Volume 19, 2007 - Brown University

Faculty Editor Joseph Pucci 

Managing Editor Kitty Pucci 

Editorial Staff Jonathan Bolz 

Elizabeth Broadwin 

Amanda Earl 

Morgan Palmer 

Meredith Ringel 

Jackson Shulman 

Curtis Steyers 

Eleanor Thomas 

Cover design by Jenelle Sing 

“” 

This volume was published by the Department of Classics at Brown University. 

The Department gratefully acknowledges a subvention from Dean of the 

College, Paul Armstrong, and the continuing and unparalleled generosity of the 

Grimshaw-Gudiewicz Foundation. 

© 2007 Brown Classical Journal 

ISSN 1043-015 

ii

Brown Classical 

Journal 

Volume 19 

2007 

iii

Law Codes of Gortyn, Crete, Greece, ca. 450 B.C.E. 

Original photograph by Pook Panyarachun. Used by permission. 

ii

In Memoriam 

W. Duncan MacMillan II 

Once a Student, 

Often a Benefactor, 

Always a Friend 

of the Classics Department 

at Brown 

iii

Tholos Temple, Sanctuary of Athena Pronaia, Delphi, Greece, ca. 380 B.C.E. 

Original photograph by Amanda Earl. Used by permission. 

iv

Brown Classical Journal 

Vol. 19 

Hide and Seek with the Homeric Narrator in the Iliad and the Odyssey 1 

Sarah Grover 

Translation of Homeric Hymn No. 30: To Earth 7 

Jonah Rosenberg 

From Monster to Mother: The Tragic Death of Clytaemnestra 9 

Laura Brown-Lavoie 

The Historical Necessity of Political Justice in Aeschylus’ 13 

Prometheus Bound 

Lindsey Brett Meyers 

Major Opposition in Oedipus the King 21 

Mark Morales 

Fluency and Fear: An Investigation of Rhetoric as Presented 25 

in Euripides’ Medea 

Hillary Dixler 

The Hippocratic View of Epilepsy and Brain Function 31 


Dining with Death: An Analysis of Attic White-Ground Lekythoi 39 

and Athenian Notions of the Afterlife in Classical Greece 

Maia Peck 

Giton, Pederasty, and Epic Self-Perception 47 

Matthew Nicholson 

“Meting Out” the Bones of Heroes in Ancient Greece 55 

Amanda Earl 

Cicero’s Popularity Struggle: Through the Moralizing Lens of Plutarch 63 

Stephanie Bernhard 

Thetis and Venus: Motherhood in Epic 67 

Martha Gimbel 

v

Livy’s Exemplary History 71 

Amy Hall Goins 

The Lament of Aeneas 77 

Ariayné Hilliard 

Love Displayed Through Nature and Changing Nature 81 

Scott Nelson 

Restoring the Old Republic: Augustan Moral Reform in 85 

Its Historical Context 


Oh, There Once Was a Young Man from Ilium… 93 

Virgilian Farce and the Death of Caucus 

Grainne O’Hara Belluomo 

Virgil in Love 97 

Peter Catsimpiris 

Love as Transformative Power in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 101 

Megan Cohen 

A Corruption of True Selfhood 105 

David Guttmann 

Lucian’s Allusive Journey 109 


Augustine’s Imitatio Dei—A Rejection of Self Sacrifice 119 

Zohar Atkins 

The Inner World of the Pastoral: Virgilian Allusion in Sannazarro’s 125 

First Piscatorial Eclogue 

Francesco Pucci 

Writing, Translation, and Re-Constellation: The Authorial 131 

Authority of Gayatri Spivak and Matthew Arnold 

Morgan Palmer 

vi

List of Photographs and Illustrations 

Law Codes of Gortyn, Crete ii 

Pook Panyarachun 

Tholos Temple, Sanctuary of Athena Pronaia, Delphi iv 

Amanda Earl 

Tomb of M. Vergilius Eurysaces the Baker viii 

Morgan Palmer 

Ephesus 8 

Jennifer Grover 

March of the Living: Excavation of the Fortress of Masada 12 


Treasury of the Athenians, Delphi 20 

Amanda Earl 

Sketch of Nike Relief From the Balustrade of Athena’s Temple 24 

Maia Peck 

Column at Ephesus 46 

Jennifer Grover 

Tomb of Iltutmis, Qutub Minar Complex 54 

Kam Sripada 

Pyrrhus 76 

Nicholas Kay 

Laocoon. Vatican, Italy, c. 1st century B.C.E. 118 

Scott Nelson 

The Charioteer of Delphi. Delphi, Greece, 474 B.C.E. 124 

Scott Nelson 

vii

Tomb of M. Vergilius Eurysaces the baker in front of 

the Porta Maggiore, Rome, Italy, ca. 30 B.C.E.-20 B.C.E. 

Original photograph by Morgan Palmer. Used by permission. 

viii

Hide and Seek with the Homeric Narrator in 

the Iliad and the Odyssey 

Sarah Grover 

Throughout the Iliad and the Odyssey, the Homeric narrator is reluctant to step 

into the foreground. He manipulates knowledge, selecting different methods of 

conveying information to the narratees. Though he remains a heterodiegetic and 

extradiegetic narrator, concealing his personality, at times the narrator conveys 

judgment through the perspective of characters in the epics. To use a 

narratological term Gérard Genette describes in Narrative Discourse: An Essay 

in Method, the Homeric narrator often “focalizes” scenes and words through 

characters—that is, he conveys information through the perspective of 

characters. These variations in perspective, which can be analyzed as changes in 

focalization, can affect the clarity and completeness of the transfer of 

information to narratees. Conversely, at times the narrator steps into the 

foreground and gives “more [information] than is authorized in principle in the 

code of focalization governing the whole” (Genette, 1980: 195). That is to say, 

paralepsis occurs when the Homeric narrator crosses an understood boundary of 

the characters’ knowledge and offers additional information, of which the 

characters are unaware, with the implication that the characters know. 

Throughout the epics, the Homeric narrator uses focalization and paralepsis as a 

means of creating a more comprehensible and compelling composition for the 

Iliad and the Odyssey, as well as providing supplementary clarification for his 

audience. 

On account of his reluctance to enter as a distinct voice in the narrative, the 

Homeric narrator avoids openly expressing judgment. He is nevertheless able to 

convey the perspective and judgment of his characters by employing secondary 

focalization. Due to the fact that both the Iliad and the Odyssey provide many 

examples of secondary focalization—focalized scenes and focalized singlewords—I 

have chosen to focus my study of focalized scenes to the Odyssey, 

while I dedicate my study of single-word focalizations to the Iliad. Throughout 

the Iliad, single-word focalizations demonstrate the sympathy of the focalized 

characters, which furthermore creates empathy in the readers. 

In Book 10 of the Iliad, the narrator demonstrates the focalization of the 

Trojans as Odysseus and Diomedes slaughter numerous Trojan warriors. “And a 

clamour rose up from the Trojans and a vast turmoil as they swept together in 

confusion and stared at the ghastly work done by these [two] men, before they 

went back to their hollow vessels” (Il. 10.523-5). The word “ghastly” demon- 

1

2 Sarah Grover 

strates the secondary focalization of the Trojans. It illustrates judgment and furthermore 

creates empathy for the victims of this slaughter. Moreover, by revealing 

the perspective of the warriors to create empathy for the Trojans, the narrator’s 

opinion is able to remain hidden and does not expose a preference for a 

particular side of the battle. 

In Book 14 of the Iliad, there is embedded focalization as the narrator 

depicts Nestor in action as he watches the scene. “Then he caught up a powerful 

spear edged in sharp bronze and stood outside the shelter and at once saw a 

shameful action, men driven to flight, and others harrying them in confusion, the 

great-hearted Trojans, and the wall of the Achaeans overthrown” (Il. 14.12-15). 

In addition to depicting Nestor’s perspective, the secondary focalization conveys 

his judgment. In this way, it enables the Homeric narrator to maintain his integrity, 

to portray himself as an unbiased narrator. Though Nestor passes judgment, 

considering what he sees to be “a shameful action,” the Homeric narrator does 

not reveal a preference for one side in the battle. 

Similarly, in Book 22 of the Iliad, the secondary focalization of Hektor’s 

wife, Andromache, expresses judgment. “But when she came to the wall . . . and 

caught sight of him as he was dragged before the city; and swift horses were 

dragging him ruthlessly toward the hollow ships of the Achaeans” (Il. 22.462-5). 

Despite the fact that this is a section of narrator text, the strong word “ruthlessly” 

shows the perception of Andromache. Reluctant to pass judgment by 

using such strong, evaluative words, the Homeric narrator offers us 

Andromache’s perception of the act, and thereby avoids giving a biased account. 

In addition to single-word focalizations, Homer illustrates the perspectives 

of individual characters through scene-related secondary focalizations. Throughout 

Books 1-7 of the Odyssey, various “Arrival Scenes”—scenes that portray the 

arrival of a character at a specific place—are focalized through the eyes of characters. 

This common type of scene allows the Homeric narrator to conceal himself, 

while allowing us to witness the scene through the perception of a character. 

In Book 1, Athena’s arrival at Odysseus’ palace marks the first description 

of the house. We witness the scene of the suitors through the eyes of Athena, 

disguised as Mentes: 

There she found the haughty suitors. They at the moment in front of the doors 

were amusing their spirits with draughts games, sitting about on skins of 

cattle whom they had slaughtered themselves, and about them, of their heralds 

and hard-working henchmen, some at the mixing bowls were combining 

wine and water, while others again with porous sponges were wiping the 

tables and setting them out, and others cutting meat in quantities. (Od. 1.106- 

109) 

Though the scene is narrated by the primary narrator, the narratee views 

the perception of a character, Athena. This technique gives the narratee a sense 

of proximity to the scene; it is as if we enter the scene with her. In addition, the 

text uses specific diction that portrays the perspective of Athena. The word


“haughty” reflects her opinion of the suitors. Similarly, the description of the 

scene conveys a lazy atmosphere with greedy, gluttonous, and arrogant suitors. 

They live off Odysseus’ lands and subsist on his produce and possessions, 

striving for his most prized possession, his wife. The juxtaposition of the “hardworking 

henchmen” and the image of the lazy suitors furthermore emphasizes 

the latter’s sloth. However, “hard-working henchmen” is most likely an epithet, 

chosen for purposes of meter rather than for the significance of the adjective 

itself. Even so, by focalizing the scene through the eyes of Athena, the Homeric 

narrator is able to pass judgment on the repulsiveness of the suitors, while 

remaining hidden. 

The level of information we receive through focalization directly corresponds 

to the knowledge of the focalized character. Due to the fact that Athena is 

immortal, she is more knowledgeable than a mortal character. While scenes 

that are focalized through mortal characters are more likely to be restricted 

and limited in knowledge, the gods, like Homer, are better informed and can 

manipulate knowledge. Disguised as Mentes, Athena is able to witness the 

scene with immunity; she recognizes others while remaining unrecognized. 

The disguise itself plays a role in the game of focalization; though the characters 

in the scene view Mentes, the narratees view the scene through the eyes 

of a god, not only increasing their confidence in what they see, but also creating 

the sense that they are present and more knowledgeable than the mortal 

characters. 

In Book 3 of the Odyssey, Telemachos’ arrival at Pylos with Athena and 

the sailors depicts secondary focalization. “They came to Pylos, Neleus’ strongfounded 

citadel, where the people on the shore of the sea were making sacrifice 

of bulls who were all black to the dark-haired Earthshaker” (Od. 3.4-6). The narratee 

visualizes the sacrifice and observes the land through the perception of the 

Telemachos, Athena, and the sailors. Homer’s reluctance to enter the scene creates 

a restriction. We view the scene through a specific, limited lens, which 

restricts our vision and forces us to focus on the sacrifice and actions of the 

inhabitants of the land. The restriction is apparent in the very fact that the narratees 

receive no background information on the location and do not know the 

names of the characters performing the sacrifice on shore. Nevertheless, the narratees’ 

involuntarily restriction of knowledge brings them to the same level of 

knowledge as the characters, thereby increasing the narratees’ proximity to the 

text. In addition, the secondary focalization acts as a means of distancing the 

narrator from the characters. The detailed description of the sacrifice brings us 

down to an earthly level, leading us closer to the action. “[They] were making 

sacrifice of bulls who were all black” (Od. 3.5-6). The seemingly unnecessary 

preciseness with which the scene is described has a useful function: it gives the 

sense that the character is experiencing the scene as opposed to narrating it— 

that is, remembering it from a later perspective. This aspect draws us closer to 

the narrative and encourages our involvement in the scene.


The focalization at the beginning of Book 4 of the Odyssey provides an 

opportunity for description. “They came into the cavernous hollow of Lakedaimon 

and made their way to the house of glorious Menelaos. They found him in 

his own house giving, for many townsmen, a wedding feast for his son and his 

stately daughter” (Od. 4.1-4). Again, this method of description draws the narratee 

closer to the scene without drawing attention to the narrator. Homer safely 

remains the bard, the storyteller, the intermediary, and the medium through 

which the Muse can convey her story. 

Similarly, the secondary focalization of Hermes upon his arrival at 

Kalypso’s cave functions as an opportunity for description. “But after he had 

made his way to the far-lying island. There the courier Argeïphontes stood and 

admired it” (Od. 5.55-75). The secondary focalization of Hermes not only brings 

the narratees closer to the scene, but also allows for a biased description of 

Kalypso and her cave. Hermes absorbs the sweet smells of the scenery and hears 

Kalypso “singing inside the cave with a sweet voice” as she weaves (Od. 5.61). 

This description requires several senses; smell, hearing, and vision are combined 

to create a great, albeit biased, portrait of the setting. For this reason, the 

employment of a character’s focalization is necessary. As an extradiegetic narrator, 

who for the most part attempts to remain unprejudiced and outside the 

story, Homer employs the charmed character, Hermes, in order to describe these 

senses from an internal perspective, and he thereby creates a detailed view of the 

scene. 

Odysseus’ arrival at the palace of Alkinoös demonstrates a similar function 

of secondary focalization. Homer describes the house and its environs as it is 

visualized through the eyes of our protagonist. “But now Odysseus came to the 

famous house of Alkinoös . . . [a]nd there long-suffering great Odysseus stopped 

still and admired it” (Od. 7.81-133). The Homeric narrator focalizes the scene 

through Odysseus, thereby focusing the narratees’ attention on the character of 

Odysseus. However, the fact that the narrator introduces more information than 

is known by Odysseus demonstrates paralepsis. The golden doors and silver pillars 

set in the brazen threshold with other metal works are described as “fashioned 

by Hephaistos in his craftsmanship and cunning, to watch over the palace 

of great-hearted Alkinoös” (Od. 7.92-3). Homer takes the privilege of informing 

the narratee about the fashioner of such metal as supplementary information. 

Likewise, Homer describes the interior of the palace: “There the leaders of the 

Phaiakians held their sessions and drank and ate, since they held these forever, 

and there were young men fashioned all of gold and in their hands holding flaring 

torches who stood on the strong-compounded bases, and shed a gleam 

through the house by night, to shine on the feasters” (Od. 7.98-102). Though 

Homer focalizes the scene through the eyes of Odysseus, he includes details of 

which the character is unaware. Odysseus observes the doors and rooms of the 

palace, but he is unaware of all the minutiae. He does not know if the sessions of 

the Phaiakians are recurrent and lengthy, as it is his first visit to the location. 

Thus, despite the fact that Homer uses Odysseus as a means to carry forth the


description, Homer finds the need to insert knowledge beyond Odysseus’ scope 

in order to better inform the narratee. 

Throughout the Iliad and the Odyssey there are instances when the 

Homeric narrator gives up his reluctance to step into the foreground. In Book 1 

of the Odyssey the narrator employs paralepsis, offering the narratee additional 

information of which the characters themselves are unaware: 

Now far the first to see Athene was godlike Telemachos, as he sat among the 

suitors, his heart deep grieving within him, imagining in his mind his great 

father, how he might come back and all throughout the house might cause the 

suitors to scatter, and hold his rightful place and be lord of his own possessions. 

With such thoughts, sitting among the suitors, he saw Athene and went 

straight to the forecourt, the heart within him scandalized that a guest should 

still be standing at the doors. (Od. 1.113-120) 

Despite the fact that Athene is disguised as Mentes, the Homeric narrator 

refers to her as “Athene.” This serves as a means of revealing her true identity to 

the narratees, even though Telemachos believes she is Mentes. This becomes 

clear at the end of the passage, when the Homeric narrator describes Telemachos 

as “scandalized that a guest should still be standing.” The use of the word 

“guest” makes it clear that Telemachos is unaware of her identity. Nevertheless, 

Homer informs the narratees in order to clarify the story and make it more 

intriguing. 

Likewise, in Book 3 of the Iliad, Homer employs paralepsis for the sake of 

clarification. “Next again the old man [Priam] asked her [Helen], seeing Odysseus: 

‘tell me of this one also, dear child; what man can he be. . .’” (Il. 3.191-2). 

Though we view the scene essentially through the eyes of Priam, seated upon 

the Trojan walls, the Homeric narrator adds information, revealing the identity 

of Odysseus to the narratee. The very fact that Priam does not recognize 

Odysseus and must ask who he is demonstrates that Homer employs paralepsis, 

adding information and his own perspective as clarification for the narratee. 

In Book 16 of the Iliad, the Trojans see Patroklos in Achilles’ armor and 

assume it is Achilles himself. Though the scene is focalized through the eyes of 

the Trojans, Homer steps into the foreground and uses paralepsis, conveying 

additional information, which is unknown to the Trojans. “But the Trojans, 

when they saw the powerful son of Menoitios himself and his henchman with 

him in the glare of their war gear, the heart was stirred in all of them” (Il. 

16.278-9). The Trojans are not aware that the man wearing Achilles’ armor is 

Patroklos. Hence it is clear that the addition of the words “son of Menoitios” is 

used for the sake of clarifying his account. 

Through the study of focalization in the epics, it becomes clear that the 

Homeric narrator manipulates our knowledge. He focalizes scenes through characters 

in order to remain less visible. Nevertheless, these temporary lapses of the 

omniscient narrator—that is, the narrator who perceives the thoughts and sentiments 

of the characters—result in a type of restriction. The narratees’ perception


is limited to the characters’ perception and we receive a restricted view. Conversely, 

at times the Homeric narrator adds additional information of which the 

characters are unaware. By these very alterations of perspective, the Homeric 

narrator is able to convey a different aspect of information. Ultimately, these 

techniques enable him to narrate a cohesive and stimulating epic, full of intrigue 

and suspense. 

References 

Genette, Gérard. 1980. Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method. Trans. Jane E. Lewin. 

Ithaca: Cornell University Press. 

Homer. 1999. Odyssey. Trans. Richmond Lattimore. New York: Perennial Classics. 

Homer. 1999. The Iliad: Volume II, Books 13-24. Trans. A. T. Murray. Revised by 

William F. Wyatt. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Translation of Homeric 

Hymn No. 30: To Earth 

Jonah Rosenberg 

To Earth, All-Mother, shall I sing: well-founded, 

most august, who nourishes all from the ground, as many as there are; 

those who walk just on the land, and just in the sea, 

and who but fly; each is nourished by your richness. 

From you spring fertile women and strong sons. 5 

From you, Sovereign, is life given and taken away 

from mortal men; blessed is he whom you would honour 

with earnest spirit. From you all things are bounteous. 

The life-bearing field is made heavy by you; throughout the land 

there is an abundance of flocks, and households are filled up with fruits. 10 

Those men rule over beautiful women in a city with just laws, 

and happiness and plenty and wealth attend; 

their sons rejoice with new mirth, 

and their pure daughters dance with joyful hearts over the many-flowered 

fields, 

playing games among the wild scattered blossoms; 15 

all this for those you would honour, revered goddess, bounteous divinity. 

Hail, mother of the gods, consort of starry Ouranos! 

Grant me freely, in return for this ode, a pleasing life, 

and I shall be reminded of you, and another song besides. 

7

8 

Ephesus. 

Original photograph by Jennifer Grover. Used by permission.

From Monster to Mother: The Tragic 

Death of Clytaemnestra 

Laura Brown-Lavoie 

Throughout much of the first two plays of Aeschylus’ tragic trilogy the 

Oresteia, the vengeful queen Clytaemnestra is characterized as a monster. She is 

repeatedly portrayed like a beast of prey or demon incarnate, with little effort on 

the part of the playwright to justify her demeanor. It is not as if her fury is 

unwarranted; her husband sacrifices her child, fights for ten years in a war caused 

by her sister, and returns with a conquered mistress. She kills him to avenge her 

daughter, and is, in return, murdered by her son. Clearly it would not be hard, 

as an author, to temper her evil characterization with some pity, yet Aeschylus 

chooses not to do so until moments before her death. The effect is breathtakingly 

tragic. For nearly two full plays, the audience is lulled into believing the representation 

of Clytaemnestra as an inhuman savage. When they are reminded by 

her final interactions with her son that she is actually a mother—one who has 

suffered immensely, and lost all that was dear to her—her death becomes emotionally 

complicated. With this reversal of characterization, Aeschylus brings 

incredible tragic thrust to the climax of his trilogy, and lends credence to Robert 

Fagles’ assertion in the introduction of his translation: “The play is named for 

Agamemnon, but the tragic hero is the queen” (Fagles, 1966: 46). 

From her initial entrance at the beginning of Agamemnon, Clytaemnestra is 

established as inappropriate according to gender norms. She is assertive, powerful, 

persuasive, and manipulative, none of which are characteristics traditionally 

befitting a queen. At first, many of the references to her are based on this distasteful 

rejection of gender roles. After her triumphant speech about Greece’s 

victory in Troy, the leader of the chorus concisely lays out this paradox, remarking: 

“Spoken like a man, my lady . . . ” (Ag. 355). But it is not until the arrival of 

Agamemnon and his war prize, the prophetic Cassandra, that the dehumanization 

of Clytaemnestra truly begins. 

Cassandra is the ideal voice for characterizing the queen. She is established 

as a vessel of truth—Apollo’s curse has made her a prophet. The events she 

depicts will come to pass, so the audience is unlikely to doubt whether her 

description of people is accurate. Through Cassandra, Aeschylus is brutal. In the 

throes of prophecy, she bemoans Agamemnon’s fate, saying that he is “lost to 

that detestable hellhound who pricks her ears and fawns and her tongue draws 

out her glittering words of welcome” (Ag. 1237-39). She continues a few lines 

later: 

9

10 Laura Brown-Lavoie 

What to call that . . . monster of Greece . . . Viper coiling back and forth? 

Some sea-witch? Scylla crouched in her rocky nest—nightmare of sailors? 

Raging mother of death, storming deathless war against the ones she loves! 

(Ag. 1242-46) 

The queen, who was seen before as merely manly, has transformed into a 

base and vicious creature. Her body language is not human, with “flicking 

tongue” and “pricked ears.” The barrage of imagery is relentless: “[s]he is the 

lioness, she rears on her hind legs, she beds with the wolf when her lion king 

goes ranging” (Ag. 1274-76). Here her adultery becomes part of her bestial 

nature. Not only is she a scheming huntress, she is shown to be bedded with the 

enemy (which of course, she is: Aegisthus, her lover and co-conspirator, has an 

unsettled score with Agamemnon for the crimes of their fathers’ generation). 

But it is not only Cassandra who characterizes Clytaemnestra; some of the most 

powerful imagery comes at the end of the play in her triumphant closing scene 

after Cassandra’s death. 

When the doors are thrust open to reveal Clytaemnestra above the bodies 

of Agamemnon and Cassandra, she relishes the carnage sadistically: 

I coil him round and round . . . and then I strike him once, twice, and at each 

stroke he cries in agony . . . the life is bursting out of him—great sprays of 

blood, and the murderous shower wounds me, dyes me black and I, I revel 

like the Earth when the spring rains come down. (Ag. 1403-13) 

The gruesomeness of the scene is tangible: she comes off as some sort of 

serpent-woman drenched in blood. The chorus is scandalized as well and 

laments to its dead king, “Perched on the corpse your carrion raven glories in 

her hymn” (Ag. 1500-01). At this point, Clytaemnestra has become for the audience 

a sort of caricature. She is so possessed by the power of revenge that she no 

longer appears human. When the other side of her character is finally revealed it 

is too late, and the audience experiences a tragic recognition of her personhood. 

Signs of Clytaemnestra’s wronged and justified nature show up as early as 

the very end of Agamemnon. When she is rebuked by the chorus for her actions, 

she responds indignantly, 

And now you sentence me? You banish me from the city, curses breathing 

down my neck? But he names one charge that you brought against him then. 

He thought no more of it than killing a beast, and his flocks were rich, teeming 

in their fleece, but he sacrificed his own child, our daughter, the agony 

that I laboured into love. (Ag. 1437-43) 

This is an impassioned plea for pity, but pity is hard to gain when you are standing 

bloodied over your husband’s corpse. The real moment of recognition comes 

in the Libation Bearers, ironically in a moment of deception. 

Orestes has come to the house in disguise with the purpose of avenging his 

father. Clytaemnestra welcomes him and, in accordance with his plan, he

From Monster to Mother: The Tragic Death of Clytaemnestra 11 

informs her that Orestes is dead. For a moment, Clytaemnestra loses her impenetrable 

composure, and it is here that her character gains her heartbreaking other 

half. She receives the devastating news and allows the audience to glimpse her 

mother’s nature: “I, I—your words, you storm us, raze us to the roots . . . [y]ou 

strip me bare of all I love, destroy me, now” (Lib. 74-80). This demon-woman, 

whose ferocious ability with words has been well portrayed up to this point, is 

rendered speechless. And in this stuttering line, she is no longer a monster, but a 

mother wronged. All of her losses come flooding into the audience’s consciousness. 

Aeschylus offsets her grief with some foils: the chorus suggests that her 

mourning is put-on, for example, and the nurse serves to show how Clytaemnestra 

may not have actually played the mother’s role for Orestes. Nevertheless, 

she has been irrevocably humanized. As she exits to her doom, she cries a mother’s 

exclamation: “I gave you life!” (Lib. 914) And despite the countless times 

the audience has seen her as a monster, the horror of the matricide is palpable. 

After seeing Agamemnon, the audience is prepared to witness the bloodthirsty 

queen’s death in the name of justice. But Aeschylus is not content to give 

his tale with such a tidy conclusion. Instead he complicates the tragic law of “the 

doer suffers” by revealing the humanity of the guilty party. Clytaemnestra’s 

death is anything but conclusive. It leaves the audience wondering if revenge is 

ever really justified, because they have empathized with the villain. This is the 

essential dilemma that the characters, and the audience, must grapple with in the 

third play of the trilogy. 

References 

Aeschylus. 1966. The Oresteia. Trans. Robert Fagles. New York: Penguin Books.

12 

Excavation of the Fortress of Masada, constructed ca. 37-31 B.C.E. 

Original photograph by David Guttmann. Used by permission.

The Historical Necessity of Political Justice 

in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound 

Lindsey Brett Meyers 

Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound is a masterful play that illuminates the dramatic 

tension between the immorality of tyrannical power and the struggle for political 

justice. Those who regard Greek tragedy from a purely literary perspective 

might chafe at such a political reading. However, any doubt that Aeschylus’ play 

is a political treatise as well as a great work of literature is readily resolved by an 

exegesis of its text and an analysis of its historical background. At its most basic 

level, the play concerns a political struggle that arises from a cosmic redistribution 

of material wealth. Aeschylus’ Zeus is a tyrant who punishes the just Prometheus 

for stealing fire from Olympus to improve the condition of a repressed 

humanity that lacks even the rudiments of civilized life. It is not surprising that 

Aeschylus explores dictatorial power in the play, for he personally experienced 

the tyrannical rule of the Pisistratids and the birth of the 5th century Athenian 

democracy. However, Aeschylus’ suggestion that Zeus is a political tyrant is 

strikingly radical, especially if we consider Hesiod’s canonic interpretation that 

Prometheus was a fraudulent trickster justly punished by Zeus. By challenging 

the morality of Zeus, Aeschylus questions the possibility of political justice, for 

if Zeus is an immoral tyrant, the political imprisonment of Prometheus cannot be 

normatively justified. However, the play foreshadows the intriguing possibility 

that reason will replace violence as the ordering principle of Zeus’ political justice. 

By thus rejecting the tyranny of Zeus and suggesting the possibility of 

reform, Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound is a political treatise, one that uses the 

power of great literature to vindicate the historical necessity of political justice. 

Aeschylus challenges our political understanding by exploring the tension 

between tyranny and justice. That the play is an extended meditation on political 

themes is immediately evident in the opening scene when Prometheus is dramatically 

dragged onto the stage as the political prisoner of Zeus. Having just 

defeated his father Cronus, Zeus exhibits the “harsh” authority that is a product 

of “power newly won” (Prom. 35). In his rage against anyone who challenges 

his authority, Zeus sends Strength and Violence, the agents of his tyrannical 

will, to seize and imprison Prometheus, who is a Titan and the son of Earth. 

Prometheus’ crime is that he has stolen fire from the gods. However, he has 

justly done so to save a suffering humanity from Zeus’ genocide. The inequity 

of Zeus’ rage against this beneficent act is so apparent that even the loyal 

Hephaestus is reluctant to punish Prometheus at Zeus’ behest. However, 

13

14 Lindsey Brett Meyers 

Hephaestus’ moral misgivings give way to his fear of Zeus, and he imprisons 

Prometheus on a remote summit. 

After his imprisonment, Prometheus is visited by the daughters of Oceanus 

and then by Oceanus himself. The Oceanids feel pity for Prometheus, while 

Oceanus advises him to appease Zeus. But Prometheus refuses to entreat Zeus 

because he knows that it would be futile to do so now. Just as he tells the visiting 

Io that she must suffer before she is released from her punishment, he foresees 

a future time when Zeus may set him free. But as that time has not come, 

Prometheus refuses to disclose to Hermes how Zeus will be deposed by a son 

who has not yet been born. Prometheus understands that this information will 

not purchase his freedom until the time is ripe. And so he remains silent even 

though it means his further imprisonment in the political gulag of Tartarus, 

where an eagle will eat his liver every day until Hercules rescues him from political 

bondage. 

That Aeschylus would write a play detailing the political injustice of tyranny 

is not surprising given the formative historical and political experiences of 

his own life. This is the conclusion that the scholar Timothy Wutrich makes in 

his book Prometheus and Faust. In his discussion of Aeschylus’ Prometheus 

Bound, Wutich observes: 

Athenian democracy was only a few decades old when Aeschylus was 

writing his last plays. Aeschylus was in fact born under the rule of the 

Pisistradids and experienced the change in government at Athens from 

tyranny to democracy. Throughout much of the Archaic age, the historical 

period that preceded the fifth century, tyranny, the absolute rule by one man 

who had gained power by force, was the standard form of government 

throughout the Hellenic world. (1995: 27) 

Because Zeus is a divine tyrant who seizes power by force, it is natural that 

Aeschylus uses him to represent the earthly tyrants who ruled Athens before the 

flowering of its democracy. Just as the worst of these tyrants served the selfinterest 

of the aristocrats at the expense of the less powerful in Athens, Zeus 

exalts the power of the gods at the expense of humanity. Thus, Wutrich quotes 

with approval the earlier observation of the classicist Anthony Podlecki that 

Prometheus Bound “gives us the first formulation of any length of the new 

(Athenian) democracy’s quarrel with the tyrant, who, as a law unto himself and 

beyond the check of legal redress, constituted an exact antithesis to the democratic 

process.” In the same manner that Zeus represents these Athenian tyrants, 

Podlecki “compares Prometheus to the fifth century enemies of tyranny” (1995: 

29). Wutrich intriguingly expands Podlecki’s historical insights by arguing that 

Prometheus represents the aristocrat Solon whose reforms made democracy in 

Athens possible. Thus, just as Prometheus was an immortal god who redistributed 

the wealth of the gods by giving humanity fire, Solon was an aristocrat who 

“rebelled against authoritarianism” by “protecting the commoners and 

introduceing the idea of rule by representatives of the people” (1995: 27).

The Historical Necessity of Political Justice in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound 15 

The tyrannical nature of Zeus in Prometheus Bound is made even more 

apparent if we compare Aeschylus’ version of the Prometheus myth to the one 

told by Hesiod in his seminal work the Theogony. Where Prometheus is a just 

defender of humanity for Aeschylus, he is a crooked schemer for Hesiod. 

According to the canonic interpretation of Hesiod’s Theogony, Prometheus 

wrongs Zeus on two accounts. First, he desecrates his altars by fraudulently layng 

out sacrifices to the gods; second, after Zeus punishes this desecration by foridding 

fire to humanity, Prometheus steals fire from heaven and gives it to 

humanty. As punishment for these crimes, Zeus “bound crafty Prometheus in 

inescapable fetters, grievous bounds, driving them through the middle of a pillar. 

And he set a great winged eagle upon him, and it fed on his immortal liver, 

which grew the same amount each way at night as the great bird ate in the 

course of the day” (Theo. 520-25). Hence, for Hesiod, Zeus is not a tyrant, as he 

acts justly by punishing the “skillful crook” Prometheus for transgressing the 

sacred order of the universe (Theo. 545). It is also instructive to note that 

Hesiod’s Zeus is omniscient in sharp distinction to the Zeus of Prometheus 

Bound who cannot foretell the fated conditions of his own destruction without 

the augury of Prometheus. This is significant because Zeus’ omniscience is a 

guarantee of divine political justice for Hesiod; for if the crimes of Prometheus’ 

“labyrinthine mind” do not escape Zeus, we can be certain that an all-knowing 

Zeus will punish the wicked and reward the righteous (Theo. 522). As Hesiod 

says, “there is no way of deceiving or evading the mind of Zeus, since not even 

Iapetos’ son, sly Prometheus, escaped the weight of his wrath, and for all 

cleverness a strong fetter holds him in check” (Theo. 21). 

However, in Aeschylus’ radical retelling of the Prometheus myth, the just 

Zeus of Hesiod is portrayed as a political tyrant. Recall the mythological record 

that Zeus comes into power by overthrowing his father Cronus. And in this takeover, 

the primitive order of Cronus collapses and a new order is established 

under the sovereign authority of Zeus. Recall further that Prometheus is Zeus’ 

ally in this takeover, 1 because he hopes to create a new political order based on 

reason and “cunning,” rather than “brute strength” and “violence” (Prom. 210- 

211). However, Prometheus tragically discovers that replacing Zeus for Cronus 

just serves to substitute one form of tyranny for another. It becomes clear to Pro- 

1 It is interesting to observe that Prometheus is not an ally of Zeus in Hesiod’s account 

of the war between Zeus and Cronus. In fact, Hesiod does not appear to make any reference 

to Prometheus in connection with this war in either his Theogony or Works and 

Days. This raises the interesting questions of whether Aeschylus invented this mythological 

account and, if so, why. Additional research would be required to answer the 

former question. However, one can respond to the latter question by suggesting that 

Aeschylus’ mythological account underscores the “black ingratitude” Zeus exhibits for 

Prometheus (Prom. 226). This ingratitude is bitterly ironic because it entails Zeus misusing 

the very power that Prometheus helped him to obtain. Moreover, this account 

emphasizes the nature of Zeus’ tyrannical will, while creating increased sympathy for the 

plight of Prometheus.


metheus that Zeus is a god both jealous of Prometheus’ prerogatives and selfish 

of Prometheus’ power, one who “keeps law within his own will” (Prom. 185). 

Though Zeus understands the sufferings of humanity, he is selfishly unwilling to 

share any of the blessings of the gods. By contrast, Prometheus has faith in 

humanity; for as he is the son of Earth, he pities mortals and believes them to be 

capable of almost infinite success. Thus, when Zeus “took no account” of 

“wretched humans [and] resolved to annihilate them and create another race,” 

Prometheus alone “dared to save the human race from being ground to dust, 

from total death” (Prom. 233-237). 

That the Zeus of Aeschylus would punish Prometheus for this praiseworthy 

act raises serious questions about the possibility of political justice. If Prometheus 

acted with great compassion for humanity, how can it be just for Zeus to 

punish him? And if Zeus immorally punishes Prometheus, how can political justice 

be possible in a universe governed by a divine dictator who serves the selfish 

benefit of the gods at the expense of humanity? At issue here is the very definition 

of political justice. For Prometheus, it is defined by what is fair and good. 

Thus, he gives humanity fire and teaches humans the necessities of civilized life 

because it is the morally correct action to take. In stark contrast, political justice 

for Zeus is defined by what serves the best interest of his will to power. Hence, 

he hoards fire for the gods because it serves his self-interest, even if it results in 

horrific misery for humanity. In thus failing to act morally, Aeschylus’ Zeus 

radically undermines the very nature of political justice in a way the more pious 

Zeus of Hesiod would have considered unthinkable. Unlike the Zeus of the 

Theogony, the Aeschylean Zeus does not guarantee political justice at the divine 

and human level. Instead of rewarding the good works of Prometheus, he punishes 

them. And in the process, he marks his opposition to the development of 

human justice that Prometheus’ gifts made possible. In addition to giving 

humanity fire, Prometheus taught humans every “human skill and science” that 

made the development of society and hence political order possible (Prom. 507). 

More than that, Prometheus gave humanity the gift of hope 2 that made social 

progress possible. Thus, in punishing Prometheus, Zeus also raises deeply disturbing 

questions about the human ability to create political justice in a universe 

governed by a tyrannical god. 

These normative political concerns become particularly poignant in 

Aeschylus’ masterful portrait of Io, the human woman tormented by Zeus’ passion. 

Io’s only crime is that her beauty evokes Zeus’ overmastering passion. As 

an innocent young woman, Io ought to be blessed, rather than punished, by the 

justice of Zeus. However, we have seen that Zeus defines justice by what serves 

2 Prometheus’ gift of hope to humanity is another intriguing distinction between the 

mythological accounts provided by Aeschylus and Hesiod. In Hesiod’s Works and Days, 

Zeus provides hope after cursing humanity with evil as punishment for Prometheus’ theft 

of fire. Thus, in Hesiod’s account Prometheus is a malefactor rather than a benefactor of 

humanity, while Zeus is a stern but nevertheless just god who unleashes evil but also 

creates hope.

The Historical Necessity of Political Justice in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound 17 

his best interest. Hence, for the Aeschylean Zeus, injustice is more favorable 

than justice because it allows him to seek whatever his will desires, regardless of 

the conesquences to those less powerful than him. Put otherwise, justice for 

Aeschylus’ Zeus results when the weak serve the will of the strong, which in 

this case is defined by his lust. Thus Zeus desires Io and must have her even if it 

means that the innocent young woman will be transformed into a cow and suffer 

the torment of being goaded to wander the world through the sting of a god-sent 

gadfly. In this manner, Io is a tragic human paradigm in the play for the injustice 

that results from tyrannical rule. 3 

While Aeschylus presents a deeply troubling, and some might say impious, 

view of the injustice of Zeus, he also foreshadows the redemptive possibility of 

a benevolent Zeus who will release both Io and Prometheus from the misery of 

their tragic suffering. Thus, Prometheus foretells how Io’s suffering will end as 

the “gentle touch” of Zeus’ hand impregnates her with a child (Prom. 848). And, 

intriguingly, the progeny of this child—Hercules—will free Prometheus from 

his political imprisonment. Though the remaining two plays that likely 

comprised Aeschylus’ Promethean trilogy are lost, the scholar Phillip Vellacott 

interestingly suggests that 

There is little doubt that by the end of the trilogy Zeus abandoned the use of 

force and opened negotiations with Prometheus, who then told him of the 

prophecy of the sea-nymph Thetis; that Heracles with the permission of Zeus 

set Prometheus free . . .; and that the final settlement recognized the supremacy 

of Zeus, the right of the human race to exist and develop, and the superiority 

of reason to violence. (Vellacott, 1961: 9) 

If Vellacott’s argument is correct, Aeschylus’ portrayal of Zeus is not as 

impious as it seems. For if morality requires free will, not even “Zeus [can] fly 

from fate” (Prom. 518). Thus, the demands of inexorable fate may play the 

ultimate dictatorial role in the play. However, there is a providential design 

within Aeschylean fate that seems to entail an idea of historical development. 

