge and truth.<br />
In his work on historiography, How to Write History, Lucian comments on<br />
his society’s acceptance of Homer’s texts as truth because Homer was removed<br />
from the time period about which he composed his verses: “Homer indeed in<br />
general tended towards the mythical in his account of Achilles, yet some nowa-
Lucian’s Allusive Journey 113<br />
days are inclined to believe him; they cite as important evidence of his truthfulness<br />
the single fact that he did not write about him during his lifetime: they<br />
cannot find any motive for lying” (Lucian, <strong>19</strong>59: 57). Lucian’s integration of<br />
Homeric events rooted in the distant past with more recent history into a completely<br />
false account of a contest warns of the dangers of believing all that is<br />
recounted about the past.<br />
Even though Lucian employs Homeric and epic literary allusion to propel<br />
the narrative journey, the narrative voice Lucian adopts in A True Story is overwhelmingly<br />
allusive to Herodotus’ narrative style. In Herodotus or Aetion,<br />
Lucian says of Herodotus:<br />
I wish it were possible to imitate Herodotus’s other qualities too. I do not<br />
mean all and everyone (this would be too much to pray for) but just one of<br />
them—whether the beauty of his diction, the careful arrangement of his<br />
words, the aptness of his native Ionic, his extraordinary power of thought, or<br />
countless jewels which he has wrought into a unity beyond hope of imitation.<br />
But where you and I and everyone else can imitate him is in what he did with<br />
his composition. (Lucian, <strong>19</strong>59: 143)<br />
Lucian’s comment in How to Write History is rendered facetious and ironic<br />
when viewed in conjunction with A True Story, in which Lucian aptly imitates<br />
and satirizes Herodotus’ style and content. Lucian may employ epic allusion to<br />
travel from one place to the next but certainly references Herodotus in the ethnographic<br />
elements of his travel narrative. Lucian alludes to Herodotus’<br />
description of Indian society in his description of ampelomixia, which Sidwell<br />
describes as a word invented by Lucian and translates as “sexual intercourse<br />
with vines” (in Lucian, 2004: 434). He also alludes to Homer in describing the<br />
sexual practices on the Isle of the Blessed: “as for love-making, their ideas are<br />
as follows. They copulate openly, with everyone looking on, both women and<br />
men, without feeling the least bit ashamed of it” (Lucian, 2004: II.<strong>19</strong>).<br />
Herodotus records, “All the Indian tribes I have mentioned copulate in the open<br />
like cattle . . . their semen is not white like other peoples” (Herodotus, <strong>19</strong>54:<br />
3.101). Some of the vine-women, exotic barbarians that they are, speak Indian<br />
while those on the Isle of the Blessed, although predominantly Greek, adopt the<br />
sexual practices Herodotus reserves for barbarians. Lucian satirizes the<br />
predilection of ethnographic accounts to focus on the sexual mores of foreign<br />
and barbarian peoples as well as on the exoticism of India. After weathering the<br />
epic storm in Book I, Lucian comes across a bronze plaque:<br />
A plaque made of bronze, with an inscription in Greek letters, though faint<br />
and worn, which said, ‘This was the furthest point Heracles and Dionysus<br />
reached.’ There were also two footprints on the nearby rocks, one about a<br />
hundred feet long, and the other smaller. It is my view that the smaller<br />
belonged to Dionysus and the other to Heracles. (Lucian, 2004: I.7)
114 Elizabeth Broadwin<br />
This passage directly alludes to Herodotus: “Scythia has a few remarkable features<br />
. . . a footprint left by Heracles. The natives show this to visitors . . . it is<br />
like a man’s footprint, but it is three feet long” (Herodotus, <strong>19</strong>54: 4.82). The<br />
presence of an inscription accompanying the footprints and Lucian’s insertion of<br />
his own opinion, “It is my view,” seems to mock Herodotus’ process of<br />
discerning the truth in his Histories. In Herodotus, and thus in Lucian’s text, the<br />
footprints appear to be marked as tourist attractions rather than part of an<br />
archaeological record. Lucian criticizes Herodotus’ acceptance of the footprints<br />
as belonging to Heracles simply because the natives say so, as well as the<br />
reader’s acceptance that these absurdly large footprints exist because Herodotus<br />
records it based on hearsay.<br />
In addition to references to his Histories, Herodotus appears as a figure in<br />
Lucian’s narrative journey. After leaving the Isle of the Blessed, Lucian docks<br />
on an island on which people are tortured for sins committed during their lives:<br />
“The biggest punishments of all were being undergone by those who had told<br />
lies of any sort during their lives or had written down things which were not<br />
true. Among them were Ctesias of Cnidus, Herodotus and many others” (Lucian,<br />
2004: II.31). Herodotus is represented as being the perpetrator of lies because he<br />
presented them as history. Lucian places himself in opposition to Herodotus<br />
when he responds with, “As I looked at them, I had good hope for the future,<br />
since I knew very well that I had never told an untruth” (II.32). Lucian seems to<br />
view his own lies as categorically different from Herodotus’. Lucian, even<br />
though he writes fiction, never portrays it as truth. For this same reason the criticisms<br />
of Herodotus are harsher and more biting than those of Homer. Homer’s<br />
historical and geographic basis is more self-consciously subjective than Herodotus,’<br />
for Herodotus overtly states that his work is one of history: “Herodotus of<br />
Halicarnassus here displays his inquiry, so that human achievements may not be<br />
forgotten in time, and great and marvelous deeds . . . may not be without glory”<br />
(Herodotus, <strong>19</strong>54: 1.1). What accounts for the distinction in treatment between<br />
Homer and Herodotus seems to be the author’s intent. Figures throughout Classical<br />
history such as Pomponius Mela and Strabo have credited the works of<br />
Homer as offering concrete truths about historical and geographical elements.<br />
However, Lucian suggests that these truths have been projected onto Homer’s<br />
work. Homer, unlike Herodotus, does not explicitly state that his works are historical<br />
and therefore Homer remains less accountable. Herodotus deserves his<br />
punishment on the island for purposefully masquerading his fiction as truthful<br />
history.<br />
While Lucian criticizes Homer’s accuracy and status as a historian and<br />
punishes Herodotus’ lies and those who accept his works as history rather than<br />
fiction, his allusions to and inclusion of Aristophanes into A True Story are overwhelmingly<br />
complementary. In addition to visiting places from Homer’s Odyssey<br />
and Herodotus’ Histories, Lucian encounters Aristophanes’ utopian Cloudcuckooville<br />
while en route to the moon. He writes of Aristophanes and Cloudcuckooville,<br />
“For my part, I thought the poet Aristophanes, a wise and truthful
Lucian’s Allusive Journey 115<br />
man whose portrait of the place had been wrongly disbelieved” (Lucian, 2004:<br />
I.29). Lucian does not object to the description of Cloudcuckooville from<br />
Aristophanes’ travel narrative, The Birds, because, like Lucian’s text, it is part of<br />
a fictive narrative. In How to Write History, Lucian explicitly emphasizes this<br />
separation between history and poetry:<br />