Prometheus believes that “Time, as he grows older, teaches everything” (Prom. 

581). Thus, just as Athens evolved from tyranny to democracy, Vellacott 

suggests that there is a movement from violence to reason for Aeschylus in the 

development of political justice at both the human and the divine level. 

This political evolution that Vellacott suggests is implicit in the prophecy 

that Prometheus withholds from Hermes at the end of the play. If reason is to 

replace violence as the ordering principle of Zeus’ justice, Zeus must learn to 

3 By conjoining the suffering of Prometheus and Io, Aeschylus again radically departs 

from the mythological model established by Hesiod. In Hesiod’s tale, Prometheus is connected 

with Pandora who is sent to earth to release evil as punishment for Prometheus’ 

theft of fire. Thus, where Io emphasizes the unjust suffering of Prometheus for Aeschylus, 

Pandora underscores Prometheus’ status as a wily criminal for Hesiod. Hence, the 

Zeus of Aeschylus is tyrannical in his punishment of Prometheus, while the Zeus of 

Hesiod is just in his sanctions.


sublimate his passion to his reason. Intriguingly, this is the very message of 

Prometheus’ prophecy to Zeus. As Zeus will be deposed by a lust-begotten son, 

he self-evidently must permit his reason to control his passion if he is to maintain 

his political order. However, if he moderates his passions, he will fundamentally 

transform the nature of his rule. Recall that that the Aeschylean Zeus 

defines political justice as that which serves his tyrannical desire. However, as 

that unchecked desire will result in his destruction, he must re-define political 

justice in terms of reason if he is to survive. Thus he imprisons Prometheus and 

seduces Io. While the idea of a morally evolving Zeus may be foreign to our 

modern understanding of a supremely perfect God, for Aeschylus both the 

human and the divine seem to evolve as fate reveals itself in history. For Zeus 

will sow the seeds of his own destruction if he couples with Thetis, since the 

child born of their sexual union will depose Zeus just as Zeus overthrew Cronus. 

In this sense, Zeus’ survival will be a product of his sexual sublimation, as his 

reason will control his passion to ensure the continuance of his political rule. 

However, this sublimation intriguingly suggests an evolution in the idea of political 

justice, one that bases morality on the principle of reason rather than the 

application of force. And if this was the case, perhaps Prometheus brought 

illumination to Zeus just as he provided the light of fire to humanity. 

Just as Prometheus transformed mankind with skill when he presented it 

with fire, one wonders whether Aeschylus, in the final act of his missing trilogy, 

allowed Prometheus to transform Zeus’ tyranny in telling his prophecy. It is 

fated that on the day when Zeus grants Prometheus’ freedom, Prometheus will 

tell Zeus that he must not couple with the goddess Thetis, lest he produce a son 

who would overthrow him. In this prophecy of Zeus’ doom, Prometheus held 

the promise of Zeus’ political salvation. Because Zeus’ conception of political 

justice is based on the satisfaction of his will to power, Zeus must understand 

that the passionate pursuit of power will be his political undoing. Zeus can only 

survive if he curbs his passion, for if he falters he will literally sow the seeds of 

his own destruction. That is, if he does not halter his tyrannical rule, in his 

coupling with Thetis, Zeus will produce a son who will overthrow him, just as 

he deposed his father Cronus. 

Because Prometheus can foresee the future, he has great power. That is, he 

can grasp the progressive march of political history in a way that Hermes cannot 

understand. Though Hermes tells Prometheus that “Time has not taught you 

self-control or prudence-yet” (Prom. 982), the truth is that Prometheus’ 

understanding of the future gives him a privileged position to act as a political 

hero. For example, he will “drink the painful cup to the dregs until Zeus relaxes 

from his angry mood” because no one can “soothe the spirit” of Zeus until “the 

moment is ripe” (Prom. 374-378). So, just as Atlas bears the weight of the 

world, Prometheus heroically exercises his freedom to bear the political 

responsibility for the development of divine political justice. Thus, while 

Prometheus’ refusal to talk to Zeus may appear hubristic, it is really a 

recognition that history must evolve before Zeus will grant him political

The Historical Necessity of Political Justice in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound 19 

freedom. He knows that if Zeus comes to him that he will be able to bring 

illumination to the gods just as he provided it to humanity. 

References 

Aeschylus. 1961. Prometheus Bound. Trans. Philip Vellacott. London: Penguin Group. 

Wutrich, Timothy Richard. 1995. Prometheus and Faust: The Promethean Revolt in 

Drama from Classical Antiquity to Goethe. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press.

20 

Treasury of the Athenians, Delphi, Greece, ca. 510 B.C.E. 

Original photograph by Amanda Earl. Used by permission.

Major Oppositions in Oedipus the King 

Mark Morales 

Amphibology, the ambiguity of speech, plays a significant role in shaping the 

plot and tragic message of Sophocles’ Oedipus the King. Through the skillful 

use of language, Sophocles presents a series of positive and negative oppositions 

that accurately represent the play’s tragic figure, Oedipus. As the plot 

progresses, the oppositions collapse, and Oedipus discovers that he possesses 

both the positive and negative extremes of each character trait. By establishing a 

series of oppositions and collapsing them in the protagonist, Sophocles offers a 

tragic model of man that reflects the duality of humanity. 

In the opening scenes of the play, Sophocles constructs a set of oppositions 

that define Oedipus as a character. Sophocles characterizes Oedipus as both the 

savior and destroyer of Thebes. Oedipus rescues the people of Thebes from the 

deadly song of the Sphinx, and the priest says to him, “Your country calls you 

savior now for your zeal, your action years ago” (Oed. 59-60). However, Oedipus 

is also the destroyer of the city; his patricide and incest corrupt the land and 

bring about the devastating plague. Oedipus plays the role of both the detective 

who promises to track down the killer of Laius and the criminal responsible for 

the murder. Oedipus seeks to follow the “trail of the ancient guilt” by searching 

for clues and cross-examining witnesses, yet he himself is the criminal that he 

hunts (Oed. 124). 

Sophocles also characterizes Oedipus as the curser, the cursed, and the 

curse itself. Oedipus places a curse on the murderer of Laius to carry out his life 

in agony, but since he murdered Laius, Oedipus is also the cursed. His horrible 

crimes of murder and incest represent the curse itself; as Tiresias says, “You are 

the curse, the corruption of the land” (Oed. 401). Sophocles establishes another 

opposition between the one and the many. When a rumor circulates that a band 

of thieves, rather than a single person, killed Laius, Oedipus defends himself by 

stating, “One can’t equal many” (Oed. 934). The opposition also reflects the 

riddle Oedipus solves to free Thebes. Oedipus is only one character, yet he 

represents the three stages of life described in the riddle. Oedipus is the baby 

abandoned on Mt. Cithaeron, the young man who solves the riddle and marries 

Jocasta, and by the end of the play, the old blind man who must walk with a 

stick tapping before him. 

The most prominent opposition that repeatedly surfaces throughout the 

play is the contrast between blindness and sight. Sophocles emphasizes both 

physical eyesight and the ability to see the truth. In the beginning of the play he 

21

22 Mark Morales 

bombards the audience with the language of sight. The verb “to see” appears in 

lines 17, 28, 55, 70, 96, 121, 132, 136, 153, and 164, while the noun “eyes” 

appears in lines 28, 93, and 217. Sophocles twice uses the phrase “bring to light” 

to establish the purpose of the play; the plot of the play will bring to light the 

true nature of Oedipus’ identity (Oed. 116, 150) . 

The contrast between sight and blindness becomes more complicated with 

the entrance of Tiresias, the blind prophet who can see the future with the “eyes 

of Lord Apollo” (Oed. 323). Tiresias serves as the protagonist’s foil; Sophocles 

contrasts Tiresias’ physical blindness and ability to see the truth with Oedipus’ 

physical eyesight and blindness to his own identity. Tiresias stresses Oedipus’ 

metaphorical blindness by stating, “You with your precious eyes, you’re blind to 

the corruption of your life, to the house you live in, those you live with who are 

your parents?” (Oed. 470-473). Even with his eyesight, Oedipus cannot see the 

extent of his guilt and is unable to recognize that he has fulfilled the prophecy 

and corrupted Thebes. This scene provides effective dramatic irony, since the 

audience is familiar with the legend and realizes that Oedipus will soon blind 

himself when he sees the truth. Even though Oedipus claims that Tiresias’ words 

cannot hurt “anyone who sees the light,” Tiresias’ statements and prophecy set 

off a chain of events that lead to the tragic hero’s discovery of the truth (Oed. 

427). 

Sophocles continues to stress this opposition as Oedipus moves closer to 

meeting his tragic fate. The words “see,” “eyes,” and “blind” are used in the 

choral passage that follows Oedipus’ encounter with Tiresias, and Sophocles 

once again inserts irony into the contrast when Oedipus says to Creon, “I see it 

all” in line 597. References to Oedipus’ ability to see occur sixteen times 

between lines 597 and 1190. Sophocles also characterizes Jocasta as blind, since 

she can see Oedipus yet cannot recognize him as her own son. When Oedipus 

asks her about Laius’ appearance, she says, “His build. . .wasn’t far from yours,” 

indicating that she notes a resemblance but cannot reach the conclusion (Oed. 

819). 

The opposition between sight and blindness reaches its climax and collapses 

into ambiguity when Oedipus finally realizes his identity. Even against 

Jocasta’s warnings, Oedipus pushes forward with his investigation of his own 

identity, stating, “I must know it all, I must see the truth at last. . .I must see my 

origins face-to-face” (Oed. 1169-1170, 1185). After compelling the shepherd to 

reveal who handed him Oedipus as an infant, Oedipus discovers that he is 

Jocasta’s son, and the truth has “burst to light” (Oed. 1306). The further complication 

of the terms results from Oedipus’ decision to blind himself after discovering 

the truth. As soon as he finally sees the truth, Oedipus places himself in 

physical darkness, believing that nothing he can now see will ever bring him 

joy. The verb “to see” and the adjective “blind” can never fully describe 

Oedipus’ character. When he can see, Oedipus remains blind to his identity, and 

when he ultimately sees the truth, he blinds himself in order to remain in a state

Major Opposition in Oedipus the King 23 

of darkness. In this way, these opposing terms are collapsed into Oedipus’ 

double character. 

The statement “I am Oedipus” undergoes a drastic change in meaning as 

the plot of the tragedy progresses and its action is reversed. The character of 

Oedipus includes both the positive and negative extremes of the oppositions; he 

is both a savior and a destroyer, a curser and the cursed, and a blind man who 

can see. Oedipus defies specific labels because, in his own words, “It’s wrong to 

name what’s wrong to do” (Oed. 1543). By collapsing oppositions in the character 

of Oedipus, Sophocles conveys the central tragic irony of the protagonist— 

his inability to divide his traits. Oedipus tries so hard to carry out his role as a 

savior, a detective, and the civic servant of his people, yet by doing so he reveals 

himself as the fulfillment of a terrible set of qualities. Oedipus diligently 

attempts to see the true nature of his identity, but when he succeeds, he blinds 

himself. 

Sophocles collapses a series of oppositions onto the character of Oedipus 

in order to convey his tragic vision of the duality of humankind. Oedipus 

embodies the polarization of human qualities, and his character reflects 

everything that man can be at his positive and negative extremes, from a noble 

king to an incestuous murderer. Even though man may view himself as a heroic 

figure of great intelligence and achievement, when he undertakes an 

investigation into his true identity, he may find that he is ignorant and corrupt. 

By characterizing Oedipus as the embodiment of both positive and negative 

qualities, Sophocles offers a tragic vision of a man divided against himself that 

reflects the duality of human nature. 

References 

Sophocles. 1984. The Three Theban Plays. Trans. Robert Fagles. New York: Penguin 

Books.

24 

Sketch of Nike relief from the balustrade of Athena’s Temple 

on the Acropolis (ca. 420 B.C.E.) by Maia Peck. 

Used by permission.

Fluency and Fear: An Investigation of 

Rhetoric as Presented in Euripides’ Medea 

Hillary Dixler 

In his “Notes on the Balinese Cockfight,” anthropologist Clifford Geertz examines 

the implications of this seemingly obscure societal ritual. He argues that the 

performance “Of Cocks and Men” in Bali is ultimately “a story they tell themselves 

about themselves” (1973: 417, 448). Although the essay has a relatively 

narrow focus, the analysis points to a broader theory of performance within society. 

Geertz ultimately demonstrates that through performance, a society can 

show itself to itself. When looking at the text and conditions of performance of 

Euripides’ Medea, then, one might ask: what was Euripides showing the Greeks 

about the Greeks? Among several other cultural values and tendencies, Euripides 

expresses in his play a deep concern for the way rhetoric and words are used 

in his society. In its plot, themes, structure, and performance, Medea demonstrates 

a simultaneous dependence on and aversion to words, which constitute 

one of the definitional qualities of Greek drama and life. 

From the opening of his play, Euripides frames the story of Medea as one 

centered on words and their power. Explaining Medea’s history, the nurse introduces 

the theme of manipulation of words within the first few lines of the play 

saying, “Nor would she have persuaded the daughters of Pelias / To kill their 

father” (Med.II.9-20). Stressing the act of persuasion and its relation to the 

crime, Euripides creates a backstory for Medea that revolves around deceptive 

words. Medea herself, much later in the play, explains that her circumstances are 

in part due to the power of persuasive words to deceive. In her second long 

address to the chorus of Corinthian women, Medea explains, “My mistake was 

made the time I left behind me / My father’s house, and trusted the words of a 

Greek” (Med.II.784-785). The significance of spoken deception continues 

through the play as the characters emphasize the importance of promises, 

pledges, and oaths, all of which imply verbal agreements. Euripides shows that 

words are tremendously powerful in their ability to bind people to each other 

through such “contracts.” Yet, in showing the facility with which those same 

characters break oaths and use words to deceive, Euripides reveals a simultaneous 

respect for and distrust of words. 

Euripides more fully develops his hesitant relationship with rhetoric in his 

play through the character of Medea. Aside from attributing her downfall to 

believing Jason’s words, Medea further explains to the chorus the dangers that 

rhetorically fluent people present in general. The greatest crime, in Medea’s 

25

26 Hillary Dixler 

imagination, is to speak well but intend evil. This concern is articulated as both 

the literal and dramaturgical center of the play, when Medea, speaking to Jason 

and the chorus, says: 

Surely in many ways I hold different views 

From others, for I think that the plausible speaker 

Who is a villain deserves the greatest punishment. 

Confident in his tongue’s power to adorn evil, 

He stops at nothing. Yet he is not really wise. (Med.II.567-571) 

It is clear that Jason sees himself as a skilled orator. By engaging with Medea 

“as a rival rhetorician,” he relies on rhetoric to help him, acknowledging that he 

“must be no bad speaker” (Arnott, 1991: 96; Med.II.510). However, Medea’s 

fear of rhetoric is undermined by her own fluency with the art of words. 

Throughout the play, Medea proves herself to be a powerful orator. In her 

first address to the women of Corinth, for example, Medea shows her facility 

with persuasive communication, crafting a speech that is emotionally resonant, 

inclusive, and effective. The chorus is convinced by her, affirming “You are in 

the right, Medea, . . . / In paying your husband back” (Med.II.265-266). Euripides 

grants Medea a technical virtuosity in rhetoric in her first encounter and 

ensuing argument with Jason. Referring to the speech delivered at line 454, 

R.G.A Buxton notes, “Medea introduces her defense with a formula that can be 

paralleled almost exactly from the extant works of legal speech-writers” (1982: 

162). Medea’s speech seems to follow the standard rhetorical pattern of proem, 

narrative, proof, and conclusion (Arnott, 1991: 97). In dramatizing Medea as a 

rhetorically versed character who simultaneously exposes the dangers of such 

skill, Euripides heightens the tension between delivery and intention that he has 

been exploring throughout the play. 

While Medea’s own speeches are rhetorically informed, the framework 

within which they are presented is also heavily influenced by the practices of 

rhetoric. Scholars have pointed to the argument between Jason and Medea as a 

prime example of debate within the tragic framework. Debate informed both 

Greek political and judicial life, and, as several scholars rigorously argue, theatrical 

life as well. Theater historian William Arrowsmith writes, “with all the 

tricks of sophistic rhetoric, [the characters] put their cases in opposed speeches 

—often identical in length, as though timed by the waterclock of the Athenian 

dikastery” (1959: 37). The debate between Medea and Jason, Arrowsmith 

shows, follows the form of the debates in the Athenian court. In his “rebuttal,” 

for example, Jason responds to Medea’s complaints point by point, and as the 

scene progresses, the dialogue remains rooted in equally-timed claims and 

responses. Medea and Jason debate like defendants in the popularly controlled 

Athenian court, which commenced its jurisdiction about a decade before Euripides 

began competing in the City Dionysia. Similarly, in his writings on Medea, 

theater historian and critic Peter R. Arnott suggests that the play itself is 

structurally conceived as a debate. Although this reading is a bit extreme, it 

Amanda K Earl 3/11/07 8:02 PM 

Comment: This is contradictory: it’s hard to say 

his reading is radical and then agree with it. . .

Fluency and Fear 27 

points to the extent to which Medea has been intertwined with the practices of 

debate and rhetoric in the scholarly imagination. If one views Euripides’ work as 

“an open-ended debate,” then the play itself becomes analogous to the thematic 

concerns of its characters (1991: 128-129). In using debate to critique the mode 

of debate (i.e., rhetoric), Euripides again reveals his profoundly complex 

relationship with that mode of communication. On the one hand, the past crimes 

and current fears of his characters’ are shown to be based on the power of words 

and rhetoric to deceive, and yet he exposes those criticisms through eloquent 

speech and evocative debate. 

In examining what Euripides is showing the Greeks about the Greeks, it is 

important to recall the location of the exposition. In the grand Theater of Dionysus, 

it would have been difficult for an audience member to see the actor, which 

would arguably increase the importance of speech and its delivery (Arnott, 

1991: 112). Just as Medea depends on the mode she criticizes, so too does 

Euripides as he problematizes the significance of words in a venue where they 

were among the most important modes of communication with the audience. 

The conditions of Greek tragic performance further complicate Euripides’ 

presentation of rhetoric. Contextually, tragedies such as Medea would have 

occurred as part of the state-sponsored City Dionysia. Politics and performance 

were also united in the very architecture of the Theater of Dionysos, virtually 

identical to that of the Athenian Assembly. Further, to be a successful speaker 

and legislator in the Assembly would demand many of the same skills as being 

an actor in the Theater of Dionysos. The necessity of possessing a strong voice 

and of commanding the attention of several thousand both contributed to the 

theatricalized presentations given in the theater and to the growing influence of 

the Sophists, who taught rhetoric and oration (Wiles, 2000: 54-56). So Euripides 

reveals this complex view of rhetoric in a space analogous to the politicized one 

in which rhetoric was most often demanded. 

If, as Geertz posits, performance is the medium through which cultures 

show themselves to themselves, Medea and its conditions of performance in the 

City Dionysia point towards a cultural ambivalence towards rhetoric, a simultaneous 

dependence on and distrust of a key form of social interaction. Where 

Geertz’s analyses of the Balinese performance falters, however, is that he does 

not include any observations from actual Balinese participants. If one uses 

Geertz’s theory to understand the relationship between a society and its performances, 

then one must also address the beliefs of multiple participants in the society 

to avoid the same interpretive myopia. In order to examine whether Euripides’ 

play reveals a cultural ambivalence towards rhetoric, the work of Greeks 

other than Euripides must be noted as well. For example, Plato’s dialogue and 

Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War illuminate a broader cultural 

landscape and its subsequent perception of rhetoric. 

Plato, known through his writings for a strong aversion to dramatic arts, 

presents the issue of rhetoric as it relates to his search for truth. He attacks the 

Sophists who, as Wiles explains, teach the art of rhetoric. In The Sophist, Plato


assigns to the eponymous character all of the ideas with which Socrates 

disagrees and successfully discredits. He delves deeper into the meaning and 

implications of rhetoric, however, in Gorgias, a dialogue between Socrates and a 

famous rhetorician. In this dialogue, Socrates directly links sophistry to rhetoric, 

both being components of “flattery” (463a-b). Interestingly, Socrates criticizes 

rhetoric for the same reasons Medea does, arguing that rhetoric is indeed 

“persuasive but not instructive about right and wrong” (455a). Medea’s 

criticisms again line up with those of Socrates in the dialogue Phaedrus. Both 

emphasize the unique ability of polished speech to disguise the truth. (It is 

important to note, however, that while truth is of a personal nature for Medea, 

throughout the writings of Plato, truth is of universal significance). Medea’s 

distinction between confidence and wisdom, for example, are comparable with 

Socrates’ distinction between the persuasive and the just or good: 

[T]he plausible speaker 

Who is a villain deserves the greatest punishment. 

Confident in his tongue’s power to adorn evil, 

He stops at nothing. Yet he is not really wise. (Med.II.568-571) 

[T]here is no need for the budding orator to concern himself with the truth 

about what is just or good. . .In the law courts nobody cares a rap for the truth 

of these matters, but only about what is plausible. . .stick to that all through 

your speech, and you are equipped with the art complete. (Phaed.272d-e) 

Plato, it seems, documents distrust in rhetoric similar to Euripides, only fashioning 

his criticisms in an entirely different format. Like Euripides, Plato ultimately 

reveals a strong concern about the contradictions inherent in rhetoric, as is 

evidenced further in his famous piece Socrates’ Defense or The Apology of 

Socrates. 

In one of his strongest attacks against rhetoric, Socrates begins his defense 

by acknowledging how persuasive his accusers in court are. He says: 

I do not know what effect my accusers have had upon you, gentlemen, but for 

my own part I was almost carried by them—their arguments were so 

convincing. On the other hand, scarcely a word of what they said was true. 

(Ap.17a) 

Socrates acknowledges here the dangers of rhetoric, as he himself “was almost 

carried away” by the arguments made against him. However, though he 

describes himself as no “skillful speaker,” he proves to be just as verbally fluent 

as Medea (Ap.17b). In his Defense, he employs the very mode of communication 

he has consistently lambasted. Like Medea’s defense (as Buxton calls it), 

Socrates’ follows the common rhetorical pattern of proem, narrative, proof, and 

conclusion. Through his portrayal of Socrates, Plato here exposes a dependence 

on and facility with rhetoric which coexists with an intense aversion to and 

distrust of it.

Fluency and Fear 29 

Whereas Plato approaches rhetoric from a philosophical point of view, 

Thucydides encounters rhetoric as an historical condition. In his History of the 

Peloponnesian War, he chronicles several instances of rhetoric and its uses, 

most notably in Pericles’ funeral oration. While in this speech Thucydides 

presents an almost elegiac adoration for the tradition of Athenian oratory, there 

are several instances in his History where Thucydides notes different views of 

rhetoric. The most vigorous complaint against rhetoric is voiced by Cleon in the 

Mytilenian Debate. Cleon accuses the Athenian polity of favoring speech over 

action, becoming “victims of your own pleasure in listening and. . . more like an 

audience sitting at the feet of a professional lecturer than a parliament discussing 

matters of state” (His.3.38). Like Socrates, Cleon also acknowledges that 

speeches are not necessarily venues for just action with regards to state affairs. 

In the Melian Dialogue, the conquered Melians raise an indirect criticism of 

rhetoric: 

Athenians: . . .the standard of justice depends on the equality of power to 

compel. . . 

Melians: Then in our view (since you force us to leave justice out of account 

and to confine ourselves to self-interest). . .in the case of all who fall into 

danger. . .such people should be allowed to use and to pofit by arguments that 

fall short of mathematical accuracy. (His.5.89-90) 

In connecting “the power to compel” with “argument,” the Melians suggest 

a strong relationship between the two. Like Medea, the Melians see the abilty to 

argue as critical to the “power to compel” others. Like Socrates, though, they 

acknowledge that such arguments do not necessarily leave room for truth or 

justice. 

However, the only complaints against rhetoric discussed thus far have been 

lodged by non-Athenians. Given that Thucydides was writing as an Athenian, he 

might actually be criticizing critiques of rhetoric. However, in the section of his 

History describing the end of Plataea, an Athenian presents the view that Medea 

and Socrates share, namely that: “[g]ood deeds do not require long statements; 

but when evil is done the whole art of oratory is employed as a screen for it” 

(His.3.67). While it is hard to discern whether Thucydides himself agrees with 

the various complaints the speakers raise in his History, when he attributes to 

Athenians and non-Athenians alike a shared distrust in rhetoric and oratory, he 

certainly acknowledges the ambivalent status of rhetoric within his society. On 

the one hand, powerful orators like Pericles serve as proud reminders of what 

Athens stands for, yet Athenians themselves note that words and rhetoric can be 

“a screen” for evil intentions. 

Euripides’ Medea, then, does show something about the Greeks to the 

Greeks, as Geertz would suggest. Among other values and attitudes certainly 

uncovered in his tragedy, Euripides simultaneously exposes and confirms the 

contradictory nature of rhetoric and the tension inherent in the very mode of 

communication that informed Athenian political, intellectual, and theatrical life.


Through the structural, thematic, and performative condition of rhetoric and 

words in Medea, Euripides articulates the same fluency and distrust, dependence 

and aversion to rhetoric, oratory, and words that Plato and Thucydides expose in 

their own works. When examined within that sort of contextual framework, 

Medea can be seen to embody the cultural milieu as it is echoed in these other 

remnants of contemporaneous Greek culture. In so doing, Medea not only tells 

one woman’s story to the Greeks, but their own story as well. 

References 

Arnott, Peter D. 1991. Public and Performance in Greek Theater. London: Routledge. 

Arrowsmith, William. 1959.“The Criticism of Greek tragedy.” Tulane Drama Review, 

III, 3: 31-57. 

Buxton, R.G.A. 1982. Persuasion in Greek Tragedy: A Study of Peitho. Cambridge: 

Cambridge University Press. 

Euben,, J. Peter. 1990. The Tragedy of Political Theory: The Road Not Taken. Princeton: 

Princeton University Press. 

Euripides. Medea. 2004. Trans. Rex Warner in The Wadsworth Anthology of Drama, ed. 

W.B. Worthen, pp. 66-78. Boston, MA: Wadsworth. 

Geertz, Clifford. 1973. The Interpretation of Cultures. New York, NY: Basic Books. 

Plato. 1989. The Collected Dialogues of Plato. eds. Edith Hamilton and Huntington 

Cairns. Princeton: Princeton University Press. 

Thucydides. 1972. History of the Peloponnesian War. Trans. Rex Warner. London: Penguin 

Books. 

Wiles, David. 2000. Greek Theatre Performance: An Introduction. Cambridge: Cambridge 

University Press. 

Worthington, Ian, ed. 1994. Persuasion: Greek Rhetoric in Action. London: Routledge

The Hippocratic View of Epilepsy 

and Brain Function 


The Sacred Disease by Hippocrates is a fifth century treatise which attempts to 

explain the symptoms, causes, and prognosis of a person suffering from epilepsy. 

It also seeks to debunk claims by magicians and other sources considered 

disreputable that epilepsy is a “sacred disease,” ordained by the gods and 

curable through religious and magical expiation. In proposing a model of brain 

function, it asserts that epilepsy is a legitimate physical disease, like any other, 

and that it originates in the brain, when specific pathophysiological processes 

disrupt normal functioning. 

One can learn much about the cultural environment and prevailing attitudes 

towards illness from The Sacred Disease. Prognosis, and not treatment, is the 

primary focus of the text. Hippocrates makes powerful arguments about the usefulness 

of accurate prognosis to a physician, as it gives him credibility. However 

in the modern sense the utility of The Sacred Disease is very limited, since treatment 

is neglected in favor of prognosis. Though the author at times appears 

overly preoccupied with arguments against superstitious explanations for epilepsy, 

Hippocrates’ treatise on epilepsy is notable as an ancient model for how 

the brain works and consequences of disruption of function; he provides a logical 

and consistent system of cognition. 

Since Hippocrates argues so vehemently against the sacred origin of epilepsy, 

the meaning he ascribes to the term the “sacred disease” is a logical starting 

point in an analysis of this treatise. Is in fact epilepsy what ancient authors 

have in mind when they describe the “sacred disease?” There is much evidence 

that most did, and Hippocrates’ description of the disease is certainly very consistent 

with the modern conception of epilepsy. When Herodotus describes 

Cambyses, a Persian monarch, he states that “from his birth he was afflicted 

with a dreadful disease. . . which some call the sacred sickness” and also 

comments that “it would be by no means strange, therefore, if his mind were 

affected in some degree, seeing that his body labored under so sore a malady” 

(Rawlinson, 1942: 227). Herodotus’ use of the term “sacred sickness” does not 

conclusively refer to epilepsy, as it merely identifies the “sacred sickness” as an 

illness seated in the brain, not definitely distinguishing it from other mental 

illnesses, such as mania. 

One of Hippocrates’ most convincing arguments for a biological origin of 

epilepsy is that although a number of different diseases can cause mental illness, 

31

32 Eleanor Thomas 

only one of them is considered sacred. He distinguishes the “sacred disease” 

from other mental disorders: 

Then again one can see men that are mad and delirious from no obvious 

cause, and committing many strange acts; while in their sleep, to my knowledge, 

many groan and shriek, others choke, others dart up and rush out of 

doors, being delirious until they wake, when they become as healthy and 

rational as they were before, though pale and weak. (Jones, 1923:141) 

When Hippocrates uses the term “sacred disease,” he clearly has something specific 

in mind and is not using this term to describe all mental illnesses (Temkin, 

1971:15-21). Hippocrates sees similarities between epilepsy and mania, which 

form the basis for his argument; since they appeared to be such similar 

disorders, it was inconsistent to define one as a disease with a physiological 

origin, and another as having magical derivation. Nevertheless, Hippocrates also 

suggests in this statement that despite the similarities between these disorders, 

people at the time were able to clearly discriminate between epilepsy and other 

mental diseases. 

Humoral theory dominated Hippocrates’ view of physiology and formed a 

basis for his treatments for illness. The ancients believed that four elements 

existed: earth, air, fire, and water. They then assigned two of four qualities to 

each of the elements. Earth was cold and dry; fire was hot and dry; air was hot 

and wet; and water was wet and cold. The ancients expanded this view of the 

physical world in order to explain physiological phenomena. They identified 

four humors and used the same qualities to describe these humors as they did the 

four elements. Accordingly, they described black bile as cold and dry, yellow 

bile as hot and dry, blood as hot and wet, and phlegm as cold and wet (Finger, 

2000:31). Two of these theoretical humors, phelgm and bile, are integral to the 

Hippocratic explanation of epilepsy. 

While the four humors provided a theoretical framework for pathophysiology 

and treatment, Jones points out in his essay on prognosis that the medical 

treatments available to a physician during the time of Hippocrates were very 

limited. In regards to two of the most common diseases, pneumonia and malaria, 

a doctor’s best recourse was to help the patient fight the disease by preventing 

irritation and providing comfort. Thus dietary regimens were paramount in the 

treatment of an illness. The goal of the physician was “to do good, or at least to 

do no harm” (Jones, 1923: xiii). Hippocrates generally wished to alter the patient 

as little as possible. He advised against radical procedures, and his main objecttive 

was to counteract imbalances in a patient’s system resulting from an excess 

of any of the four humors (Pagel, 1939:389). He did not regard sickness as a set 

of diseases with very specific symptoms, but believed all illnesses resulted from 

humoral imbalance. 

The first three sections of The Sacred Disease are almost wholly devoted 

to polemic, as Hippocrates discredits people who he believes are swindlers and 

quacks and blames them for the term “sacred disease.” Since they have no medi-


cal knowledge, they are unable to effectively treat anyone suffering from epilepsy, 

and for this reason they chose to call it “sacred” so that they could not be 

blamed for their ineffectual treatment and would be “sheltered in superstition” 

(Jones, 1923:141). Hippocrates describes their treatments as extreme, and at 

best, harmless. These treatments include directives against baths, against the 

consumption of many foods, and against wearing black or goats skins. The foods 

banned are foods that the Greeks generally believed were unhealthy for sick 

people, and wearing black was also considered to be a bad omen for all that are 

sick, since it is the “sign of death” (Jones, 1923:143). 

Hippocrates in fact believed that it was sacrilegious to blame the gods for 

epilepsy. Since the gods were completely holy, he did not believe that they 

would cause corruption in humans: “However, I hold that a man’s body is not 

defiled by a god, the one being utterly corrupt the other perfectly holy” and even 

if impurity exists in humans “a god is more likely to purify and sanctify it than 

he is to cause defilement” (Jones, 1923:149). In his invective against a superstitious 

view of epilepsy Hippocrates includes an interesting description of the 

symptoms of epilepsy. He states that men assigned blame to a different god for 

each of the signs of the “sacred disease”: 

If the patient imitate[s] a goat, if he roar[s], or suffer[s] convulsion[s] in the 

right side, they say that the Mother of the Gods is to blame. If he utter[s] a 

piercing and loud cry, they liken him to a horse and blame Poseidon. Should 

he pass some excrement, as often happens under the stress of the disease, the 

surname Enodia is applied. If it be more frequent and thinner, like that of 

birds, it is Apollo Nomius. If he foam[s] at the mouth and kick[s], Ares has 

the blame. (Jones, 1923:149) 

Though Hippocrates’ goal was not to describe the basic symptoms of epilepsy, 

he did so in a way that is very consistent with the modern conception of the 

disease—convulsions, cries, and foaming at the mouth. 

Hippocrates gives a complete and systematic description of what he 

believes to be the cause of epilepsy. According to him the defining feature of 

epilepsy is that it affects people who are phlegmatic but not bilious. He believes 

that it is a hereditary illness and that it begins in the embryo (Jones, 1923:151). 

The embryonic brain according to his philosophy undergoes a natural cleansing 

process while it is still in the womb, eliminating impurities before birth. If this 

process is well regulated and not disturbed, a normal infant will be born. However, 

if in the process of the brain driving out impurities, it eliminates too much, 

the infant will have a “diseased head” (Jones, 1923:155). If the reverse happens 

and there is too little purging, the brain becomes “congested” and the infant will 

be phlegmatic (Jones, 1923:157). Purging can still take place during childhood 

and happens when a child breaks out in sores or has excessive mucus. Children 

that do not undergo this process run the risk of developing a number of disorders. 

Excessive phlegm can make its way to the heart and veins, in the heart 

causing difficulty breathing and palpitations and in the bowels causing diarrhea.


On the other hand, if it arrives in the veins, it results in the symptoms of epilepsy 

(Jones, 1923:157-158). 

Hippocrates describes in detail how each of the symptoms of epilepsy can 

be caused by excess phlegm. For instance, speechlessness can occur by phlegm 

obstructing the entry of air into the veins or the brain. According to the Hippocratic 

view of physiology, when a person inhales a breath it goes to the brain 

first, then the stomach, then lungs, and then into the veins. The veins then 

disperse this air to the rest of the body, and it eventually ends up back in the 

brain. This flow of air causes intelligence and movement, and if it is interrupted 

so is cognition and movement of the limbs. Paralysis occurs when the flow of air 

in the veins is completely obstructed by phlegm, and if incomplete obstruction 

occurs the eyes may roll. Foaming at the mouth however occurs when the 

movement of air is disrupted in the lungs. As a result, the air bubbles and exits 

from the mouth. A patient defecates involuntarily when pressure is applied to 

the bowels, diaphragm, and liver, and this occurs when the flow of air through 

the body is disrupted. Kicking can also occur when the normal air flow is cut 

off, because phlegm “[rushes] upwards and downwards through the blood [and] 

causes convulsions and pain” (Jones, 1923: 161). If the phlegm is abundant and 

viscous, a personal will die, but if the abnormal flow can be mixed with warm 

blood and diluted a person will gradually regain consciousness. 

Hippocrates’ explanation of the causes of epilepsy is so logical that it is 

impressively forceful, despite its inaccuracy. In his scheme each symptom is 

assigned a cause which is consistent with the underlying cause of the “sacred 

disease,” excess phlegm. He not only describes what happens, but he explains 

why. Hippocrates is then able to base his prognosis and treatment upon his proposed 

cause of the disease. In this respect, his methodology approaches contemporary 

scientific practice, even though his explanation, prognosis, and treatment 

are all based on false information. He used what tools were available to him, 

namely his senses, and the rest was left to his power of deduction. 

Prognosis held tremendous importance to Hippocrates, and he devotes 

much of The Sacred Disease to description of the general course of epilepsy. He 

makes predictions of the course of the disease for patients who suffer their first 

attack in various age groups. Before examining Hippocrates’ various prognoses 

for people suffering from epilepsy, it is worth investigating the Hippocratic attitude 

towards prognosis. In a time when effective treatment was limited, a physician’s 

credibility lay in his ability to predict what would happen to a patient having 

a given illness. Hippocrates even wrote a treatise entitled Prognosis in which 

he assigns a dual importance to prognosis; it not only gives a physician credibility, 

but it aids in his treatment because he will be able to predict future ailments: 

I hold that it is an excellent thing for a physician to practice forecasting. For 

if he discover[s] and declare[s] unaided by the side of his patient the present, 

the past and the future, and fill[s] in the gaps in the account given by the sick, 

he will be the more believed to understand the cases, so that men will confidently 

entrust themselves to him for treatment. Furthermore, he will carry out


the treatment best if he knows beforehand from the present symptoms what 

will take place later. (Jones, 1923:7) 

Pagel argues that prognosis is given even greater value than diagnosis. He 

believes that the emphasis upon prognosis is a result of the inadequate treatment 

available at the time: “The physician, knowing the limitations of his art the 

comparatively small range of medical interference, makes prognosis the field of 

his special interest” (Pagel, 1939:389). 

While it is certainly the case that physicians had a very limited repertoire 

of therapies, more general cultural factors may be involved in the Hippocratic 

preference for prognostication. Oracles played a very significant role in Greek 

society (Pagel, 1939:390). They were routinely consulted before city-states went 

to battle and even before making mundane day-to-day decisions. Consequently 

high importance was placed upon prediction of the future, and it is not surprising 

that Greeks held their physicians to the same standard. The values and morays of 

Greek society cannot be ignored when examining the Hippocratic approach to 

medicine. 

Hippocrates predicts different outcomes for a patient with epilepsy based 

upon when he or she is first attacked and the severity of the attack. Small children 

have very different prognoses based up the degree of attack or flow of 

phlegm. If the phlegm is abundant and thick, then death is likely. The phlegm 

overwhelms small veins and causes the patient’s blood to coagulate. However, if 

the initial attack is minor the child will eventually recuperate, but will endure 

lasting, though slight deformation wherever the phlegm filled the vein, for 

instance the hand, eye, mouth or neck (Jones, 1923:163). He makes separate 

predictions for the old and the very old. People who are old are not killed by 

attacks of epilepsy due to the nature of their veins, which are large and filled 

with hot blood. Thus phlegm is not able to chill the blood and cause it to clot. 

The prognosis for the very old, however, is less optimistic—death or paralysis. 