Such writers seem unaware that history has aims and rules different from<br />
poetry and poems. In the case of the latter, liberty is absolute and there is one<br />
law—the will of the poet. Inspired and possessed by the Muses as he is, even<br />
if he wants to harness winged horses to a chariot, even if he sets others to run<br />
over water or the top of the corn. (Lucian, <strong>19</strong>59: 13)<br />
Those who “wrongly disbelieved” are discredited because Aristophanes’ perception<br />
of Cloudcuckooville cannot be false, as it is an imaginative landscape of his<br />
own creative design (Lucian, 2004: I.9). Aristophanes has complete creative<br />
license and thus Cloudcuckooville can be represented in Lucian’s text as a truly<br />
fictive place. In contrast to Lucian’s quick acceptance of Aristophanes as a wise<br />
and truthful man, Lucian goes so far as to correct Homer’s description of the<br />
Island of Dreams when he says, “no one else has ever written an account of it,<br />
apart from Homer, that is, who was not entirely accurate” (II.32). Even though<br />
the common element that Homer, Herodotus and Aristophanes share is travel<br />
narrative, Lucian connects them with history in How to Write History:<br />
That, then, is the sort of man the historian should be: fearless, incorruptible,<br />
free, a friend of free expression and the truth, intent, as the comic poet says,<br />
on calling a fig a fig, a trough a trough, giving nothing to hatred or to<br />
friendship, sparing no one, showing neither pity nor shame. . . . (Lucian,<br />
<strong>19</strong>59: 57)<br />
Aristophanes is Lucian’s “comic poet,” who through deliberate fiction, seems to<br />
create a kind of aesthetic and imaginative truth. Because the utopian society created<br />
in The Birds does not purport to be true, Aristophanes, while a fiction<br />
writer, “is the sort of man the historian should be.”<br />
Lucian’s focus on the classical texts of Homer, Herodotus, and Aristophanes<br />
in order to comment on knowledge, fiction and truth can also be seen in<br />
other parts of A True History. Part of Lucian’s allusive journey involves lampoons<br />
of various contemporary philosophical schools. Just as Lucian uses parody<br />
of Homer and Herodotus to compel his readers to question the fantastic<br />
elements of their respective texts, so too does Lucian parody some of the<br />
impractical elements of contemporary philosophy. One of the lands that Lucian<br />
passes on his journey is Lamptown (Lynchopolis) about which he says, “we<br />
found not a single human being, but lots of lamps running around . . . they all<br />
had names as well, just like human beings” (Lucian, 2004: I.29). Lucian satirizes<br />
the Neo-Pythagorean belief that “souls wandered in the air in the form of<br />
sparks” (Hall, <strong>19</strong>81: 203). As has been suggested by Hall, “The attitude towards
116 Elizabeth Broadwin<br />
philosophy which Lucian most consistently expresses, both when he is in a<br />
humorous vein and when he adopts a more serious tone . . . is that philosophy is<br />
only of use in so far as it contributes towards the practical conduct of life” (Hall,<br />
173). The aspect of the Neo-Pythagorean thought that Lucian parodies is outside<br />
the realm of the practical.<br />
Lucian’s treatment of philosophy is very much tied to his concern with<br />
modes of knowledge and the truth. In the prologue to A True Story Lucian says,<br />
“When I have come across all of these writers, I have not blamed the men for<br />
telling lies. I could see that even those who profess to be philosophers are now<br />
habituated to this” (Lucian, 2004: I.3). Lucian finds the same fault in philosophy<br />
and in history: the depiction of fiction as the truth. Philosophers should be concerned<br />
with wisdom, ethics, and aesthetics. Lamptown is thus better suited for a<br />
truly fictive narrative like Lucian’s than for a philosophical one. According to<br />
Jones, “the prominence of philosophy in [Lucian’s] work is due not only to his<br />
reading . . . but also to the fact that the society and the culture of the day<br />
swarmed with philosophers as much as with sophists” (Jones, <strong>19</strong>86: 32). When<br />
Lucian says he does not blame writers for telling lies because even philosophers<br />
have become habituated to it, he does not exculpate writers but rather<br />
facetiously attacks philosophy.<br />
Lucian’s primary concern, like a true rhetorician from the second<br />
Sophistic, is with monumental texts and figures such as Homer, Herodotus, and<br />
Aristophanes, from earlier periods of Greek history. This distinction between<br />
history, writing that is perceived as history, and fiction elucidates Lucian’s<br />
disparate treatment of Homer, Herodotus and Aristophanes in A True Story.<br />
Under the artifice of a travel narrative, Lucian creates a hierarchy of truths<br />
among those works that claim to offer the truth but in reality convey fictive<br />
narratives such as Herodotus’ Histories; those works which have been perceived<br />
as the truth though do not claim to offer it, such as Homer’s Odyssey; and works<br />
of pure fiction, such as Aristophanes’ The Birds, which are rightfully accepted<br />
as fiction. Lucian reproduces many elements from the works which he satirizes<br />
into his own narrative: from Homer he takes his narrative progression and<br />
movement within the text such as the storms, days of sailing and so on; from<br />
Herodotus, he takes his fanciful ethnographic accounts; and from Aristophanes,<br />
Lucian takes his tone of parody and satire. Through this mimetic process Lucian<br />
warns his readers of the danger and futility of viewing fictive narratives as<br />
truthful ones.<br />
Lucian’s parody and mimetic quality make readers of A True Story aware<br />
of the processes by which they obtain knowledge. Lucian satirizes those whose<br />
words have been accepted as the truth and offers a view of earlier literature that<br />
emphasizes its aesthetic value. Homer, Herodotus, and Aristophanes present<br />
knowledge in the form of fictive narratives but to read their words as absolute<br />
and concrete truth is to take away from their true aesthetic value. Lucian’s stress<br />
on the aesthetic quality of these texts that have wrongfully been categorized as<br />
containing historical and geographic truths is manifested in their incorporation
Lucian’s Allusive Journey 117<br />
into A True Story’s truly fictive narrative. Through the use of allusion and satire,<br />
Lucian puts his reader’s intellect “into more alert condition for the labour which<br />
is to follow” (I.1): questioning and criticizing the truths deduced from literature.<br />
References<br />
Hall, Jennifer. <strong>19</strong>81. Lucian’s Satire. New York: Arno Press.<br />
Herodotus. <strong>19</strong>54. The Histories. Trans. Aubrey De Selincourt. Penguin Books.<br />
Homer. <strong>19</strong>90. The Iliad. Trans. Robert Fagles. Penguin Books.<br />
Homer. <strong>19</strong>61. The Odyssey. Trans. Robert Fitzgerald. Anchor Books.<br />
Jones, C. P. <strong>19</strong>86. Culture and Society in Lucian. Cambridge: Harvard <strong>University</strong> Press.<br />
Lucian. <strong>19</strong>59. Lucian VI. Trans. K. Kilburn. Harvard <strong>University</strong> Press.<br />
Lucian. 2004. Chattering Courtesans and Other Sardonic Sketches. Trans. Keith Sidwell.<br />
Penguin Books.<br />
Swain, Simon. <strong>19</strong>96. Hellenism and Empire. Oxford: Claredon Press.
118<br />
Laocoon. Vatican, Italy, ca. first century B.C.E.<br />
Original photograph by Scott Nelson. Used by permission.