Their veins are relatively empty and contain blood, which is thin and watery 

(Jones, 1923: 165). Hippocrates here not only identifies very specific prognoses 

of people with a variety of different characteristics, but provides detailed explanations 

of the reasons for these prognoses which are consistent with his overall 

view of disease. 

Hippocrates regards epilepsy stemming from infancy as a special case. He 

believes that when the disease originates in infancy, it is nurtured, becoming a 

habit, able to occur with slight provocation by weather or wind. According to 

Hippocrates epilepsy is unique in infants because their brains are especially wet. 

Consequently phlegm can more easily accumulate there, and it is difficult for the 

body to remedy the large quantity of phlegm in this area through drying. In this 

category of people epilepsy becomes “chronic” and “incurable” (Jones, 1923: 

169). The brains of these people degenerate and they thus undergo seizures more 

often.


In Hippocratic medicine the external environment plays an enormous role 

in induction and prevention of illness. An entire treatise is devoted to this 

notion, On Airs, Waters, and Places. Winds from certain directions at certain 

times are favorable. In the case of epilepsy the south wind is especially 

injurious, while winds from the north are considered beneficial. The north 

wind’s positive effect on epilepsy is attributed to its ability to remove wetness 

from the air and purify it. The south wind on the other hand is heavy, damp, and 

stagnant. Thus wind from the north is cathartic, while wind from the south 

exacerbates the phlegmmatic nature of epilepsy. Hippocrates concludes this 

explanation of the causes of epilepsy by reiterating his point that epilepsy is 

caused by natural causes, and is consequently not “sacred.” 

The Sacred Disease culminates with Hippocrates’ explanation of the functions 

of the brain: 

Men ought to know that from the brain and from the brain only, arise our 

pleasures, joys, laughter, and jests, as well as our sorrows, pains, griefs and 

tears. Through it, in particular, we think, see, hear, and distinguish the ugly 

from the beautiful, the bad from the good, the pleasant from the unpleasant 

. . . It is the same thing which makes us mad or delirious, inspires us with 

dread and fear, whether by night or by day, brings sleeplessness, inopportune 

mistakes, aimless anxieties, absent-mindedness, and acts that are contrary to 

habit. (Jones, 1923:175) 

Hippocrates uses epilepsy as a model for his conception of the brain. He attributes 

cognitive and sense functions to the brain, and when it is impaired during 

mental illness senses and thinking are impaired. Since someone suffering from 

the sacred disease loses consciousness, the defect must therefore emanate from 

the brain. Due to excessive wetness the brain becomes displaced, and this distorts 

hearing, sight, and speech. 

Hippocrates is able to expand his argument in order to include other mental 

ailments. For instance, the brain not only malfunctions as a result of excess 

phlegm, but copious bile can also cause madness. Whereas people with superfluous 

phlegm are rendered mute, those with excess bile become mad. They are 

“noisy” and “restless.” When someone has excess bile, it rushes to the brain and 

overheats it—it actually boils. Terror and anxiety associated with madness are 

results of this overheating of the brain. When the brain chills after it overheats, 

this also causes the patient some discomfort as well as memory loss. This process 

also occurs when the patient is sleeping; they wake up screaming at night 

and suffer from bad dreams (Jones, 1923:177). Mania reaffirms Hippocrates’ 

analysis of epilepsy by illustrating what happens in the reverse, when there is 

too much bile rather than too much phlegm. 

After providing extra evidence for his theory, he restates his point 

regarding the importance of the brain:


In these ways I hold that the brain is the most powerful organ of the human 

body, for when it is healthy it is an interpreter to us of the phenomena caused 

by the air, as it is the air that gives it intelligence. Eyes, ears, tongue, hands 

and feet act in accordance with the discernment of the brain. (Jones, 1923: 

183) 

According to Hippocrates’ model of cognition, air is responsible for intelligence, 

and its flow through the body is essential for human thought and awareness. 

Mania and epilepsy both stem from obstruction of the flow of air through the 

brain, either through the accumulation of bile or phlegm. 

Hippocrates provides few comments on therapy for epilepsy. His therapy is 

based on the premise that since epilepsy is not sacred, but a result of natural 

causes, it is treatable. Treatment consists of understanding the various causative 

factors of epilepsy and how weather and wind affect them so that their symptoms 

can be effectively treated. A physician can alleviate symptoms of epilepsy 

by manipulating the same factors that caused it. For instance, if a certain food is 

deemed harmful, then an epileptic would eat this food’s opposite. His central 

tenet is to antagonize the causes of epilepsy by utilizing the opposite: 

For in this disease as in all others it is necessary, not to increase the illness, 

but to wear it down by applying to each what is most hostile to it, not that to 

which it is conformable. For what is conformity gives vigour and increase; 

what is hostile causes weakness and decay. (Jones, 1923:179) 

If Hippocrates’ therapy for epilepsy seems simplistic and vague, it is because his 

emphasis is not on therapy, either because that is not his or his readers’ interest 

or because there was little to say. Likely most common therapies for epilepsy in 

the ancient world were based upon superstitions, which Hippocrates sought to 

discredit. 

Hippocrates’ views on epilepsy are remarkably logical and consistent. 

They are based on the central tenet that there must be balance between the four 

humors and that imbalance in this system causes disease. After attributing epilepsy 

to an overabundance of phlegm, he describes how this works in the 

patient’s system. His style of thinking is characteristically Greek with its emphasis 

on deductive logic: if x is y, and y is z, then x is z. If phlegm is cold and wet, 

then if it accumulates it causes the patient’s veins to become cold and wet, 

which causes blood to chill and clot, which causes spasms and impairment 

wherever in the body the blood has clotted. He is also able to apply his method 

of deductive logic to illnesses associated with excess bile. Furthermore, he is 

able to incorporate his way of thinking into a model for the function of the brain. 

If epilepsy disturbs cognition and sensation and this deficit stems from the brain, 

then the brain must be critical for these two processes. 

Next he is able to identify the medium necessary for proper functioning of 

the brain—air. Its flow is essential to thought, and if something obstructs this 

flow, the brain’s functions are compromised. He assimilates this idea well with


his idea of the phlegmatic origin of epilepsy. Phlegm must be the agent which 

causes the symptoms of epilepsy, through its disruption of air, the brain’s 

medium. According to Hippocrates’ logic a model and an understanding of the 

four humors, are all that are necessary to properly treat illness. If a physician 

understands the cause of disease in a patient, he can then easily inhibit the presumed 

cause of the disease and eliminate its symptoms. He is careful, however, 

to point out in his treatise that cases of epilepsy that have become habitual are 

not curable. He admits that there are limits to what a physician can do, but in 

general treatment according to his model will result in successful alleviation of 

the symptoms of diseases of the mind. 

The unity of Hipprocates’ explanation of the causes of epilepsy in The 

Sacred Disease is remarkable. He is able to integrate various mental disorders, 

humoral theories of disease, and brain function in order to create a model which 

completely explains the progression and pathophysiology of epilepsy, as well as 

the prognosis of patients suffering from it. He is able to use his own 

observations and deductive logic to infer how the brain might work. Although 

one purpose of The Sacred Disease is to discredit and refute superstitious and 

magical ideas concerning epilepsy, it also contains a remarkably logical, 

harmonious theory of physiology and pathophysiology. 

References 

Finger, Stanley. 2000. Minds Behind the Brain. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 

Herodotus. 1942. The Persian Wars, trans. George Rawlinson. New York: Random 

House. 

Hippocrates. 1923. The Sacred Disease. Trans. W.H.S. Jones. Cambridge: Harvard University 

Press. 

Jones, W.H.S. 1923. Hippocrates. Hippocrates. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. 

Pagel, Walter. 1939. “Prognosis and Diagnosis: A Comparison of Ancient and Modern 

Medicine,” Journal of the Warburg Institute, Vol. 2 (1939), 382-298. 

Temkin, Owsei. 1945. The Falling Sickness. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Press.

Dining with Death: An Analysis of Attic 

White-Ground Lekythoi and Athenian 

Notions of the Afterlife in Classical Greece 

Maia Peck 

Some of the most valuable and unusual visual records of Athenian concepts of 

the afterlife, the soul, and death in Classical Greece are Attic white-ground, funerary 

lekythoi from the sixth and fifth centuries B.C.E. Despite the fact that 

these polychromatic, ceramic oil vessels were a short-lived phenomenon that 

emerged out of Classical red-figure pottery (ca. 450-425 B.C.E.) (Cook, 1960: 

172), and were predominant grave offerings in Athens only from circa 560 

B.C.E. until the end of the fifth century (Oakley, 2004: 9), to archaeologists and 

art historians alike, they are remarkable not only for the wealth of information 

they offer as tomb artifacts used for ritual libations and as burial gifts, but also 

for their uncommon iconography. Their imagery documents both the Athenian 

burial rites involving food and drink and the Attic notion of the deceased’s 

journey to the afterworld during the Classical period (Garland, 1985: 107-8). 

Indeed, the white-ground, funerary lekythoi are especially notable for their 

depictions of tomb visits, unprecedented among pottery vessels of this type, and 

for their portrayals of the Greek soul bearers such as the ferryman Charon and 

the god Hermes (Beazley, 1938: 8). Although these faded relics leave many 

questions unanswered, a few scholars have been able to surmise what social and 

religious factors, and what new Athenian attitudes toward death and the afterlife 

may have led to this deviation from the popular mythological subjects depicted 

on black- and red-figure funerary pots. By exploring issues of food and drink in 

relation to sixth and fifth century B.C.E. white-ground, funerary lekythoi, this 

essay aims to demonstrate that the elite Athenians during the Classical period 

conceived of their afterlife as a material reality. 

Examination of sixth and fifth century B.C.E. Attic white-ground, sepulchral 

lekythoi reveals that there was a deliberate attempt to link the world of the 

living with the world of the dead at a basic level. Their form and function are 

obviously utilitarian, even though they mainly served a funerary purpose, as is 

evidenced by the fact that their coat of delicate white slip proved unsuitable for 

everyday handling (Beazley, 1938: 6). Contemporary Attic black- and red-figure 

types, which were more resilient than the white ground (Beazley, 1938: 6), were 

popularly used for toiletry and household purposes, holding perfumes of scented 

oils and olive oil for cooking (Clark, et al., 2002: 112). From the abundance of 

39

40 Maia Peck 

pottery excavated at Attic gravesites, some dating as early as the middle of the 

eleventh century B.C.E., archaeologists can further infer that the ancient Athenians 

had a longstanding tradition of burying their deceased with lekythoi as well 

as other kinds of pottery such as ceramic storage vessels called neck-amphorae, 

and certain types of wine jugs called trefoil-mouthed oinochoai (Cook, 1960: 7- 

9). Even if it is impossible to prove definitively why the ancient Greeks preferred 

to inter their dead with utilitarian objects, it is worth noting that the presence 

of these practical items unearthed in or near tombs suggests, at the very 

least, that there was a desire to transmit aspects of the living world to that of the 

dead. 

While it was common among many ancient civilizations to bury the dead 

with everyday objects, what is most notable and exceptional about the whiteground, 

funerary lekythoi is that they visibly tie these two antithetical states of 

existence. In a sense, these vessels are the medium that joins the realm of the 

living and the world of the dead; in some cases, they literally juxtapose living 

persons with the deceased. On one Athenian polychromatic, white-ground 

lekythos attributed to ‘Group R,’ a group of artists associated with the so-called 

Reed Painter (last quarter of the fifth century B.C.E.), the young man who sits 

on the base of the grave stele holding a spear is most likely an image of the 

deceased, what is known as an eidolon (Garland, 1985: 128), while the young 

woman holding his helmet and another young man situated on each side are 

probably mourners (Osborne, 1998: 192-195). The warrior’s disconnected gaze 

and the fact that he and the two other figures do not seem to be aware of each 

other implies that, although all the individuals graphically share the same setting 

and picture plane, the central figure is in a state of remove, perhaps even in 

another dimension (Osborne, 1998: 195). The tomb, which itself provides the 

central axis of the composition, is the connecting piece between the two levels 

of existence. As the renowned art historian Sir John D. Beazley succinctly 

remarks on a similar scene of a young woman visiting the grave of a soldier, 

“the tomb is the link in the picture” (Beazley, 1938: 10). Nevertheless, the 

figures’ impression of detachment expresses both the sense of loss and the 

reality of the deceased’s departure from the living—two sentiments that pervade 

the imagery of Classical white-ground lekythoi. 

Unlike the mythological and domestic scenes that dominate the decoration 

of black- and red-figure types, the white-ground lekythoi, which appear to have 

drawn away from the dramatic narratives of mythical figures and creatures 

around 470 B.C.E. (Garland, 1985: 125), tend to concentrate on funerary iconography. 

They depict intimate and “more contemplative scenes” (Osborne, 

1998: 190) from life of departing warriors, souls of the deceased at their tombs, 

visits to the tomb, and, in rare instances, the preparation of the dead (Garland, 

1985: 28), and the deposition of the body (Garland, 1985: 35; Osborne, 1998: 

190; Garland, 1985: 107-8). Though the white lekythoi provide little visual 

evidence concerning the elaborate Greek burial rituals, that is, the “laying out of 

the body (prothesis), its conveyance to the place of internment (ekphora), and

Dining with Death 41 

finally the deposition of its cremated or inhumed remains” (Garland, 1985: 21), 

scholars can infer from other kinds of Attic pottery and literary sources what 

role these vessels played in the funeral proper. During prothesis lekythoi filled 

with oil were placed around the bier that held the corpse, perhaps to purify the 

deceased and the living (Garland, 1985: 26, 43; Oakley, 2004: 11). While there 

are few explicit descriptions of the significance of olive oil in the funerary 

context, the extensive usage of this substance in all sorts of religious rites, 

competitions, etc., as well as in major literary works indicates that the Greeks 

thought it possessed auspicious qualities. In the Odyssey, the “olive is the plant 

of civilization, whose shade covers Odysseus on his return to Ithaca. A stake of 

wild olive is used to blind the man-eating Cyclops.” Furthermore, in the great 

Panathenaic games, a jar of olive oil was awarded to the victors (Wilkins and 

Hill, 2006: 135). When the body or ashes were interred, white-ground lekythoi 

were also used for libations of oil (Burkert, 1985: 194; Oakley, 2004: 206, 208) 

that were sometimes mixed with wine and honey (Burkert, 1985: 72). In the fifth 

century B.C.E. Greek play The Persians by Aeschylus, “the queen brings milk, 

honey, water, wine, and oil and also flowers to the grave of the dead king” 

(Burkert, 1985: 71). According to one late fifth century B.C.E. law from Iulis in 

Keos which prescribed that “up to three measures of wine and one of oil may be 

brought to the tomb” (Kurtz, 1971: 200), there were also restrictions on the 

amount of oil given. 

Furthermore, white-ground lekythoi were burial offerings for the deceased, 

sometimes discovered piled inside the grave with other gifts around the body or 

broken and burnt with food offerings (holokautomata) (Garland, 1985: 113; 

Oakley, 2004: 11) in special ditches called opferinnen (Kurtz, 1971: 204; Garland, 

1985: 36). Indeed, a few Athenian white-ground lekythoi which portray 

broken vases by the stele suggest that some of the pots and food may have been 

purposefully destroyed so that they might symbolically “die.” Consequently, 

perhaps, they could then be accessible to the dead (Kurtz, 1971: 215-16; Oakley, 

2004: 205) or could aid the deceased souls on their journey to the afterlife (Garland, 

1985: 113). Thus, archaeological excavations of Attic white-ground, sepulchral 

lekythoi together with ancient written sources further confirm that the 

Athenians of Classical Greece incorporated material substances from life into 

the world of the dead, the ekei, literally meaning the place “there” (Garland, 

1985: 128). 

Moreover, white-ground lekythoi are particularly valuable for the details 

they disclose about Athenian burial offerings, including those of food and drink. 

Many of the tomb visitation scenes portray one, two or three persons, mostly 

women, coming towards the stele bearing gifts (Garland, 1985: 108). The most 

common funerary offering is a long, shallow basket, possibly crafted out of reed 

or cane, called a kaneon or kaniskion (Oakley, 2004: 203; Garland, 1985: 108). 

On one Attic piece by the Timokrates Painter, two women each carry one of 

these baskets, containing lekythoi and ribbons for decorating the stele or its base 

(Garland, 1985: xvi, 111). The kaena contain vases (usually lekythoi), wreaths,

42 Maia Peck 

fruits, and sometimes eggs and cakes (Oakley, 2004: 203). Unfortunately, it is 

difficult for the most part to identify indisputably what foods were given to the 

dead. Speculation is primarily based on other archaeological findings, such as 

terracotta shaped fruits and eggs, and literary sources like Aristophanes’s 

Lysistrata which refers to honey-cakes called mellitouttata (Oakley, 2004: 208; 

Garland, 1985: 113). However, in a few instances pomegranates, bunches of 

grapes and eggs are distinguishable (Garland, 1985: 113; Oakley, 2004: 206). 

Although the reasoning behind the offering of certain foods is also hard to 

validate, there are a few credible hypotheses. In the ancient Greek myth of the 

rape of Persephone, the daughter of Demeter (the goddess of grain and 

agriculture) must reside in the netherworld for half of every year after eating 

seeds of a pomegranate, a fruit of the dead. As a result, Demeter’s grief over her 

daughter’s absence from earth causes the cycle between winter and spring, the 

metaphorical death and rebirth of the seasons. (Grimal, 1996: 359). From this 

famous myth, it is plausible to presume that the Greeks once associated the 

pomegranate with death and the afterworld, and likewise, it is appropriate to 

reason that they wished to bestow this fruit of the dead upon the deceased. In a 

series of 4 th century B.C.E. Totenmahl reliefs the pomegranate reappears in the 

funerary context; these death-feast reliefs commonly depict a man reclining with 

“a table beside him laden with various kinds of food, including cakes, fruit, 

pomegranates and eggs ” (Garland, 1985: 70, 113). Yet, it is worth noting that 

these fruits do not exclusively denote death. According to the art historian John 

H. Oakley, the seeded nature of the pomegranate, and even that of the grapes, 

“makes them a sign of life and fertility, and like the wreaths and sprigs, their use 

in funerary cult signaled a hope for continuing life after death” (Oakley, 2004: 

206). The gifts of eggs, obviously symbols of birth and regeneration, most likely 

served a similar purpose to that of the pomegranate. Although it can never be 

known for certain, perhaps these foods were emblematic of the deceased’s soul 

entering a new state of existence. In this new state, the deceased were not mere 

shadows of their former selves, but were, in some way, still conscious entities 

that needed material sustenance from the earthly realm (Kurtz, 1971: 204). 

This notion of the soul’s continuing existence after death is further implied 

in the portrayals of the offering of choai or libations for the grave (Kurtz, 1971: 

150). One white-ground lekythoi depicts a liquid being poured from an alabastron, 

another type of oil and perfume container, at the grave (Oakley, 2004: 

206). Among several other grave visit scenes on white-ground lekythoi, the 

steles are also anointed with oil and garlanded as if they are the deceased who, 

“like the living, are anointed and wreathed for the festival” (Burkert, 1985: 72). . 

On a piece by the Woman Painter (ca. 420 B.C.E.), one of the women to the left 

of the stele tips a hydria, a type of water vessel, and pours its contents into a 

phiale held by another female attendant (Oakley, 1004: 206; 209). Just as oil 

was thought to possess beneficial powers, water was viewed as a “primary 

cathartic element, especially water from the sea since it was considered less 

susceptible to pollution” (Kurtz, 1971: 149). During prothesis it was used both


to purify the corpse and the living, and, as the above example illustrates, as a 

common liquid offering in honor of the deceased (Kurtz, 1971: 149-150). 

Although there is little mention of the purposes these libations served for 

the Athenians, the existence of a cult to the dead and the numerous gestures of 

piety by means of burial gifts and annual funerary rites suggest that the libations, 

not to mention food, somehow nourished and mollified the deceased person’s 

soul (Kurtz, 1971: 145; Burkert, 1985: 72-73). In the Classical Athenian cult of 

the dead, souls were believed to retain some level of consciousness, a shadowy 

likeness of themselves when alive, and possibly a few faculties of a living 

person. The Roman rhetorician and satirist Lucian wrote in a diatribe against 

burial practices: “the dead are thought to be sustained by our offerings, and that 

without them they starve” (Kurtz, 1971: 206). Of course the souls would not die 

if they were not fed; however, they could become angry and thereby retaliate 

against the living (Garland, 1985: 120). It appears that the core reasoning behind 

the offering of food and drink is rooted in the ancient Greek religious concept of 

do ut des, that is, “I give that you may give”; the relations of the deceased performed 

acts of piety to the dead so that in return the deceased would help fulfill 

the requests of the living (Garland, 1985: 120). Records of annual celebrations 

such as Genesia, Nemesia, Nekysia and Epitaphia also document how the 

Athenians continually sought to pay their respects to the dead. In short, the act 

of bestowing libations, food and other material gifts upon the dead was a display 

of familial piety, one of the most important virtues in Greek culture (Kurtz, 

1971: 73). 

In addition, choai may have also served as a means to contact and perhaps 

summon the deceased (Garland, 1985:114). Instead of the dead being totally 

cloistered in their afterworld, oblivious to the happenings on earth, it appears 

that in the Classical Athenian cult of the dead the deceased could attain access to 

the world of living through their tombs (Garland, 1985: 118). Many Attic whiteground 

lekythoi depict pots besides lekythoi, such as cups, aryballoi, kantharoi, 

oinochoai and pyxides being transported in the funerary baskets, standing at the 

base or on top of the stele, or being held by some of the people (Oakley, 2004: 

205, 208). Some of these vessels probably contained choai (Garland, 1985: 

115). As the art historian Walter Burkert wrote, “as the libations seep into the 

earth, so it is believed, contact with the dead is established and prayers can reach 

them” (Garland, 1984: 115). In general, choai, mostly composed of honey, milk, 

water, wine and oil, were typically poured at the tomb on the steps of its base or 

over the shaft (Garland, 1985: 115). Unlike spondai, which usually refer to 

small libations of unmixed or mixed wine that were also drunk by the offerers 

(such as during the symposium), from pottery analysis and descriptions of 

libations in Classical Greek tragedy, choai seem to have been solely meant for 

the dead and for chthonic deities (Burkert, 1985: 70-71; Garland, 1985: 115). 

Moreover, with spondai the liquid was poured in a controlled manner, whereas 

with choai the vessel’s contents were emptied entirely onto the ground (Burkert, 

1985: 70). To put it simply, this semantic difference between spondai and choai

44 Maia Peck 

suggests that the ancient Greeks tried to separate the living from the dead by 

performing different libation customs. In a way, the offering of choai, and even 

other foods given to the dead, helped remove the deceased from the living world 

by distinguishing the dead souls as “other” beings that drank special libations 

forbidden to living humans (Garland, 1985: 110). 

This effort to distinguish the dead individual as an “other” being is further 

emphasized by depictions of the soul’s journey to the afterworld on Attic whiteground 

lekythoi (Sourvinou-Inwood, 1995: 327). Unlike the iconography of 

other white-ground lekythoi that portray the soul in real-life settings, the representations 

of the soul guided by divine beings called psychopompoi (leaders of 

souls) portray the deceased entering into a new, alien state of existence, a mythical 

reality (Garland, 1985: 52; Souvinou-Inwood, 1995: 327). Yet unlike the 

representations of sphinxes and winged demons on preceding archaic 

monuments that convey a threatened response toward death, these Classical 

representations of the soul’s journey to the afterlife possess a remarkably 

empathetic sensibility (Osborne, 1998: 192; Oakley, 2004: 144). Many of these 

crossings over to death scenes, the most common of which portrays the soul 

waiting on a bank alone and facing Charon as he guides his boat across the river 

Styx, which separates the worlds of the dead and living, capturing the pain of 

loosing a loved one, the natural unwillingness to die, and the acceptance of 

human mortality (Sourvinou-Inwood, 1995: 322-23; Oakley, 2004: 144). 

Moreover, the psychopompoi are often depicted in a sympathetic light; in 

contrast to an early representation of Charon, which one scholar called 

“repulsive,” most often the ferryman is portrayed as a benevolent guide, caringly 

leading women, children and youths toward their final resting place (Garland, 

1985: 56). In some instances, a second bearer to the land of the dead, such as the 

god Hermes, is shown escorting the soul to the bank of the Styx where Charon 

awaits (Sourvinou-Inwood, 1995: 305-6; Garland, 1985: 54). On another Attic 

white-ground lekythos (ca. 440-430 B.C.E.), Hermes sits on a rock while he 

waits for the woman to finish adjusting her hair before she finally departs to the 

netherworld (Garland, 1985: 55; 57). More rarely, there are illustrations of the 

two divinities Hypnos (Sleep) and Thanatos (Death), who usually lead the souls 

of soldiers (Sourvinou-Inwood, 1995: 326). Thus, although the number of 

portrayals of the soul’s journey to the afterworld on Classical white-ground 

lekythoi is small, probably approximately five percent, these vessels are key 

visual documents of the change in Athenian attitudes toward death, the chthonic 

gods, and the afterlife during the Classical period (Oakley, 2004: 144). Through 

these lekythoi we can trace the movement from a conception of the deceased 

and the afterlife as forbidding and frightening to a still apprehensive view 

toward mortality, but a more compassionate sentiment toward death and 

departure from the living world (Garland, 1985: 122-23). 

While these Attic polychromatic, white-ground, funerary lekythoi from the 

sixth and fifth centuries B.C.E. never illustrate a scene set in the netherworld, 

their archaeological context and unusual iconography of tomb visits and of jour-


neys to the world of the dead offer many clues that permit scholars at least to 

catch a glimpse of the Classical Athenian notions of the afterlife as a material 

reality. In both their form and function they acted as medians between the living 

and deceased. They not only link the worlds of the living and the dead by portraying 

offerings of utilitarian objects and the nourishment of food and drink to 

the deceased, but they also visually join the two in their imagery of tomb visits 

and metaphorical crossings over to death. Even though these vessels did not outlast 

the end of the fifth century B.C.E. (they were replaced by another oil container, 

the fusiform unguentariaum), their intimate and moving scenes of departure 

strike an emotional chord that resonates even to this day. 

References 

Beazley, J.D. 1938. Attic White Lekythoi. London: Oxford University Press, Humphrey 

Milford. 

Burkert. Walter. 1985. Greek Religion. Trans. John Raffan. Cambridge: Harvard University 

Press. 

Clark, Andrew J., Maya Elston, and Mary Louise Hart. 2002. Understanding Greek 

Vases: A Guide to Terms, Styles and Techniques. Los Angeles: Getty Publications. 

Cook, R.M. 1960. Greek Painted Pottery. 3 rd Ed. London & New York: Routledge. 

Garland, Robert. 1985. The Greek Way of Death. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. 

Grimal, Pierre. 1996. The Dictionary of Classical Mythology. Trans. A.R. Maxwell- 

Hyslop. 1986. Malden: Blackwell Publishing. 

Kurtz, Donna C. and John Boardman. 1971. Aspects of Greek and Roman Life. Ed. H.H. 

Scullard. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. 

Oakley, John H. 2004. Picturing Death in Classical Athens: The Evidence of the White 

Lekythoi. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 

Osborne, Robin. 1998. Archaic and Classical Greek Art. Oxford & New York: Oxford 

University Press. 

Sourvinou-Inwood. 1995. ‘Reading’ Greek Death: To the End of the Classical Period. 

Oxford: Carendon Press. 

Wilkins, John M. and Shaun Hill. 2006. Food in the Ancient World. Malden: Blackwell 

Publishing.

46 

Column at Ephesus. 

Original photograph by Jennifer Grover. Used by permission.

Giton, Pederasty and Epic Self-Perception 

Matthew Nicholson 

In the Satyricon, Petronius depicts a series of events in the life of the hapless 

narrator, Encolpius. By and large these incidents consist of vague social misunderstandings 

that unilaterally escalate into full-scale debacles, which necessitate 

Encolpius’ hasty flight into similar disasters. Besides Encolpius, only the 

curiously subservient Giton appears in all extant portions, in which, more often 

than not, he attracts the attentions of one hopeful erastes after another. This perpetual 

cycle (i.e. the problems caused by the affections of these lascivious 

gentlemen) drives the narrative and provides the typically hazy transitions from 

one scene to the next. But to assert that Giton serves merely to advance the plot 

of the novel would be to ignore his more subtle and important role. To discern 

this narrative function, however, we must first turn back to Encolpius. 

Upon even the most cursory reading of the Satyricon, one notices Encolpius’ 

proclivity to interpret the events of his life through the lens of classical 

literature. Hardly a chapter elapses in which he does not invoke the labors of 

Aeneas through Virgil’s epic, the rage of Achilles as set down in the Iliad, or the 

imprisonment of Theseus in the labyrinth. And in almost every instance Giton is 

either a participant in, or catalyst of, this epic self-perception. Though it is difficult 

to gauge Petronius’ complete intent as concerns Giton from the fragmentary 

text, in what remains of the work this superbly beautiful young man functions as 

Encolpius’ link to the epic past. Thus Giton unites various seemingly independent 

mythical overtones employed by the narrator. And as an approximation of a 

perfect Greek eramenos he facilitates Encolpius’ desire to affirm his participation 

in heroic society; the repeated coincidence of mythical and classical 

allusion with pedophilic interactions demonstrates Giton’s critical role as 

conduit into legend. 

Even at the very inception of what survives of the novel, we find the 

characters already imbuing their world with classical import, which appropriately 

centers around Giton. Having returned wearily from a debate through 

the labyrinthine cityscape, Encolpius yearns “to bring back the old method with 

Giton,” which implies (though vaguely, to be sure) Encolpius’ desire to return to 

a state of unfettered classical pederasty (Ch. 10, sec. 7). The historical and 

classical atmosphere intensifies when Giton describes his attempted rape by 

Ascyltos, Encolpius’ fellow con-artist: “He began to want to rend me of my 

honor, and when I started shouting, he drew his sword and said, ‘If you are 

Luctretia, you’ve found your Tarquin.’” (Ch. 9, sec 4-5). 

47

48 Matthew Nicholson 

This assumption by Giton of the role of Lucretia evinces his function as 

epic catalyst and plays directly into the fancy of Encolpius, whose outrage at this 

malefaction seems exceeded only by his readiness to act as an avenging Collatinus. 

The threat, however, of Encolpius “putting up his dukes in Ascyltus’ 

face” is equally fictional (Ch. 9, sec. 6). The situation deteriorates into a 

squabble in which Encolpius and Ascyltos make veiled assaults on each other’s 

virility, but it also explicates the role of Giton by his marked absence from the 

content of their argument. In fact, on viewing the scene as a whole, we see that 

Giton, having thoroughly roused Encolpius into his mythic fervor, recedes 

quickly into the background of Encolpius’ fantasy. Clearly Encolpius exhibits 

genuine attachment to Giton throughout the novel, but this scene blurs the 

distinction between that attachment and Encolpius’ desire to assert his potency 

by using Giton as fodder for his role-playing. 

To cast Encolpius as the sole agent of these histrionics, however, would be 

a drastic underestimation of the role of Giton. Not only does he incite these 

scenae, but he often actively participates in them. Being constantly ushered back 

and forth between amorous pursuers, he frequently reverts to the role of Lucrece 

in half-hearted attempts to end the squabbles. In Chapter 94, for example, he 

attempts to cease the feuding of Encolpius and Eumolpus by first threatening 

and then acting out suicide. Thinking the attempt serious, Encolpius “seeks the 

road to death by means of the same iron sword” (Ch. 94, sec. 13). In addition to 

his threatening to enact the end of the Lucrece legend, a contemporary reader 

would most likely have noticed a striking similarity of this scene to the conclusion 

of typical Greek novels, or, even more likely, to the conclusion of the Pyramus 

and Thisbe tale told by Ovid, the corresponding line of which matches 

Encolpius’ dictum in tone and content: (“he fell on the ready steel sword, 

through the depths of his chest” ( Met.IV.162-3). 

A second episode in which Giton threatens self-mutilation makes even 

more explicit the link between his importance as sexual object and actor in 

mythical recreations. After fleeing by ship as stowaways in a missing piece of 

the text, they discover “that Tarentine Lichas was the captain of this particular 

ship, which bore wandering Tryphaena to Tarentum, and these were the very 

ones they were fleeing” (Ch. 101, sec. 1, 6). Presently they find themselves 

thrust into a scene vividly reminiscent of An Ephesian Tale by Xenophon, in 

which two kidnapped lovers shun the advances of their pirate captors and, at one 

point, plot shared death as a means to eternal union. Giton takes up the transgendered 

role of Anthia and furthers the parody by ironically suggesting that the 

pair “tie themselves together with their clothes together and plunge into the 

deep” (Ch. 102 sec. 16). Just as Anthia’s remarkable beauty saves her from 

certain death, so too “Giton disarmed the sailors with his wondrous appearance” 

(Ch. 105, sec. 7), yet again illustrating the importance of pederasty in these epic 

parodies. When a fight breaks out, Giton again attempts to end it in his 

accustomed fashion and “he held a cruel razor up to his genitals”, immediately 

halting the strife (Oakley, 2004: 144). In so doing, he centers the parody of An

Giton, Pederasty and Epic Self-Perception 49 

Ephesian Tale appropriately on his own genitals, the fear of harm to which 

reveals the motivations of the scene’s other players. Clearly, the success of his 

theatrics hinges upon his capability to function sexually, or, to be more specific, 

to remain in a state in which to be enjoyed by others. 

Faced with the very real threat of shipwreck, his love of Giton allows 

Encolpius to delve into a classical fantasy vivid and satisfying enough to prepare 

him for a regretless death. His “final” words exhibit a telling melancholy and 

show that Encolpius, with the aid of his tragic lover, believes in the sanctity of 

his pedophilic relationship to the extent that death threatens no misery: 

This we have earned from the gods: that they join us together in a shared 

death. But cruel fate does not allow it. Mark! The embrace of lovers will part 

the angry sea. Therefore, if you truly esteem your Encolpius, give me a kiss 

while you may; snatch this last joy from the speedy fates. (Ch. 114, sec. 8-9) 

Following the banquet at Trimalchio’s, Giton assumes several additional 

mythic personae in quick succession, resulting in another episode in which 

Encolpius takes a page from the classical canon. Having hastily fled the dinner, 

the protagonists wander through the labyrinthine environs, “dragging their 

bloody feet over protruding shards of jars,” a plight notably similar to that of the 

blinded Oedipus (Ch. 79, sec. 3). From there, Giton takes up the ostensible guise 

of Ariadne when Encolpius explains that “he marked all the pillars and columns 

with chalk, outlines which overcame the most pervasive evening,” just as Ariadne 

makes clear the way for Theseus to escape the labyrinth (Ch. 79, sec. 4). 

One issue that must presently be addressed is the conspicuous absence of 

commentary from Encolpius relating to this specific myth. Admittedly a reader 

might chalk this up to coincidence, assuming that the events occur without 

Encolpius realizing their mythical “potential”. And while indeed this supposition 

bears consideration, an alternative must also be appraised. Namely, Petronius 

uses narratorial authority to suggest that Encolpius’ habit of role-playing has 

become inextricably bound to his mental processes to the extent that his description 

of the events unconsciously inherits this epic significance. In other words, 

by employing a first person narration and relating the story in a manner that 

immediately invokes these myths, the reader feels as if Encolpius, as narrator, 

must be aware of the mythical aspect in order to convey it. As for Giton, while 

he does not explicitly facilitate the Oedipus correlation, the success of the 

Theseus / Ariadne reference hinges entirely on his androgynous appearance and 

classical foresight. 

Back at the inn, the tirelessly protean Giton assumes the role of Briseis and 

thereby allows Encolpius to act, however briefly, as a melancholic Achilles. 

Having abandoned Encolpius’ bed in the night, Giton awakes to Encolpius’ 

blows and the clamor of his verbal joust with Ascyltos. Giton urges them not to 

forsake their friendship and prays “that no peasant in the tavern consider them 

Thebans” (Ch. 80, sec. 3), fanning the flames of Encolpius’ epic self-perception 

by this reference to Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes, in which Oedipus’ sons


do battle. Encolpius adopts this language of military epic when he languishes in 

misery, citing, as the only reason against immediate suicide, that he “begrudges 

his enemy victory.” Additionally, he envisions Ascyltos, his “previously dearest 

ally,” as “haughtily indulging in his spoil,” explicitly recalling the militant 

despondence of Achilles in Book I of the Iliad (Ch. 80, sec. 7). To Petronius’ 

audience, these lines must have recalled the following passage from the epic in 

which Achilles rails against the hypocrisy of Agamemnon’s theft of Briseis. 

And of such things you heed not, nor have any regard, 

and you even threaten that you will take my reward from me, 

for which I toiled greatly, and which the sons of the Achaeans gave me. 

The ensuing episode in which Encolpius laments his loss further demonstrates 

his assumption of epic importance. His speech smacks of epic themes, especially 

his request for mythic sporagmos—“Thus why cannot the earth engulf me in 

ruin?” And his implicit sympathy with the trials of Aeneas—“[f]oresaken, in the 

Greek city”—recalls Aen. II, 664-72 (Ch. 81, sec. 3). Giton plays a crucial role 

in perpetuating these fantasies since his effeminate charm and appearance allow 

him to serve as either male or female according to the mandates of the various 

myths chosen by Encolpius. Encolpius himself makes note of this fact when he 

ironically comments that “even he who thought he was a man considered him as 

much a girl” (Ch. 81, sec. 5), unaware that the indefinite pronoun in the phrase 

describes him as well. Having thus characterized Giton, Encolpius immediately 

realizes the opportunity to prove his manhood in the fashion of a mythical hero, 

proclaiming “either I am not a man and a free citizen, or I will avenge my 

wounds with guilty blood” (Ch. 81, sec. 6). Then he “girds his waist with 

sword” (Ch, 82, sec. 1) in the fashion of Aeneas. But when he encounters a 

soldier on his quest for vengeance, the guise is discovered, and having been 

disarmed Encolpius abandons the mythic mindset “despoiled, with vengeance 

cut short” (Ch. 81, sec. 4). The egregious metaphorical emasculation of the 

scene clarifies the function of Giton within the mythical context; Encolpius 

derives virility from Giton, and from that virility equates himself with classical 

heroes. 

This function of Giton as mythical catalyst is addressed later in the novel 

with continued reference to the rage of Achilles. The opening of Chapter 129 

weaves together the themes of pederasty, sexual potency, and epic heroism. 

Consider the following lines, in which Giton’s role as eramenos is identified as 

responsible not only for Encolpius’ manhood, but his stance as epic hero as well: 

“I do not know myself to be a man, I do not feel it. Dead and buried is that part 

of my body, by which once I was Achilles” (sec. 1). Here Encolpius expressly 

equates his ability to assume these roles as mythic heroes with his potency to 

perform sexually with Giton. Just as his surrender to the soldier in Chapter 81 

robbed him of masculinity and epic vengeance, here too his failure to perform 

the offices of a traditional Greek erastes deprives him of the satisfaction of continued 

fantasies.