Augustine’s Imitatio Dei—<br />
A Rejection of Self Sacrifice<br />
Zohar Atkins<br />
The question of whether Christians have a conception of selfhood, or whether<br />
selfhood, by definition, stands as a function of God’s or Christ’s identity, foolishly<br />
assumes a solipsistic, remote, even God-transcending self, rather than an<br />
integrated, joyous, divinely inspired one. The critics and skeptics who proffer<br />
this seemingly innocent query attack Christianity by cornering it into an<br />
either/or proposition. Either the self stands as the sole entity of individuality:<br />
strong, eternal, independent, and holy in its own right, or it revolves around<br />
God, and is therefore no self at all, but a parasite that draws entirely from the<br />
non-self. The self must be inactive and alone or active but without substance.<br />
These cynics ironically illustrate a selfless self and selfish non-self. This is an<br />
ill-suited algorithm for a full understanding of Christian metaphysics. St.<br />
Augustine argues against this misconception in his Confessions, and defends the<br />
Christian view of the self, or in spiritual terms, the soul, as a malleable, engaged,<br />
reflective, tender, glorious, and unique vessel housing, but not confining, God.<br />
The soul, the essential engine of the self, and the divine spark that manifests<br />
God’s simultaneous plurality and singularity, bears enormous consequence<br />
in the Christian tradition. It is the fighting grounds for the dual tensions that<br />
dominate Augustine’s Confessions: the heavenly and the earthly, the eternal and<br />
the ephemeral, the external and the internal, love and fear, volunteerism and<br />
obligation, and free will and determinism. Augustine resolves these frictions by<br />
synthesizing them into an exemplary incarnation of the ideal good, the physical<br />
realm of the particulars. He fuses the issues of God’s timelessness existing in<br />
time and God’s transcendence involving itself in the material world to construct<br />
a ladder that links the inner-soul, the self, to the cosmic soul, God, and names<br />
this intermediary Christ. Augustine blends the manifold forms with their encompassed<br />
unity to draw attention to the self as a kindling of the two. His self is a<br />
function of God, but it has a life of its own. Augustine refutes the cynical question<br />
by exposing its sinful pride and attempting to put forth a self that walks<br />
humbly before God (Conf. 21). This self merits applause, but more significantly,<br />
mercy and forgiveness.<br />
Augustine opens his Confessions by quoting a psalm from Scripture: “Can<br />
any praise be worthy of the Lord’s majesty” (Conf. 1.1)? He poses a general<br />
question using words that are not his to draw attention to God, rather than to<br />
himself. He emphasizes both the wonder of God and the possibility of accessing<br />
1<strong>19</strong>
120 Zohar Atkins<br />
Him. He shows how prayer serves the purpose of the self, rather than God’s<br />
needs. Thus, praising God is to some extent a selfish act, which is why Augustine<br />
takes great pains to construct the right prayer. About to embark on a written<br />
journey, which could be considered a extended prayer, he carefully asks God for<br />
collective inspiration rather than personal sustenance, because God “thwarts the<br />
proud” (Conf. 1.1). But, his opening concedes the impossibility of denying the<br />
self altogether, for his second and third sentences, also taken from the Psalms,<br />
subtly inform us of Augustine’s conscious, particular, and personal yoking of<br />
holy verses to package his self, even if it rings as a byproduct of the Divine.<br />
Augustine soon breaks into the first person with tremendous strength in a command:<br />
“Grant me, Lord, to understand and understand whether a man is first to<br />
pray to you for help or to praise you, and whether he must know you before he<br />
can call you to his aid” (Conf. 1.1). Augustine frames his question in universal<br />
terms, but it is nonetheless his question.<br />
In the second chapter, he unreservedly begs, “How shall I call upon my<br />
God for aid, when the call I make is for my Lord to come into myself” (Conf.<br />
1.2)? He personalizes God with the possessive “my,” and he is the subject of the<br />
sentence, with God as his object. This heavy, presumptuous, and unabashed<br />
revealing of the self still seeks God’s approval, permission, and validation.<br />
Augustine asks how he can come closer to God, but realizes that the act of<br />
asking such a question is an answer in itself. Augustine’s model of humility, of<br />
prayer that begs aid to pray, of self that desires the indwelling of God, uses the<br />
unassuming and unthreatening act of questioning to highlight his self. His going<br />
back and forth between ignorance and Socratic knowledge of that ignorance<br />
aver his robust self-sanctification. By hailing his inferiority to and his<br />
dependence upon God, he equips himself and his subsequent words with an<br />
efficacy comparable to God’s voice, namely, the internal revelation of the soul.<br />
Augustine welcomes God into his soul, realizing that the capacity even to<br />
suggest such a statement stems from God’s already residing there.<br />
When Augustine declares, “I should be null and void and could not exist at<br />
all, if you, my God, were not in me” (Conf. <strong>19</strong>61: 1.2), he proves this point. But<br />
rather than critiquing the essentiality of his existence as a function of God and<br />
not of himself, he celebrates the divinity that he contains. He offers the notion of<br />
a sacred self to his readers as a way of inducing them to embrace their selves<br />
through the acceptance of God. Augustine merges Neo-Platonism with Stoicism<br />
to craft a new self, predicated on its cleaving to God, linked to other selves<br />
through the cosmopolitan act of creation, and possessing the power to extend<br />
itself to the heavens. 1 Augustine’s concluding question/answer, “No single thing<br />
contains the whole of you” (Conf. 1.2), argues for the plurality of the image of<br />
1 Book 1.2 “For you, my God, have said that you fill haven and earth, but I cannot go<br />
beyond the bounds of heaven and earth so that you may leave them to come to me.”<br />
Augustine argues that he cannot transcend as long as he exists materially, but by living<br />
with God in his soul he can reach God.
Augustine’s Imitatio Dei—A Rejection of Self Sacrifice 121<br />
God. He allusively trumpets the biblical verse, “let us make mankind in our<br />
image” (Gen. 1.26) to fashion a world, a “footstool” that must look upward, but<br />
also to synthesize the pieces of God possessed in different selves, to reconstruct<br />
and relive the vision of the logos 2 who once died for their sins.<br />
Augustine seeks to know God, not in a biblical, corporeal sense but in a<br />
platonic attempt to unite himself with God through total love and abandonment<br />
of the non-godly. In his search for the ever-present Being that shapes his own<br />
existence, Augustine runs through a series of contradictions: “You are the most<br />
hidden from us and yet the most present amongst us, the most beautiful and yet<br />
the most strong, ever enduring and yet we cannot comprehend you . . .<br />
unchangeable and yet you change all things. . .” (Conf. 1.4). These paradoxical<br />
pairings affirm our inability to know God, and as Boethius later asserts, to know<br />
God is to become God. Augustine internalizes God, and feels God as the juice of<br />
his soul; he has no need to explain God philosophically, only to proclaim, “You<br />
are my God, my Life, my holy Delight” (Conf. 23). Though may rely on God to<br />
legitimize his existence, and to stabilize his self, this daring, exalting, trinityevoking<br />
pronouncement seems to affirm God. By calling God “my life” Augustine<br />
is, in effect, calling his life “God.” Splendidly celebrating God’s infinity<br />
through the limited self, Augustine connects through quill and parchment to a<br />
boundless Being. Humbling himself again, he continues, “Is this enough to say<br />
of you? Can any man say enough when he speaks of you” (Conf. 1.1)? Reverting<br />
back to the universal, he demonstrates the availability of the self, of the<br />
particular, of the wedding of temporal and eternal within all people.<br />
Augustine aims to tackle the problem of sin in the world by levying<br />
responsibility wholly on humanity. He disgracefully though necessarily points<br />
out, “I sinned, O Lord my God, creator and arbiter of all natural things, but<br />
arbiter only, not creator, of sin. I sinned” (Conf. 1.10). Yet, even this admission<br />
to sin, despite relegating it to the sphere of the unnatural, confirms the power of<br />
the self to avert its gaze from the good, to abandon itself. More importantly, by<br />
confessing to his sins, Augustine acclaims himself both for changing and for<br />
knowing his wrongdoings. When Augustine recounts, “I had not yet fallen in<br />
love, but I was in love with the idea of it. . .I badly wanted to love something,”<br />
and later, “I cared for nothing but to love and be loved” (Conf. 2.2), as his<br />
motive for sinning, he distinguishes “the clear light of true love from the murk<br />
of lust” (Conf. 2.2), and demonstrates the importance of God at the center or the<br />
soul. Without God, the self-centered evildoer cannot survive. Nonetheless,<br />
Augustine’s repentance, a process that he describes in his Confessions, offers<br />
hope to the sinner, and shows him the mercy of God that will embrace him and<br />
allow him to reenter his self if he returns to goodness. For Augustine, even the<br />
2 John 1.1-1.14 describes the logos as the word of God, the means by which the world<br />
came into being, and the means by which the world will be saved. The word is Jesus. “In<br />
the beginning was the word. . .”