Encolpius’ tendency to equate sexual potency with classical literature 

becomes even clearer in the early Eumolpus episodes. Having recovered the 

snatched Giton only minutes before, Encolpius welcomes as a dinner guest 

Eumolpus, who, upon arrival, offers the following ill-omened praise of Giton: “I 

praise this Ganymede. Today will inevitably be well”(Ch. 82, sec. 3). Encolpius 

objects to the greeting ostensibly on the grounds that he fears a reoccurrence of 

the quarrel with Ascyltos. And while it is certainly not to be doubted that 

Encolpius fears the possibility of another kidnapping, the significance of this 

passage lies in the mythical framework in which it is presented. Indeed one 

might expect Encolpius to parry Eumolpus’ quip with a brief discourse on the 

myth of the rape of Ganymede, thus picking up the reference of the latter and 

expanding it into an expression of his fear in classical terms. But given 

Encolpius’ habit of conglomerating mythical roles with sexual potency, the 

refusal to frame the narrative mythically (at first a seemingly drastic oversight) 

corroborates this facet of his personality. Because Encolpius associates his 

ability to appropriate myth with his control over, and sexual enjoyment in, 

Giton, this problematic greeting should be viewed as an assault, every bit as 

important as those made by the soldier and his own physical limpidity, on his 

ability to simultaneously control his mythic imagination and his virility, of 

which sexual control over Giton is the primary source. By his immediate 

assumption of the role of the rapacious Zeus, Eumolpus not only challenges this 

sexual control but he also usurps the mythological authority on which it is 

founded. 

Not to be outdone, Encolpius quickly finds the opportunity to reassert his 

control over both Giton and classical allusion. When Ascyltos brings a policeman 

to search Encolpius’ quarters for Giton, Encolpius commands him “to go 

quickly under the bed and hook his hands and feet onto the straps, as once Odysseus 

clung to the ram,” then notes that Giton “outdid Odysseus by like cunning” 

(Ch. 97, sec. 4-6). Not only does this further expose Encolpius’ tendencies, but it 

also clarifies the occasions on which he makes use of them. In this episode he 

struggles to retain Giton, who is reduced, by the contention of the three suitors, 

to a mere sexual device; that he hides within the bed nicely completes the metaphor. 

As the novel nears its conclusion, a final incident confirms the link 

between Encolpius’ classical centricity and Giton’s erotic and androgynous 

beauty. In a fragment presumably preceded by a lament of impotence by Encolpius, 

Giton unleashes a singularly self-aware and bitingly sarcastic consolation: 

“Therefore I give you thanks on this account, because you love me with Socratic 

honesty. Not as untouched laid Aclibiades in the very bed of his teacher” (Ch. 

128, sec. 7). 

While this appears at first to be nothing more than a harmless zinger 

between lovers, a careful reading sensitive to the correlation between classical 

referencing and pederasty proves it to be a truly loaded statement. On the purely 

literal level this barb hits its mark in mocking Encolpius’ sexual flaccidity.


Alcibiades, in Plato’s Symposium, commends Socrates’ chastity, recounting his 

own vain attempts to woo the philosopher; but here the sardonic praise instead 

exposes the obstruction of Encolpius’ will by physical defect. On the metaphorical 

level, Giton’s conceited simile announces the utter exclusion of Encolpius 

from the realms of classical literature; Encolpius fails to assert heroism by fulfilling 

his sexual cravings, yet can not enjoy a reputation of classical purity. 

Additionally, through this philerasteia, Giton subverts Encolpius within the 

sexual dynamic, assuming the role of the erastes and relegating Encolpius to a 

purely pathic erotic status. The various episodes of symbolic emasculation 

throughout the novel confirm this role reversal; Giton threatens to cut off his 

genitals but other characters stop him for want of them, while Encolpius, preoccupied 

with asserting masculinity and attaining sexual authority through a 

pedophilic relationship, repeatedly fails at the task. 

After scrutinizing these episodes in the Satyricon and having agreed on 

their participation in an extended metaphor linking child love and classical 

inheritance, the careful reader will continue to question Petronius’ stance on, 

and the moral issues surrounding, this theme. Unfortunately the fragmentary 

nature of the work discourages the attempt to assign a definite morality and a 

certain social commentary to the author. The tone of what remains also creates 

doubt; the uniformly ironic and sarcastic narrative voice adumbrates the 

distinction between objects of genuine cultural criticism and the phenomena that 

face Petronius’ biting wit as a result of circumstance. One possible interpretation 

with at least enough evidence to warrant its investigation is that Petronius 

includes pederasty among the luxuries which he implicates in societal decay. 

Given Encolpius’ impractical attitude and outdated ideals, Petronius frames him 

as a personality incongruous with Neronian society. By describing the typically 

unpleasant trials facing an individual of that disposition he implies that Encolpius’ 

insistence to live mentally in a bygone era (and the pederasty that lies at 

the heart of his willful self-deception) prohibits him from fully participating in 

contemporary civilization. If Petronius is in fact calling this very attitude to task, 

then assuming that he takes issue with pederasty does not overstep the bounds of 

common sense and sensitive readership. Additional episodes lend support to this 

interpretation. For example, Eumolpus’ rehashing of Lucan’s Bellum Civile, 

which attempts to yoke mythology with very recent history, supports the argument 

that Petronius disapproves of purposeless clinging to classical ideology. It 

should also be noted that Eumolpus, a symbol of the epic poet having outlived 

his utility, praises pederasty in his account of the Pergamine boy and yet denies 

such a beloved topic the honor of his incessant versification. 

Of the myths that Petronius weaves into the Satyricon, the two most structurally 

important and ubiquitous are those of the wanderings of Odysseus and 

the rage of Achilles. Encolpius wears these masks throughout. As Achilles, he 

seeks Giton as the reward for, and embodiment of, his masculinity, and as 

Odysseus, he labors to abandon his nomadic life style and eliminate the 

bothersome suitors who perpetually ply Giton with blandishments as well as


force. And while we cannot responsibly assign a moral stance to Petronius based 

on the extant text, we may yet make conjectures about his intent in employment 

of mythic cycles. The Odyssey ends with comedic union and the restoration of a 

divinely appointed kingdom, while the Iliad ends with the destruction of a 

legendary city. In the Satyricon, Petronius depicts a new Ilium, one not brought 

low by the strength of legendary heroism or war, but rather decaying from the 

inside with rotten and vapid luxury. As it stands now, the text demonstrably 

leans towards a negative portrayal of pederasty as a once divine institution 

having degraded into a social ill, by which men are made slaves to libido and 

carry themselves around pretty boys as if having guzzled draughts of satyrion. 

References 

Petronius. 1997. Satyrica. Trans. Branham, R. Bracht and Daniel Kinney. University of 

California Press.

54 

Tomb of Iltutmis, 1235, Qutub Minar complex, Delhi, India. 

Original photograph by Kam Sripada. Used by permission.

“Meting Out” 1 the Bones of 

Heroes in Ancient Greece 

Amanda Earl 

Those who won the worship of the ancient Greeks can be as enigmatic and difficult 

to study as the events of Greek history itself. There is much debate surrounding 

the dates and circumstances of the establishment of ancestor and hero 

cults and the transferal of heroic bones in ancient Greece. Some scholars have 

argued that the claim to or appropriation of a mythological or epic hero by a 

region in the seventh or sixth century B.C.E. served primarily geopolitical or 

propagandistic purposes. Others have challenged this analysis by pointing out 

the “internal” circumstances and collective identity of the city-state at the time 

of the appropriation (De Polignac, 1995). Despite this debate, the involvement 

of heroes of various types in the telling of history aids one’s understanding of 

the emergence of the archaic Greek city-state if viewed from a more 

comprehensive viewpoint that takes into account both the political and 

psychological changes of the Greeks during the 6 th century B.C.E. By examining 

the context of heroic bone transferals in Herodotus and Plutarch, it can be 

surmised that such “cult warfare” in places like Sikyon, Sparta, and Athens 

occurred as city-states tried to cope with the changing power dynamics of this 

period. By “meting out” a particular currency of power, namely the bones of 

heroes, powerful city-states were able to justify themselves both politically and 

religiously. 

Based on archaeological evidence Carla Antonaccio has concluded that 

contrary to the bias Homeric epic spreads, early cults were not necessarily hero 

based but rather tomb based, more kinship or family-oriented, and shorter in 

duration (49). This distinction provides a new perspective on the establishment 

of hero-cult because it points to the development of archaic Greek society as a 

whole. Whereas in the Bronze Age and into the Iron Age “tomb cult” and 

certain burial practices such as tomb reuse represented the reverence of the 

family for their own dead individual or ancestor, with the emergence of the citystate 

and political consolidation in archaic Greece, respect for individual 

families produced tension and gave way to a need for a more communal form of 

worship (Antonaccio, 1993: 49-50; De Polignac, 1995: 132-133). 

Heroes are different from leaders of a community, though often founders 

of a city (archegetai) and extremely popular political figures are compared or 

1 Hdt. (1.67, 35). 

55

56 Amanda Earl 

likened to heroes. According to archaeological evidence, hero cults did not 

appear until around the late 8 th and early 7 th centuries, and were not centered on 

actual burial and tombs (Antonaccio, 1993: 54). Instead of directly continuing 

from earlier worship of ancestors as some have thought, hero cults seem to have 

been inspired by Homeric epic and also to have been dependent “on differences 

in power relations within these regions and competition among their communities” 

(Antonaccio, 1993: 61). Hero worship was more widespread and “corporate;” 

the objects were named, famous, and given a special sanctuary/place of 

worship and enduring reverence. Thus with the spread of epic poetry, pottery, 

and pan-Hellenic festivals and games, mythical heroes became accessible to all 

of Greece and so became available for use as currency or commodity in the 

ideological warfare of power struggles. 

A growth in pan-Hellenism as well as the growth of colonization and tyranny 

accompanied the growing population, wealth, and colonization of the 7 th 

and 6 th centuries. The structure of society was changing. Whether a certain land 

was being conquered (e.g., Messenia) or looking to conquer (e.g., Sparta), individual 

kings gave way to powerful aristocratic families and tyrants who were 

trying to satisfy citizens whom they might or might not have been related to. A 

new kind of hero was needed. More inclusive heroes upon whom might be conferred 

“a heroic identity derived from the myths of their region or even of a particular 

canton of that region” were needed (De Polignac, 1995: 140). A cult 

“establish[ed] a link between the previous and the existing masters of the land 

and, through the sanction that the past thereby seemed to provide, legitimated 

the present state of things” (De Polignac, 1995: 140). As new “upstarts” such as 

the tyrant Kleisthenes of Sikyon came onto the scene pushing for social reform, 

they were looking for ways to legitimize their own power and their reforms 

(Sealey, 1976: 45). But hero-worship involved religious sanction and the whole 

community, and so only in the cases of well-sanctioned leaders or groups that 

established enduring political prestige was the currency of heroes valuable. 

The actions of Kleisthenes of Sikyon stand as a good example of the tyrant’s 

attempt to restructure social hierarchies and their objects of reverence in 

the face of changing power dynamics (though in his case this restructuring was 

never fully accomplished). It is significant that Herodotus describes the actions 

of Kleisthenes in the context of the emergence of democracy in Athens (a major 

political change) under Kleisthenes’ own grandson, Kleisthenes of Athens. In 

this way hero transport to Sikyon is not successful in itself, but is used by the 

historian only as a foil for what will happen in Athens and elsewhere. He begins 

by stating that through his tribal reforms Kleisthenes of Athens was “imitating” 

the actions of his grandfather in Sikyon (Herodotus.I.67). This makes sense if 

one is to interpret both of their tribal reforms as anti-aristocratic. Because the ten 

new tribes of Athens were geographic, they allowed the people to begin to identify 

themselves according to demes instead of patronimically, encouraging a certain 

leveling of the Athenian population. In the same way, Kleisthenes of 

Sikyon, a pre-Dorian champion as Sealey would describe him, had renamed the


three traditionally Dorian tribes and added a new “leader” tribe, the Archelaoi, 

in which he placed himself. Thus his actions too had weakened the aristocracy 

and replaced it with a more state-oriented tyranny. But his were more mocking 

than genuine, more selfish than revolutionary. 

The transferal of heroic bones involved in Kleisthenes of Sikyon’s rise to 

power is also portrayed by Herodotus in a way that serves to underscore and 

praise the eventual rise of isonomia in Athens (De Polignac, 1995: 147; Boedeker, 

1993: 172). Because Argos was a rival of Sikyon in the time of Kleisthenes’ 

tyranny, the tyrant not only banned from the city Homeric rhapsodes who tended 

to glorify Argos, but he also sought to drive out the Argive hero Adrastos from 

Sikyon and replace him with a borrowed hero, Melanippus of Thebes. It does 

not matter much that at the time Argos was promoting its Achaean history. The 

appropriation of a new hero was needed by Kleisthenes anyway, not only to 

spite the Argives, but also as affirmation for his state as a whole that the change 

he was bringing about was legitimate. This endeavor intended to serve two purposes: 

both to claim supremacy over Argos (rather than to distinguish Sikyon 

from Argos) and to further unify the citizenry under a new leader. But it was not 

one-sided, points out De Polginac, since recent discoveries in the agora of Argos 

point to a “heroon of the Seven against Thebes’” erected at around the same 

time as the activities of Kleisthenes. Thus at this time “cult warfare” was developing 

not simply as a conniving maneuver to be used by the arrogant tyrant, but 

as a legitimate currency through which to negotiate (or fight over) power relations. 

Yet the larger picture is the more important one: whatever Kleisthenes’ 

personal or political motives, he had to “contrive” to secure the bones of a new 

hero because the endeavor was not completely legitimate according to the dominant 

religious authority at the time, the oracle at Delphi, and therefore 

according to the people (Herodotus.I.67). The oracle actually opposes the 

tyrant’s intention in Herodotus, and indeed a cult is never really established for 

Melanippus, nor do Kleisthenes’ new tribes endure long after his death. As 

McCauley states: “Negative responses are given, as a rule, to impious requests” 

(1999: 92). The historian ends the account of Sikyon by adding that the 

“Sikyonians” themselves (and not a specific leader) kept the names of the tribes 

for sixty years after the tyrant’s death and then renamed them after their old 

hero, Adrastus. (Herodotus.I.68) Clearly the new hero was never fully accepted 

into the society; the people never changed their identification from Adrastus to 

Melanippus and thus Kleisthenes’ actions were never fully justified. This 

“heroic manipulation” ultimately failed, points out Herodotus, and a similar 

endeavor by a specific leader does not succeed until Kleisthenes’ grandson at the 

end of the same century establishes “isonomia” and his city-state eventually 

becomes worthy in the eyes of the oracle and of Herodotus of a “democratic” 

hero (Theseus) and eventually an empire. 

The instance of the transferal of Orestes’ bones in Herodotus is most interesting 

when viewed, as Deborah Boedeker suggests it should be, as a means of


contrasting Sparta with the state of Athens in the mid-sixth century (1993: 172). 

Furthermore, as a transferal by the people, this acquisition for Sparta stands as 

an example of the successful exchange of the currency of bones as opposed to 

the Sikyonian example. By the time of the Persian Wars Sparta was arguably the 

most powerful city-state in Greece. Yet it was the changes Lycourgos instituted 

that led to Sparta’s good government and consequently its acquisition of Orestes’ 

bones. When Herodotus introduces Sparta’s development of good laws or 

eunomia, it is right after he finishes describing the rise to power of Peisistratos 

in Athens, a rise which Boedeker describes as “a mere sham concocted by a selfserving 

tyrant (a scheme even worse than the hero cults manipulated by Kleisthenes 

of Sikyon)” (1993:172). The same word even, “contrivance,” is used to 

describe the tyrant’s plot; he makes hostages of some Athenians, expelling them 

from the city, and he digs up dead bodies in Delos (Herodotus.I.63). All this certainly 

stands in contrast to the more popularly sanctioned actions of the government 

of Sparta. 

Lycourgos is a good example of a type of political hero of Sparta. While 

not much is known of his real person or date, his figure is credited by ancient 

authors for much of the structure of Spartan society: similar to cult practices, 

Spartan boys learned together and ate together in common mess halls called 

syssitia and the society was very communal. Before Lycourgos, Spartans “had 

been the very worst governed people in Greece, as well in matters of internal 

management as in their relations towards foreigners” (Herodotus.I.65; 

Boedeker, 1993). But by the time this reformer who was sanctioned and even 

praised at Delphi (the priestess says she hopes he will “prove a god”), indeed, 

Sparta had in place eunomia mediated by the Great Rhetra which gave a certain 

power to the people (Herodotus.I.65). Herodotus even says: 

On the death of Lycourgos they built him a temple, and ever since they have 

worshipped him with the utmost reverence. Their soil being good and the 

population numerous, they sprang up rapidly to power, and became a 

flourishing people. In consequence they soon ceased to be satisfied to stay 

quiet. (Herodotus.I.66) 

It is only when Sparta is thus well-governed and able to look to foreign affairs 

that it develops the need to acquire new bones and the ability to do so! 

It is then that, having acquired Messenia, Sparta looks to conquer the land 

it has not been able to, the land of Tegea. While the oracle has made them “confident” 

of their ability to “enslave,” they are not conniving but endeavor to collectively 

“mete out” or take action themselves positively to fulfill the oracle. 

The point is that the Spartans do make good out of the oracle whereas the 

Sikyonians do not. Herodotus does glorify Sparta for its good rule and 

aristocratic ideals, but according to the facts they deserve this praise furthermore 

because they acquire their power honestly. They get a fairly enigmatic answer 

when asking the oracle how to conquer Tegea, but an Agathoergos, one of many 

knights of Sparta whose job it was to do good for “the State,” interpreted the


oracle “by his own wisdom” and brought Orestes’ bones home for the benefit of 

all (Herodotus.I.68). 

In this case, a representative of the “good” people of Sparta carried out the 

transferal which was made legitimate in part because, as Boedeker points out, 

Tegea did not even know the bones existed (167). Tegea had no need for them. 

Sparta, on the other hand, whether the Pelopid dynasty was native to Lakonia or 

not (as Boedeker asserts it was), earned the right to have the bones because they 

needed them to justify and legitimate the power they demonstrated in getting 

into the position to obtain the bones in the first place. In other words, “Herodotus’ 

account implies that the hero simply accomplishes what he was sought to 

do” (Boedeker, 1993: 165). Rather than simply announcing a change in its foreign 

policy from conquest to alliance (by identifying with the Achaean population 

of the Pelopponese), the hero acquisition fulfilled an “internal” demand 

(Boedeker, 1993: 168). Yes, by acquiring the enemy’s hero the power was transferred 

from Tegea to Sparta and Sparta might have tried to duplicate this by 

transferring the bones of Teisamenos from Helike (D.M. Leahy in Boedeker, 

1993: 166). However, the transferal of bones is only a symbol or metaphor for 

the transferal of power: “modern distinctions between sacred and secular (in this 

case, propagandistic) motives do not apply to archaic Greek use of religious 

conventions. Cynical manipulation of hero cult is unlikely for any sixth-century 

polis . . . especially for Sparta, whose ‘religiosity’ is so abundantly documented” 

(Boedeker, 1993: 166). 

Because of “social and political problems” within the state (such as tensions 

between aristocratic families and economic/land reforms, struggles 

between kings and ephors), Sparta both needed a claim to power in the 

Pelopponese but more so to power and support within the city itself. The bones 

did not give them actual power over others, but rather reaffirmed the power they 

had gained while more importantly satisfying the people of the city-state by 

establishing a national identity with which they could all identify. This transferal, 

then, “can be seen as a way to guarantee Spartan military superiority by 

installing a hero who transcended familial claims, in complete accord with the 

spirit of the ‘constitutional’ reforms” (Boedeker, 1993: 169). Sikyonian society 

had never been placed before the desires of its leader; but the people of Sparta 

were able to reassert their national identity by installing a hero who was truly 

national not because he represented the autochthonous origin of the Spartans, 

but because he had no ancestral link to any leading family (Boedeker, 1993: 

170). It is convenient that this same hero also showed Argos that Sparta was 

becoming a formidable power in the Pelopponese. 

And so the successful appropriation of heroes, as De Polignac points out, 

demonstrates that the city-state and its leader are justified religiously and politically 

(for the two go hand in hand in ancient Greece) and therefore serves a psychological 

purpose for the leader and his state. A political reform or a change in 

government is justified by virtue of its effectiveness; the bones of a hero only 

reinforce its legitimacy. It is not that the citizenry of these states or Herodotus


naively believe in the magical power of bones, per se. As Barbara McCauley 

points out when describing the transferal of Orestes’ bones to Sparta, “it is not 

the bones themselves which are important so much as the fact of their possession. 

Once a cult has been established in the newly relocated hero’s honor, it is 

assumed that the hero himself will lend his support to his new worshippers” 

(1999: 95). Sikyon never really conquered Argos: they were rivals. But both 

Sparta and later Athens did gain enough political and territorial power to appropriate 

by their own virtue other lands’ heroes. 

Again a contrast is drawn between Sparta and Athens during this period. 

Sparta was superior to Athens in the time of Croesus, as is shown by the juxtaposition 

in Herodotus of Lycourgos with the rise to power of Peisistratos 

(Boedeker, 1993: 173). This is why Croesus ultimately chooses to ally with 

Sparta instead of Athens to fight the Persians. It is not until after the Persian 

Wars and the Battle of Marathon that Athens, enjoying isonomia, will be able to 

appropriate a newly “democratic” hero (De Polignac, 1995: 147). While the 

transferal of Theseus’ bones from Scyros to Athens can be seen as more 

imperial and aggressive than Sparta’s acquisition of Orestes’ bones, both are 

examples of powerful city-states acquiring renown and divine sanction because 

they have enough political and social organization to do so. Both also involve 

transcendence of the political body over the elite. De Polignac mentions 

Kleisthenes’ of Athens preliminary hero manipulations as a beginning of the 

consolidation of people-powered government in Athens. He says that: 

. . . the figure of the king Erechtheus and that of its political founder, Theseus, 

were both remodeled in conjunction with the image of the foundation of 

the city . . . Kleisthenes brought Erectheus ‘down’ from the acropolis into the 

new space shaped by isonomia by making him the eponymous founder of one 

of its ten tribes, and the simultaneous diffusion of representations of the cycle 

of myths about Theseus seems to have been inspired by the same antityrannical 

ideology. (De Polignac, 1995: 147) 

Just as Sparta had embarked earlier in the sixth century on an anti-tyrannous 

campaign in the Pelopponese, so now Athens, as a growing imperial power is 

trying to assert its identity as a polis inclusive to all its citizens (though not to its 

kleruchies such as Scyros). “With the help of a divinely sent omen,” Kimon finally 

brings back the bones of Theseus to Athens by his own might and good 

sense when waging battle in Scyros (Plutarch in McCauley, 1999: 87). And 

whether the oracle was faked by Kimon for his own advantage or not, the citizens 

of Athens were at a point where they were proud of their government, tired 

of being victims, and desiring to assert their authority: they needed justification 

and affirmation of themselves. 

Thus while the transferal of Theseus’ bones might have afforded Kimon 

political advantages through restoring pride in the government and Miltiades’ 

victory at Marathon, there was clearly a reason why the Athenian citizens were 

vulnerable to such propaganda at this time. Not only did the men of Athens


desire praise themselves for the Battle of Marathon and their subsequent military 

actions, but they needed and were able to obtain validation of their territorial 

claims by essentially “demanding the submission” of Scyros in the affair 

(McCauley, 1999: 95). Thus, both the external and the internal political and 

psychological demands of the state of Athens required the transferal of bones, 

and consequently of power at that time (Boedeker, 1993: 173). Just as the 

Spartans had become “masters of most of the Pelopponese” by the Persian Wars, 

so Athens had become much more of a centralized, imperial city by the time of 

the Pelopponesian Wars (Herodotus.I.68). 

The bone transferals illustrate this dynamic change in power in Herodotus. 

When religiously sanctioned power was obtained by a leader or body and its territory, 

these transferals were successful and represented legitimate exchanges of 

a kind of symbolic currency between the emerging city-states or poleis (Shapiro, 

1999: 99). More than mere examples of political propaganda, these exchanges 

are important because they demonstrate the tension and changing dynamic 

which grew within the city-state and then between states as each region 

embarked on a kind of search for self. Both religious and political, these 

incidences are examples of the new need for divine sanction of territorial and 

ideological conquest as well as for political and social group identification and 

affirmation at this point in Greek history (Boedeker, 1993: 173). The possession 

of a famous mythological hero gave to Sparta and Athens the psychological and 

religious sanction they were seeking in the domination of “others.” Thus the 

worship of heroes was intimately related with practical concerns of the state and 

its citizens. 

References 

Antonaccio, Carla. 1993. “The Archaeology of Ancestors,” in Cultural Poetics in 

Archaic Greece: Cult, Performance, Politics. Ed. C. Dougherty and L. Kurke, pp. 

46-70. 

Boedeker, Deborah. 1993. “Hero Cult and Politics in Herodotus: the Bones of Orestes,” 

in Cultural Poetics in Archaic Greece: Cult, Performance, Politics. Ed. C. 

Dougherty and L. Kurke, pp. 164-177. 

De Polignac, Francois. 1995. Cults, Territory, and the Origins of the Greek City-State. 

Trans. Janet Lloyd. Chicago. 

Dougherty, Carol and Leslie Kurke. ed., 1993. Cultural Poetics in Archaic Greece: Cult, 

Performance, Politics. Cambridge. 

Hägg, Robin., ed. 1999. Ancient Greek Hero Cult. Stockholm. 

Herodotus. 1942. The Persian Wars. Trans. George Rawlinson. New York. 

McCauley, Barbara. 1999. “Heroes and Power: The Politics of Bone Transferal,” in R. 

Hägg, 85-98. 

Sealey, Raphael. 1976. A History of the Greek City States: 700-338 B.C. Berkley. 

Shapiro, H.A. 1999. “Cult Warfare: the Dioskouroi between Sparta and Athens,” in R. 

Hägg, 99-107.

62 Amanda Earl

Cicero’s Popularity Struggle: Through 

the Moralizing Lens of Plutarch 

Stephanie Bernhard 

“It must be borne in mind that my design is not to write histories, but lives,” the 

Greek biographer Plutarch writes in the introduction to his biography of Alexander 

the Great (Alexander, 1). Whereas a historian might attempt to paint a broad, 

objective picture of a conflict, a trend, or an era, Plutarch focuses instead on the 

moral character and “natural dispositions” of the individuals who initiate or 

become enmeshed in historical events (Demosthenes, 3). In doing so, he leaves 

the background story blurry. When portraying the life of the orator and consul 

Cicero, for example, Plutarch neglects to describe Cicero’s sprint up the cursus 

honorum and barely touches upon the role Cicero plays in promoting Octavian’s 

rise to power. He writes that “moral good. . .has a power to attract towards itself. 

It is no sooner seen than it rouses the spectator to action, and yet it does not form 

his character by mere imitation, but by promoting the understanding of virtuous 

deeds it provides him with a dominating purpose” (Pericles, 2) Only traits that 

incite such action, Plutarch argues, deserve attention in a biography. The opportunity 

to turn Cicero’s dynamic career as a statesman into a moral lesson interests 

Plutarch more than an analysis of his ability as a great orator or his 

extraordinary rise to power as a novus homo. In his biography of Cicero, Plutarch 

focuses most of his attention on small-scale anecdotes in order to emphasize 

Cicero’s moral struggle to adhere to his values even in the face of unpopularity. 

Plutarch stresses the importance of Cicero’s disdain for popularity and 

attempt to lead a righteous political life from the moment he begins his description 

of Cicero’s career. He writes in the introduction to his life of Timoleon that 

his goal is to “select from [great mens’] actions all that is noblest and worthiest 

to know. . ..what more effective means to one’s moral improvement” (Timoleon, 

1)? By introducing Cicero’s recurring demon quickly, Plutarch prepares the 

reader to view Cicero’s life in the context of his moral struggle with the desire 

for popularity. In order to set the tone for Cicero’s career in terms of popularity, 

he tells the story of Cicero consulting an oracle to learn how to succeed as a 

politician. According to Plutarch, the priestess tells Cicero that “his guide in life 

should be, not popular opinion, but his own nature” (Cicero, 5). From the very 

outset of his career, therefore, Cicero knows he must strive to be true to his own 

nature—though, as Plutarch shows, this goal will forever challenge him because 

of his great desire for praise. 

63

64 Stephanie Bernhard 

Plutarch portrays Cicero achieving his greatest early victory—in both 

moral and political terms—when as praetor he convinces the public that he is 

correct in speeding up the trial of Manilius. Though the trial is politically significant 

only insofar as it involves Cicero defending a friend of Pompey, Plutarch 

devotes nearly as much text to it as he does to the trial of Verres, which involves 

the famous advocate Hortensius and the results of which help return the Republic 

to a pre-Sullan state (Ward et al., 2003: 189). Plutarch considers this allocation 

appropriate because, as he writes in the introduction to “Alexander,” he has 

“chosen rather to epitomize the most celebrated parts of the story, than to insist 

at large on every particular circumstance in it” (Alexander, 1). In the trial of 

Manilius, the people are at first indignant at Cicero because they think he is 

being unjust. When the tribunes challenge Cicero, however, he refuses to allow 

Manilius more time to prepare a defense or to change his decision in any way. 

Plutarch thus shows that Cicero’s moral character, not popular will, guides him 

to do what is right. Instead of bending to the will of the people, Cicero rather 

uses his words to convince the people that he is acting rightly, in accordance 

both with justice and with the good of the people. Plutarch writes that his words 

“produced a remarkable change in the feelings of the people. They praised him 

to the skies” (Cicero, 9). In this historically minor story, Plutarch provides an 

example of when it is acceptable for Cicero to receive the praise of the people 

because he earns it through adhering to his moral code, not through bending to 

the popular will. 

Plutarch also uses Cicero’s actions at the beginning of his consulship in 63, 

just when rumors of Catiline’s conspiracy are beginning to circulate, as material 

to teach a moral lesson about the importance of earning success through 

integrity rather than pandering to the public. When the tribunes propose a law to 

form what would essentially be a new decemvirate, Plutarch portrays Cicero 

using his eloquence alone to convince the senate and tribunes that the law will 

not benefit the Republic. Plutarch writes that when summoned to appear before 

the people, Cicero leads the way “without the slightest fear.” He does not worry 

that his opinion will make him unpopular and he convinces them instead of 

yielding to them. Plutarch affirms that Cicero’s superior oration overpowers the 

arguments of the tribunes “by the force of his eloquence,” causing the law to be 

rejected and leaving the subversive elements with no choice but to drop their 

platform (Cicero, 12). Plutarch offers a further editorial comment to explain 

why Cicero provides such a valuable moral example to the reader: 

Cicero, more than anyone, made the Romans see how great is the charm 

which eloquence confers on what is good, how invincible justice is if it is 

well expressed in words, and how the good and efficient statesman should 

always in his actions prefer what is right to what will win popularity, and in 

his words should express the public interest in a manner that will please 

rather than prove offensive. (Cicero, 13)

Cicero’s Popularity Struggle: Through the Moralizing Lens of Plutarch 65 

In this one statement, Plutarch summarizes the main values he intends to promote 

by writing a biography of Cicero. He argues that, in politics, the proper 

decision can always be expressed in words in such a way that every individual 

will be able to understand why to choose it. The morally virtuous statesman will 

seek to determine the proper choice and explain to the people why it is so—he 

will not simply gauge what the people already prefer and pretend that he agrees 

with them in order to win popularity. 

Just as Plutarch uses Cicero as a model of how a politician can overcome 

pressure from the crowd, so does he use Cicero as an example of the when politicians 

place too much weight on public opinion. Plutarch writes that when 

Cicero goes into exile, Clodius passes a resolution forbidding any man to provide 

Cicero with water or fire within 500 miles of Italy, but Cicero is so admired 

that most Italians ignore the decree. Indeed, according to Plutarch, many visit 

him in exile. Instead of being grateful for the hospitality of his friends, however, 

Plutarch writes that Cicero becomes depressed at the thought of the admiration 

he has lost and at the betrayal of a few of his former friends. Plutarch attributes 

Cicero’s malaise to the poison of public opinion: 

Public opinion . . . has the strange power of being able . . . to erase from a 

man’s character the lines formed there by reason and study; and by the force 

of habit and association, it can impress the passions and feelings of the mob 

on those who engage in politics, unless one is very much on guard and makes 

up one’s mind that in dealing with what is outside oneself one will be concerned 

only with the practical problems themselves and not with the passions 

that arise out of them. (Cicero, 32) 

Plutarch suggests that the public opinion has a dehumanizing effect on any politician 

who tries to make himself amenable to it. The force is so strong that it can 

overcome a man’s background and education; it can blind him to everything that 

is just, reasonable, and logical. And it is with this force, Plutarch moralizes, that 

Cicero must contend if he is eventually to be viewed as a great man worthy of 

admiration. 

Desiring as he does to explore moral virtue by writing about the “marks 

and indications of the souls of men,” Plutarch includes extensive examples of 

the witty, sarcastic, and abrasive comments with which Cicero often lambastes 

his opponents (Alexander, 1). Sections 7, 25, 26, 27, and 37, among others, 

include long lists of anecdotal evidence of Cicero’s derisive remarks. Plutarch 

explains that “Cicero’s propensity to attack anyone for the sake of raising a 

laugh aroused a good deal of ill-feeling against him” (Cicero, 27). These seemingly 

minor qualities are at first glance peripheral and unimportant, but they provide 

the reader with a thorough sense of Cicero’s nature and are therefore valuable 

for Plutarch’s agenda in writing his biography. Indeed, to Plutarch the quips 

may be just as valuable as Cicero’s greatest speeches and boldest actions. He 

writes: “the most glorious exploits do not always furnish us with the clearest 

discoveries of virtue or vice in men; sometimes a matter of less moment, an

66 Stephanie Bernhard 

expression or a jest, informs us better of their characters and inclinations . . .” 

(Alexander, 1). This passage reveals a pettiness in Cicero that would elude a 

reader of his political resume. 

Thus Plutarch often praises Cicero’s morally upright nature, but he also 

concedes Cicero’s vices of arrogance and self-love. He stresses, however, that 

Cicero’s shortcomings do not take away from his status as a great and admirable 

man because they are not moral failures. In his introduction to “Cimon,” Plutarch 

writes that “[w]e must not dwell on [errors] too emphatically in our 

history, but should rather show indulgence to human nature for its inability to 

produce a character which is absolutely good and uncompromisingly dedicated 

to virtue” (Cimon, 2). Fittingly, Plutarch chooses to portray all significant 

aspects of his subject’s character and explains that Cicero was pompous and 

often abrasive. But he also qualifies these faults: “He made himself obnoxious to 

a number of people, not because of anything which he did wrong but because 

people grew tired of hearing him continually praising himself and magnifying 

his achievements” (Cicero, 24). According to Plutarch, then, the qualities of 

humility and especially likeability are less important than right acts; for he does 

not deny Cicero’s greatness. 

Plutarch uses his biography of Cicero to illustrate the danger of bending to 

public opinion to gain popularity and the importance of heeding one’s personal 

instincts when making decisions. Though many of Plutarch’s reflections on 

Cicero’s character remain ambiguous, as he describes both his successes and 

shortcomings, they form an overall picture of Cicero as a principled man who 

stood up for his beliefs and convinced others to follow causes he believed would 

benefit the Republic. Plutarch writes that “[m]y method is, by the study of 

history, and by the familiarity acquired in writing, to habituate my memory to 

receive and retain images of the best and worthiest characters” (Timoleon, 1). 

The text of “Cicero” shows that Plutarch considers the great orator, though 

flawed, to possess a moral character worth remembering. 

References 

Plutarch. 2001a. Plutarch’s Lives, Vol. 1. Trans. John Dryden. New York: Random 

House. 

———. 2001b. Plutarch’s Lives, Vol. 2. Trans. John Dryden. New York: Random 

House. 

Ward, Allen, Heichelheim, Fritz, and Yeo, Cedric. 2003. A History of the Roman People, 

4 th ed. New Jersey: Pearson Education.

Thetis and Venus: Motherhood in Epic 

Martha Gimbel 

Thetis and Venus present two different pictures of divine motherhood. While 

Thetis plays a very personal role, Venus appears more like a divine patroness 

than a mortal mother. Thetis embraces her son and discusses different courses of 

action with him, while Venus usually appears to her son in disguise and works 

for the well-being of her son only as it affects the future of her city-state. Thetis 

cares only for the happiness and prosperity of Achilles, while Venus views 

Aeneas as a means to her own glory. As Thetis gets closer to her son, and adopts 

a more personal role, she loses power. Venus, on the other hand, remains aloof 

and focuses on her divinity. Thus Venus has more power to affect the course of 

her son’s life, while Thetis can only soothe and comfort her son. 

Venus uses her divine power to help Aeneas survive his trip to found 

Rome. In doing so she acts like a divine patroness of a city or a people. She 

never discusses her plans for Aeneas’ future with him. Instead she goes straight 

to other gods and uses them to affect the course of Aeneas’ life. She first appears 

approaching Jove and asking him for reassurance that the Trojan toils will come 

to an end and that “there the Romans will be with the years rolling by, there they 

will be leaders from the called back blood of a Trojan, Romans who will hold 

the sea and all the lands by their power” (Aen.I.234-6). She never mentions 

Aeneas’ safety or that of her grandson Ascanius. Instead she worries about the 

future of her “leaders” and the “blood” that will make up Rome. The closest she 

comes to mentioning the issue of Aeneas’ safety is when she asks, “What end of 

labors do you give, Great King” (Aen.I.241)? She mentions Aeneas himself only 

when asking what he has done to anger Jove (Aen.I.231-2). She worries not 

about the fate of her son, but of the glory that he will bring to her by surviving to 

found a city. 

Her second plea to a god comes in Book V when she asks Neptune for a 

safe journey for the fleet across the sea. Once again her concern appears not to 

be with the safety of her son; for she never mentions Aeneas, not even obliquely. 

Instead she asks that the fleet be able to reach, and found, Rome: “if it is allowed 

to touch the Laurentine Tiber. . .if the Fates give those walls” (Aen.V.797-8). 

When Jove orders the gods to refrain from the fighting, Venus agrees, although 

she reminds him that the Trojans came to Italy to found an empire under his 

auspices. She claims that “I am no longer moved by empire, those things I hoped 

for” (Aen.X.43), but then she asks for one concession. She begs that, no matter 

what, Ascanius be spared. She wants the line to be continued. Thus, even if 

67

68 Martha Gimbel 

Aeneas should perish, the next generation can continue her dreams of divine 

glory. Once again Venus’ concern is for the future of Rome, not for the future of 

her son. Her role as a divine patroness of a city is more important to her than her 

role as a mother. 

Venus continues to act as a divine patroness when she arranges for Vulcan 

to make her son a shield (Aen.VIII.372). Unlike her earlier discussions with 

deities, this time she mentions the tragedy of her son and begs Vulcan to help 

him. She reminds Vulcan of her concern for Aeneas during the Trojan War, saying 

“I wept often for the hard labor of Aeneas” (Aen.VIII.380). She acts as a 

suppliant and refers to the desires of a mother, crying “therefore I come as a suppliant. 

. .I ask for arms, a mother for her son” (Aen.VIII.382-3). Because in her 

pleas she now mentions her role as a mother, it does not mean that her goals 

have changed; rather, she is adapting her wiles to the situation at hand. Vulcan is 

a domestic god, a familial character. Thus, like Thetis and Aurora, she uses tears 

and personal references to persuade Vulcan because such methods sway him: 

“the daughter of Nereus, the wife of Tithonia was able to bend you with tears” 

(Aen.VIII.383-4). Those goddesses persuaded Vulcan by focusing on their 

maternal needs, and she is adapting successful past methods to her own needs. 