122 Zohar Atkins<br />
vilest person contains a divine spark, 3 and therefore a self, but his evil deeds<br />
result from an ignorance of God and a denial of the self. In the same way that<br />
Augustine prays to know God, the sinner sins because he knows not God. Thus,<br />
Augustine beseeches God not only to reveal His face so that he may know Him<br />
better, but so he can keep far from sin. Augustine struggles to conquer his<br />
concupiscent urges by channeling them towards his ultimate desire, to be as one<br />
not with a strumpet, but rather with God Himself.<br />
In Augustine’s biographical narrative, focusing not on his physical aging<br />
and his worldly accomplishments, but on his spiritual journey, we glimpse the<br />
magnificence of his individual soul, even if it is simply a function of God’s<br />
identity. Augustine surely recognizes the strong assertion of selfhood required to<br />
write, and acknowledges that no other self could produce a replica of his written<br />
works, his life, and his soul. In Book VI, upon witnessing Ambrose pouring<br />
silently over a Scriptural text, he stands mesmerized by the power of the written<br />
word, the fixity of the otherwise open, seeing Scripture as an embodiment of the<br />
Divine, in the same way that he calls Christ “the voice of your [God’s] truth”<br />
(Conf. 6.10). In Book XII, he offers an exegetical interpretation of the creation<br />
story, justifying his elucidation with one of the most poignant verifications of<br />
the self within a divine framework:<br />
If we both see that what you say is true and also that what I say is true, what<br />
enables us to recognize this truth? I do not see it in you, nor do you see it in<br />
me, but we both see it in the immutable Truth which is above our minds.<br />
Therefore, since there is no dispute between us about the light which shines<br />
from the Lord our God, why do we argue about the thoughts of a fellow man,<br />
which we cannot see as clearly as we see the immutable Truth? Even if<br />
Moses were to appear to us and say ‘This is what I meant,” we should not see<br />
his thoughts but would simply believe his word. (Conf. 12.25)<br />
Augustine sees the corpus of God as necessary, because it allows people to<br />
grab hold of the immaterial, but he also enunciates the importance of remembering<br />
that behind each personal connection and construal remains a singular<br />
objective, Truth. Augustine mentions God significantly more than he pays pen<br />
service to Jesus, because he has, in a certain sense, replaced Jesus, and his Confessions<br />
have, to an extent, supplanted the Bible. Though Augustine still adamantly<br />
vouches for the Son of God and the Biblical brainchild of God, he places<br />
profound importance on the internal revelation of the self, the individual’s<br />
mechanism for bonding with the divine. Augustine’s self has room to coexist<br />
with God, to nourish itself with its mother’s milk of God’s love. Augustine<br />
privileges the plurality of paths, joyfully promulgating the singular ends<br />
betokened them if they embrace God—namely, eternal salvation. Building upon<br />
the Socratic command of “know thyself,” Augustine sees self-knowledge and<br />
3<br />
Book 7.12, pp. 148. Augustine writes, “But if they are deprived of all good, they will<br />
not exist at all.”
Augustine’s Imitatio Dei—A Rejection of Self Sacrifice 123<br />
God-knowledge as one and the same. The universality of God, of the self, of the<br />
soul, still preserves individuality, because it tenders a model of existence that is<br />
simultaneously external and internal, innately given and difficultly attained,<br />
unified and differentiated. Augustine’s self becomes the highest rung of existence,<br />
and the foundation for all substance.<br />
References<br />
Saint Augustine. <strong>19</strong>61. Confessions. Enbland: Penguin Books.<br />
The Holy Bible. 2006. New York: American Bible Society.
124<br />
The Charioteer of Delphi. Delphi, Greece, 474 B.C.E.<br />
Original photograph by Scott Nelson. Used by permission.
The Inner World of the Pastoral:<br />
Virgilian Allusion in Sannazaro’s<br />
First Piscatorial Eclogue<br />
Francesco Pucci<br />
Pastoral verse is historically a hybrid genre: in any pastoral poetry the reader<br />
finds monologue, dialogue, elegy, satire, myth, and more. Out of this hybrid<br />
nature follows an intrinsic allusiveness: in seeking to bring together many<br />
genres and forms, the poet must incorporate specific sources from those<br />
traditions either directly or indirectly. The distinguishing characteristic of all<br />
pastoral poetry, however, is its creation of an “other” world. This provides the<br />
opportunity for allusion and even necessitates it—in order to construct an<br />
imaginary pastoral landscape, the author must draw from either the real world or<br />
the literary world. The former produces allegory while the latter produces<br />
allusion. The hybrid nature and the penchant for allusion present in the pastoral<br />
are evident in the works of the father of the genre, Theocritus (316-260 B.C.).<br />
His Idylls have been the most influential of ancient Greek bucolic poetry. The<br />
title is derived from the Greek word “,” meaning “picture” or “scene.” This<br />
cycle of poems consists of individual vignettes that span genre and style. Each<br />
idyll is, in turn, an amalgamation of literary forms and an allusive invocation of<br />
more ancient works.<br />
If Theocritus invented the pastoral poem, then Virgil confirmed and deepened<br />
it. Virgil’s Bucolica were his first masterpieces (ca. 39 B.C.E.), in which he<br />
draws heavily from Theocritus in theme and form while adding to the tradition.<br />
Pastoral poetry is often said to have both an inner and outer world. For Virgil,<br />
the outer world was Rome in the last days of the Republic. Virgil expertly<br />
causes the “other” world of his Eclogues to turn outward on Rome; thus the<br />
poetry becomes a source of great allegory and satire. Virgil’s pastoral world is<br />
not a utopia; rather, his shepherds face political conflict, exile, and perturbations<br />
in the natural world. The inner world of the Bucolica, however, is not only the<br />
literal landscape surrounding Corydon and Thyrsis but also the inner world of<br />
poetry. Each eclogue examines the creation of poetry, the ideal qualities of<br />
pastoral verse and even the shortcomings of the genre—in this sense, Virgil’s<br />
Eclogues are self-reflective. It is Virgil’s development of these inner and outer<br />
worlds and the ease with which he moves between them that is perhaps his great<br />
contribution to pastoral poetry.<br />
125
126 Francesco Pucci<br />
By the end of the fifteenth century, Renaissance neo-Latin poets were<br />
attracted to the pastoral genre—especially to Virgil’s pastoral poetry—on<br />
account of its hybrid nature, its natural allusiveness, and its self-reference. The<br />
Neapolitan humanist Jacopo Sannazaro (A.D. 1458-1530) contributed perhaps<br />