By focusing on the love she has for Aeneas, she presents herself as a vulnerable 

female in need, which convinces Vulcan to help her. He comes completely 

under her control as “the known heat entered his marrow and ran through his 

shaken bones” (Aen.VIII.389-90). But once she has persuaded Vulcan to craft 

the armor she returns to her old persona. She appears as “a shining goddess 

among the clouds bearing gifts” (Aen.VIII.608-9), the ideal picture of a gift 

bearing, divine patroness and thus remaining aloof from her son. While she does 

embrace him, Venus never touches her son in an affectionate, maternal manner, 

rather acting as a remote divine patroness who arms her hero. Indeed, she 

resembles Athena arriving with winged sandals and the aegis to arm her hero, 

Perseus. Venus focuses on her divine, not her maternal, role. 

Venus carefully remains a distant, unrecognizable character for Aeneas. 

The first time his mother appears to him, she appears “bearing the mouth and 

clothing of a virgin and the arms of a Spartan maiden” (Aen.I.315-6). Aeneas 

certainly recognizes her as a goddess, he cries out “O, goddess for certain. Are 

you the sister of Phoebus? Or one of the blood of the Nymphs?” (Aen.I.328-9). 

But even though he can perceive her divine nature, he cannot identify her as his 

mother. He thinks she may be Diana, or even a lesser goddess such as one of the 

nymphs. He later regrets this lack of a real relationship with his mother, crying 

out, “Why is it not given to join right hand with right hand, and to hear truths 

and exchange voices” (Aen.I.408-9)? She does appear to him in her true form at 

Troy, but although undisguised she still must reveal herself to him—“having 

confessed herself to be a goddess” (Aen.II.591): he cannot recognize her on his 

own. Even then mother and son never embrace: she appears as a typical goddess 

messenger with little personal connection to her listener. She holds him back 

from killing Helen with her hand—“[s]he held him apprehended by her hand”

Thetis and Venus: Motherhood in Epic 69 

(Aen.II.592)—but this is not exceptional behavior for a divine messenger. In the 

Iliad, Athena stops Achilles from killing Agamemnon in that exact same way. 

Venus also takes on a traditional divine role when she heals Aeneas in Book 

XII, as she never actually appears to him. Once again “having surrounded her 

appearance with a misty cloud” (Aen.XII.416), she slips him the herb without 

revealing herself. Although she does aid her son, she never does so in a 

personal, maternal way. Rather, all the aid is that of a divine patroness. 

Aeneas himself perceives his mother as a divine, rather than maternal, figure. 

Although at times he does try to relate to her as a maternal character, he recognizes 

that only failure will result. Trying to embrace her when she appears in 

Book I, he is frustrated, crying “Why so often, you so cruel, do you delude your 

son with false images” (Aen.I.407-8). More often he treats her as a distant deity. 

When he lands in Thrace he offers sacrifices to her as “the Dionean mother” 

(Aen.III.19). Certainly the Romans honored ancestors and the deification of 

Julius Caesar had brought gods even closer than they had been before, but it was 

unusual for a Roman man to sacrifice to his mother. Aeneas communicates with 

his mother through votive offerings because only through prayer can he connect 

with her. When he “prays” that the golden branch will show itself to him at 

VI.187-9, his mother’s birds—doves—immediately appear to him as messengers. 

Aeneas rejoices in their leadership, saying, “You don’t fail in dubious 

affairs, O divine parent” (Aen.VI.196-7). He can communicate with her only 

through prayer, as one would communicate with a deity. 

Thetis, on the other hand, takes on a more maternal role. Even when her 

son does not call out or pray to her, she can hear his pain and will immediately 

arrive to comfort him. When he laments his dishonor at Agamemnon’s hands, 

she hears him while “sitting in the depths” (Il. I.358), and comes to him. She 

appears as human and maternal figure to her son, as she “takes him by the hand” 

(Il. I.361). In addition, she begs her son to tell her of his difficulties so that the 

two of them together may share in them. In Book XVIII when Achilles mourns 

Patroclus, again from the deep she hears Achilles groaning and comes to his side 

and puts her arms around him. Unlike Venus, she often touches her son to 

comfort and reassure him, and Achilles recognizes this connection. In contrast 

with Aeneas, he talks about his mother to his companions, mentioning “my 

mother Thetis” (Il. IX.410) to Agamemnon’s messengers. Aeneas, on the other 

hand, never brings up his divine parentage to anyone. 

Achilles’ and Thetis’ discussion of their plans reflects this close relationship. 

Unlike Aeneas, who often has no idea what his mother has planned for 

him, Achilles acts as a full partner in Thetis’ actions. In fact, he uses imperatives 

when discussing the actions she should take with Zeus. When Achilles becomes 

determined to rejoin the battle after Patroclus’s death, he uses an imperative 

again. The use of the imperative rather than the subjunctive reflects his 

dominant role in the relationship (Il. I.394). Although Thetis does make him 

promise to wait until she comes back with the armor, she cannot truly direct his 

path, she can only help him along. Thetis acknowledges her own ineffectiveness.

70 Martha Gimbel 

She cries, “I am not able to be of use to him” (Il. XVIII.62), repeating the same 

statement at XVIII.443. Even when she warns him that death will come if he 

fights Hector, Achilles ignores her advice. Despite her emotional support, Thetis 

has no power to affect the course of her son’s life. 

While Venus affects the course of actions in the Aeneid, Thetis has no 

power to influence her son. Venus can convince Vulcan to make Aeneas a 

shield, get Neptune to provide safe passage to her son and send doves to guide 

Aeneas to the golden branch. Thetis, on the other hand, remains powerless to 

change the course of her son’s life. Even when she gets Achilles the shield, she 

does so in accordance to Achilles’ orders, and it cannot ultimately save his life. 

She can never convince Achilles to do anything, and in fact usually follows his 

orders. Achilles often specifically orders her to follow his will. The powers of 

the two goddesses do not differ—Thetis even had the power to nurse Hephaestus 

back to health and help him avoid Zeus’s anger—rather, the difference results 

from their different relationships with their sons. Since Venus remains focused 

on her divinity, never embracing her maternity except when it can help her goal 

of founding an empire, she never becomes a human character. Therefore her 

divine power remains intact. Thetis, on the other hand, ignores her divinity for a 

more personal relationship with her son; thus taking on a more traditional female 

role and coming under the sway of her son. 

References 

Homer. 1920. Homeri Opera in Five Volumes. Oxford, Oxford University Press. [All 

citations were translated by the author.] 

Virgil. 1984. Aeneid. Ed. by H. E. Gould & J.L. Whiteley. Duckworth Publishing,

Livy’s Exemplary History 

Amy Hall Goins 

In the preface to his Early History of Rome, Livy encourages his readers to recognize 

and benefit from the lessons history has to offer. In the historical record, 

Livy writes, “you can find for yourself and your country both examples and 

warnings; fine things to take as models, base things, rotten through and through, 

to avoid” (Livy 1.1). Livy’s history is rife with exempla; however, these anecdotes, 

which present events and characters intended to teach a moral lesson, are 

not included simply for dramatic effect. Rather, Livy structures his history 

around these examples in order to show late Republican readers that Rome’s 

past has many lessons they would do well to heed. This essay will highlight 

several of these exempla and assess their effectiveness and impact on Livy’s 

historical writing. By structuring his history around exempla, Livy conveys to 

his readers the value of learning from the past. This essay focuses on anecdotes 

concerning three important themes in Livy’s history: the threat of monarchical 

ambition, the importance of unity in the face of foreign dangers, and the 

necessity of faith and religious observance. 

Book I of Livy’s history ends with the abolition of the monarchy and the 

exile of Tarquin the Proud in 509 B.C.E. After Tarquin raped the virtuous 

Lucretia, Brutus’ speech incited the citizens to overthrow Tarquin’s tyrannical 

reign by reminding them of his worst offenses. According to Livy, Brutus’ 

words had an immediate effect on the citizens, who later elected him one of the 

first two consuls of Rome (Livy 1.59). This episode made the Romans fearful of 

monarchical ambition not only in the years immediately following Tarquin’s 

exile, but throughout the history of the early republic. Accordingly, this lesson is 

not only one which Livy repeats throughout his work, but one which the 

Romans recall and respond to over generations. The following two anecdotes 

illustrate Livy’s use of exempla to reinforce the danger of monarchy. 

As part of a peace agreement in 486 B.C.E. the Hernici ceded two-thirds of 

their land to Rome. Spurius Cassius, one of the consuls, intended to make half of 

this territory a gift to the plebeians. The nobility did not approve of his offer, 

fearing it might pave the road towards restoration of the monarchy. The commons 

did not support Cassius’ plan either, although a gift of land would certainly 

have improved their situation. According to Livy, they were mindful of 

the warnings of the other consul, Verginius, who warned that “gifts of land 

would bring slavery” (Livy: 2.41). When his proposal failed to gain support, 

Cassius offered to repay the money received from the sale of Sicilian grain. 

71

72 Amy Hall Goins 

Once again, the plebeians rejected this offer, recognizing it as an attempt to buy 

power. At the end of his consulship, Cassius was tried, convicted, and put to 

death. Livy reports that one account had Cassius punished and executed by his 

own father (Livy 2.41). 

Spurius Maelius attempted a similar plot forty-six years later. In an effort 

to gain the loyalty of the commons, Maelius bought grain from Etruria and gave 

it away to the poor. Livy notes that the commons were at first won over by his 

generosity. Seeing his public image improve among the plebeians, Maelius eyed 

the throne. He began assembling a cache of weapons and making secret plans. 

Lucius Minucius, the Controller of Supplies, caught wind of Maelius’ plot and 

alerted the Senate to his treacherous intentions. The consul Titus Quinctius Capitolinus 

appointed Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus as dictator so that he would 

have the power to squelch the political threat posed by Maelius. Gaius Servilius 

Ahala, whom Cincinnatus appointed as his Master of Horse, attempted to apprehend 

Maelius in order to bring him to trial, but was forced to kill him when he 

fled. Cincinnatus’ speech in the aftermath of Maelius’ death is a perfect example 

of how Livy’s earlier exempla manifested themselves in the actions and words 

of later Romans. The dictator reminded the crowd that Maelius should have 

known better than to covet the throne, since he knew as well as any Roman what 

the consequences would be. Cincinnatus recalls the expulsion of Tarquin, the 

execution of Tarquin’s nephews, the forced resignation of the consul Tarquinius 

Collatinus, and, most recently, the execution of Spurius Cassius. “All of this 

Maelius knew, yet in this same city of ours he himself dared hoped to reign” 

(Livy 4.14). 

Both of these exempla show that Livy intended to give a firm warning to 

his readers about the dangers of monarchy. Livy included these anecdotes to 

demonstrate that Rome’s commitment to republicanism was strengthened by the 

city’s collective remembrance of and aversion to the monarchy (especially the 

tyrannical reign of Tarquin the Proud). In case there was any threat of a return to 

monarchy in the late Republican era, Livy wanted his leaders to learn from the 

experience of their predecessors and maintain an aversion to the throne. 

The anecdote about Spurius’ plot also reinforces the idea of putting Rome 

before the interest of one’s self or social class, another theme Livy emphasizes 

throughout his history. Although the plebeians would have benefited from the 

gift of land and money, they valued their liberty too much to accept a gift which 

could pave the way for a return to monarchy. The citizens of the early republic 

had not forgotten their forefathers’ experience of Tarquin the Proud and the dangers 

of monarchy. Livy’s narrative of the “struggle of the orders” includes 

several other exempla intended to highlight the importance of unity above class 

interests. 

During a war with Rome’s Latin neighbors in 494 B.C.E., there was growing 

discontent among Rome’s commons due to a debt crisis. The conflict escalated 

until many of them left the city in protest, taking refuge on the Sacred 

Mount north of Rome. Since Rome could not raise an army without the coopera-


tion of the plebeians, their secession during a time of war might have threatened 

the city’s existence. “Clearly the only hope lay in finding a solution for the conflicting 

interests of the two classes in the state,” wrote Livy (Livy 2.33). The 

patricians sent Menenius Agrippa as an envoy to the plebeians, expecting that, 

as a fine orator and a plebeian himself, he would be well-received. Menenius 

told the plebeians a fable about the revolt of the body’s members and their 

conspiracy to starve the belly. “But alas! While they sought in their resentment 

to subdue the belly by starvation, they themselves and the whole body wasted 

away to nothing.” By applying this fable to the current circumstances in Rome, 

Menenius convinced the plebeians to abandon their class interests, at least 

temporarily, for the sake of unity in the face of a foreign threat (Livy 2.33). 

Forty-eight years later, tensions between the patricians and plebeians again 

threatened the survival of the city. In 446 B.C.E., Rome seemed especially weak 

due to internal struggles, and her neighbors began preparing to make war against 

the city. Following the raid upon Rome by the Volscians and the Aequians, the 

consul Titus Quinctius called a mass meeting to admonish the citizens. “The 

truth is that our communal life is poisoned by political discord. . .and it was that 

which raised [the enemy’s] hopes of destroying us, seeing, as he did, [the plebeians’] 

lust for liberty in perpetual conflict with [the patricians’] lust for power” 

(Livy 3.68). Although this speech laid blame on the populace for Rome’s ill fortune, 

“even the young men who were accustomed in such moments of crisis to 

consider the refusal to enlist their best weapon against the nobility” greeted 

Quinctius’ speech with enthusiasm (Livy 3.69). 

These two anecdotes are intended to convey the importance of unity to 

readers in the late republic. Although the Romans faced ongoing internal conflicts 

which threatened to divide their city, the characters in Livy’s history, 

through their actions and speeches, convinced the citizens to put the interests of 

the city before their own personal or class interests. Livy surely anticipated that 

class struggle in Rome might continue to be a problem and he wanted to teach 

his contemporaries, through history, to remain united in order to survive as a 

state and as a people. 

Another theme which Livy emphasizes throughout his history is the 

importance of tradition and religion. Marcus Furius Camillus provides a particularly 

effective vehicle for Livy’s moral lessons in this area. Camillus served as 

dictator during the Gallic sack of Rome in 390 B.C.E. and led the army to success 

in driving the Gauls out of the city. “In accordance with his character as a 

man with the strictest sense of his religious duties,” Livy writes, Camillus’ first 

act after his triumph over the Gauls was to secure a senatorial decree which 

declared that all sacred buildings occupied by the Gauls should be restored and 

purified according to a formula which the Sybilline books would provide (Livy 

5.49). Next, Camillus proposed a treaty with Caere, since that city had helped 

ensure the stability of Roman religion by sheltering priests and holy object. Finally, 

Camillus instituted the Capitoline Games to celebrate the preservation of 

the temple of Jupiter.

74 Amy Hall Goins 

Though Livy certainly admired these religiously-minded acts, Camillus 

had a greater contribution to Roman history in Livy’s narrative. When the 

Senate advocated a migration to Veii and the citizens seems poised to accept the 

proposal, Camillus felt compelled to speak out against this plan. Livy ends Book 

Five of his history with Camillus’ impassioned speech, in which he urges the 

Romans not to abandon their city and their history. Camillus chastises the crowd 

for preparing to leave the city and flout the will of the gods. “Only consider the 

course during these latter years; you will find that when we followed God’s 

guidance, all was well; when we scorned it, all was ill” (Livy 5.51). Camillus 

reminds the crowd that the Romans triumphed over Veii only when they heeded 

the gods and drained the Alban lake. The present state of affairs had befallen 

Rome only after its citizens ignored the divine warning that the Gauls were 

coming, and failed to punish its envoys who violated international law, thereby 

shirking her duty to the gods. Rome’s suffering and defeat at the hands of the 

Gauls, claimed Camillus, ensued because of her faithlessness. Only when the 

Romans recalled their faith by seeking shelter and divine protection on the Capitol 

and securing protection for the priests and religious articles did the city prevail 

against its aggressors . 

Camillus’ words and deeds constitute one of Livy’s most effective exempla. 

He includes the description of Camillus’ pious acts as dictator to show his 

readers the importance and centrality due to religion in Roman culture. Just as 

Camillus prioritized religion over all other concerns, readers of Livy’s history 

should remember to pay tribute to the gods or else risk incurring their wrath. 

Camillus’ speech also highlights the importance of tradition, religious obligation, 

and history. He cites specific instances in which Rome’s piety or impiety is 

directly connected with her success or misfortune. Through his words and deeds, 

Camillus shows his fellow citizens that Rome’s future is dependent upon her 

remembering and embracing the past. 

Gary B. Miles characterizes Livy’s history as one in which Romans are 

constantly “recalling their past, being influenced by it, evoking it to influence 

others—and deliberately shaping the way in which the past will be remembered 

by posterity” (Miles, 1995: 69). Indeed, the most distinctive feature of Livy’s 

history is not his attention to good and bad characters and the moral lessons they 

provide, but his portrayal of the characters within his story as figures who 

remember and reference history. The words and actions of the characters in 

Livy’s history show us that the author’s moral lessons were alive within his 

work. Exemplary Romans such as Camillus remembered the lessons of the past 

and made dramatic speeches reminding their fellow citizens to do the same. 

Those who ignored the guidance of history, like Spurius, suffered grave consequences. 

Livy’s exempla are effective both within the text and without: they 

feature characters responding to moral lessons from exemplary individuals and 

they prompt readers to take the same lessons to heart. The aversion to monarchy, 

the importance of unity in the face of external threats, and the importance of 

religious tradition and obligation were historical lessons which resonated deep


within the Roman psyche. Through the historical technique of utilizing exempla 

to teach moral lessons, Livy demonstrated to his late Republican readers that 

history could and should be an important lens through which to view their own 

actions. In this way, Livy successfully made the history of the Roman republic 

meaningful for and relevant to the future of the Roman state. 

References 

Livy. 1971. The Early History of Rome. Trans. by Aubrey de Sélincourt. London: Penguin. 

Miles, Gary B. 1995. Livy: Reconstructing Early Rome. Ithaca, NY: Cornell Press.

76 

Pyrrhus. 

Sketch by Nicholas Kay. Used by permission.

The Lament of Aeneas 

Ariayné Hilliard 

Character List 

Aeneas 

Chorus (shades of Aeneas’ crew) 

Shade of Dido 

Opening Scene: The stage is empty, except for bed that will remain unnoticed 

until its use. The lights are low/dim and fog swirls about. There is a lone, dull 

spotlight fuzzily focused on Aeneas. As he restlessly paces back and forth, he 

mutters to himself deep in thought. 

Aeneas: Some would lament my condition. Some would 

hate my situation. I, th’ unwittng 

victim of the gods, have taken up 

arms and fought my way home. ‘Tis far too easy 

to run upon a sword, recall my 

once beloved Dido, queenly woman no 

warrior blood beneath her skin beat fast 

ruler of a nation, for a time this 

man too. Lord his own, founder of an 

empire. Old age creeps merciless, but 

at what cost, yes, ‘tis true an unfair contrast 

I do make. The gods, aye the gods! Call 

me forth, their choice son, bearer of a 

message. My heart shan’t fall prey to my 

mind. Aeneas, forget not yourself lest 

in doing so, you lose sight of your 

task. Pace; keep walking for once you lie down 

you will be as one amongst the shades. Hark, 

a noise? A foot fall p’rhaps? Some slight 

whimper reaches my feeble ears. Draw the 

covers round, pitiful fool, once fearless one. 

Steal your courage for you are but alone. 

Th’ encircling shadows round you come, gird 

your heart as a soldier of old. In bed I lie, 

dwell here thoughtfully. Make not a sound, 

77

78 Ariayné Hilliard 

then will I remain unnoticed and 

they will not seek to tear me limb from 

limb, wrest poor suffering sinew from tired tendon. 

Enter Chorus as shades of Aeneas’ men. They are pale and wan; it is clear that 

they are dead. Silently they glide about, with bedraggled armor and old battle 

wounds. 

Chorus: O sorrowful Aeneas, only now you 

realize your loss. We redouble your words 

we say what we will with glad meter we 

mock you, employ all our skill. Shortly we 

will teach you whatever lesson you must learn 

lest in Hades’ fires you shall burn. 

Yet you cower beneath your covers, though we 

do not offer harm frightfully await 

us, dreading in alarm. You claim the 

hands of Fate hath laid you down so low 

regret fully you speak, for only now 

do you know. Listen as we lesson, 

learn what once you spurned. For all 

trust you’ve lost, you must seek to earn. 

Clearly we aim to impart whatever still 

remains deep in your heart. Mix not love 

and civics, it encourages a cynic. 

Lo, another shade calls quiet your squalls. 

Enter the shade of Dido. She is dressed as a Queen, but, like the other shades, it 

is clear that she is dead. 

Dido: Oh my Aeneas, you I forgive though 

we met once before, long you shan’t 

live. During the night it is deemed that 

you expire and rather than let you 

roast alone in the fire, I, as a shade, 

stand here and address, while you in your 

bed fretfully digress. I give 

you some time to retrieve your thoughts, gather 

your mind, forget what you’ve lost. I bear 

no grudge, I come with words of love, not 

the kind you once endowed me, but 

that of a friend to family. Receive and 

reciprocate. Don’t renounce and reprobate. 

The men have a point, they gathered here for

Exeunt Omnes. 

you. To tell you only what they think 

true. Having taught you a lesson I 

know you won’t forget, it is I, not 

they, who says, to whit: follow implore 

don’t dwell here too long. I see you 

weaken, your heart is not strong. What I suggest 

I only mean for you to have the best. 

The Lament of Aeneas 79 

Aeneas: Hapless Dido, the victim of a cursed 

stroke! Thought so much of me, so little of 

self that she did smote. But though she 

is dead, an untimely word I 

offer, tis time for me to make it better. 

love be the tie that binds we now 

and forever more. The men astutely 

adjudge what I must do. They who fought 

and died for me, now have the dubious 

dishonor of seeing their former leader 

imprisoned by his own wretched demons. 

Was it worth the torment? How fare’s my 

Rome? What, have I done? P’rhaps my actions, 

as heinous as they may seem, will 

augur the future of Rome as a great city. 

The best even the world has ever 

known. A bloody scourge to many lands, 

my life, as its founder, will serve as 

Harbinger. Stray not too far from what 

is right. For surely these shades were sent 

By the gods; who, think me unfit. 

Let me make the journey from the 

realm of the living to the dead, with 

my last thoughts as a comfort to me. 

Dido, stretch forth your hand. It is she whom 

I shall follow into the great beyond. 

Behold! Above! A light! I go. . . 

Chorus reenters the stage, and surrounds the bed as Aeneas feverishly 

collapses. In his current emotional and dying state, he fails to notice his former 

companions as they summarize the play. 

Chorus: Of arms and a man, yes Virgil 

did sing. And now the bell for his hero 

doth ring. Tolling his downfall, man of

80 Ariayné Hilliard 

honor, bringer of truth. Slayer of 

the just and mighty, forsooth. We 

tried at last, too little, too late. 

Aeneas, we hope we changed 

your Fate. For now having told you 

all that we are privy to know, there’s 

nothing more for us to do. Bless’d 

Dido, saintly queen, full of compassion 

it would seem. We bore little grudge, 

come we not here to judge. But merely 

out of duty, charged with the task 

by Hades. Sins have we too, but forgive 

must we you. At the end you proved our 

lesson learned. All respect have you rightly 

earned. Let his example serve a notice to all 

in the mixing of love and politics 

wherein lies your wretched downfall. 

Aeneas: Shade after shade enters my sight entreating 

the end must be nigh, bid adieu and 

farewell. Only now do you achieve some 

peace at the end of your days. No 

strength have I left, once fearsome warrior 

is now the most fearful worrier. 

The gods play with men, always has 

this been true. But you have paid more 

than your fair share in debt. Too little 

too late, a reprieve for Dido. 

Love of war, is no place for the 

Heart. The skies darken above the air 

Thickens below. The weather grows cruel. 

An old man gives his regrets feeble 

though they may seem, thus with one sigh 

My wand’rings end . . . 

As he finishes his monologue, Aeneas rests his head against the pillows, never to rise as a 

mortal again.

Love Displayed through Nature 

and Changing Nature 

Scott Nelson 

Fortunatus employs natural imagery in many of his poems, including “To Radegund 

on Violets” and “To Radegund on Her Return.” In the former, Fortunatus 

makes use of flowers as an evolving symbol of love throughout the poem. In the 

latter, the natural imagery of the harvest captures Fortunatus’s emotions for 

Radegund after returning from her forty day Lenten retreat. The natural imagery 

employed in the two poems is distinct. In the first poem, natural symbols mutate 

due to human emotions, and in the second, they statically represent the joys and 

love incorporated into a lover’s return. Fortunatus utilizes different aspects of 

nature in both poems for these separate purposes; in the first poem, he creates 

floral images that develop with the lines, but in the second poem, he uses 

descriptions of fruit and of the ripe harvest. Despite interpretive differences, 

similarities exist between the two pieces, especially in terms of diction. These 

poems both employ nature to express emotion, but they take very different 

approaches in their imagery. They ultimately convey that love has the power to 

alter the perception of nature and distort it to serve love. 

In “To Radegund on Violets,” Fortunatus compares the natural imagery of 

flowers to the human emotions attributed to the flowers. As the name suggests, 

the poem revolves around flowers and their meaning for Fortunatus. At the 

beginning the white lily (candida lilia) and the sweet red rose (suave rubore 

rosa) are introduced as ideal flowers to signify his love. Fortunatus would pluck 

them from a poor garden (legens. . .pauperis horti) and send them as a gift. It is 

not that he would simply send them as a gift, but he would gladly (libens) send 

them in return for a generous present (magnis). Since the lilies and the roses 

come from a simple garden and yet can be traded for great gifts, this implies a 

high potential value for the flower’s beauty. The value of nature changes with 

human contact. The flower comes from a simple garden or a rural field, but once 

it is plucked and thought of as a gift its beauty will make it worthy of royalty. 

The flower is a gift of love, and, because of the love between two people, the 

flower becomes more valuable to the recipient. The idea that simple and base 

roots are worth more through human contact is continued throughout the poem. 

Since the seasons are not producing the customary lilies and roses for Fortunatus, 

he wishes for a second flower to bestow on Radegund. He is somewhat 

embarrassed by this new plant, the weeds. He hides the weeds (vicias) in the 

middle of the line, where they end his wish instead of start it. He will send the 

81

82 Scott Nelson 

weeds, which he assures Radegund, are roses when brought in love. The roses 

have metrical emphasis, located at the end of the line. Again, the worth of the 

flowers changes due to human contact and love. The weeds are transformed to 

roses as a result of the love and thought their plucking involves. The weeds continue 

to evolve and take on greater worth throughout the poem. 

In line six, the first line of the second half of the poem, Fortunatus refers to 

his gift of love as fragrant herbs (odoriferas herbas). He uses the same verb 

(mittere) in reference to these fragrant herbs as he uses in line four in describing 

the lily and roses. Thus he provides a dictional link between the two gifts of 

nature. In the next line, the identity of the love flowers changes once more, now 

to shoots (germen). They are shoots of purple violets (purpurae violae) and they 

hold a noble place (nobile habent). These sprouts from the lowly field are now 

associated directly with royalty through the looks and smells they will 

eventually exhibit. Then entering into the final couplet, Fortunatus’s intentions 

become clear: the smell is the true gift. Since these are perennial flowers which 

are not victim to the fickle seasons alluded to in line one, the smell and beauty 

will return unceasingly each year. The gift of the weeds is filled with various 

components, the actual plants, the aroma, and Fortunatus’s love. Fortunatus 

chooses this flower since its beauty and growth and promise all reflect different 

aspects of his love. 

In “To Radegund on Her Return,” Fortunatus adapts nature in a different 

way. The natural images show the effects Radegund and her presence have on 

his life. In the first two couplets, he uses only one natural image. In the first line 

he compares Radegund’s face to the sun, a radiant light (radianti lumine). Then 

after a bare spell with no reference to nature, he begins to and through the 

remainder of the poem portray Radegund as his personal fertility goddess. Outside 

on this Easter Day, the crops just now rise (modo surgere semina sulcis). 

Fortunatus reaps a harvest that same day (hodie meto). Once again, nature is 

under the influence of humans and their emotions. The return of Radegund and, 

by metonymy, his joys (recovas mea gaudia) cause a figurative harvest. For Fortunatus 

the fruits, the sheaths of grain, the grape, the apples and the pears are 

now all before him. Time is confused. April now does the job of August (quod 

solet Augustus mensis, Aprilis agit). Human emotions have distorted the course 

of nature. 

Radegund creates a figurative harvest, a premature ripening, a disorder 

amongst the seasons, with her return. However, the ripening and harvesting do 

not occur in reality. Fortunatus makes this clear several times. First in lines five 

and six, he says that the sprouts are just starting to grow, yet he can harvest 

them. In lines nine and ten, the vines and buds are just beginning to come out, 

yet the grape of August is ready for Fortunatus (et licet. . .uva simul). These 

side-by-side comments, in which one line states the crops are just beginning and 

the next says Fortunatus can now reap the bounty, dramatize the division 

between real nature and the imaginary one. In the final couplet, he says that 

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 

when she returns (quamvis nudus. . .intent). Here, he confirms the division 

between the real world and the world of his love. Radegund has caused an 

emotional harvest in which the fruits, symbols for joy and love, are being reaped 

by Fortunatus. 

There exist technical similarities between these two poems. Both are written 

in elegiac couplets, though this is not entirely unique since Fortunatus wrote 

many poems in this meter. Also, in the standard format of Fortunatus, the last 

couplet in both poems is a revelation when compared to the preceding lines. Finally, 

there are similarities in diction between the two poems. Both poems use 

“odor” as a way to involve more of the senses and to create a realistic picture. In 

“To Radegund on Violets,” odor takes a prominent role; it is repeated three 

times in the poem. The odor saturates the leaves of the flowers (et saturat foliis 

hinc odor). In the same poem, the ending reveals that the smell is the true gift of 

flowers. In “To Radegund on Her Return,” odor is used to enhance the natural 

imagery. The apples and pears pour forth pleasing smells in line eleven. The 

olfactory sense plays a role in understanding the natural world and, through 

symbolism, the emotions in this relationship. 

Another similarity between the two poems is the confusion of time, 

although this confusion occurs for different reasons. In “To Radegund on Violets,” 

the seasons do not produce the traditional flowers for Fortunatus. His 

desire to give a perpetual gift in the first poem causes this confusion. The smell 

of the weeds and violets is perpetual unlike that of the lilies and roses. In “To 

Radegund on Her Return,” the seasons have changed roles, with April performing 

the tasks of August in line eight. The confusion is due to the presence of 

overwhelming emotions. The return of the radiant light and Fortunatus’ joys fill 

his personal world with an emotional harvest that overrides reality. 

While there are technical similarities between the poems, their natural symbols 

and their messages uses diverge considerably. In “To Radegund on Violets,” 

Fortunatus uses flowers alone for the poem’s imagery. His gift evolves 

through various types of flowers, but he does not use other natural images. The 

flower starts off simple, and then, as it grows, it gains beauty as the petals 

emerge. Then once fully grown its fragrance magnifies its beauty. The metamorphosis 

occurs in the lines of the poem, starting with the flowers being plucked 

and culminating in the profusion of smell at the end. The evolution of the flowers 

symbolizes the intensity of love increasing throughout the lines of the poem. 

The love starts off simple and hidden, like the sprout concealing its potential 

beauty. Then as time passes and the lines of poetry progress, both the flower and 

love blossom. The smell of the flower adds an invisible beauty, implying a mental 

and intellectual attraction to Radegund that is not based on appearances. The 

importance placed on smell at the end of the poem shows that a mental relationship 

rather than a physical one exists. 

The fruit, the focus of the second poem, shows the significance Radegund 

has in Fortunatus’ life. In “To Radegund on Her Return,” Fortunatus uses the 

images associated with harvests, fruits, grains and grapes. In this poem, Fortu-

84 Scott Nelson 

natus’ love and desire for Radegund culminate and ripen, hence the harvest 

images. Her absence nourishes his desire and love. The maturation of his love 

occurs unlike the maturation of a harvest. His sun, Radegund, is gone (radianti 

lumine). The desires are nourished by the absence of their source, not to blossom 

until her final return. The blossoming suggests a more developed and physical 

relationship than presented in “To Radegund on Violets.” Here the natural 

images consist of ripe and fertile fruit. Fruit is enjoyed by handling and eating, 

by physical contact. This is a very different connotation than flowers, which are 

aesthetically pleasing and do not demand physical interaction. Fruit imagery 

symbolizes the physical desires that grew over the preceding forty days. 

There are other differences between “To Radegund on Violets” and “To 

Radegund on Her Return” as well. The structure of the poems differs. In “To 

Radegund on Violets,” the poem is symmetrical. Line six, the end of the third 

couplet, marks the midpoint of this poem. The significance is not that the couplets 

evenly divide, but that the midpoint marks an important change in the intent 

of the poem. The first half explains what Fortunatus lacks from nature, while the 

second half discusses what Fortunatus will give to Radegund in love. In “To 

Radegund on Her Return,” the numerical midpoint of the poem is line seven. 

However, this occurs in the middle of a couplet. There is no real division in this 

poem, as each couplet builds upon the previous until the final couplet. The concluding 

couplet provides the poem with a final revelation, to which Fortunatus 

alludes repeatedly: Radegund’s return has created a division between reality and 

the imaginary for Fortunatus. 

Fortunatus uses nature for different purposes in his poems. In “To Radegund 

on Violets” and “To Radegund on Her Return” nature is tied to human 

emotions. “To Radegund on Violets” shows love changing nature and its beauty. 

In “To Radegund on Her Return” natural imagery independently represents love 

and desire. In the first poem, nature is directly controlled by humans and their 

emotions. In the second, it is a symbol. Since each poem applies nature in a different 

way, they need and use different aspects of nature to convey their 

respective intents: different images, different structures, different purposes 

differentiate the natural aspects of the poems. However, in both the power of 

love can transform nature, turning simple roots into royal gifts or sprouts into a 

bountiful harvest. In their unique way both these poems proclaim the power of 

love through nature.

Restoring the Old Republic: Augustan 

Moral Reform in Its Historical Context 


When Augustus began to institute his program of moral reform in the late first 

century B.C.E., he was acting partly out of self-interest. To secure his own position 

of prominence in the state, he sought to reestablish the hierarchical social 

structure of the old republic and to reinforce the moral and religious values 

which supported it. Augustus’ reforms were not purely selfish in nature, however. 

They came at a time when there was a heightened national conscience of 

morality and a general interest in reestablishing the religious and social mores of 

old. Reflected in landmark episodes throughout the history of the late republic, 

there was in Rome, at least among the high-minded nobility, a sense that the disintegration 

of the state was concomitant with a profound moral decline. Augustus’ 

attempt to return the values of the old republic to Rome reflects a similar 

mindset. This essay seeks to situate Augustus’ program of moral reform in the 

context of popular views of morality in the late republic. I will first trace a few 

historical events which represent key instances of moral failure. Next, by examining 

the works of Livy, Sallust, and Cicero, I will analyze how the major voices 

of this period understood the moral status of the republic. Positioning Augustus’ 

reforms in their historical context illuminates the underlying forces which 

compelled him to initiate such sweeping social and religious legislation. 

Augustus’ moral reforms aimed at two chief goals: curbing female promiscuity 

and restoring traditional family values. He attempted to accomplish these 

reforms by passing the Julian Laws of 18 B.C.E. and the lex Papia Poppaea of 9 

C.E. These reforms encouraged marriage and childbearing while punishing 

adultery and inappropriate marriages across class boundaries. Augustus’ 

aggressive religious revival constitutes an attempt to reconstruct the torn social 

fabric of the republic. Restoring the pax deorum was a means not only to ensure 

good favor with the gods, but, perhaps more importantly, to replace the lost 

sense of fides, a religiously-charged ideal which once governed contracts and 

social behavior in general. With these two categories of reform in mind, we can 

now turn to the conditions which prompted them. 

Instances of perceived immorality are abundant in the late republic, and 

doubtless remained permanently ingrained in the minds of the prominent men of 

the period. As Rome expanded its dominion over the Mediterranean, its corrupttion 

grew accordingly. The notorious abuse of power by provincial governors is 

a recurring example of such foreign corruption. Financially hard-pressed from 

85

86 Curtis Steyers 

the expenses of competitive public life in Rome and subject to virtually no 

supervision or regulation, senators viewed provincial governorships as 

opportunities to amass riches through illegitimate means. 1 A paradigmatic 

example of this corruption is the extortion trial of C. Verres in 70 B.C.E., whom 

Cicero prosecuted and whose exile he ultimately procured. In addition to general 

greed and ambition, the late republic saw a growing disregard for the institutions 

and procedures essential for maintaining political order. Revolutionaries such as 

Tiberius Gracchus, followed by Marius, Sulla, and Caesar, represent a waning 

reverence for the traditional Roman political process. Beyond a simple disregard 

for tradition, these revolutionaries displayed a dangerous willingness to use 

violence to achieve their ambitions. Augustus, emerging as the sole master of 

Rome in the wake of these civil wars, saw the need to eradicate this violent 

behavior in order to entrench himself in his position of princeps civitatis. There 

is more than self-interest at work, however. The loose morals of elite men such 

as C. Verres engendered a widespread belief that the decline of the republic was 

facilitated by a disintegration of morality. 

The female parallel of male corruption, according to Roman values, was 

sexual liberation and promiscuity. As women grew increasingly important in 

late republican political and intellectual life, their independence attracted much 

negative attention. 2 That stories of uninhibited sexual activity were documented 

so extensively is indicative of their effect on the traditional Roman mind. 

Clodia, the alleged lover of Catullus and M. Caelius Rufus, provided an 

infamous example of unscrupulous sexual conduct. Pompeia, Caesar’s wife, was 

involved in a notorious affair with P. Clodius Pulcher, which was made public 

by the disgraceful Bona Dea scandal in 62 B.C.E. The customs of women had 

always been a point of contention in Rome. During the Second Punic War, the 

lex Oppia (215 B.C.E.) was passed, effectively censoring the amount of wealth a 

woman could accrue and display. The uninhibited behavior of prominent women 

in the late republic therefore must have been a glaring reminder that the 

traditional morals of the state had changed, or had perhaps disappeared. 

Historians writing before and during the reign of Augustus provide useful 

insight into the commonly-held beliefs of the time. Livy, whose life coincides 

roughly with Augustus’, is particularly useful due to his moralizing tendencies. 

In fact, Livy’s literary didacticism is similar to Augustus’ moralizing legislation: 

3 Both men attempt to instill a sense of old republican virtues into 

contemporary Romans. Livy makes his purpose clear from the beginning of his 

history: 

I would then have him trace the process of our moral decline, to watch, first, 

the sinking of the foundations of morality as the old teaching was allowed to 

1 Ward discusses this repeatedly, particularly on pp. 188, 235 for Verres’ corruption. 

2 See p.238 for Ward’s discussion of late republican women. 

3 Ogilvie’s introduction to Livy: “There is, therefore, a real sense in which Livy’s 

History was deeply rooted in the Augustan revival” (Livy, 2002: 6).

Restoring the Old Republic 87 

lapse, then the rapidly increasing disintegration, then the final collapse of the 

whole edifice, and the dark dawning of our modern day when we can neither 

endure our vices nor face the remedies needed to cure them. (Livy, 2002: 30) 

Livy’s lamentation over moral decline is a direct commentary on contemporary 

Rome. While the exact date of The Early History is unknown, it was 

probably begun shortly after the Battle of Actium in 31 B.C.E. and completed 

several years later. Livy, like Augustus, is attempting to instruct a new generation 

of Romans in the customs of pre-Sullan Rome. He asserts that the “dark 

dawning” of contemporary Rome is a direct consequence of moral failure, and 

that the only remedy is a complete moral overhaul. 