the most to the pastoral genre since Virgil; in fact, nineteenth-century pastoralists<br />
often regarded Theocritus, Virgil, and Sannazaro as the archetypal trinity of<br />
bucolic verse (Smith, 2002). The pursuit of neo-Latin poetry in the Southern<br />
Italian Renaissance was largely archeological: poets used composition and the<br />
Latin language as a means of understanding ancient history and literature.<br />
Pastoral poetry, as a hybrid and naturally allusive genre, was conducive to this<br />
end, as it allowed for Renaissance authors to experiment in different themes,<br />
styles, and forms. It would be Virgil’s development of inner and outer worlds<br />
that would most appeal to Sannazaro for its subtlety and irony, which could<br />
ultimately break down the rigid historical, allegorical, tropological, and<br />
anagogical medieval interpretations of pastoral poetry. Virgil’s Bucolica not<br />
only served as a source of imitatio in Sannazaro’s Piscatoriae but also as a<br />
source of profound allusion; just as Virgil’s pastoral poetry is an examination of<br />
poetry and the genre itself, Sannazaro’s allusions to Virgil examine the ancient<br />
genre in an attempt to understand it in his own time.<br />
Jacopo Sannazaro was born into a wealthy Neapolitan family that encouraged<br />
his scholarship from an early age—he was a life-long humanist born at the<br />
peak of the Southern Italian Renaissance. By the late 1480s, he had already<br />
composed many short Latin and vernacular poems and had been admitted into<br />
the literary circle at the Academia Antoniana. Upon his admission, he chose the<br />
name Actius Syncerius for himself, alluding both to his endearing personality (accius)<br />
and to the seashore (acta) that would become the setting of the<br />
Piscatoriae (Kennedy, <strong>19</strong>83). His studies in Latin were an experiment in the<br />
pastoral. Most contemporary neo-Latinists used Latin composition as a proving<br />
ground to perfect their knowledge of the language and then composed in the<br />
vernacular in order to expand upon the classical tradition. Sannazaro, however,<br />
took the reverse approach. His first major pastoral masterpiece, Arcadia (1504),<br />
consisted of poems and prose in the vernacular Italian. Through them,<br />
Sannazaro wished to show that the classical world can be revealed through the<br />
vernacular and that the Latin language can enrich modern literature.<br />
The Piscatoriae (1526), however, represents a formal rebirth of the Latin<br />
pastoral tradition—through them Sannazaro hoped to revive the ancient Latin<br />
bucolic tradition to actively understand the poetry of antiquity. The Piscatorial<br />
Eclogues are palpably Virgilian: they are a cycle of five eclogues in classical<br />
diction and dactylic hexameter that adapt dramatic situations from the Bucolica.<br />
Unlike earlier Renaissance pastoralists who used bucolic poetry as a forum for<br />
satire, Sannazaro, like Virgil, is self-reflective as well as ironic (Heninger, <strong>19</strong>61:<br />
254). The “other” world of Sannazaro’s Piscatoriae, however, was uniquely his<br />
own. The poems are set in his beloved Bay of Naples rather than Arcadia. Fishermen<br />
have replaced shepherds, and dolphins and tuna are a substitute for sheep
The Inner World of the Pastoral 127<br />
and kids. These alterations, however, are only adaptations that change the surface<br />
of the poetry, not the substance. Again, Virgil uses the pastoral to investigate<br />
the nature of poetry and the genre, and Sannazaro uses the pastoral to<br />
investtigate that same, now ancient, poetry. As in the classical tradition, the first<br />
Piscatoria is programmatic, and an investigation of its themes and forms will<br />
reveal much about the whole cycle of poetry.<br />
Sannazaro’s first Ecloga is a dirge, a poem in which Lycidas—here a fisherman<br />
rather than a shepherd—mourns the loss of his beloved Phyllis, closely<br />
paralleling Virgil’s fifth Bucolica, in which Mopsus laments the death of Daphnis.<br />
Such lamentations were a central topos of the pastoral, so Sannazaro’s<br />
choice of mourning as a theme is firmly set in the pastoral tradition. Like<br />
Virgil’s Eclogue V, Sannazaro’s involves a dialogue between two poets; again,<br />
this is squarely within the Virgilian pastoral tradition—a dialogue provides a<br />
dialectic method to reach a consensus on the defining characteristics of pastoral<br />
verse, a question that particularly interested Sannazaro. Even though the first<br />
Piscatoria is closest in theme to Virgil’s fifth Ecloga, the first allusion to<br />
Virgilian poetry in the Piscatorial Eclogues is to Eclogue I (Mustard, <strong>19</strong>14).<br />
Mirabar, vicina, Mycon, per litora nuper / Dum vagor (Sannazaro 1.1-2)<br />
Mirabar quid maesta deos Amarylli vocares (Virgil 1.1.36)<br />
Sannazaro begins his poem with an address by Lycidas to a fellow fisherman: “I<br />
was wondering, Mycon. . .why the raven should be calling after me more than<br />
his wont, and why the dripping wildfowl. . .were filling the gloomy rocks with<br />
their mournful cries.” Lycidas is surveying his piscatorial world, noticing that all<br />
of nature is mourning the death of Phyllis. Similarly, in Virgil, Mopsus observes<br />
nature mourning the loss of the shepherd Tityrus. Phyllis has died, but Tityrus<br />
has been exiled; in both cases, the state of the pastoral landscape reflects the<br />
voice of the narrator. Sannazaro’s allusion invokes the tremendous sense of the<br />
loss of Tityrus and highlights the opposition between the pastoral and the nonpastoral<br />
world, setting up themes of opposition and nostalgia that are present in<br />
works by both Virgil and Sannazaro.<br />
In the same opening, Sannazaro also uses Virgil to legitimize his new<br />
marine setting. The litora of the first line is rarely mentioned in Virgil’s poetry,<br />
but his second eclogue provides one such instance: “nuper me in litore vidi, cum<br />
placidum ventis staret mare” (Virgil 2.25-26). In this passage, the shepherd<br />
Corydon describes his abundance and the perfection of his current idyllic<br />
setting, which includes the vision of a calm sea as he stands on the shore. Thus,<br />
even in Virgil’s world, the seashore could be complementary to the pastoral<br />
world. Sannazaro later expands on Corydon’s vision in the Piscatoriae.<br />
The remainder of Lycidas’ introduction (lines 1-11) serves two purposes:<br />
to introduce the reader to the new setting of the pastoral and to move from<br />
nature’s sorrow to Lycidas’ particular sorrow. Regarding the first goal,<br />
Sannazaro describes the seashore in detail: ravens and waterfowl provide the
128 Francesco Pucci<br />
aural imagery ubiquitous in Virgil’s Eclogues, and dolphins play in the sea just<br />
as lambs play in the pastures of Virgil. Sannazaro even includes bucolic<br />
elements that would ordinarily be out of place in the littoral world. For example,<br />