Moralizing moments are not confined to overt prefatory statements. Livy 

uses particularly dramatic historical episodes to editorialize and draw attention 

to moral lessons. The rape of Lucretia by Sextus Tarquinius is illustrative: 

“Never shall Lucretia provide a precedent for unchaste women to escape what 

they deserve” (Livy, 2002: 102). These words, spoken by Lucretia before her 

suicide, resonate with Augustus’ social reforms aimed at promoting chastity and 

preventing adultery. Lucretia’s death is a direct consequence of her loss of virginity, 

regardless of her innocence. Livy thus provides a brutal example for 

contemporary Roman women: an honorable woman, such as Lucretia, would 

defend her chastity to the death. 

In a more extensive effort to demonstrate the disastrous effects of moral 

decline, Livy renders his account of the Gallic sack of Rome in such a way that 

the losses sustained by the Roman army are portrayed as the consequences of 

their moral shortcomings. Throughout this episode in The Early History, the 

reader is consistently reminded that the Romans did not adequately cultivate the 

established traditions of their ancestors. 4 Livy articulates this succinctly through 

the words of the great general Camillus: 

You will find that when we followed God’s guidance all was well; when we 

scorned it, all was ill. . . . Evil times came, and then we remembered our religion. 

. . . Therefore it is that heaven has given us back our city and restored 

us to victory and the old martial glory we had forfeited. (Livy, 2002: 430) 

Livy’s message is clear: if Rome abandons her traditions, she will perish. 

History has provided numerous examples, the most famous being the disastrous 

Battle of Allia in 390 B.C.E., when Rome was nearly sacked in a Gallic 

invasion. Again, Livy is commenting on contemporary Rome. The republic has 

fallen because its citizens have neglected the customs of their ancestors and the 

gods who are responsible for maintaining the state. Rome must not only 

reinstate the virtues of old, but must also restore pax deorum; a suggestion 

echoed in Augustus’ revitalization of religious life. 

4 Oakley discusses this in his Appendix to The Early History, pp. 448-451.


Few historians of Rome are fonder of moralizing than Sallust. That he 

lived through some of the darkest years of the republic (86–ca. 35 B.C.E.) suggests 

that Sallust was acutely aware of the general sentiment among the Roman 

cultural elite that the republic was failing due to a decline in morality. These 

views permeate his two surviving histories. In Cataline, he describes Cataline’s 

character: “He was incited also by the corruption of a society plagued by two 

opposite but equally disastrous vices—love of luxury and love of money” 

(Sallust, 1963: 178). Cataline, says Sallust, was a product of a society which 

cultivated corrupt values. This comment is directed towards Sallust’s 

contemporary Rome, as he proceeds to recount the early history of Rome, 

starting with the story of Aeneas, detailing the transformation of cultural values 

at each step along the way. The vices which plagued Rome in the late republic 

are manifest in the figure of Cataline—the disaffected noble, hungry for power 

and notoriety, impeded by no common sense of morality. 

Sallust does not confine his admonishment of Roman morality to corrupt 

men. He provides a colorful and disapproving evaluation of Sempronia’s character, 

a woman alleged to have been involved with Cataline: 

There was nothing that she set a smaller value on than seemliness and chastity, 

and she was as careless of her reputation as she was of her money. Her 

passions were so ardent that she more often made advances to men than they 

did to her. Many times already she had broken solemn promise, repudiated a 

debt by perjury, and been an accessory to murder. At once self-indulgent and 

impecunious, she had gone headlong from bad to worse. (Sallust, 1963: 193) 

Sempronia, like Cataline, is a vehicle for Sallust’s moralizing efforts. She 

embodies all that is corrupted in the current state of the republic. Sallust lists her 

sexual liberation, susceptibility to passions, and lack of modesty among her 

character flaws. More importantly, however, is her lack of integrity, demonstrated 

by breaking promises, perjury, and murder. These faults undermine the 

fabric of Roman society, representing the same loss of fides as corrupt 

provincial governors who plunder their provinces for financial gain. For Sallust, 

Sempronia is a case study for the decline of Roman morality: she, like the late 

republic, has fallen from her prior moral pedestal. 

Augustus’ religious reform represents an attempt to solve the social problems 

of the late republic from a different angle. Cicero, who witnessed the rise 

and fall of Caesar, provides a view from the senatorial aristocracy at a time 

when the senate had lost its power. In De Officiis, Cicero’s prevailing conviction 

that the republic was on the verge of destruction is clear, and he makes 

numerous references to contemporary examples of immorality. Cicero is 

particularly hostile towards the recently assassinated Caesar: “in the 

unscrupulous behavior of Caius Caesar, who has ridden roughshod over all laws 

both human and divine to attain that dominion which he had dreamed of in the 

depraved perversion of his own mind” (Cicero, 1967: 48). Cicero is explicit in 

his assertion that Caesar’s behavior was strictly in opposition to established

Restoring the Old Republic 89 

customs and religion. While Cicero is excessively hostile to those who would 

subvert the power of the senate (and by extension Cicero’s influence), he is also 

legitimately concerned with what he views as a general moral degradation: “And 

yet I am aware that because of our declining moral standards such an action is 

not considered immoral or to be condemned from the point of view of the law” 

(Cicero, 1967: 160) 

For Cicero, Rome’s declining moral standards are intimately related to the 

rise of powerful men like Sulla and Caesar. As the moral fiber which underlies 

all behavior begins to fray, men are gradually released from the bond of goodfaith 

that governs society. Cicero states: “For there can be no firmer cement for 

national unity than good faith” (Cicero, 1967: 132). Although this passage is 

excerpted from a discussion of debt, the principle is universal: the intangible 

bond between two parties in a contract is maintained by a common 

understanding of fides. While Cicero explains fides in secular philosophical 

terms, fides represents a deeply religious agreement supervised by the god, 

Fides, herself. Therefore, a lapse in religious conviction precipitates a loss of 

fides. Augustus’ religious revitalization can thus be understood, in part, as an 

effort to restore the notion of divine presence prevailing over human affairs. If 

Augustus could restore fides to the Roman psyche, he could perhaps abrogate 

the excessive corruption plaguing the empire. 

Augustus’ religious revitalization constituted an effort to institute a broad 

reform to effect change across all areas of life. Roman culture is characterized 

by the ubiquitous force of religion. The gods are inextricably intertwined with 

every facet of life; any change in religious values inexorably affects the social 

and political environment. Therefore, when Augustus sought to reestablish 

archaic religious rites and reenergize religious practices in Rome, he was 

attempting to effect change in every sphere. A revitalized religious life would 

affect both female chastity and modesty as well as the loss of fides manifest in 

extortion cases and day-to-day obligations. 

It is by now clear that there was a consensus among privileged Romans in 

the late republic: there had been a general moral decline in Rome, and this 

decline was in part responsible for the recent political turmoil. Augustus was 

undoubtedly aware of this sentiment, and was perhaps in agreement. It is not 

sur-prising, then, that his moral reforms appear to target the same aspects of 

Roman social life that are ridiculed in Livy, Sallust, and Cicero. There must also 

have been a sense of hope for the future. The Augustan age came at a time when 

Rome had been racked by civil war for decades. When Augustus emerged as the 

sole ruler of the empire in 31 B.C.E., hope for peace and a restoration of the 

republic abounded. Even before the Battle of Actium, when Antonius was still a 

dominant force in Rome, there was measured hope that the dawning of a new 

age would come, free from the troubles of political corruption and civil war. 

Virgil reflects this hope in his prophetic Eclogue 4:


Now the last age of Cumae’s prophecy has come; 

The great succession of centuries is born afresh. 

Now too returns the Virgin; Saturn’s rule returns; 

A new begetting now descend from heaven’s height. 

O Chaste Lucina, look with blessing on the boy 

Whose birth will end the iron race at last and raise 

A golden through the world; now your Apollo rules. (Virgil, 1980: 57) 

Virgil predicts a profound transition to the golden age of Saturn, a stage in the 

mythical cycle of the ages characterized by peace, lack of fear, and virtue. 

Augustus’ moral reforms embraced Virgil’s prophetic hope. He attempted to 

bring about this new Saturnian age by legislating morality. Augustus was a 

shrewd politician and had a brilliant propagandist in Maecenas. He knew that his 

success depended on both securing political stability and promoting the image of 

a restored republic. His moral reforms thus functioned in two important ways: 

On the one hand, they were intended to influence behavior such that the radical 

and corrupt activity lamented by the historians would be scarce, thereby 

protecting the state from political upheaval. On the other hand, they functioned 

as a visible acknowledgement and condemnation of the moral decline of the late 

republic and symbolized a transition into the new, peaceful, and virtuous golden 

age of Saturn. In such a way, Augustus at once entrenched himself in his role as 

the sole ruler of Rome and engendered a genuinely grateful reception by the 

war-weary Roman populace. 

References 

Cicero. 1967. On Moral Obligation. Trans. J. Higginbotham. Berkeley: Univ. Calif. 

Press. 

Livy. 2002. The Early History of Rome, trans. A.de Selincourt. Introduction R.M.Ogilvie. 

Preface S.P. Oakley. London: Penguin Books. 

Sallust. 1963. The Jugurthine War. Trans. S.A. Handord. London: Penguin Books. 

Virgil. 1980. Eclogues. Trans. G. Lee. London: Penguin Books. 

Ward. 2003. A History of the Roman People, 4 th ed. New Jersey: Prentice Hall.

Oh, There Once Was A Young Man 

From Ilium . . .Virgilian Farce and 

the Death of Cacus 

Grainne O’Hara Belluomo 

A Brief Summary of the Epic: 

“weapons, warriors bard” 

—James Joyce, Finnegan’s Wake 

Virgil’s Aeneid has been read in many ways—an epic tale of heroism, a fascinating 

piece of propaganda, and a veiled critique of the Augustinian state to name 

a few—but rarely is it read as broad comedy. This could be for any of a number 

of reasons, the most compelling of which is that Virgil’s epic simply is not 

particularly funny. Certainly, the great poet presents his readers with many 

moments of irony and a certain raised-eyebrow wryness, but out-and-out 

laughs? Unlikely. But is Virgil’s magnum opus completely devoid of cheap 

laughs? Its interpretive afterlife suggests that it is not. Certainly, James Joyce 

was able to mine Virgil’s epic for a wealth of bathroom humor, most notably his 

bawdy play on the golden bough. In two different instances in Finnegan’s Wake 

Joyce gilds his bough with a golden shower rather than a precious metal. 1 

Joyce’s sophisticated potty mouth aside, the Aeneid does indeed have its 

moments of low-brow humor—albeit with their own purpose. In the Cacus 

episode in particular, Virgil interweaves both his own ironic voice, bits of broad 

comedy, and literary allusions that all come together to create a moment of 

Roman farce within his grand epic. 

Evander’s retelling of the battle between Cacus and Hercules in Book VIII 

can be read not only as an origin story, but as a moment of grotesque farce 

within the Aeneid. The over-the-top battle between Hercules and Cacus mirrors 

the ridiculous stage violence typical of Roman farce. The humor is at once 

visual and verbal, original and referential. 

Much of the farcical humor in the Cacus episode is rather overt: in fact, 

even the mythic behemoth’s name makes him a bit of a punch line. In Latin and 

Roman Culture in Joyce, R.J. Schork gives a brief but illuminating etymology of 

1 Joyce specifically mentions his own special take on the golden bough twice in 

Finnegan’s Wake: “boughpee. . .” (Joyce, 1962: 239) and “Let her be peace on the 

bough” (Joyce, 1962: 239). 

91

92 Grainne O’Hara Belluomo 

the name Cacus. Originally derived from the Greek adjective kakos, meaning 

“bad,” “evil,” or “ugly,” it also shares its root with the verb “kakko” which 

means “to defecate.” Thus, Schork concludes, “Virgil’s giant is literally an evil 

shit” (Schork, 1997: 132). It is hard to imagine that this wordplay went completely 

unnoticed by Virgil’s contemporary audience. Similarly, Virgil’s label 

for Cacus—semihominis (“half-human”) (Aen. VIII.194)—makes him almost 

laughably monstrous. He is half-human. The other half may be terrifying, or it 

may be amusing depending on the reader’s fancy. Perhaps Virgil intended for 

this semihominis creature to call to mind the satyrs of early Greek comedy. 

Despite the human remains on his foribus . . . superbis (“haughty doorposts”) 

(Aen. 8.196), Cacus’s behavior in the Aeneid seems more fitting for one of these 

mischievous woodland troublemakers than for an ominous mythological giant. 

Though Evander introduces Cacus as having a facies. . .dira (“dread face”) 

the monster proves himself to be more of a bumbling coward than a real threat 

(Aen. VIII.194). Cacus instigates his battle with Hercules not with violence but 

with trickery. Virgil’s depiction of the act of stealing cattle—a typical “crime” 

in ancient farce—as a product of “Caucus’s wits wild with the Furies” (Aen. 

VIII. 205) drips with sarcasm. The Aeneid is full of characters—both human and 

divine—who are carried off to madness by the furies. Generally these episodes 

end in monumental storms, or battlefield killing sprees. Cacus, however, has 

other plans. Virgil continues the self-referential joke when he goes on to write 

that Cacus is so wild that ne quid inausum aut intractatum scelerisve dolive 

fuisse (“nothing of crime or of sorrows would remain untried or untested”) (Aen. 

VIII.206). Here, Virgil flirts with self-parody. Generally in the Aeneid, when 

someone is leaving nothing inausum (“untried”) the consequences are emotionally 

dire. In Book IV, Dido tries over and over to convince Aeneas to stay, 

unwilling to leave any method untried by which she might preserve her love, 

and save her own life. 2 The reference to leaving nothing untried also prefigures 

the frantic pre-death scrambles of Euryalus and Turnus, who both seek out every 

method possible to prolong their lives. In this light, Cacus’s horrible deed seems 

a bit trivial. 

All four of these characters—Dido, Turnus, Euryalus and Cacus, meet their 

respective ends because the “Furies” have clouded their better judgment—essentially, 

they are all victims of death by mens efferta. However, in the cases of the 

first three, these lapses of sense are either moments of profound rage and 

haughtiness on the battlefield, or blindness brought on by love. Stealing cattle 

doesn’t really seem to rank here. By holding Cacus’s pre-mortem mindset up to 

three epic death scenes, Virgil makes the monster’s forthcoming demise an 

2 Ire iterum in lacrimas, iterum temptare precando/cogitur et supplex animos summittere 

amori/ne quid inexpertum frustra moritura relinquat (“she is driven again to go into 

tears, again to try with praying, and, as a suppliant, to raise the spirits of love, lest she, 

about to die in vain, leave anything untried”) (Aen. 4.412-415).

Oh, There Once Was a Young Man from Ilium 93 

exaggerated send-up of the brutal and dramatic moments of death so often found 

in the epic. 

Once he has made off with the cattle, the situation gets a bit sticky for 

Cacus. The terrifying son of Vulcan is, in fact, out-smarted (or at least out 

maneuvered) by a cow. By giving forth a loud bellow, this bovine stool pigeon 

“baffles the hope of Cacus” (Aen. VIII.218). Of course, the comic implications 

of a very powerful and threatening giant being thwarted by a cow are hard to 

miss. The notion of the raging tormentor of an entire town being undone by 

livestock is a perfect comedic reversal, and Virgil certainly makes the most of it, 

quickly reducing his villain from hulking menace to panicking mess. 

Once Cacus realizes that Hercules will soon be coming after him, he displays 

what can only be described as hysterical and sublime cowardice: 

Then first our folk saw Cacus afraid and with trouble in his eyes: in a 

twinkleing he flees swifter than the East wind and seeks his cavern; fear lends 

wings to his feet. (Aen. VIII.222-224) 

Rather than use his demonic strength, Cacus flees Hercules with such zeal, that 

he becomes a laughable spectacle to the same people who once feared him. 

Enraged by the theft of his cattle, Hercules goes in search of Cacus and, 

given the nature of this particular episode, does not fare much better in terms of 

maintaining his mythic dignity. He too is fervidus ira (“boiling with rage”) (Aen. 

VIII.229), never a good sign for Virgil’s heroes (or villains for that matter), and 

he too comes off as a bit inept. While seeking out Cacus, Hercules goes through 

an almost vaudevillian process of “three times he tries the rock thresholds in 

vain, three times he, wearied, sits back down in the valley” (Aen. VIII.231-232). 

The image of an enraged Hercules repeatedly trying the same means of entrance 

only to be knocked back on his rear is more than slightly amusing. The fact that 

the supposed hero of this episode becomes enraged not because of the terror 

Cacus has waged upon the town, but because of the theft of his cows—cows that 

he himself took from Geryon (after slaying him, of course) only serves to 

deepen the irony at play. 

Of course, once the violent clash between these two titans begins, it 

becomes slightly more difficult to find obvious instances of broad comedy, and 

yet Virgil still offers up a scene of somewhat chaotic ineptitude. Most of the battle 

consists of Hercules and Cacus blindly hurling anything available at one 

another—including themselves—in a smoke-filled cave. Farce is not simply outlandish 

pratfalls and laughs, it also extends to moments of the extreme grotesque. 

In this light, Cacus’s death is the farcical coup-de-grace of the entire episode. 

The final image of his corpse being dragged out by the feet, complete with 

bulging-out eyes and a bizarre covering of shaggy fur, is nothing short of carnivalesque. 

Virgil’s final tableau of Cacus’s corpse certainly appeals to the Roman 

affinity for this brand of theatrical, perverse burlesque spectacle. 

Virgil’s Cacus episode can certainly hold its own as an example of farcical 

comedy based solely on its visual content and wry verbal irony. However, Virgil


also makes sure that his foray into the comedic genre is full of references to 

other works in the cannon of ancient farce. The possibility that that the moniker 

semihominis is partially intended to call to mind the satyrs of earlier Greek and 

Roman comedy is made significantly greater by the clear references to Sophocles’ 

own satyr play Ichneutae (“The Trackers”). This play also deals with the 

theft of a special bunch of cows, although in Sophocles’s comedy the pilfered 

herd belongs to Apollo, not Hercules, and the thief is the young god Hermes. 

Apollo enlists Silenus, father of the satyrs, promising him a handsome reward if 

he finds his cattle. With the help of a chorus of satyrs, Silenus embarks on his 

mission, which is complicated by Hermes’ rather brilliant strategy. After following 

bovine tracks to several dead ends, the chorus remarks, “as Zeus as my witness, 

the tracks turn around and go backward” (Ich. 120). In Virgil’s version of 

the great cattle heist, Cacus employs the exact same trick: 

And these, that there might be no tracks pointing forward, he dragged by their 

tail into his cavern, and, with the signs of their course thus turned backwards, 

he hid them in darkness. (Aen. VIII.209-211) 

By referencing Sophocles’s play, Virgil places the Cacus episode firmly within 

the generally light-hearted satyr tradition. The cartoonish, if not disturbing, 

image of a raging Hercules also fits quite well into Virgil’s mini-homage to the 

satyr plays since, traditionally, the genre constituted a sort of carnivalesque 

mythology that offered up traditionally revered gods and heroes as objects of 

ridicule. 

The extreme violence in the Cacus episode does not serve to undermine its 

comedic nature. In fact, the outlandish sadism that concludes the episode only 

pushes the whole Cacus affair further into the realm of parody. But Virgil went 

even further to portray the bloodshed in this episode in a ridiculous light. By 

drawing on Plautus’ tradition of over-the-top brutality, Virgil manages to maintain 

the comedic undertones of the Cacus episode even as he raises dark questions 

about the nature of heroism and its complicated relationship to violence. 

The chaotic portrait of Hercules hurling himself headlong at Cacus in the smoke 

filled cave—he throws himself into the fire with a headlong leap” (Aen. VIII. 

256-257)—resembles a scene of similarly disorganized violence in Plautus’s 

Aulularia in which Euclio beats Strobulius, a slave, whom he calls, “Oh you 

most beatable rogue, do you even ask, you not a thief but a triple thief” (Aul. 

636). Despite the fact that Euclio cannot prove any theft, he continues with the 

rather sloppy beating. Here again Virgil forces us, through his use of comedic 

allusion, to question Hercules’s actions. Enraged, he pummels someone for 

stealing from him what he himself has claimed as spoils from someone else. 

This does not exactly fall under the traditional banner of heroic behavior. 

It is possible that this allusion to Aulularia is merely incidental. However, 

a much more overt reference to Plautus makes it clear that Virgil was absolutely 

trying to call to mind the works of the famous humorist. In Book VIII of the 

Aeneid, Cacus meets a bloody end wherein Hercules corripit in nodum com-

Oh, There Once Was a Young Man from Ilium 95 

plexus, et angit inhaerens elisos oculos (“embracing, he seizes [Caucus] into a 

knot and, clinging, he throttles his popped-out eyes”) (Aen. 8.260-261). In Plautus’ 

Rudens, Trachalio (one of the play’s many insolent slaves) begs Daemones 

to help him stop the lecherous Labrax from tormenting young women at the 

temple. Trachalio entreats the older man to iube oculos elidere [order that their 

eyes be dashed out] (Rud. 659). Being an upstanding member of society, 

Daemones makes his best effort to send aid at Trachalio’s behest. Cacus’s death 

can also be read as a fulfillment of Trachalio’s plea—the tormentor is 

vanquished and his eyes are gouged out—but Virgil’s complex layering of 

comedy and more ominous strains create doubts as to the virtuous nature of 

Hercules’ purpose. 

This farcical reading of the Cacus episode carries with it interesting implications 

for the Aeneid as a whole. First, Cacus is not the only butt of the joke in 

this episode. Hercules also takes his fair share of punches. If Virgil is willing to 

lampoon not only the monster, but the monster slayer as well, what does that say 

about the meaning of heroism in Virgil’s poetic universe? At the beginning of 

the episode, Cacus’ foribus . . . superbis mark him as an arrogant braggart. Several 

lines later, Hercules is also described as being Geryonae spoliisque superbus 

(“haughty with the killing of Geryon”) (Aen. VIII.202). Both figures share a 

level of haughtiness, and both prove themselves capable of giving in fully to furriis. 

Notably Junonian language, words like dolor, furias and ira, are all used to 

describe Hercules at some point in the episode. Finally, the appearance of the 

word fervidus in line 229 calls to mind the final description of Aeneas at the end 

of the epic when hoc dicens ferrum adverso sub pectore condit fervidus (“saying 

this, furious, he plunged the sword into the chest opposite him”) (Aen. 12.950- 

951). Combined with the overall sense of parody, this Hercules-Cacus blending 

becomes even more distressing. 

This reference to the final lines of the poem brings in another possible 

function of this brief journey into farce in the Cacus episode. Though it is distinguished 

by its references to other comedic works, and its rather ridiculous 

causes, the fight between Hercules and Cacus is not much more extreme than the 

other intense battles that take place throughout the epic. If this instance can be 

read as one of grotesque farce, then what of the other struggles of the Aeneid? 

The climactic encounter between Turnus and Aeneas is compared to “when two 

bulls charge brow to brow in mortal battle” (Aen. XII.716-717). This simile does 

recall another epic battle involving cattle. Perhaps the farcical nature of the 

Cacus episode provides a frame of reference for the confounding closing lines of 

the epic. Is Aeneas’ questionable slaying of a man asking for mercy meant to be 

read with a level of ironic removal? Perhaps Virgil’s final lines constitute an act 

of subversive self-parody, one in which he acknowledges not only the fallibility 

of human nature, but the ridiculousness of a quest for a paradigm of human virtue. 

Such unrealistic expectations can only end in farce. 

Based on the etymology of Cacus’ name alone, it is not surprising that 

James Joyce was particularly attracted to this episode of the Aeneid. Its wealth


of subversive humor also provided a well-spring of material for his own epic, 

Ulysses. Joyce’s ability to twist Virgilian references into rather sophomoric 

(albeit quite opaque) jokes is impressive. More intriguing however is Joyce’s 

reinterpretation of Virgil’s Cacus in the form of Ulysses’ primary brute, the 

Citizen. In Joyce’s “Cyclops” chapter, the Citizen appears “seated on a large 

boulder at the foot of a round tower. . . broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbed 

frankeyed. . .shaggybearded. . .exploded volcano, the darling of all countries 

and the idol of his own” (Joyce, 1999: 243, 258). The notion of the Citizen 

as a volcano is a reference to Cacus’s father, Vulcan, as well as to his “vomiting 

black flames from his mouth” (Aen. VIII.199). Joyce’s Citizen is also somewhat 

more, or less than human, disproportionately loud, large and hairy. In Ulysses, 

however, instead of enacting his will on a terrified town, the Citizen is reduced 

to mistreating his dog and goading the seemingly equally defenseless Leopold 

Bloom. The Citizen, is, in a sense, completely farcical, robbed of all ability to do 

any real harm. 

It makes sense then that Joyce pays his own brand of homage to Virgil’s 

brief broad comedy. Virgil’s comedic reasoning prefigures the modern-day 

Aeneases of contemporary literature. In Ulysses, Joyce builds upon the veiled 

logic that Virgil’s farcical undertones create and takes that logic to its natural 

conclusion. In Joyce’s vision, all of life is a farce, and the ones who make it 

through are the Leopold Blooms, the sometimes petty, sometimes noble, 

occasionally ridiculous, thoroughly human heroes. 

References 

Joyce, James. 1962. Finnegan’s Wake. New York, NY: Viking Press. 

Joyce, James. 1999. Ulysses. New York, NY: Vintage Books. 

Plautus. 1913. Aulularia. E.G. Thomas, ed. Oxford: Clarendon Press. 

Plautus. 1891. Rudens. Edward A. Sonnenschein, ed. Oxford: Clarendon Press. 

Schork, R.J. 1997. Latin and Roman Culture in James Joyce. Gainesville, FL: University 

Press of Florida. 

Sophocles. 1919. Ichneutae. Trans. Richard Johnson Walker. London: Burns and Oates 

LTD. 

Virgil. 1918. The Aeneid. Trans. H. Rushton Faiclough. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University 

Press.

Virgil in Love 

Peter Catsimpiris 

Throughout his first two collections, the Eclogues and the Georgics, Virgil presents 

an unchanging vision of love, the consistency of which is accentuated by 

the very disparate settings of these two works. In the Eclogues, Virgil presents 

an idyllic world of harmonious union between man and nature. This “Saturnian” 

universe is one bereft of serious labor and concerns, a realm in which shepherds 

must merely find suitable grazing ground for their flocks and cool shade in 

which to recline and compose poetry and song. In stark contrast to this utopia 

stands the “Jovian” world of the Georgics, in which “everything by nature’s law 

tends to the worse, slips ever backward” (Geor. 1.200-01). In this, his second 

collection, Virgil imparts to the reader the grim reality that man and nature are 

not perfectly reconciled to each other, but rather human beings must labor incessantly 

to give form to natural disorder. While these two very distinct outlooks 

seem to conflict, making plausible an interpretation that Virgil’s outlook on our 

world in general may have evolved over the course of his career, the poet presents 

a complex yet consistent stance on love throughout both of these books. 

Virgil’s warning against the destructive potential of uncultivated love is ubiquitous, 

but he also characterizes it as instrumental in sparking artistic creativity 

when properly yoked. Virgil can thus be said to view love through the sober lens 

of the Georgics: as it is a part of nature, man must not cave under the destructive 

influence of this most fundamental emotion, but rather harness its potential as an 

inspiring creative force. 

Virgil portrays the devastation unbridled love can cause in an 

anthropomorphic example in Book 3 of the Georgics. Relating the violent tale of 

two bulls competing for a single heifer, Virgil vividly describes the gruesome 

result of allowing “the goads of blinding Venus” free reign to prod as they will 

(Geor. 3.210). “The bulls contend. . .many a wound is opened, dark blood 

streams down their sides, and horn to horn they butt each other bellowing 

terribly” (Geor. 3.219-22). According to the poet, this destructive tendency is in 

danger of harming not merely irrational beasts incapable of properly tending to 

love, but “all species in the world,” including human beings (Geor. 3.242). As 

such, an analysis of the tale of the sparring bulls as a direct allegory to loveobsessed 

youths is both appropriate and inevitable, and it thus serves as a 

warning against the harm that unconstrained love threatens to cause any who fall 

victim to it. 

97

98 Peter Catsimpiris 

Immediately after recounting another tale of love’s excesses and the devastating 

effects that they can have on human life, Virgil abruptly shifts to describing 

his own devotion to relating beauty through his poetry—“love transports me 

to Parnassus’ steeps; . . . [d]own to Castalia’s spring. Now, gracious Pales, 

inspire me now to sing in lofty tones” (Geor. 3.290, 3.293-4). Virgil thus 

presents a perspective on love seemingly incongruous with his characterization 

of the feeling as brutal and destructive in nature: while he earlier spoke of it 

resulting in actual bodily harm to those who felt it too strongly, the poet now 

attributes to this powerful emotion the special ability to transport the human soul 

to the very font of beauty represented by the mountain of the Muses and 

Castalia’s spring. While this presentation of love’s essence as at once terribly 

harmful and yet uniquely capable of affording man transcendence past the veil 

of physical reality to the realm of beauty and truth is paradoxical, Virgil 

reconciles these two disparate powers of love by maintaining that it need not be 

injurious, but may in fact be molded into a beneficial force, so long as it is 

properly tended. 

Virgil first relates the need to cultivate love in the story of the shepherd 

Corydon’s unrequited affection for the youth Alexis in Eclogue II. No longer 

able to enjoy the cooling shade synonymous with balance in pastoral imagery, 

Corydon’s lustful obsession condemns him to painfully “burn in love’s fire” (Ec. 

2.68). Unable to “set bounds to love,” Corydon succumbs to its negative pressure, 

pursuing Alexis like a mere animal “at pleasure’s pull” and wandering 

aimlessly, spewing an “artless monologue” lamenting his situation (Ec. 2.68, 

2.65, 2.5). Distraught with his inability to woo the lad with his rustic gifts, the 

shepherd bewails his lack of refinement—“Corydon, you’re a yokel”—realizing 

the internal damage that his consequent lack of control over his passion has 

caused —“[a]las, what have I done, poor lunatic, unleashing Auster on flowerbeds 

and wild boar on clear springs!” (Ec. 2.56, 2.58-9). Thus recognizing that 

he has been overtaken by dementia at the hands of his own obsession, he sees 

that he has left the “vine” of his own emotions “half-pruned upon a leafy elm,” 

having neglected to work against their detrimental tendencies in order to mold 

them into feelings capable of spurring creation rather than destruction (Ec. 2.70). 

It is in the final lines of Eclogue II that Virgil reinforces the notion that love is 

quite dangerous which he presented in the tale of the sparring bulls, but he also 

maintains that it can be cultivated and “pruned” so as to yield beneficial results. 

Thus Corydon realizes that he should turn from pointlessly wallowing in the 

pain caused by his rejection and instead, “at least prepare to weave of osiers and 

supple rushes something practical” (Ec. 2.71-2). In stressing art as the proper 

application of Corydon’s devotion and the gift of a skillfully woven basket as 

sophisticated enough to impress his would-be lover, Virgil reconciles the two 

seemingly contradictory viewpoints put forth in Book 3 of the Georgics: while 

love left unchecked works against man’s interest, if it is harnessed, its power can 

lead to the creation of great art and even to its own satisfaction.

Virgil in Love 99 

Finally, this “georgic” view of love is epitomized in the story of Aristaeus, 

Orpheus, and Eurydice that appears at the end of Book 4 of the Georgics. A tale 

within a tale, the story of Eurydice’s death fleeing the advances of the shepherd 

Aristaeus and her husband Orpheus’ subsequent quest to bring her back from the 

underworld is deftly set within the larger myth of Aristaeus’ mission to restore 

his beloved bees which he had inexplicably lost “through famine and disease” 

(Geor. 4.319). Calling to his mother, the sea nymph Cyrene, Aristaeus pleads 

with her to tell him how to recover his lost bees. When she urges him to seek an 

answer from the watery, shape-shifting seer Proteus who knows “[a]ll that has 

been, is now, and lies in store,” Aristaeus sets off to “capture him with ruthless 

force and fetters” in order to coerce the reluctant god into revealing the cause of 

the mysterious disease (Geor. 4.393, 4.398-9). Proteus, thus forced, reveals that 

Aristaeus’ hardships have arisen as a result of his guilt in the death of Orpheus’ 

wife, Eurydice (Geor. 4.457). 

It was as she fled Aristaeus’ lustful advances across a stream that Eurydice 

was killed by the bite of “a monstrous serpent” hidden in the grass on the riverbank 

(Geor. 4.459). Devastated by his loss, Orpheus, the greatest of minstrels, 

made his way to the underworld in order to free his young wife from an 

untimely death. The sheer power of his music warmed “hard hearts no human 

prayer can hope to soften,” and it afforded him the rare opportunity to bring 

Eurydice back from the dead, so long as he did not glance back at her until they 

had exited the underworld. On their journey upward, however, “a madness 

overcame” Orpheus, who, “yielding in his will, looked back at his own 

Eurydice,” thus voiding his noble efforts to bring her back from the grave (Geor. 

4.489-91). Orpheus then wandered the earth ceaselessly lamenting the second 

loss of Eurydice for months on end until Bacchic Thracian women tore him to 

shreds in anger over his devotion to his dead wife. 

Thus learning the reason for the destruction of his bees, Aristaeus obeys 

his mother’s instructions to restore them by sacrificing animals for Orpheus and 

Eurydice in a very peculiar fashion: leaving the carcasses of sacrificed bulls out 

in the open for many days to rot. “Then, after the ninth rising of the dawn . . . 

there suddenly is seen a miracle: throughout the putrid flesh of the oxen’s 

innards bees are buzzing” (Geor. 4.552-57). 

These two brilliantly spun tales illustrate Virgil’s “georgic” assessment of 

love as a volatile emotion capable of both causing great destruction if left uncultivated 

and also of fueling great artistic efforts and yielding creative miracles if 

properly attended to. Like Corydon in Eclogue II and the sparring bulls in Book 

3 of the Georgics, Aristaeus suffers for his inability to control his own passion. 

Wantonly chasing Eurydice to her death due to unchecked lust, he loses his precious 

bees as a result of his inability to control himself. By binding the watergod 

Proteus, however, thus commanding nature to do his bidding, and by carefully 

performing a ritual sacrifice, thus molding the very bodies of his sacrificial 

victims to suit his own needs, Aristaeus is able to restore his lost bees through 

carefully-directed labor inspired by his love for them. Orpheus, whose story runs

100 Peter Catsimpiris 

counter to that of Aristaeus, originally loses his beloved wife through no fault of 

his own. Seeking to bring her back from the realm of the dead, he moves the 

cold heart of Pluto and forces Cerberus’ “three mouths agape” by cultivating his 

love into music of nonpareil beauty (Geor. 4.484). It is when he later loses his 

composure, caving under the overwhelming burden of his love and glancing 

back at his wife but a moment too soon, that Orpheus is bereaved of Eurydice 

for the second time, his unparalleled power over nature destroyed when he loses 

self-control. 

To conclude, Virgil presents a clear and consistent analysis of love 

throughout both the Eclogues and the Georgics. Portraying it as an emotion at 

once frightful for its sheer destructive power and stunning in its capacity to stimulate 

the creation of great beauty, the poet views love in a “georgic” light, as a 

part of the natural world in need of proper cultivation: that is, if left unchecked it 

can lead to terrible harm and even the loss of life as in the case of Orpheus and 

Eurydice, but, when tended properly, it has the unique ability to afford the loverartist 

as much as complete power over the realm of the dead, a privilege Virgil 

denies even a deified Caesar Augustus in Book 1 of the Georgics. Despite the 

short-lived success of Orpheus and the more permanent triumph of Aristaeus 

over the destructive tendencies of this most pungent emotion, like man’s struggle 

with nature, which inevitably ends in death, Virgil believes that “love conquers 

all: we also must submit to Love” (Ec. 10.69). Although human beings 

may not be able to gain ultimate control over love, if man remains a faithful 

servant to this, the most fearful of masters, he can cultivate beauty through selfcontrol 

and dedicated labor. 

References 

Virgil. 1980. Eclogues. Trans. Guy Lee. London: Penguin Books. 

———. 1966. Georgics. Trans. L.P. Wilkinson. London: Penguin Books.

Love as Transformative Power 

in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 

Megan Cohen 

Love plays a central role in many of the myths in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. It 

drives grief-stricken lovers to jump off cliffs into the sea, turns enraged mothers 

against their children, and leads lovers to exact their revenge. It can also turn 

men into gods, unite lovers in death, and potentially bring the dead back to life. 

Even gods are subject to the effects of love. Indeed, some speculate that the 

motive force of nearly all the metamorphoses is the jealous burning of Juno, 

punishing innocent mortals out of her own, often betrayed, love for Jove. 

Though there are many permutations of love that exist in the Metamorphoses, 

they can be divided into four main categories. There is the erotic love that exists 

between lovers, alternately comprising lust, desire, devotion, passion, and 

romance; the familial love of parents and offspring, brothers and sisters; the love 

and worship of the gods; and the love of country. 

The primary mode of love that operates throughout the Metamorphoses is 

that of the erotic. Ovid shows erotic love working in many different ways, 

depending on the component emotion that is predominately displayed, and the 

feelings or attitudes of both the lover and the beloved. In this way, erotic relationships 

can be broken down into another four subdivisions: unrequited love or 

lust, forbidden love, jealous love, and pure love. Though a common form unites 

all of these—that of the erotic—each tends towards a different type of transformation, 

just as each has a different motivation. 

In the first case, sexual desire is the defining element in the lover’s pursuit 

of the beloved. This also can take several forms. It can be the result of a blind 

passion artificially induced, such as Apollo’s desire for Daphne that stems from 

Cupid’s arrows. On the other hand, it can be a true desire arising from the 

beloved’s beauty, as in the case of Salmacis’ love for Hermaphroditus, Neptunes’ 

rape of Caenis, or Alpheus’ pursuit of Arethusa. Either way, whenever 

this all-consuming sexual desire is unreciprocated, it leads to a transformation. 

When a male is pursuing a female, the beloved transforms to escape the clutches 

of the lover, like Daphne’s transformation into a tree. However, in the case of 

Salmacis and Hermaphroditus, Hermaphroditus’ transformation does not allow 

him to escape Salmacis, but rather joins him to her after he refuses to indulge 

her desires, to form a half-man, half-woman creature. In this way, we can see 

unrequited sexual desire as one of the primary driving forces of transformations. 

The implication is that love is such a powerful force that the object of affection 

101

102 Megan Cohen 

is forced to either attempt escape or be punished for the spurning of a would-be 

lover. 

A potential twist on the theme of lust and unrequited love is that of forbidden 

love. In several stories in the Metamorphoses, forbidden love also leads to a 

transformation, emphasizing the idea that the lack of love fulfillment can be a 

powerful force. Here, we see Byblis fall in love with her brother and Myrrha 

join with her father. For her sin Myrrha turns into a tree, while Byblis, rejected 

by Caunus, melts into a fountain from all her weeping. In a way, too, Narcissus’ 

transformation into a flower after falling in love with himself can be seen as the 

result of a forbidden love. Though he desires himself, he wants what he cannot 

have. In all of these cases, a change arises as a type of punishment for the 

lovers’ unnatural desires, and it is the lovers themselves who are transformed, as 

opposed to the beloved in the case of pure lust. 

Jealousy also is a strong motive force in the myths. It manifests itself as the 

snubbed lover, betrayed by their beloved for another. Jealousy seems to be perhaps 

the most destructive of the effects of love. Though it leads to concrete 

transformations into different beings as is the norm, it can also lead to a more 

subtle transformation—that of death and destruction. So while Juno, consistently 

abandoned by Jove for other women, turns Io into a bull, she also leads to the 

downfall of Cadmus’ entire line, driving Athamas to kill his children and 

causing Io to jump into the sea. Similarly, Deianira’s desire to win back 

Hercules causes him to burn alive, though she does not know that her actions 

will have this effect. Medea, however, ruefully kills her children after Jason 

marries another woman, while Phineus’ claim to Andromeda sets off an 

enormous fight at the wedding feast leading to a rampage of death and later 

transformation to stone. The story of Cephalus and Procris best illustrates the 

tragic effects of jealousy, as both are subject to mistrust of their partners in the 

relationship, leading to Procris’ eventual unwarranted and unnecessary death 

after a simple misunderstanding. 

Although in the absence of trust and reciprocal, natural love, transformations 

can be negative and can be punishments for wrongdoings, in the presence 

of these elements, transformations can also be positive, even leading to 

salvation. As Achelous says in his retelling of the story of Baucis and Philemon, 

“the gods look after good people still, and cherishers are cherished” (VIII. 725- 

726). For their love and pure devotion, as well as their devotion to the gods, 

Baucis and Philemon are allowed to remain united even in death, and are spared 

from ever having to spend a moment apart, both turning into intertwined trees 

simultaneously upon death. Likewise, Alcyone’s love for Ceyx transforms him 

even after his death into a bird, so that they can stay together. Pure love, then, is 

seen as the strongest bond between lovers, even in death. Taking death as a 

transformation again, this is what drives Thisbe, Alcyone, and Hylonome to take 

their lives after their lovers die. For, as Thisbe laments, “I will follow you in 

death, be called the cause and comrade of your dying. Death was the only one 

could keep you from me, death shall not keep you from me” (IV.152-155).

Love as Transformative Power in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 103 

Familial love also plays a large role in the transformations throughout the 

myths. It is commonly manifested as either the avenging of a family member, or 

sorrow for the loss of a loved one. In the first case, the resulting transformation 

is once again death. Both Procne and Althaea must choose between their love 

for their sons and avenging the wrong done to their siblings. It is interesting to 

note that both choose loyalty to their siblings over their sons, Procne killing Itys 

to harm Tereus for his sins against Philomena, and Althaea punishing Meleager 

for killing her two brothers. Althaea becomes “devoted to appease with blood 

the shades of her own blood-kin, she must spill the blood of her own son, a 

mother undevoted” (VIII. 476-478). Thus, it seems that blood-kin is placed 

higher than one’s progeny. When family members die, those left are often 

behind transformed out of their sorrow. In another instance of the tie between 

blood-kin, Phaethon’s sisters turn into trees after his death. Similarly, most of 

Meleager’s sisters become birds from their mourning. However, in the case of 

Niobe, it is her grief over the loss of her children that leads her to turn to stone 

after their deaths. Clearly, the tie between parents and offspring is also strong. It 

leads Ceres to pursue the returning of Proserpina after her rape by Pluto, which 

results in her having her back for half the year. Similarly, the love between 

Jason and his father motivates Medea to bring Aeson back to the vigor of youth. 

In this way, familial love can also be seen as a restorative force. 

Though they have a lesser presence in the work, the love of gods and the 

love of country also have a great influence in many of the myths. Worship of the 

gods sometimes leads to positive transformations, benefiting Baucis and Philemon 

as mentioned above, and saving Acoetes from Pentheus. However, it is the 

absence of worship that has the greatest effect on the transformations in the stories, 

which is understandable given that it is the gods’ wrath at having been 

neglected which often leads to transformation in the first place. Nearly every 

god has a transformation story associated with an instance of a mortal’s 

improper or negligent treatment of that god, from Minerva’s turning Arachne 

into a spider, to Ceres’ punishment of Erysichthon, to Bacchus’ causing 

Pentheus to be torn apart by his family members. The gods can in a way be 

construed as the jealous lovers in this case. They themselves desire to be loved 

and respected, and they enact their revenge when not given their proper due. 

Thus, this is one of the most destructive forms of love, or absence of love, as is 

jealousy between romantic or erotic lovers. 

Love of country becomes most important towards the end of the work, 

when Aeneas, Romulus, and Caesar are all deified for their contributions to 

Rome, as Ovid goes into the history of Rome in that section of the poem. 

However, love of country is really ever-present throughout the work as well, just 

in more subtle ways. It manifests itself as Jove’s love of Arcady, Minos and 

Aegeus’ connection to Crete and Athens, and the distinction between the Greeks 

and the Trojans. This leads to another type of transformation—that of war, 

which also leads to death and destruction. In this way, love of country also

104 Megan Cohen 

becomes a driving force in the lives of the mortals, compelling them to fight for 

their homeland. 

Clearly, then, the various forms of love greatly influence the metamorphoses, 

whether it is the more concrete kinds that change humans bodily into 

animals or plants, or the more subtle types that alter human civilization or lead 

to loss of life. It appears from the analysis of the role that love plays in these stories 

that it is its absence or its incorrect, impure, or incomplete manifestation 

that leads to the most gruesome or destructive changes. While this makes for the 

most interesting story, it also becomes the form that is most commonly 

expressed in the work. However, love can clearly be a positive, restorative, and 

unifying force as well, provided that it is in its purest form. In these cases, the 

transformations, whether bodily, spiritual, or fatal at the very least benefit the 

lovers and help them achieve their desires, whereas with transformations stemming 

from the improper expression of love, change is generally detrimental and 

undesirable. 

References 

Ovid. 1955. Metamorphoses. Trans. Rolfe Humphries. Bloomington: Indiana University 

Press.

A Corruption of True Selfhood 


Horace portrays a somewhat tragic view of selfhood. Although he constructs a 

written framework that leaves room for the existence of the self in Roman society, 

he allocates limited space for it. Unlike some of his literary predecessors, he 

envisions a self that exists within the world, not one that encompasses and can 

become the world. Horace recognizes true selfhood only as an idealized concept. 

In examining Horace’s Odes 1.1 and 1.22, we find a self believed to exist in 

such a limiting, corrupted and withered condition. His words represent a 

yearning to revisit the forgotten era in which the fully liberated self can survive 

freely and autonomously. 

Horace leaves us hope in Ode 1.1 that notions of complete individuality are 

tenable in Roman society, portraying a romanticized vision of the self. Starting 

from the Ode’s midpoint, Horace presents a selfhood characterized by the 

individual, one that can exist as a self-sufficient entity. In his opening 

description of constitutive members of Roman society, Horace depicts men of 

leisure, explaining they “devote a substantial / part of the day to stretching their 

limbs beneath the verdant arbutus or by / the quiet spring of some holy stream” 

(Horace 1.1.20-4). Horace legitimizes and idealizes the quest to indulge in 

selfish pleasures, such as immersing oneself in isolating tranquility beside a 

rolling stream. External society need not impinge on such self-indulgence. 

Horace further validates his conception of ideal selfhood with examples 

from the other extreme. He describes the soldier surrounded by the danger and 

havoc of war, “the sounding of trumpets mixed / with fifes, and the wars that 

mothers hate, enthuse so many” (Horace 1.1.25-7). Horace’s description of war 

as an endeavor “that mothers hate” underscores the selfhood that soldiers who 

engage in battle celebrate. The warriors seem to act without recognition of their 

own mothers. In doing so, they define their selfhood irrespective of exterior 

influences. In a similar manner, the “hunter stays out / under heaven’s chill, forgetful 

of his wife” (Horace 1.1.27-8). He too neglects familial ties in lieu of 

engaging in self-fulfilling pursuits. Moreover, the hunter evokes a sense of 

isolation similar to that of the leisurely man, targeting his prey under the immensity 

of “heaven’s chill.” Finally, at the poem’s conclusion, we are left with 

Horace himself, who asserts that poetry allows him to remain “apart from the 

masses” (Horace 1.1.34). Like the above individuals in his ode, Horace is seemingly 

left alone to assert his selfhood among the vast emptiness of his surround- 

105

106 David Guttmann 

ings. Each character relies on an autonomous, all-encompassing selfhood to fill 

the void. 

In the context of the entire ode, however, Horace clearly denies the legitimacy 

of a self that can truly exist independent of exterior influences. Rather, 

selfhood exists only within a larger social or global context and can only be fully 

realized within such a frame. The form of the poem is the first clue to such an 

interpretation. Until the ode’s midpoint, as will soon become apparent, Horace 

puts forth his argument of the socially-constrained self. Only after reaching the 

poem’s middle does Horace entertain the idea of a self that forms the world 

instead of one that exists within it. At the poem’s conclusion, he returns to a self 

that is socially defined. He therefore frames his elaboration on ideal selfhood 

within a socially-restricted context. 

Examining the words alluded to above suggests further interpretive levels. 

Horace begins the poem as a tribute to his friend Maecenas, who he addresses as 

“descended from olden kings” (Horace 1.1.1). Thus, from the outset, the individual 

is defined within a larger social and historical milieu. Horace then goes on 

to praise the athlete who “lift[s] to the Gods” (Horace 1.1.5) and the politician 

who “delights if the crowd / raise him up to triple honors” (Horace 1.1.7-8). 

Both men rely on external factors, not the self, to elevate them in achieving their 

earthly goals. Without a larger social perspective, both the athlete and politician 

seek futile ends. 

Horace then writes about the devoted farmer, for whom “[n]ot even 

Attalian terms could ever seduce / to become a fear-fraught sailor . . . the man 

who is glad to work with his hoe / his father’s fields” (Horace 1.1.11-15). 

Interestingly, Horace depicts the farmer devoted to his trade as part of a legacy 

that traces through his genealogy. In contrast to the selfhood Horace presents in 

the latter half of the poem, regarding the solider deliberately severing familial 

connections, the farmer here relies on his father to fulfill his selfhood; the two 

are intimately connected. 

The ode finally concludes with Horace’s own reliance on the external to 

define his selfhood. First beckoning the Muses and then Maecenas, Horace 

insists “should you list me among the lyric bards / I shall nudge the stars with 

my lifted head” (Horace 1.1.37-8). Implicit in Horace’s success are the Muses’ 

assistance and his best friend’s praise and admiration. Horace himself relies on 

external influences to elevate him to the place of isolation where he can 

actualize his selfhood. Full immersion in it requires external assistance. 

Ode 1.22 further highlights Horace’s withered notion of selfhood and 

represents a pining for a past idea of the self that is now dead. He begins the 

ode, “The man of upright life and free from sin / requires no Moorish spears nor 

bow / and quiver laden with poisoned / arrows” (Horace 1.22.1-4). Horace’s 

tone evokes lamentation. He yearns for a time when man was “free from sin.” 

“Sin” conjures the idea of a humanity that is scarred, fallen, and irredeemable. In 

the past, Horace contends, life was simpler and the constraints of our social 

conventions allowed the self to exist more liberally. The “Moorish spears” and

A Corruption of True Selfhood 107 

“quiver laden with poisoned arrows,” both symbols of war, civilization, and 

human-imposed order, had been marginally useful. Now, however, the context 

in which we live is corrupted. The self is burdened by the weight of society and 

its constructions. Horace longs for the days in which such paradigms did not 

exist to impinge on the freedom of the self. 

In pining for the past, Horace insists that we attempt to return to the era in 

which the self could exist free from social constraints; he sees a full reversion as 

an unattainable goal. The impossibility to escape the constrained expression of 

selfhood is embodied in the form of Ode 1.22. The poem is composed in the 

established parainetic style. However, the verse itself, as will become evident, 

advocates an escape from such formality in self expression. Such a paradox is 

illustrative of Horace’s entire dilemma. He cannot fully break from the formal 

restraints on the self, though he can acknowledge the selfhood he strives to 

attain in a conceptual sense. 

For Horace, it is necessary to try to abandon prevalent cultural biases and 

literary conventions to return to the days of lyric and recapture lost elements of 

the self. Song represents the ultimate form of free expression and selfhood. Horace 

recounts a personal anecdote to serve as an instructive example of how, 

theoretically, to execute his plan. First, he deliberately displaces himself from 

the confines of Roman society, recalling how he “wandered free from care / 

singing of Lalage in Sabine / woods, unarmed, beyond my bounds” (Horace 

22.9-11). That Horace walks “Free from care,” paralleling language in the 

opening line of the poem in which he longs for a state “free from sin,” signifies 

his attempt to wander “beyond [his] bounds.” Though he cannot fully escape 

man’s sin of constraining the self, he mimics an escape from Roman society in 

wandering beyond the reaches of his property. 

While there, he sings of Lalage, suggesting that he is not, himself, chanting 

in incoherent tongues. Rather, he recalls aloud their beauty from an external 

perspective. Again, the act reflects his inability to fully abandon his Roman heritage 

despite his attempt to do so. As Horace encounters a wolf who flees from 

him in the wood, he notes that “warlike / Daunia does not rear [such a beast] in 

her widespread / groves of oak” (Horace 1.22.13-15). Horace highlights his 

homeland as a warlike society, again summoning thoughts of civilization and an 

ability to transcend beyond it by escaping society and submerging himself in 

liberal expression. 

Horace clings to unstructured expression as he endeavors to establish a 

self-sufficient identity. He instructs the reader to “put me in uninhabitable / 

regions beneath the Sun’s close car— / and I’ll love my Lalage’s sweet talk / 

and sweeter laugh” (Horace 1.22.21-4). The language in Horace’s closing lines 

harkens back the words in Sappho’s lyric, recalling expressions of self that are 

free from the constraints of form and style. Through Lalage, Horace can 

approach a selfhood that exists beyond the reach of social influences and even 

serves to nurture him through the type of isolation described above in Ode 1.1. 

However, by personifying Lalage as a woman, Horace expresses a love for an

108 David Guttmann 

external object, not as an internalized aspect of his self expression. Such 

external love signifies and reinforces the idea that while he can partially assume 

less restrictive selfhoods, societal constraints will forever be present to prevent 

their full internalization. 

The selfhood that Horace presents in Odes 1.1 and 1.22 leaves us somewhat 

unfulfilled. Long gone are the days of Catullus in which the self defined 

the world, casually decorated by exterior influences. Here, Catullan selfhood 

exists as an inaccessible yearning, only to be approximated through a deep 

desire to abandon the defining tenets of Roman society. Such social 

establishments are ultimately inescapable, however. Horace strives to enjoy a 

liberated selfhood and fails, though he ironically can conceive of the goal he 

attempts to achieve. Such is the source of his ultimate frustration, leaving us 

equally confused about how to define Horace’s complex sense of selfhood. 

References 

Horace. 1983. The Complete Odes and Epodes. Trans.W.G. Shepherd. London: Penguin 

Books.

Lucian’s Allusive Journey 


Lucian of Samosata’s satirical narrative A True Story offers a parody of various 

geographic, ethnographic, and travelogue texts through allusion and mimesis 

with a specific focus on the works of Homer, Herodotus, and Aristophanes. 

Probably born ca. AD 125 in modern day Syria, with the proper irreverence and 

irony of a second-sophistic intellectual, Lucian levels jocular attacks against 

those who claim to represent the truth about the world but in actuality spin fanciful 

yarns about dog-headed men in faraway places. Lucian claims that his narrative 

is of a better quality than those that he criticizes, for while he tells of even 

more unbelievable places, peoples and events, he creates no pretense that his 

falsehoods represent the truth. Through his satirical text, Lucian encourages his 

readers not to behave like the unsophisticated “Phaeacians” (Lucian, 2004: I.3) 

but rather to be critical readers. 

Lucian juxtaposes various narrative styles and rhetorical flourishes with allusions 

to a plethora of figures, philosophies, and works. He claims that the motivation 

for this narrative journey, which goes from the far reaches of the moon to 

the bowels of a whale, is an intellectual one: “I had a motive for my journey— 

intellectual curiosity” (I.5). The pastiche, the intertextuality, the literary and 

philosophical allusions, like the pretense of his journey, are narrative devices 

which provide Lucian a medium through which he discusses his own society, 

culture, and the nature of an aesthetic truth. Lucian creates a hierarchy of truths 

with his narrative’s disparate treatment of Homer, Herodotus, and Aristophanes. 

Though all three authors present travel narratives with The Odyssey, Histories, 

and The Birds respectively, Lucian treats them differently based on the stated 

and perceived truths within each text. 

Lucian’s predilection for literary parody is manifested in the very title of 

his work. The translation of the Greek title Alethe Diegemeta as either A True 

Story or True Histories in the English does not fully capture Lucian’s punning 

and use of allusion. According to Sidwell, “the word translated ‘histories,’ 

diegema, could mean ‘an unsubstantiated or false tale,’ and the combination 

alethe diegemeta possibly alludes to a passage of Polybius (Histories I.I4.6), 

where the historian (ca. 200-after 118 B.C.) says: ‘when the truth (aletheia) is 

removed from history (historia) the residue is a useless yarn (diegema)’ (in 

Lucian, 2004: 307). Given that explanation, True Tall Tales might have been a 

more appropriate translation of Lucian’s work. Not only does Lucian’s intertextuality 

begin before his narrative does, but the title also provides an honest 

109

110 Elizabeth Broadwin 

heading to his work. Lucian’s title is a pun rather than a misnomer, for, as he 

says in the prologue, he has “produced a plethora of diverse falsehoods with 

convincing verisimilitude” (Lucian, 2004: I.2). The narrative does offer a true 

“story” for it is composed entirely of falsehoods or fictions. It becomes a story 

in its truest aesthetic sense. 

The prologue further elucidates the suggestion created in the title of A True 

Story. Lucian introduces the work as offering a necessary respite from “serious 

materials” and says, “everything in my story is more or less comical parody of 

one or another of the poets, historians, and philosophers of old, who have 

written much that smacks of miracles and fables” (I.2). Lucian’s work presents 

fables that “smack” of the works of these historians and philosophers and he 

says that he would “cite them by name, were it not that you yourself will 

recognize them from your reading” (I.2). Like most of Lucian’s claims, this one 

too must be taken lightly, for in fact, while he makes use of figures “of old,” he 

often does so while attacking his contemporaries, not least of all his readers. The 

parody depends on the reader’s willingness to engage in an intellectual journey 

because “instead of affording just pure amusement based on wit and humor,” A 

True Story “also boasts a little food for thought that the Muses would not 

altogether spurn” (I.2). Lucian’s narrative adopts the rhetoric and style of 

various geographic and ethnographic works, creating an intellectual game of 

allusion for the reader. Just as Herodotus, Homer, Aristophanes, and various 

other travel and itinerary writers offer journeys in their narratives, Lucian 

presents a journey in his text, albeit an intellectual rather than a physical one. 

Just before the narrative begins (from the Pillars of Hercules as tradition 

dictates), Lucian makes the facetious claim, “I had nothing true to tell, not 

having had any adventure of significance, I took to lying. But my lying is far 

more honest than theirs, for though I tell the truth in nothing else, I shall at least 

be truthful in saying that I am a liar” (I.4). Lucian’s narrative serves as 

“appropriate recreation” because it not only offers a break from those more 

serious works but also acts as a kind of guide to them. A True Story, if read as “a 

little food for thought,” compels the reader to think critically and question the 

content of any text which claims to offer the truth (I.2). 

Lucian’s travel narrative is rife with Homeric allusions, epic language and 

rhetorical flourishes which serve the parody in multifaceted ways. The first such 

reference arrives near the end of the prologue and functions both as a warning to 

Lucian’s readers and as a further explanation of the narrative that follows. 

Lucian writes: 

There have been many others who, following the same design as them, have 

written of the wanderings and foreign travels they claim to be their own, telling 

tales of huge beasts, cruel men and strange lifestyles. But the founding 

father of this sort of buffoonery and their instructor in it was Homer’s 

Odysseus, who regaled Alcinuous’ court with stories of the bondage of 

winds, one-eyed men, cannibals, savages. . . . He talked a great deal of such


marvel-ridden stuff to the Phaeacians, unsophisticated people that they were. 

(I.3) 

Thus this sort of buffoonery, which Lucian also propagates, is attributed to the 

epic figure of Odysseus. Lucian’s travelogue is rooted in an epic tradition; it 

comprises a genre of exaggerated deeds and stories. Lucian qualifies his use of 

falsehoods by associating with wily Odysseus: Lucian, like the artist Homer and 

the character Odysseus, makes use of these tales as part of a narrative strategy 

rather than a historical or truthful account. Before Odysseus begins to recount 

his tales to Alcinuous he says, “My Lord Alcinuous, what could be finer than 

listening to a singer of tales such as Demodocus, with a voice like a god’s . . . 

But you have a mind to draw out of me my pain and sorrow . . . where shall I 

begin, where end my story” (Homer, 1961: 9.5-15)? The juxtaposition of Odysseus 

with Demodocus, a storyteller, reminds the audience that the stories of the 

bondage of winds, one-eyed men and Sirens are simply tales. Homer as the 

narrator distances his voice from Odysseus’ fanciful stories. Lucian’s 

association with Odysseus further emphasizes his own text’s fiction. This 

association also speaks to the structure of Lucian’s narrative for, like Books IX- 

XII narrated by Odysseus, A True Story offers a first-person retrospective. 

Discussion in the prologue of Odysseus’ narrative strategy also serves as a 

critique and warning to Lucian’s readers not to behave like “the Phaeacians, 

unsophisticated people that they were,” but to be active, critical readers. 

Lucian employs a number of Homeric allusions to further his narrative 

journey. That Homer’s epic tales appear alongside allusions to Herodotus’ 

Histories and other references to historical and geographic texts forces the 

reader to consider the truthfulness of what is recorded. Lucian succinctly mimics 

the hyperbole of epic and exaggerates it in narrative. For instance, Lucian 

weathers a storm which takes on epic proportions and lasts seventy-nine days. 

The inclusion of epic flourishes and allusions to the Odyssey seem exaggerated 

given that the pastiche is primarily one of travel writing, and not epic. However, 

by referencing Homer, Lucian may also be poking fun at various historians’ and 

geographers’ uses of Homer as a reliable and truthful source. If Pomponius Mela 

can refer to Homer’s Iliad to suggest that the known world is surrounded by 

water 1 and Strabo can give Homer the title and privilege of “founder of the 

science of geography,” 2 then Lucian’s inclusion of such Homeric locations as 

Calypso’s island has a precedent. That Lucian chooses those elements of Homer 

that seem the most fanciful or allegorical again forces the reader to question 

retrospectively the works of scholars who have accepted the historical and 

geographic descriptions in Homer as the truth. 

In addition to informing Lucian’s narrative style, the use of Homer as a figure 

in the text Homer’s appearance in the text allows for playful commentary on 

1 Hom. Il 21.196-97, From Mela. 3.45 

2 From Strabo, I.2


Lucian’s contemporaries. Though much of Lucian’s parody involves the examination 

of archaic texts such as Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, Lucian’s intertextual 

play must be placed within a distinct culture and society. As the narrative voice 

of travelogue, Lucian engages Homer in a dialogue: “I asked him (among other 

questions) about his birthplace, mentioning that this was still an unresolved 

enigma, hotly debated in our world” (Lucian, 2004: II.20). According to Jones, 

“the subject of Homer’s birthplace was not merely a learned controversy, but 

involved the prestige of many cities. Aelius Aristides, for example, vaunts the 

claims of Smyrna, which are also represented on its coins” (1986: 55). Lucian 

pokes fun at the municipal efforts invested in the project of discovering Homer’s 

biographical information. Lucian engages one of his oldest literary predecessors 

in order to discuss his own society’s preoccupations. The comic aspect of this 

episode then is the ease with which Lucian obtains the information which many 

men in his own society have sought at considerable cost; Lucian ends the controversy 

simply by asking Homer. 

After Homer answers that “every last one [of his verses] was original,” 

Lucian again alludes to his contemporaries: “that was when I began to condemn 

the grammarians in the school of Zenodotus and Aristarchus for purveying nonsense” 

(2004: II.20). While he harkens back hundreds of years, “Lucian is not 

lost in the past. Epigrammatists of the imperial period still joke about ‘the puppies 

of Zonodotus’ and ‘the bookworms of Aristarchos’ tribe.’ The business of 

interpolating Homer continued to flourish” (Jones, 1986: 55). Homer serves 

Lucian’s narrative strategy and becomes a medium through which Lucian can 

compel his readers to think critically about their own society. Lucian satirizes 

Greek and Roman societies’ preoccupation with uncovering the past and also 

seems to comment on the laborious process of historical research. 

Lucian’s narrative, free from the constraints of time and reality, not only 

uses Homeric references to allude to contemporary figures, but also has Homeric 

figures interact with people from Greek society and history. In Book II, when 

the narrator relates a contest held on the Isle of the Blessed, he says, “Carus, 

Heracles’ successor, won the wrestling, defeating Odysseus for the crown. The 

boxing was a tie. The contestants were Aerius the Egyptian, who is buried in 

Corinth, and Epeius” (Lucian, 2004: II.22). According to Jones’ scholarship, 

Carus was not a figure from lore but a real athlete who was victorious at the 

Olympics in 212 B.C., and Aerius too was most likely “a real person, probably 

of the imperial period” (Jones, 1986: 55). Lucian makes use of the epic tradition 

of relating contests and even figures made famous in the epic form to add 

popular knowledge to his work. The combination of elements known from epic 

literature with those known from popular culture and history serves to remind 

the reader of different classifications of knowledge and truth. 

In his work on historiography, How to Write History, Lucian comments on 

his society’s acceptance of Homer’s texts as truth because Homer was removed 

from the time period about which he composed his verses: “Homer indeed in 

general tended towards the mythical in his account of Achilles, yet some nowa-


days are inclined to believe him; they cite as important evidence of his truthfulness 

the single fact that he did not write about him during his lifetime: they 

cannot find any motive for lying” (Lucian, 1959: 57). Lucian’s integration of 

Homeric events rooted in the distant past with more recent history into a completely 

false account of a contest warns of the dangers of believing all that is 

recounted about the past. 

Even though Lucian employs Homeric and epic literary allusion to propel 

the narrative journey, the narrative voice Lucian adopts in A True Story is overwhelmingly 

allusive to Herodotus’ narrative style. In Herodotus or Aetion, 

Lucian says of Herodotus: 

I wish it were possible to imitate Herodotus’s other qualities too. I do not 

mean all and everyone (this would be too much to pray for) but just one of 

them—whether the beauty of his diction, the careful arrangement of his 

words, the aptness of his native Ionic, his extraordinary power of thought, or 

countless jewels which he has wrought into a unity beyond hope of imitation. 

But where you and I and everyone else can imitate him is in what he did with 

his composition. (Lucian, 1959: 143) 

Lucian’s comment in How to Write History is rendered facetious and ironic 

when viewed in conjunction with A True Story, in which Lucian aptly imitates 

and satirizes Herodotus’ style and content. Lucian may employ epic allusion to 

travel from one place to the next but certainly references Herodotus in the ethnographic 

elements of his travel narrative. Lucian alludes to Herodotus’ 

description of Indian society in his description of ampelomixia, which Sidwell 

describes as a word invented by Lucian and translates as “sexual intercourse 

with vines” (in Lucian, 2004: 434). He also alludes to Homer in describing the 

sexual practices on the Isle of the Blessed: “as for love-making, their ideas are 

as follows. They copulate openly, with everyone looking on, both women and 

men, without feeling the least bit ashamed of it” (Lucian, 2004: II.19). 

Herodotus records, “All the Indian tribes I have mentioned copulate in the open 

like cattle . . . their semen is not white like other peoples” (Herodotus, 1954: 

3.101). Some of the vine-women, exotic barbarians that they are, speak Indian 

while those on the Isle of the Blessed, although predominantly Greek, adopt the 

sexual practices Herodotus reserves for barbarians. Lucian satirizes the 

predilection of ethnographic accounts to focus on the sexual mores of foreign 

and barbarian peoples as well as on the exoticism of India. After weathering the 

epic storm in Book I, Lucian comes across a bronze plaque: 

A plaque made of bronze, with an inscription in Greek letters, though faint 

and worn, which said, ‘This was the furthest point Heracles and Dionysus 

reached.’ There were also two footprints on the nearby rocks, one about a 

hundred feet long, and the other smaller. It is my view that the smaller 

belonged to Dionysus and the other to Heracles. (Lucian, 2004: I.7)


This passage directly alludes to Herodotus: “Scythia has a few remarkable features 

. . . a footprint left by Heracles. The natives show this to visitors . . . it is 

like a man’s footprint, but it is three feet long” (Herodotus, 1954: 4.82). The 

presence of an inscription accompanying the footprints and Lucian’s insertion of 

his own opinion, “It is my view,” seems to mock Herodotus’ process of 

discerning the truth in his Histories. In Herodotus, and thus in Lucian’s text, the 

footprints appear to be marked as tourist attractions rather than part of an 

archaeological record. Lucian criticizes Herodotus’ acceptance of the footprints 

as belonging to Heracles simply because the natives say so, as well as the 

reader’s acceptance that these absurdly large footprints exist because Herodotus 

records it based on hearsay. 

In addition to references to his Histories, Herodotus appears as a figure in 

Lucian’s narrative journey. After leaving the Isle of the Blessed, Lucian docks 

on an island on which people are tortured for sins committed during their lives: 

“The biggest punishments of all were being undergone by those who had told 

lies of any sort during their lives or had written down things which were not 

true. Among them were Ctesias of Cnidus, Herodotus and many others” (Lucian, 

2004: II.31). Herodotus is represented as being the perpetrator of lies because he 

presented them as history. Lucian places himself in opposition to Herodotus 

when he responds with, “As I looked at them, I had good hope for the future, 

since I knew very well that I had never told an untruth” (II.32). Lucian seems to 

view his own lies as categorically different from Herodotus’. Lucian, even 

though he writes fiction, never portrays it as truth. For this same reason the criticisms 

of Herodotus are harsher and more biting than those of Homer. Homer’s 

historical and geographic basis is more self-consciously subjective than Herodotus,’ 

for Herodotus overtly states that his work is one of history: “Herodotus of 

Halicarnassus here displays his inquiry, so that human achievements may not be 

forgotten in time, and great and marvelous deeds . . . may not be without glory” 

(Herodotus, 1954: 1.1). What accounts for the distinction in treatment between 

Homer and Herodotus seems to be the author’s intent. Figures throughout Classical 

history such as Pomponius Mela and Strabo have credited the works of 

Homer as offering concrete truths about historical and geographical elements. 

However, Lucian suggests that these truths have been projected onto Homer’s 

work. Homer, unlike Herodotus, does not explicitly state that his works are historical 

and therefore Homer remains less accountable. Herodotus deserves his 

punishment on the island for purposefully masquerading his fiction as truthful 

history. 

While Lucian criticizes Homer’s accuracy and status as a historian and 

punishes Herodotus’ lies and those who accept his works as history rather than 

fiction, his allusions to and inclusion of Aristophanes into A True Story are overwhelmingly 

complementary. In addition to visiting places from Homer’s Odyssey 

and Herodotus’ Histories, Lucian encounters Aristophanes’ utopian Cloudcuckooville 

while en route to the moon. He writes of Aristophanes and Cloudcuckooville, 

“For my part, I thought the poet Aristophanes, a wise and truthful


man whose portrait of the place had been wrongly disbelieved” (Lucian, 2004: 

I.29). Lucian does not object to the description of Cloudcuckooville from 

Aristophanes’ travel narrative, The Birds, because, like Lucian’s text, it is part of 

a fictive narrative. In How to Write History, Lucian explicitly emphasizes this 

separation between history and poetry: 

Such writers seem unaware that history has aims and rules different from 

poetry and poems. In the case of the latter, liberty is absolute and there is one 

law—the will of the poet. Inspired and possessed by the Muses as he is, even 

if he wants to harness winged horses to a chariot, even if he sets others to run 

over water or the top of the corn. (Lucian, 1959: 13) 

Those who “wrongly disbelieved” are discredited because Aristophanes’ perception 

of Cloudcuckooville cannot be false, as it is an imaginative landscape of his 

own creative design (Lucian, 2004: I.9). Aristophanes has complete creative 

license and thus Cloudcuckooville can be represented in Lucian’s text as a truly 

fictive place. In contrast to Lucian’s quick acceptance of Aristophanes as a wise 

and truthful man, Lucian goes so far as to correct Homer’s description of the 

Island of Dreams when he says, “no one else has ever written an account of it, 

apart from Homer, that is, who was not entirely accurate” (II.32). Even though 

the common element that Homer, Herodotus and Aristophanes share is travel 

narrative, Lucian connects them with history in How to Write History: 

That, then, is the sort of man the historian should be: fearless, incorruptible, 

free, a friend of free expression and the truth, intent, as the comic poet says, 

on calling a fig a fig, a trough a trough, giving nothing to hatred or to 

friendship, sparing no one, showing neither pity nor shame. . . . (Lucian, 

1959: 57) 

Aristophanes is Lucian’s “comic poet,” who through deliberate fiction, seems to 

create a kind of aesthetic and imaginative truth. Because the utopian society created 

in The Birds does not purport to be true, Aristophanes, while a fiction 

writer, “is the sort of man the historian should be.” 

Lucian’s focus on the classical texts of Homer, Herodotus, and Aristophanes 

in order to comment on knowledge, fiction and truth can also be seen in 

other parts of A True History. Part of Lucian’s allusive journey involves lampoons 

of various contemporary philosophical schools. Just as Lucian uses parody 

of Homer and Herodotus to compel his readers to question the fantastic 

elements of their respective texts, so too does Lucian parody some of the 

impractical elements of contemporary philosophy. One of the lands that Lucian 

passes on his journey is Lamptown (Lynchopolis) about which he says, “we 

found not a single human being, but lots of lamps running around . . . they all 

had names as well, just like human beings” (Lucian, 2004: I.29). Lucian satirizes 

the Neo-Pythagorean belief that “souls wandered in the air in the form of 

sparks” (Hall, 1981: 203). As has been suggested by Hall, “The attitude towards


philosophy which Lucian most consistently expresses, both when he is in a 

humorous vein and when he adopts a more serious tone . . . is that philosophy is 

only of use in so far as it contributes towards the practical conduct of life” (Hall, 

173). The aspect of the Neo-Pythagorean thought that Lucian parodies is outside 

the realm of the practical. 

Lucian’s treatment of philosophy is very much tied to his concern with 

modes of knowledge and the truth. In the prologue to A True Story Lucian says, 

“When I have come across all of these writers, I have not blamed the men for 

telling lies. I could see that even those who profess to be philosophers are now 

habituated to this” (Lucian, 2004: I.3). Lucian finds the same fault in philosophy 

and in history: the depiction of fiction as the truth. Philosophers should be concerned 

with wisdom, ethics, and aesthetics. Lamptown is thus better suited for a 

truly fictive narrative like Lucian’s than for a philosophical one. According to 

Jones, “the prominence of philosophy in [Lucian’s] work is due not only to his 

reading . . . but also to the fact that the society and the culture of the day 

swarmed with philosophers as much as with sophists” (Jones, 1986: 32). When 

Lucian says he does not blame writers for telling lies because even philosophers 

have become habituated to it, he does not exculpate writers but rather 

facetiously attacks philosophy. 

Lucian’s primary concern, like a true rhetorician from the second 

Sophistic, is with monumental texts and figures such as Homer, Herodotus, and 

Aristophanes, from earlier periods of Greek history. This distinction between 

history, writing that is perceived as history, and fiction elucidates Lucian’s 

disparate treatment of Homer, Herodotus and Aristophanes in A True Story. 

Under the artifice of a travel narrative, Lucian creates a hierarchy of truths 

among those works that claim to offer the truth but in reality convey fictive 

narratives such as Herodotus’ Histories; those works which have been perceived 

as the truth though do not claim to offer it, such as Homer’s Odyssey; and works 

of pure fiction, such as Aristophanes’ The Birds, which are rightfully accepted 

as fiction. Lucian reproduces many elements from the works which he satirizes 

into his own narrative: from Homer he takes his narrative progression and 

movement within the text such as the storms, days of sailing and so on; from 

Herodotus, he takes his fanciful ethnographic accounts; and from Aristophanes, 

Lucian takes his tone of parody and satire. Through this mimetic process Lucian 

warns his readers of the danger and futility of viewing fictive narratives as 

truthful ones. 

Lucian’s parody and mimetic quality make readers of A True Story aware 

of the processes by which they obtain knowledge. Lucian satirizes those whose 

words have been accepted as the truth and offers a view of earlier literature that 

emphasizes its aesthetic value. Homer, Herodotus, and Aristophanes present 

knowledge in the form of fictive narratives but to read their words as absolute 

and concrete truth is to take away from their true aesthetic value. Lucian’s stress 

on the aesthetic quality of these texts that have wrongfully been categorized as 

containing historical and geographic truths is manifested in their incorporation


into A True Story’s truly fictive narrative. Through the use of allusion and satire, 

Lucian puts his reader’s intellect “into more alert condition for the labour which 

is to follow” (I.1): questioning and criticizing the truths deduced from literature. 

References 

Hall, Jennifer. 1981. Lucian’s Satire. New York: Arno Press. 

Herodotus. 1954. The Histories. Trans. Aubrey De Selincourt. Penguin Books. 

Homer. 1990. The Iliad. Trans. Robert Fagles. Penguin Books. 

Homer. 1961. The Odyssey. Trans. Robert Fitzgerald. Anchor Books. 

Jones, C. P. 1986. Culture and Society in Lucian. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. 

Lucian. 1959. Lucian VI. Trans. K. Kilburn. Harvard University Press. 

Lucian. 2004. Chattering Courtesans and Other Sardonic Sketches. Trans. Keith Sidwell. 

Penguin Books. 

Swain, Simon. 1996. Hellenism and Empire. Oxford: Claredon Press.

118 

Laocoon. Vatican, Italy, ca. first century B.C.E. 

Original photograph by Scott Nelson. Used by permission.

Augustine’s Imitatio Dei— 

A Rejection of Self Sacrifice 

Zohar Atkins 

The question of whether Christians have a conception of selfhood, or whether 

selfhood, by definition, stands as a function of God’s or Christ’s identity, foolishly 

assumes a solipsistic, remote, even God-transcending self, rather than an 

integrated, joyous, divinely inspired one. The critics and skeptics who proffer 

this seemingly innocent query attack Christianity by cornering it into an 

either/or proposition. Either the self stands as the sole entity of individuality: 

strong, eternal, independent, and holy in its own right, or it revolves around 

God, and is therefore no self at all, but a parasite that draws entirely from the 

non-self. The self must be inactive and alone or active but without substance. 

These cynics ironically illustrate a selfless self and selfish non-self. This is an 

ill-suited algorithm for a full understanding of Christian metaphysics. St. 

Augustine argues against this misconception in his Confessions, and defends the 

Christian view of the self, or in spiritual terms, the soul, as a malleable, engaged, 

reflective, tender, glorious, and unique vessel housing, but not confining, God. 

The soul, the essential engine of the self, and the divine spark that manifests 

God’s simultaneous plurality and singularity, bears enormous consequence 

in the Christian tradition. It is the fighting grounds for the dual tensions that 

dominate Augustine’s Confessions: the heavenly and the earthly, the eternal and 

the ephemeral, the external and the internal, love and fear, volunteerism and 

obligation, and free will and determinism. Augustine resolves these frictions by 

synthesizing them into an exemplary incarnation of the ideal good, the physical 

realm of the particulars. He fuses the issues of God’s timelessness existing in 

time and God’s transcendence involving itself in the material world to construct 

a ladder that links the inner-soul, the self, to the cosmic soul, God, and names 

this intermediary Christ. Augustine blends the manifold forms with their encompassed 

unity to draw attention to the self as a kindling of the two. His self is a 

function of God, but it has a life of its own. Augustine refutes the cynical question 

by exposing its sinful pride and attempting to put forth a self that walks 

humbly before God (Conf. 21). This self merits applause, but more significantly, 

mercy and forgiveness. 