the fisherman gather tuna ad pabula (“for the fodder”) (Piscatoria 1.2), with<br />
pabula implying the food of ruminants rather than fish. The fact that the feeding<br />
of tuna is compared to the grazing of cows or sheep undoubtedly intends to<br />
bring a variety of Virgilian descriptives into the Piscatoriae. Virgil uses a verb<br />
meaning “to graze” in close proximity to piscatorial words such as “fish” and<br />
“shore” in his first Eclogue. Sannazaro exploits this propinquity—with another<br />
link provided by the coincidental adjective “leves”—to reveal a very calculated<br />
use of the world “pabula” (Sannazaro 1.1, cf. Virgil 1.59-60). Again, Sannazaro<br />
wishes to legitimize his new piscatorial setting. Regarding the second goal,<br />
Lycidas gradually moves from observing sadness in nature to acknowledging his<br />
own sadness. This represents a movement from “outer” to “inner” in a way<br />
typically Virgilian. This emphasis on the inner voice of the poet-fisherman is<br />
one of the key ways in which Sannazaro attempts to echo Virgil.<br />
After Lycidas acknowledges his own sadness, the fisherman Mycon enters<br />
to respond—he is primarily a foil or a prod, helping Lycidas to produce his<br />
song. This sort of character is frequent in Virgil, and it serves a similar purpose<br />
in Sannazaro. Namely, Mycon will serve as a voice for Sannazaro to ask the<br />
question, “What is ancient pastoral?” Mycon poses this question over several<br />
lines by encouraging the beauty and power of Lycidas’ “inner” song. Mycon’s<br />
role reaches its climax in line 31: (Incipe, quandoquidem molles tibi litus<br />
harenas / sternit et insani poserurunt murmura fluctus” (“Begin! seeing that the<br />
shore spreads soft sands for you and raging waves put down their murmuring,”<br />
Sannazaro 1.31-32).<br />
Lycidas is equal to the challenge: Immo haec quae cineri nuper properata<br />
parabam / carmina (Sannazaro 1.33-34). Virgil’s shepherd Moeris begins a<br />
small praise of Varus with similar words in the ninth Eclogue (“Immo haec quae<br />
Varo,” Buccolica 9.26). However, Moeris ends his speech in saying that he is<br />
not worthy to praise Varus, that he “cackles like a goose” (Nash, <strong>19</strong>96). Perhaps<br />
through this allusion, Sannazaro intended to make clear his humility in<br />
attempting to mimic the master-pastoralist. Nonetheless, Virgil would most<br />
likely approve of Lycidas’ song. Most importantly, his lament of Phyllis<br />
explores the self-reflection present in Virgil—in at least some allegorical sense,<br />
mourning the loss of Phyllis is mourning the loss of the classical pastoral tradition,<br />
and the encomium to Phyllis is an attempt to regain it.<br />
Sannazaro makes this intention clearest through the voice of Lycidas: te<br />
sequar in medios mutato corpore fluctus (Sannazaro 1.49). The secondary meaning<br />
of this phrase is obvious: Sannazaro wishes to pursue the Virgilian tradition<br />
boldly—“with a changed body” clearly indicates both the continuity between<br />
Virgil and Sannazaro, but also refers to the new littoral interpretation of the pastoral.<br />
The dirge that follows continues the analogy. Lycidas pines for Phyllis,<br />
who is no longer present, and he wonders “where I might finally seek you”
The Inner World of the Pastoral 129<br />
(“qua te tandem regione requiram. . .,” Sannazaro 1.69). The literary interpretation<br />
of this phrase implies that Phyllis represents the pastoral poetry of antiquity;<br />
Sannazaro is unsure of how to go about discovering the fullness of Virgil’s<br />
ancient verses. In every way, just like Virgil’s Eclogues, Sannazaro’s first<br />
Piscatoriae is a poem about poetry—the “inner” world gains prominence.<br />
Allusion in the Piscatoriae supports this self-reflection. In Virgil’s fifth<br />
Eclogue, the primary model for Sannazaro’s first, Menalcus honors the deceased<br />
Daphnis: “Sis bonus o felixque tuis. En quattor aras / Ecce duas tibi, Daphni,<br />
duas altaria Phoebo” (Virgil 5.65-66). For Virgil, Daphnis was the archetypal<br />
pastoral character, present in Theocritus. To honor him is to place his own<br />
poetry in the pastoral tradition. In some loose sense, Phyllis represents Virgilian<br />
pastoralism, and so it is appropriate that Sannazaro honor her in a similar way:<br />
“Nos tibi, no liquidis septem pro fluctibus aras / Ponemus septemque tibi de<br />
more quotannis / Monstra maris magni vitulos mactabimus hirtos” (Sannazaro<br />
1.79-81). To set up seven altars in the new marine pastoral setting is both to<br />
respect Virgil’s masterpiece and to set Sannazaro’s own work in Virgilian<br />
tradition.<br />
There is one important difference, however, between Sannazaro’s first Piscatoria<br />
and its Virgilian counterpart. Virgil’s Eclogue V ends on an optimistic<br />
note—Mopsus praises Menalcus’s song as worthy of Daphnis and offers him a<br />
gilded shepherd’s crook (Virgil 5.81-84, 88-90). Sannazaro’s first Piscatoria,<br />
however, ends on an imperfect note. Mycon praises Lycidas’s songs as pleasant,<br />
but Lycidas is skeptical: “Exhaustae maduere genae; dolor aspice siccas /<br />
obduxit fauces quatit et singultibus imum / pectus anhelantemque animam vox<br />
aegra relinquit” (Sannazaro 1.116-118). As a poem about pastoral poetry,<br />
Lycidas’ weakness represents Sannazaro’s own skepticism about the caliber of<br />
his re-creation of Virgilian bucolic verse. This doubt is, in part, symptomatic of<br />
the age. The beginning of the Renaissance was full of optimism—all scholars<br />
placed their hopes in the renewal of classical literature. However, by the peak of<br />
the Southern Italian Renaissance, competing commentaries, faulty transmission<br />
of manuscripts, and the inability of many authors to understand classical text<br />
fully through compositional imitation rendered most scholars cynical. Sannazaro’s<br />
accomplishments in his Piscatoriae are significant, but the doubtful end<br />
of his first poem recognizes that he has still not equaled or fully understood the<br />
poetry of Virgil, the great pastoralist.<br />
References<br />
Heninger, S. K., Jr. <strong>19</strong>61. “The Renaissance Perversion of Pastoral,” Journal of the History<br />
of Ideas, 22:2.<br />
Kennedy, William J. <strong>19</strong>83. Jacopo Sannazaro and the Uses of Pastoral. England: <strong>University</strong><br />
Press of New England: Hanover and London.
130 Francesco Pucci<br />
Mustard, Wilfred P., ed. <strong>19</strong>14. The Piscatory Eclogues of Jacopo Sannazaro. Baltimore:<br />
The Johns Hopkins Press.<br />
Sannazaro, Jacopo. <strong>19</strong>96. Piscatoriae. Trans. Ralph Nash. Michigan: Wayne State <strong>University</strong><br />
Press.<br />
Smith, Nicholas D. 2002. Jacopo Sannazaro’s Eclogae Piscatoriae and the Pastoral<br />
Debate in Eigtheenth-Century England. North Carolina: <strong>University</strong> of North Carolina<br />
Press.<br />
Virgil. <strong>19</strong>77. Eclogues. Trans. Robert Coleman. New York: Cambridge <strong>University</strong> Press.
Writing, Translation, and Re-Constellation:<br />
The Authorial Authority of Gayatri Spivak<br />
and Matthew Arnold<br />
Morgan Palmer<br />
In her essay “A Literary Representation of the Subaltern: A Woman’s Text<br />
From the Third World,” Gayatri Spivak comments on the role of authorial<br />
authority. She writes that, “in the mis-en-scène where the text persistently<br />
rehearses itself, writer and reader are both upstaged. . . . In that scene of writing,<br />
the authority of the author, however seductively down-to-earth, must be content<br />
to stand in the wings” (Spivak, <strong>19</strong>88: 268). Spivak introduces the concepts of<br />
theater and staging because she does not believe that an author should act like a<br />
director by imposing her own critical interpretation on her writing. When an<br />
author provides criticism of her own text, she threatens to curtail the<br />
interpretations of others. Although Spivak acknowledges that it is tempting to<br />
grant unquestionable interpretive power to the author, she refuses to do so<br />
herself. Instead she claims that the text itself should be the authority and<br />
provides her own reading of Mahasweta Devi’s short story “Stanadayini” or<br />
“Breast-Giver.” Thus, Spivak presents a conception of authorial influence that<br />
allows for different interpretations of literature, and places the text in the<br />
position of sole authority.<br />
Similarly, Matthew Arnold addresses the roles of the translator, the critic,<br />
and the text in his lectures “On Translating Homer.” Like Spivak, he believes<br />
that the original text should be the ultimate authority. Since it is impossible to<br />
determine for certain the original intents of the Homeric poets, there is no<br />
danger that authorial influence will limit interpretations of the text. On the other<br />
hand, the authority of the original comes into conflict with the power of the<br />
translator. Arnold points out some of the problems that translators face as they<br />
struggle to reconcile their own styles with the original Homer. He also addresses<br />
the role of the critic, and claims that the only people fit to judge the quality of a<br />
translation are those who can read the original Ancient Greek. Therefore, Arnold<br />
sees himself as fit to evaluate translations of Homer, and claims that no<br />
translator has preserved the quality of the original.<br />
Spivak begins her essay by defining her own perspective on “Stanadayini.”<br />
She identifies her role as both a historian and a teacher of literature. Spivak<br />
writes that while the former must attempt to place the subaltern in a new subjectposition,<br />
the latter must explain those subject-positions (Spivak, <strong>19</strong>88: 241). In<br />
131
132 Morgan Palmer<br />
addition, both the historian and the teacher must “unravel” or deconstruct a text<br />
in order to place it in a new literary and historical context. Thus, Spivak plans to<br />
reinterpret Mahasweta Devi’s work by deconstructing it and by examining<br />
closely the relationship of the subaltern to the text.<br />
Indeed, Spivak gives herself the authority to reconstruct texts according to<br />
her own scholarly views. She asserts that, “[t]he teacher of literature, because of<br />
her institutional subject-position, can and must “reconstellate” the text to draw<br />
out its use. She can and must wrench it out of its proper context and put it within<br />
alien arguments” (Spivak, <strong>19</strong>88: 241). Thus Spivak defines her own subjectposition<br />
as “institutional,” or as that of a scholar affiliated with an academic<br />
community. Furthermore, she says that her subject-position not only allows her,<br />
but obligates her to reinterpret literature. Spivak’s repetition of the verbs “can”<br />
and “must” underscores her strong assertion of critical authority. She believes<br />
not only that she has the power to advance her own interpretations of “Stanadayini,”<br />
but also that it is her duty to do so. In addition, her use of the word “reconstellate”<br />
is significant. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the verb<br />
constellate comes from the Latin word constellare, and the word for star (stella)<br />
is at its root. Constellate means to set up a series of stars into a group, and it can<br />
also relate to the construction of a network of ideas. Thus by re-constellating the<br />
text, Spivak rearranges it in accordance with her own interpretation, which is<br />
“alien” to that of the author. She believes that in order to view the text critically,<br />
she must not stick to Mahasweta Devi’s interpretation, but should exercise her<br />
own scholarly authority in order to re-interpret it.<br />
Similarly, Matthew Arnold defines his subject-position as a scholar of<br />
Ancient Greek, and consequently validates his criticisms of other translations.<br />
First, he proposes that a good translation of Homer should create the general<br />
effect of the original (Arnold, 1883: 143). Then, he explains how to measure the<br />
success of a translation.<br />
No one can tell him [the translator] how Homer affected the Greeks; but there<br />
are those who can tell him how Homer affects them. These are scholars; who<br />
possess, at the same time with knowledge of Greek, adequate poetical taste<br />
and feeling. No translation will seem to them of much worth compared to the<br />
original; but they alone can say whether the translation produces more or less<br />
the same effect upon them as the original. (Arnold, 1883: 143-144)<br />
Arnold assigns great importance to the subject-position of the scholar who can<br />
read both Greek and English. According to Arnold, Greek scholars are the only<br />
people who can judge the quality of a translation, and the translator should<br />
respect their authority. By saying that the Greek scholar is the only person fit to<br />
asses the quality of a translation, Arnold adds to his own credibility. His definition<br />
of his own subject-position as someone who can read Ancient Greek is<br />
similar to Spivak’s comments about the authority of the critic. Both feel that<br />
their subject-positions as scholars allow them to critique the writing and literary<br />
interpretations of others.
Writing, Translation, and Re-Constellation 133<br />
After defining his subject-position, Arnold proceeds to explain his own<br />
conception of a successful translation of Homer. He believes it is crucial that<br />
he [the translator] is eminently rapid; that he is eminently plain and direct,<br />
both in the evolution of his thoughts and in the expression of it, that is, both<br />
in his syntax and in his words; that he is eminently plain and direct in the<br />
substance of his thought, that is, in his matter and ideas; and finally that he is<br />
eminently noble. (Arnold, 1883: 149).<br />
Arnold deconstructs his own notion of a good Homeric translation and defines<br />
four criteria that determine the success of a translator. His clear assertion of the<br />
four qualities necessary for a smooth translation is similar to Spivak’s “re-constellation”<br />
of literature according to her own ideas. Arnold believes that his<br />
authority as a Greek scholar gives his four criteria a certain credibility.<br />
However, since it is impossible to know the original intents of the Homeric<br />
poets, there is no authorial authority that threatens to challenge Arnold’s<br />
opinions. Consequently , his subject-position is different than Spivak’s because<br />
he does not have to address the ideas of the original authors, but must instead<br />
define his interprettations in relation to other critics and translators.<br />
For example, Arnold believes that Chapman takes too many liberties with<br />
the text and that he ruins his translation by setting it within the bounds of his<br />
own cultural mores. He remarks, “One might say that the minds of the Elizabethan<br />
translators were too active; that they could not forbear importing so much<br />
of their own, and this of a most peculiar and Elizabethan character, into their<br />
original, that they effected the character of the original itself” (Arnold, 1883:<br />
163). Arnold criticizes translators who are too quick to impose their own perspectives<br />
and interpretations on Homer. He believes that if an author becomes<br />
too concerned with his own ideas, his translation might be unfaithful to the original<br />
text. Thus Arnold does not believe that the subject-position of the translator<br />
includes freedom to alter the style of the text significantly. He goes on to cite a<br />
dedication to Prince Henry, which removes the text from its position as an<br />
ancient Greek epic, and makes it more Elizabethan (Arnold, 1883: 163). Furthermore,<br />
he believes that Chapman does not respect Homer’s “plainness and directness<br />
of ideas” and thus fails as a translator (Arnold, 1883: 149). Arnold does not<br />
think that Homer should be re-situated in a different historical context, but<br />
instead believes that a translator should be faithful to the original text.<br />
Therefore, the translator should not shape the text, but the text should shape the<br />
translation.<br />
At the same time, Arnold is aware that it can be difficult for a translator to<br />
recognize his own subject-position in relation to the text. He comments that<br />
[i]t may be said of that union of the translator with his original, which alone<br />
can produce a good translation, that it takes place when the mist that stands<br />
between them—the mist of alien modes of thinking, speaking, and feeling on
134 Morgan Palmer<br />
the translator’s part—‘defecates to a pure transparency,’ and disappears.<br />
(Arnold, 1883: 150)<br />
Arnold highlights the problem of distance between the translator and the text.<br />
The mist represents the translator’s own cultural background, which can blind<br />
him and prevent him from translating accurately. Thus Arnold sets up a contrast<br />
between murky blindness and transparency. Chapman and other translators are<br />
unsuccessful because they are blind to the influences of their own cultures upon<br />
their work. Arnold believes that in order to write a good translation, a scholar<br />
must simultaneously separate himself from the text and draw closer to it. Specifically,<br />
he must put aside his own personal reactions to the text and must examine<br />
closely the authority of the text itself.<br />
In addition, Arnold believes that the translator must make every effort to<br />
remain true to the original work. Arnold comments that some translations have<br />
very strong qualities,<br />
but even in these points they have none of them precisely the same kind of<br />
merit as Homer, and therefore the new translator, even if he can imitate them<br />
in their good points, will still not satisfy his judge, the scholar, who asks him<br />
for Homer and Homer’s kind of merit, or, at least, for as much of them as it is<br />
possible to give. (Arnold, 1883: 201)<br />
Arnold suggests that the translator’s task is to create an English version of<br />
Homer that has as much merit as the original Greet text. He asserts that no translation<br />
has achieved that lofty goal, and therefore translators must find new ways<br />
to experiment with English renderings of the text (Arnold, 1883: 201). These<br />
experimentations should work towards recapturing the original feel of the text,<br />
and should not be based on the work of other translators. Since Arnold believes<br />
that there is no translation of Homer that is completely successful, he grants<br />
authority to the original text. Any attempts to re-constellate Homer in the<br />
English language will fail because the translators are not Homeric poets.<br />
Therefore, they cannot possibly reduplicate the brilliance of the original, but<br />
must strive to render it as successfully as possible.<br />
Spivak also believes that the text should be the ultimate authority and<br />
rejects Mahasweta Devi’s own interpretation of “Stanadayini.” In a section<br />
entitled “The Author’s Own Reading: A Subject Position” she explains why she<br />
wants to deconstruct and re-constellate the author’s own views.<br />
The traffic between the historian and the writer that I have been proposing<br />
could not be justified if one devoted oneself to this reading. In order that<br />
Mahasweta’s parable be disclosed, what must be excluded from the story is<br />
precisely the attempt to represent the subaltern as such. I will therefore take<br />
the risk of putting to one side that all too neat reading, and unravel the texts<br />
to pick up the threads of the excluded attempt. (Spivak, <strong>19</strong>88: 244-245)
Writing, Translation, and Re-Constellation 135<br />
Spivak believes that Mahasweta Devi’s interpretation is inadequate because it<br />
ignores the status of the subaltern. Mahasweta Devi sees the nurse Jashoda as a<br />
symbol of post-imperialist India; Jashoda’s breast cancer represents the fate that<br />
the country will suffer if people neglect its development (Spivak, <strong>19</strong>88: 244). In<br />
order to construct a reading that fits with her subject-positions as historian and<br />
teacher of literature, Spivak must reject the author’s own opinion. Furthermore,<br />
she underscores that Mahasweta Devi’s interpretation is a subject-position. The<br />
indefinite article emphasizes that the author’s subject-position is not the only<br />
one and that other interpretations of the text are possible.<br />
In order to make her argument more credible, Spivak attempts to deconstruct<br />
the subject-position of the reader. She claims that although educated people<br />
realize that external factors influence interpretation, “when, however, it<br />
comes to their own presuppositions about the ‘natural’ way to read literature,<br />
they cannot admit that this might be a construction as well, that this subjectposition<br />
might also be assigned” (Spivak, <strong>19</strong>88: 246). Spivak suggests that a<br />
constructed notion of the correct way to read literature might influence literary<br />
critics, so that they adhere to certain interpretations unknowingly. The idea that<br />
the subject-position of such a reader is “assigned” suggests that societal forces<br />
can determine the opinions of a critic. In this case, critics who believe that they<br />
should respect the authority of the author might refuse to challenge Mahasweta<br />
Devi’s interpretation. According to Spivak, such an interpretation would also be<br />
congruent with the nationalist forces that draw attention to the state and ignore<br />
the subaltern. Her comments are similar to Matthew Arnold’s ideas about the<br />
“mist” of cultural assumptions that influence a translator’s interpretation of<br />
Homer.<br />
After Spivak begins her deconstructionist reading of “Stanadayini,” she<br />
makes a bold assertion of her own authority as a critic. When she writes, “Any<br />
reader nervous about the fact that Mahasweta Devi has probably not read much<br />
of the material critically illuminated by her text should stop here,” she defines<br />
the audience that she hopes to reach (Spivak, <strong>19</strong>88: 247). She stages her interpretation<br />
for those who are not overly concerned with authorial authority<br />
because their own readings of the story are incongruent with Mahasweta Devi’s.<br />
Therefore, Spivak makes her presence as a literary critic clear and paves the way<br />
for her own Marxist and feminist interpretations of the text.<br />
Both Spivak and Arnold believe that the text has a greater authority than<br />
the writers, readers, and translators who interpret it. Spivak justifies her re-constellation<br />
of Mahasweta Devi’s story when she comments that the text always<br />
“upstages” the writer. The concept of upstaging suggests that the text must be<br />
the center of attention, and is similar to Arnold’s idea that English translations<br />
cannot live up to the original Homer. According to Arnold, those who can read<br />
ancient Greek are the only ones who can determine if a translator has attempted<br />
to upstage the original text by imposing his own perspective on it. Since Arnold<br />
can read both English and Ancient Greek, he sees himself as qualified to judge<br />
translations of Homer. He believes that the translator’s goal is to render the text
136 Morgan Palmer<br />
in a different language without changing any of the qualities that define it. Furthermore,<br />
the translator must resist the urge to let his own cultural background<br />
and opinions about the text influence his translation. Arnold does not want the<br />
translator to stray from the original text because he believes that any changes<br />
would only compromise the quality of the work. At the same time, it is impossible<br />
to adhere to the Greek text completely, and therefore the original will<br />
always upstage attempts at translation. On the other hand, Spivak believes that<br />
the text upstages the author and reader precisely because it inspires multiple<br />
interpretations. Thus, she empowers literary critics to re-constellate the text in<br />
accordance with their own views and emphasizes that the author’s subject-position<br />
is only one of many. The text is the ultimate authority for both Spivak and<br />
Arnold, but Spivak encourages radical re-interpretation while Arnold argues for<br />
faithful adherence to the original.<br />
References<br />
Arnold, Matthew. 1883. “On Translating Homer.” On the Study of Celtic<br />
Literature and On Translating Homer. New York: Macmillan.<br />
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. <strong>19</strong>88. “A Literary Representation of the Subaltern: A<br />
Woman’s Text From the Third World.” In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics.<br />
New York: Routledge.
About the Contributors<br />
Zohar Atkins, class of 2010, is a concentrator in Classics and in Judaic Studies.<br />
Grainne O’Hara Belluomo, class of <strong>2007</strong>, is a concentrator in Classics and in<br />
Comparative Literature.<br />
Stephanie Bernhard, class of 2009, is a concentrator in English and in Classics.<br />
Elizabeth Broadwin, class of <strong>2007</strong>, is a concentrator in Classics.<br />
Laura <strong>Brown</strong>-Lavooie, class of 2010, is undecided.<br />
Peter Catsimpiris, class of 2008, is a concentrator in Classics and in Philosophy.<br />
Megan Cohen, class of <strong>2007</strong>, is a concentrator in Human Biology.<br />
Hillary Dixler, class of 2008, is a concentrator in English and in Theater Arts.<br />
Amanda Earl, class of <strong>2007</strong>, is a concentrator in Classics.<br />
Martha Gimbel, class of 2009, is a concentrator in Classics.<br />
Amy Hall Goins, class of <strong>2007</strong>, is a concentrator in History and in Political<br />
Science.<br />
Jennifer Grover, class of 2010, is a concentrator in Classics.<br />
Sarah Grover, class of <strong>2007</strong>, is a concentrator in Comparative Literature.<br />
David Guttmann, class of <strong>2007</strong>, is a concentrator in Biochemistry.<br />
Ariayné Hilliard, class of <strong>2007</strong>, is a concentrator in Classics.<br />
Nicholas Kay, class of 2009, is a concentrator in Classics.<br />
Mark Morales, class of 2010, is undecided.<br />
Lindsey Brett Meyers, class of 2009, is a concentrator in Classics and in Comparative<br />
Literature.<br />
Scott Nelson, class of <strong>2007</strong>, is a concentrator in Classics and in Geology.<br />
Matthew Nicholson, class of <strong>2007</strong>, is a concentrator in Classics.
2<br />
David Fusaro<br />
Morgan Palmer, class of <strong>2007</strong>, is a concentrator in Classics and in Comparative<br />
Literature.<br />
Pook Panyarachun, class of 2010, is a concentrator in Visual Arts.<br />
Maia Peck, class of 2009, is a concentrator in the History of Art and Architecture.<br />
Francesco Pucci, class of 2008, is a concentrator in Classics and in Neuroscience.<br />
Jonah Rosenberg, class of 2009, is a concentrator in Classics.<br />
Janelle Sing, class of <strong>2007</strong>, is a concentrator in Visual Arts.<br />
Kam Sripada, class of 2009, is a concentrator in Neuroscience.<br />
Curtis Steyers, class of <strong>2007</strong>, is a concentrator in Classics.<br />
Eleanor Thomas, class of <strong>2007</strong>, is a concentrator in Classics and in Neuroscience.