Augustine opens his Confessions by quoting a psalm from Scripture: “Can 

any praise be worthy of the Lord’s majesty” (Conf. 1.1)? He poses a general 

question using words that are not his to draw attention to God, rather than to 

himself. He emphasizes both the wonder of God and the possibility of accessing 

119

120 Zohar Atkins 

Him. He shows how prayer serves the purpose of the self, rather than God’s 

needs. Thus, praising God is to some extent a selfish act, which is why Augustine 

takes great pains to construct the right prayer. About to embark on a written 

journey, which could be considered a extended prayer, he carefully asks God for 

collective inspiration rather than personal sustenance, because God “thwarts the 

proud” (Conf. 1.1). But, his opening concedes the impossibility of denying the 

self altogether, for his second and third sentences, also taken from the Psalms, 

subtly inform us of Augustine’s conscious, particular, and personal yoking of 

holy verses to package his self, even if it rings as a byproduct of the Divine. 

Augustine soon breaks into the first person with tremendous strength in a command: 

“Grant me, Lord, to understand and understand whether a man is first to 

pray to you for help or to praise you, and whether he must know you before he 

can call you to his aid” (Conf. 1.1). Augustine frames his question in universal 

terms, but it is nonetheless his question. 

In the second chapter, he unreservedly begs, “How shall I call upon my 

God for aid, when the call I make is for my Lord to come into myself” (Conf. 

1.2)? He personalizes God with the possessive “my,” and he is the subject of the 

sentence, with God as his object. This heavy, presumptuous, and unabashed 

revealing of the self still seeks God’s approval, permission, and validation. 

Augustine asks how he can come closer to God, but realizes that the act of 

asking such a question is an answer in itself. Augustine’s model of humility, of 

prayer that begs aid to pray, of self that desires the indwelling of God, uses the 

unassuming and unthreatening act of questioning to highlight his self. His going 

back and forth between ignorance and Socratic knowledge of that ignorance 

aver his robust self-sanctification. By hailing his inferiority to and his 

dependence upon God, he equips himself and his subsequent words with an 

efficacy comparable to God’s voice, namely, the internal revelation of the soul. 

Augustine welcomes God into his soul, realizing that the capacity even to 

suggest such a statement stems from God’s already residing there. 

When Augustine declares, “I should be null and void and could not exist at 

all, if you, my God, were not in me” (Conf. 1961: 1.2), he proves this point. But 

rather than critiquing the essentiality of his existence as a function of God and 

not of himself, he celebrates the divinity that he contains. He offers the notion of 

a sacred self to his readers as a way of inducing them to embrace their selves 

through the acceptance of God. Augustine merges Neo-Platonism with Stoicism 

to craft a new self, predicated on its cleaving to God, linked to other selves 

through the cosmopolitan act of creation, and possessing the power to extend 

itself to the heavens. 1 Augustine’s concluding question/answer, “No single thing 

contains the whole of you” (Conf. 1.2), argues for the plurality of the image of 

1 Book 1.2 “For you, my God, have said that you fill haven and earth, but I cannot go 

beyond the bounds of heaven and earth so that you may leave them to come to me.” 

Augustine argues that he cannot transcend as long as he exists materially, but by living 

with God in his soul he can reach God.

Augustine’s Imitatio Dei—A Rejection of Self Sacrifice 121 

God. He allusively trumpets the biblical verse, “let us make mankind in our 

image” (Gen. 1.26) to fashion a world, a “footstool” that must look upward, but 

also to synthesize the pieces of God possessed in different selves, to reconstruct 

and relive the vision of the logos 2 who once died for their sins. 

Augustine seeks to know God, not in a biblical, corporeal sense but in a 

platonic attempt to unite himself with God through total love and abandonment 

of the non-godly. In his search for the ever-present Being that shapes his own 

existence, Augustine runs through a series of contradictions: “You are the most 

hidden from us and yet the most present amongst us, the most beautiful and yet 

the most strong, ever enduring and yet we cannot comprehend you . . . 

unchangeable and yet you change all things. . .” (Conf. 1.4). These paradoxical 

pairings affirm our inability to know God, and as Boethius later asserts, to know 

God is to become God. Augustine internalizes God, and feels God as the juice of 

his soul; he has no need to explain God philosophically, only to proclaim, “You 

are my God, my Life, my holy Delight” (Conf. 23). Though may rely on God to 

legitimize his existence, and to stabilize his self, this daring, exalting, trinityevoking 

pronouncement seems to affirm God. By calling God “my life” Augustine 

is, in effect, calling his life “God.” Splendidly celebrating God’s infinity 

through the limited self, Augustine connects through quill and parchment to a 

boundless Being. Humbling himself again, he continues, “Is this enough to say 

of you? Can any man say enough when he speaks of you” (Conf. 1.1)? Reverting 

back to the universal, he demonstrates the availability of the self, of the 

particular, of the wedding of temporal and eternal within all people. 

Augustine aims to tackle the problem of sin in the world by levying 

responsibility wholly on humanity. He disgracefully though necessarily points 

out, “I sinned, O Lord my God, creator and arbiter of all natural things, but 

arbiter only, not creator, of sin. I sinned” (Conf. 1.10). Yet, even this admission 

to sin, despite relegating it to the sphere of the unnatural, confirms the power of 

the self to avert its gaze from the good, to abandon itself. More importantly, by 

confessing to his sins, Augustine acclaims himself both for changing and for 

knowing his wrongdoings. When Augustine recounts, “I had not yet fallen in 

love, but I was in love with the idea of it. . .I badly wanted to love something,” 

and later, “I cared for nothing but to love and be loved” (Conf. 2.2), as his 

motive for sinning, he distinguishes “the clear light of true love from the murk 

of lust” (Conf. 2.2), and demonstrates the importance of God at the center or the 

soul. Without God, the self-centered evildoer cannot survive. Nonetheless, 

Augustine’s repentance, a process that he describes in his Confessions, offers 

hope to the sinner, and shows him the mercy of God that will embrace him and 

allow him to reenter his self if he returns to goodness. For Augustine, even the 

2 John 1.1-1.14 describes the logos as the word of God, the means by which the world 

came into being, and the means by which the world will be saved. The word is Jesus. “In 

the beginning was the word. . .”

122 Zohar Atkins 

vilest person contains a divine spark, 3 and therefore a self, but his evil deeds 

result from an ignorance of God and a denial of the self. In the same way that 

Augustine prays to know God, the sinner sins because he knows not God. Thus, 

Augustine beseeches God not only to reveal His face so that he may know Him 

better, but so he can keep far from sin. Augustine struggles to conquer his 

concupiscent urges by channeling them towards his ultimate desire, to be as one 

not with a strumpet, but rather with God Himself. 

In Augustine’s biographical narrative, focusing not on his physical aging 

and his worldly accomplishments, but on his spiritual journey, we glimpse the 

magnificence of his individual soul, even if it is simply a function of God’s 

identity. Augustine surely recognizes the strong assertion of selfhood required to 

write, and acknowledges that no other self could produce a replica of his written 

works, his life, and his soul. In Book VI, upon witnessing Ambrose pouring 

silently over a Scriptural text, he stands mesmerized by the power of the written 

word, the fixity of the otherwise open, seeing Scripture as an embodiment of the 

Divine, in the same way that he calls Christ “the voice of your [God’s] truth” 

(Conf. 6.10). In Book XII, he offers an exegetical interpretation of the creation 

story, justifying his elucidation with one of the most poignant verifications of 

the self within a divine framework: 

If we both see that what you say is true and also that what I say is true, what 

enables us to recognize this truth? I do not see it in you, nor do you see it in 

me, but we both see it in the immutable Truth which is above our minds. 

Therefore, since there is no dispute between us about the light which shines 

from the Lord our God, why do we argue about the thoughts of a fellow man, 

which we cannot see as clearly as we see the immutable Truth? Even if 

Moses were to appear to us and say ‘This is what I meant,” we should not see 

his thoughts but would simply believe his word. (Conf. 12.25) 

Augustine sees the corpus of God as necessary, because it allows people to 

grab hold of the immaterial, but he also enunciates the importance of remembering 

that behind each personal connection and construal remains a singular 

objective, Truth. Augustine mentions God significantly more than he pays pen 

service to Jesus, because he has, in a certain sense, replaced Jesus, and his Confessions 

have, to an extent, supplanted the Bible. Though Augustine still adamantly 

vouches for the Son of God and the Biblical brainchild of God, he places 

profound importance on the internal revelation of the self, the individual’s 

mechanism for bonding with the divine. Augustine’s self has room to coexist 

with God, to nourish itself with its mother’s milk of God’s love. Augustine 

privileges the plurality of paths, joyfully promulgating the singular ends 

betokened them if they embrace God—namely, eternal salvation. Building upon 

the Socratic command of “know thyself,” Augustine sees self-knowledge and 

3 

Book 7.12, pp. 148. Augustine writes, “But if they are deprived of all good, they will 

not exist at all.”

Augustine’s Imitatio Dei—A Rejection of Self Sacrifice 123 

God-knowledge as one and the same. The universality of God, of the self, of the 

soul, still preserves individuality, because it tenders a model of existence that is 

simultaneously external and internal, innately given and difficultly attained, 

unified and differentiated. Augustine’s self becomes the highest rung of existence, 

and the foundation for all substance. 

References 

Saint Augustine. 1961. Confessions. Enbland: Penguin Books. 

The Holy Bible. 2006. New York: American Bible Society.

124 

The Charioteer of Delphi. Delphi, Greece, 474 B.C.E. 

Original photograph by Scott Nelson. Used by permission.

The Inner World of the Pastoral: 

Virgilian Allusion in Sannazaro’s 

First Piscatorial Eclogue 

Francesco Pucci 

Pastoral verse is historically a hybrid genre: in any pastoral poetry the reader 

finds monologue, dialogue, elegy, satire, myth, and more. Out of this hybrid 

nature follows an intrinsic allusiveness: in seeking to bring together many 

genres and forms, the poet must incorporate specific sources from those 

traditions either directly or indirectly. The distinguishing characteristic of all 

pastoral poetry, however, is its creation of an “other” world. This provides the 

opportunity for allusion and even necessitates it—in order to construct an 

imaginary pastoral landscape, the author must draw from either the real world or 

the literary world. The former produces allegory while the latter produces 

allusion. The hybrid nature and the penchant for allusion present in the pastoral 

are evident in the works of the father of the genre, Theocritus (316-260 B.C.). 

His Idylls have been the most influential of ancient Greek bucolic poetry. The 

title is derived from the Greek word “,” meaning “picture” or “scene.” This 

cycle of poems consists of individual vignettes that span genre and style. Each 

idyll is, in turn, an amalgamation of literary forms and an allusive invocation of 

more ancient works. 

If Theocritus invented the pastoral poem, then Virgil confirmed and deepened 

it. Virgil’s Bucolica were his first masterpieces (ca. 39 B.C.E.), in which he 

draws heavily from Theocritus in theme and form while adding to the tradition. 

Pastoral poetry is often said to have both an inner and outer world. For Virgil, 

the outer world was Rome in the last days of the Republic. Virgil expertly 

causes the “other” world of his Eclogues to turn outward on Rome; thus the 

poetry becomes a source of great allegory and satire. Virgil’s pastoral world is 

not a utopia; rather, his shepherds face political conflict, exile, and perturbations 

in the natural world. The inner world of the Bucolica, however, is not only the 

literal landscape surrounding Corydon and Thyrsis but also the inner world of 

poetry. Each eclogue examines the creation of poetry, the ideal qualities of 

pastoral verse and even the shortcomings of the genre—in this sense, Virgil’s 

Eclogues are self-reflective. It is Virgil’s development of these inner and outer 

worlds and the ease with which he moves between them that is perhaps his great 

contribution to pastoral poetry. 

125

126 Francesco Pucci 

By the end of the fifteenth century, Renaissance neo-Latin poets were 

attracted to the pastoral genre—especially to Virgil’s pastoral poetry—on 

account of its hybrid nature, its natural allusiveness, and its self-reference. The 

Neapolitan humanist Jacopo Sannazaro (A.D. 1458-1530) contributed perhaps 

the most to the pastoral genre since Virgil; in fact, nineteenth-century pastoralists 

often regarded Theocritus, Virgil, and Sannazaro as the archetypal trinity of 

bucolic verse (Smith, 2002). The pursuit of neo-Latin poetry in the Southern 

Italian Renaissance was largely archeological: poets used composition and the 

Latin language as a means of understanding ancient history and literature. 

Pastoral poetry, as a hybrid and naturally allusive genre, was conducive to this 

end, as it allowed for Renaissance authors to experiment in different themes, 

styles, and forms. It would be Virgil’s development of inner and outer worlds 

that would most appeal to Sannazaro for its subtlety and irony, which could 

ultimately break down the rigid historical, allegorical, tropological, and 

anagogical medieval interpretations of pastoral poetry. Virgil’s Bucolica not 

only served as a source of imitatio in Sannazaro’s Piscatoriae but also as a 

source of profound allusion; just as Virgil’s pastoral poetry is an examination of 

poetry and the genre itself, Sannazaro’s allusions to Virgil examine the ancient 

genre in an attempt to understand it in his own time. 

Jacopo Sannazaro was born into a wealthy Neapolitan family that encouraged 

his scholarship from an early age—he was a life-long humanist born at the 

peak of the Southern Italian Renaissance. By the late 1480s, he had already 

composed many short Latin and vernacular poems and had been admitted into 

the literary circle at the Academia Antoniana. Upon his admission, he chose the 

name Actius Syncerius for himself, alluding both to his endearing personality (accius) 

and to the seashore (acta) that would become the setting of the 

Piscatoriae (Kennedy, 1983). His studies in Latin were an experiment in the 

pastoral. Most contemporary neo-Latinists used Latin composition as a proving 

ground to perfect their knowledge of the language and then composed in the 

vernacular in order to expand upon the classical tradition. Sannazaro, however, 

took the reverse approach. His first major pastoral masterpiece, Arcadia (1504), 

consisted of poems and prose in the vernacular Italian. Through them, 

Sannazaro wished to show that the classical world can be revealed through the 

vernacular and that the Latin language can enrich modern literature. 

The Piscatoriae (1526), however, represents a formal rebirth of the Latin 

pastoral tradition—through them Sannazaro hoped to revive the ancient Latin 

bucolic tradition to actively understand the poetry of antiquity. The Piscatorial 

Eclogues are palpably Virgilian: they are a cycle of five eclogues in classical 

diction and dactylic hexameter that adapt dramatic situations from the Bucolica. 

Unlike earlier Renaissance pastoralists who used bucolic poetry as a forum for 

satire, Sannazaro, like Virgil, is self-reflective as well as ironic (Heninger, 1961: 

254). The “other” world of Sannazaro’s Piscatoriae, however, was uniquely his 

own. The poems are set in his beloved Bay of Naples rather than Arcadia. Fishermen 

have replaced shepherds, and dolphins and tuna are a substitute for sheep

The Inner World of the Pastoral 127 

and kids. These alterations, however, are only adaptations that change the surface 

of the poetry, not the substance. Again, Virgil uses the pastoral to investigate 

the nature of poetry and the genre, and Sannazaro uses the pastoral to 

investtigate that same, now ancient, poetry. As in the classical tradition, the first 

Piscatoria is programmatic, and an investigation of its themes and forms will 

reveal much about the whole cycle of poetry. 

Sannazaro’s first Ecloga is a dirge, a poem in which Lycidas—here a fisherman 

rather than a shepherd—mourns the loss of his beloved Phyllis, closely 

paralleling Virgil’s fifth Bucolica, in which Mopsus laments the death of Daphnis. 

Such lamentations were a central topos of the pastoral, so Sannazaro’s 

choice of mourning as a theme is firmly set in the pastoral tradition. Like 

Virgil’s Eclogue V, Sannazaro’s involves a dialogue between two poets; again, 

this is squarely within the Virgilian pastoral tradition—a dialogue provides a 

dialectic method to reach a consensus on the defining characteristics of pastoral 

verse, a question that particularly interested Sannazaro. Even though the first 

Piscatoria is closest in theme to Virgil’s fifth Ecloga, the first allusion to 

Virgilian poetry in the Piscatorial Eclogues is to Eclogue I (Mustard, 1914). 

Mirabar, vicina, Mycon, per litora nuper / Dum vagor (Sannazaro 1.1-2) 

Mirabar quid maesta deos Amarylli vocares (Virgil 1.1.36) 

Sannazaro begins his poem with an address by Lycidas to a fellow fisherman: “I 

was wondering, Mycon. . .why the raven should be calling after me more than 

his wont, and why the dripping wildfowl. . .were filling the gloomy rocks with 

their mournful cries.” Lycidas is surveying his piscatorial world, noticing that all 

of nature is mourning the death of Phyllis. Similarly, in Virgil, Mopsus observes 

nature mourning the loss of the shepherd Tityrus. Phyllis has died, but Tityrus 

has been exiled; in both cases, the state of the pastoral landscape reflects the 

voice of the narrator. Sannazaro’s allusion invokes the tremendous sense of the 

loss of Tityrus and highlights the opposition between the pastoral and the nonpastoral 

world, setting up themes of opposition and nostalgia that are present in 

works by both Virgil and Sannazaro. 

In the same opening, Sannazaro also uses Virgil to legitimize his new 

marine setting. The litora of the first line is rarely mentioned in Virgil’s poetry, 

but his second eclogue provides one such instance: “nuper me in litore vidi, cum 

placidum ventis staret mare” (Virgil 2.25-26). In this passage, the shepherd 

Corydon describes his abundance and the perfection of his current idyllic 

setting, which includes the vision of a calm sea as he stands on the shore. Thus, 

even in Virgil’s world, the seashore could be complementary to the pastoral 

world. Sannazaro later expands on Corydon’s vision in the Piscatoriae. 

The remainder of Lycidas’ introduction (lines 1-11) serves two purposes: 

to introduce the reader to the new setting of the pastoral and to move from 

nature’s sorrow to Lycidas’ particular sorrow. Regarding the first goal, 

Sannazaro describes the seashore in detail: ravens and waterfowl provide the


aural imagery ubiquitous in Virgil’s Eclogues, and dolphins play in the sea just 

as lambs play in the pastures of Virgil. Sannazaro even includes bucolic 

elements that would ordinarily be out of place in the littoral world. For example, 

the fisherman gather tuna ad pabula (“for the fodder”) (Piscatoria 1.2), with 

pabula implying the food of ruminants rather than fish. The fact that the feeding 

of tuna is compared to the grazing of cows or sheep undoubtedly intends to 

bring a variety of Virgilian descriptives into the Piscatoriae. Virgil uses a verb 

meaning “to graze” in close proximity to piscatorial words such as “fish” and 

“shore” in his first Eclogue. Sannazaro exploits this propinquity—with another 

link provided by the coincidental adjective “leves”—to reveal a very calculated 

use of the world “pabula” (Sannazaro 1.1, cf. Virgil 1.59-60). Again, Sannazaro 

wishes to legitimize his new piscatorial setting. Regarding the second goal, 

Lycidas gradually moves from observing sadness in nature to acknowledging his 

own sadness. This represents a movement from “outer” to “inner” in a way 

typically Virgilian. This emphasis on the inner voice of the poet-fisherman is 

one of the key ways in which Sannazaro attempts to echo Virgil. 

After Lycidas acknowledges his own sadness, the fisherman Mycon enters 

to respond—he is primarily a foil or a prod, helping Lycidas to produce his 

song. This sort of character is frequent in Virgil, and it serves a similar purpose 

in Sannazaro. Namely, Mycon will serve as a voice for Sannazaro to ask the 

question, “What is ancient pastoral?” Mycon poses this question over several 

lines by encouraging the beauty and power of Lycidas’ “inner” song. Mycon’s 

role reaches its climax in line 31: (Incipe, quandoquidem molles tibi litus 

harenas / sternit et insani poserurunt murmura fluctus” (“Begin! seeing that the 

shore spreads soft sands for you and raging waves put down their murmuring,” 

Sannazaro 1.31-32). 

Lycidas is equal to the challenge: Immo haec quae cineri nuper properata 

parabam / carmina (Sannazaro 1.33-34). Virgil’s shepherd Moeris begins a 

small praise of Varus with similar words in the ninth Eclogue (“Immo haec quae 

Varo,” Buccolica 9.26). However, Moeris ends his speech in saying that he is 

not worthy to praise Varus, that he “cackles like a goose” (Nash, 1996). Perhaps 

through this allusion, Sannazaro intended to make clear his humility in 

attempting to mimic the master-pastoralist. Nonetheless, Virgil would most 

likely approve of Lycidas’ song. Most importantly, his lament of Phyllis 

explores the self-reflection present in Virgil—in at least some allegorical sense, 

mourning the loss of Phyllis is mourning the loss of the classical pastoral tradition, 

and the encomium to Phyllis is an attempt to regain it. 

Sannazaro makes this intention clearest through the voice of Lycidas: te 

sequar in medios mutato corpore fluctus (Sannazaro 1.49). The secondary meaning 

of this phrase is obvious: Sannazaro wishes to pursue the Virgilian tradition 

boldly—“with a changed body” clearly indicates both the continuity between 

Virgil and Sannazaro, but also refers to the new littoral interpretation of the pastoral. 

The dirge that follows continues the analogy. Lycidas pines for Phyllis, 

who is no longer present, and he wonders “where I might finally seek you”

The Inner World of the Pastoral 129 

(“qua te tandem regione requiram. . .,” Sannazaro 1.69). The literary interpretation 

of this phrase implies that Phyllis represents the pastoral poetry of antiquity; 

Sannazaro is unsure of how to go about discovering the fullness of Virgil’s 

ancient verses. In every way, just like Virgil’s Eclogues, Sannazaro’s first 

Piscatoriae is a poem about poetry—the “inner” world gains prominence. 

Allusion in the Piscatoriae supports this self-reflection. In Virgil’s fifth 

Eclogue, the primary model for Sannazaro’s first, Menalcus honors the deceased 

Daphnis: “Sis bonus o felixque tuis. En quattor aras / Ecce duas tibi, Daphni, 

duas altaria Phoebo” (Virgil 5.65-66). For Virgil, Daphnis was the archetypal 

pastoral character, present in Theocritus. To honor him is to place his own 

poetry in the pastoral tradition. In some loose sense, Phyllis represents Virgilian 

pastoralism, and so it is appropriate that Sannazaro honor her in a similar way: 

“Nos tibi, no liquidis septem pro fluctibus aras / Ponemus septemque tibi de 

more quotannis / Monstra maris magni vitulos mactabimus hirtos” (Sannazaro 

1.79-81). To set up seven altars in the new marine pastoral setting is both to 

respect Virgil’s masterpiece and to set Sannazaro’s own work in Virgilian 

tradition. 

There is one important difference, however, between Sannazaro’s first Piscatoria 

and its Virgilian counterpart. Virgil’s Eclogue V ends on an optimistic 

note—Mopsus praises Menalcus’s song as worthy of Daphnis and offers him a 

gilded shepherd’s crook (Virgil 5.81-84, 88-90). Sannazaro’s first Piscatoria, 

however, ends on an imperfect note. Mycon praises Lycidas’s songs as pleasant, 

but Lycidas is skeptical: “Exhaustae maduere genae; dolor aspice siccas / 

obduxit fauces quatit et singultibus imum / pectus anhelantemque animam vox 

aegra relinquit” (Sannazaro 1.116-118). As a poem about pastoral poetry, 

Lycidas’ weakness represents Sannazaro’s own skepticism about the caliber of 

his re-creation of Virgilian bucolic verse. This doubt is, in part, symptomatic of 

the age. The beginning of the Renaissance was full of optimism—all scholars 

placed their hopes in the renewal of classical literature. However, by the peak of 

the Southern Italian Renaissance, competing commentaries, faulty transmission 

of manuscripts, and the inability of many authors to understand classical text 

fully through compositional imitation rendered most scholars cynical. Sannazaro’s 

accomplishments in his Piscatoriae are significant, but the doubtful end 

of his first poem recognizes that he has still not equaled or fully understood the 

poetry of Virgil, the great pastoralist. 

References 

Heninger, S. K., Jr. 1961. “The Renaissance Perversion of Pastoral,” Journal of the History 

of Ideas, 22:2. 

Kennedy, William J. 1983. Jacopo Sannazaro and the Uses of Pastoral. England: University 

Press of New England: Hanover and London.


Mustard, Wilfred P., ed. 1914. The Piscatory Eclogues of Jacopo Sannazaro. Baltimore: 

The Johns Hopkins Press. 

Sannazaro, Jacopo. 1996. Piscatoriae. Trans. Ralph Nash. Michigan: Wayne State University 

Press. 

Smith, Nicholas D. 2002. Jacopo Sannazaro’s Eclogae Piscatoriae and the Pastoral 

Debate in Eigtheenth-Century England. North Carolina: University of North Carolina 

Press. 

Virgil. 1977. Eclogues. Trans. Robert Coleman. New York: Cambridge University Press.

Writing, Translation, and Re-Constellation: 

The Authorial Authority of Gayatri Spivak 

and Matthew Arnold 

Morgan Palmer 

In her essay “A Literary Representation of the Subaltern: A Woman’s Text 

From the Third World,” Gayatri Spivak comments on the role of authorial 

authority. She writes that, “in the mis-en-scène where the text persistently 

rehearses itself, writer and reader are both upstaged. . . . In that scene of writing, 

the authority of the author, however seductively down-to-earth, must be content 

to stand in the wings” (Spivak, 1988: 268). Spivak introduces the concepts of 

theater and staging because she does not believe that an author should act like a 

director by imposing her own critical interpretation on her writing. When an 

author provides criticism of her own text, she threatens to curtail the 

interpretations of others. Although Spivak acknowledges that it is tempting to 

grant unquestionable interpretive power to the author, she refuses to do so 

herself. Instead she claims that the text itself should be the authority and 

provides her own reading of Mahasweta Devi’s short story “Stanadayini” or 

“Breast-Giver.” Thus, Spivak presents a conception of authorial influence that 

allows for different interpretations of literature, and places the text in the 

position of sole authority. 

Similarly, Matthew Arnold addresses the roles of the translator, the critic, 

and the text in his lectures “On Translating Homer.” Like Spivak, he believes 

that the original text should be the ultimate authority. Since it is impossible to 

determine for certain the original intents of the Homeric poets, there is no 

danger that authorial influence will limit interpretations of the text. On the other 

hand, the authority of the original comes into conflict with the power of the 

translator. Arnold points out some of the problems that translators face as they 

struggle to reconcile their own styles with the original Homer. He also addresses 

the role of the critic, and claims that the only people fit to judge the quality of a 

translation are those who can read the original Ancient Greek. Therefore, Arnold 

sees himself as fit to evaluate translations of Homer, and claims that no 

translator has preserved the quality of the original. 

Spivak begins her essay by defining her own perspective on “Stanadayini.” 

She identifies her role as both a historian and a teacher of literature. Spivak 

writes that while the former must attempt to place the subaltern in a new subjectposition, 

the latter must explain those subject-positions (Spivak, 1988: 241). In 

131

132 Morgan Palmer 

addition, both the historian and the teacher must “unravel” or deconstruct a text 

in order to place it in a new literary and historical context. Thus, Spivak plans to 

reinterpret Mahasweta Devi’s work by deconstructing it and by examining 

closely the relationship of the subaltern to the text. 

Indeed, Spivak gives herself the authority to reconstruct texts according to 

her own scholarly views. She asserts that, “[t]he teacher of literature, because of 

her institutional subject-position, can and must “reconstellate” the text to draw 

out its use. She can and must wrench it out of its proper context and put it within 

alien arguments” (Spivak, 1988: 241). Thus Spivak defines her own subjectposition 

as “institutional,” or as that of a scholar affiliated with an academic 

community. Furthermore, she says that her subject-position not only allows her, 

but obligates her to reinterpret literature. Spivak’s repetition of the verbs “can” 

and “must” underscores her strong assertion of critical authority. She believes 

not only that she has the power to advance her own interpretations of “Stanadayini,” 

but also that it is her duty to do so. In addition, her use of the word “reconstellate” 

is significant. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the verb 

constellate comes from the Latin word constellare, and the word for star (stella) 

is at its root. Constellate means to set up a series of stars into a group, and it can 

also relate to the construction of a network of ideas. Thus by re-constellating the 

text, Spivak rearranges it in accordance with her own interpretation, which is 

“alien” to that of the author. She believes that in order to view the text critically, 

she must not stick to Mahasweta Devi’s interpretation, but should exercise her 

own scholarly authority in order to re-interpret it. 

Similarly, Matthew Arnold defines his subject-position as a scholar of 

Ancient Greek, and consequently validates his criticisms of other translations. 

First, he proposes that a good translation of Homer should create the general 

effect of the original (Arnold, 1883: 143). Then, he explains how to measure the 

success of a translation. 

No one can tell him [the translator] how Homer affected the Greeks; but there 

are those who can tell him how Homer affects them. These are scholars; who 

possess, at the same time with knowledge of Greek, adequate poetical taste 

and feeling. No translation will seem to them of much worth compared to the 

original; but they alone can say whether the translation produces more or less 

the same effect upon them as the original. (Arnold, 1883: 143-144) 

Arnold assigns great importance to the subject-position of the scholar who can 

read both Greek and English. According to Arnold, Greek scholars are the only 

people who can judge the quality of a translation, and the translator should 

respect their authority. By saying that the Greek scholar is the only person fit to 

asses the quality of a translation, Arnold adds to his own credibility. His definition 

of his own subject-position as someone who can read Ancient Greek is 

similar to Spivak’s comments about the authority of the critic. Both feel that 

their subject-positions as scholars allow them to critique the writing and literary 

interpretations of others.

Writing, Translation, and Re-Constellation 133 

After defining his subject-position, Arnold proceeds to explain his own 

conception of a successful translation of Homer. He believes it is crucial that 

he [the translator] is eminently rapid; that he is eminently plain and direct, 

both in the evolution of his thoughts and in the expression of it, that is, both 

in his syntax and in his words; that he is eminently plain and direct in the 

substance of his thought, that is, in his matter and ideas; and finally that he is 

eminently noble. (Arnold, 1883: 149). 

Arnold deconstructs his own notion of a good Homeric translation and defines 

four criteria that determine the success of a translator. His clear assertion of the 

four qualities necessary for a smooth translation is similar to Spivak’s “re-constellation” 

of literature according to her own ideas. Arnold believes that his 

authority as a Greek scholar gives his four criteria a certain credibility. 

However, since it is impossible to know the original intents of the Homeric 

poets, there is no authorial authority that threatens to challenge Arnold’s 

opinions. Consequently , his subject-position is different than Spivak’s because 

he does not have to address the ideas of the original authors, but must instead 

define his interprettations in relation to other critics and translators. 

For example, Arnold believes that Chapman takes too many liberties with 

the text and that he ruins his translation by setting it within the bounds of his 

own cultural mores. He remarks, “One might say that the minds of the Elizabethan 

translators were too active; that they could not forbear importing so much 

of their own, and this of a most peculiar and Elizabethan character, into their 

original, that they effected the character of the original itself” (Arnold, 1883: 

163). Arnold criticizes translators who are too quick to impose their own perspectives 

and interpretations on Homer. He believes that if an author becomes 

too concerned with his own ideas, his translation might be unfaithful to the original 

text. Thus Arnold does not believe that the subject-position of the translator 

includes freedom to alter the style of the text significantly. He goes on to cite a 

dedication to Prince Henry, which removes the text from its position as an 

ancient Greek epic, and makes it more Elizabethan (Arnold, 1883: 163). Furthermore, 

he believes that Chapman does not respect Homer’s “plainness and directness 

of ideas” and thus fails as a translator (Arnold, 1883: 149). Arnold does not 

think that Homer should be re-situated in a different historical context, but 

instead believes that a translator should be faithful to the original text. 

Therefore, the translator should not shape the text, but the text should shape the 

translation. 

At the same time, Arnold is aware that it can be difficult for a translator to 

recognize his own subject-position in relation to the text. He comments that 

[i]t may be said of that union of the translator with his original, which alone 

can produce a good translation, that it takes place when the mist that stands 

between them—the mist of alien modes of thinking, speaking, and feeling on


the translator’s part—‘defecates to a pure transparency,’ and disappears. 

(Arnold, 1883: 150) 

Arnold highlights the problem of distance between the translator and the text. 

The mist represents the translator’s own cultural background, which can blind 

him and prevent him from translating accurately. Thus Arnold sets up a contrast 

between murky blindness and transparency. Chapman and other translators are 

unsuccessful because they are blind to the influences of their own cultures upon 

their work. Arnold believes that in order to write a good translation, a scholar 

must simultaneously separate himself from the text and draw closer to it. Specifically, 

he must put aside his own personal reactions to the text and must examine 

closely the authority of the text itself. 

In addition, Arnold believes that the translator must make every effort to 

remain true to the original work. Arnold comments that some translations have 

very strong qualities, 

but even in these points they have none of them precisely the same kind of 

merit as Homer, and therefore the new translator, even if he can imitate them 

in their good points, will still not satisfy his judge, the scholar, who asks him 

for Homer and Homer’s kind of merit, or, at least, for as much of them as it is 

possible to give. (Arnold, 1883: 201) 

Arnold suggests that the translator’s task is to create an English version of 

Homer that has as much merit as the original Greet text. He asserts that no translation 

has achieved that lofty goal, and therefore translators must find new ways 

to experiment with English renderings of the text (Arnold, 1883: 201). These 

experimentations should work towards recapturing the original feel of the text, 

and should not be based on the work of other translators. Since Arnold believes 

that there is no translation of Homer that is completely successful, he grants 

authority to the original text. Any attempts to re-constellate Homer in the 

English language will fail because the translators are not Homeric poets. 

Therefore, they cannot possibly reduplicate the brilliance of the original, but 

must strive to render it as successfully as possible. 

Spivak also believes that the text should be the ultimate authority and 

rejects Mahasweta Devi’s own interpretation of “Stanadayini.” In a section 

entitled “The Author’s Own Reading: A Subject Position” she explains why she 

wants to deconstruct and re-constellate the author’s own views. 

The traffic between the historian and the writer that I have been proposing 

could not be justified if one devoted oneself to this reading. In order that 

Mahasweta’s parable be disclosed, what must be excluded from the story is 

precisely the attempt to represent the subaltern as such. I will therefore take 

the risk of putting to one side that all too neat reading, and unravel the texts 

to pick up the threads of the excluded attempt. (Spivak, 1988: 244-245)

Writing, Translation, and Re-Constellation 135 

Spivak believes that Mahasweta Devi’s interpretation is inadequate because it 

ignores the status of the subaltern. Mahasweta Devi sees the nurse Jashoda as a 

symbol of post-imperialist India; Jashoda’s breast cancer represents the fate that 

the country will suffer if people neglect its development (Spivak, 1988: 244). In 

order to construct a reading that fits with her subject-positions as historian and 

teacher of literature, Spivak must reject the author’s own opinion. Furthermore, 

she underscores that Mahasweta Devi’s interpretation is a subject-position. The 

indefinite article emphasizes that the author’s subject-position is not the only 

one and that other interpretations of the text are possible. 

In order to make her argument more credible, Spivak attempts to deconstruct 

the subject-position of the reader. She claims that although educated people 

realize that external factors influence interpretation, “when, however, it 

comes to their own presuppositions about the ‘natural’ way to read literature, 

they cannot admit that this might be a construction as well, that this subjectposition 

might also be assigned” (Spivak, 1988: 246). Spivak suggests that a 

constructed notion of the correct way to read literature might influence literary 

critics, so that they adhere to certain interpretations unknowingly. The idea that 

the subject-position of such a reader is “assigned” suggests that societal forces 

can determine the opinions of a critic. In this case, critics who believe that they 

should respect the authority of the author might refuse to challenge Mahasweta 

Devi’s interpretation. According to Spivak, such an interpretation would also be 

congruent with the nationalist forces that draw attention to the state and ignore 

the subaltern. Her comments are similar to Matthew Arnold’s ideas about the 

“mist” of cultural assumptions that influence a translator’s interpretation of 

Homer. 

After Spivak begins her deconstructionist reading of “Stanadayini,” she 

makes a bold assertion of her own authority as a critic. When she writes, “Any 

reader nervous about the fact that Mahasweta Devi has probably not read much 

of the material critically illuminated by her text should stop here,” she defines 

the audience that she hopes to reach (Spivak, 1988: 247). She stages her interpretation 

for those who are not overly concerned with authorial authority 

because their own readings of the story are incongruent with Mahasweta Devi’s. 

Therefore, Spivak makes her presence as a literary critic clear and paves the way 

for her own Marxist and feminist interpretations of the text. 

Both Spivak and Arnold believe that the text has a greater authority than 

the writers, readers, and translators who interpret it. Spivak justifies her re-constellation 

of Mahasweta Devi’s story when she comments that the text always 

“upstages” the writer. The concept of upstaging suggests that the text must be 

the center of attention, and is similar to Arnold’s idea that English translations 

cannot live up to the original Homer. According to Arnold, those who can read 

ancient Greek are the only ones who can determine if a translator has attempted 

to upstage the original text by imposing his own perspective on it. Since Arnold 

can read both English and Ancient Greek, he sees himself as qualified to judge 

translations of Homer. He believes that the translator’s goal is to render the text


in a different language without changing any of the qualities that define it. Furthermore, 

the translator must resist the urge to let his own cultural background 

and opinions about the text influence his translation. Arnold does not want the 

translator to stray from the original text because he believes that any changes 

would only compromise the quality of the work. At the same time, it is impossible 

to adhere to the Greek text completely, and therefore the original will 

always upstage attempts at translation. On the other hand, Spivak believes that 

the text upstages the author and reader precisely because it inspires multiple 

interpretations. Thus, she empowers literary critics to re-constellate the text in 

accordance with their own views and emphasizes that the author’s subject-position 

is only one of many. The text is the ultimate authority for both Spivak and 

Arnold, but Spivak encourages radical re-interpretation while Arnold argues for 

faithful adherence to the original. 

References 

Arnold, Matthew. 1883. “On Translating Homer.” On the Study of Celtic 

Literature and On Translating Homer. New York: Macmillan. 

Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. 1988. “A Literary Representation of the Subaltern: A 

Woman’s Text From the Third World.” In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics. 

New York: Routledge.

About the Contributors 

Zohar Atkins, class of 2010, is a concentrator in Classics and in Judaic Studies. 

Grainne O’Hara Belluomo, class of 2007, is a concentrator in Classics and in 

Comparative Literature. 

Stephanie Bernhard, class of 2009, is a concentrator in English and in Classics. 

Elizabeth Broadwin, class of 2007, is a concentrator in Classics. 

Laura Brown-Lavooie, class of 2010, is undecided. 

Peter Catsimpiris, class of 2008, is a concentrator in Classics and in Philosophy. 

Megan Cohen, class of 2007, is a concentrator in Human Biology. 

Hillary Dixler, class of 2008, is a concentrator in English and in Theater Arts. 

Amanda Earl, class of 2007, is a concentrator in Classics. 

Martha Gimbel, class of 2009, is a concentrator in Classics. 

Amy Hall Goins, class of 2007, is a concentrator in History and in Political 

Science. 

Jennifer Grover, class of 2010, is a concentrator in Classics. 

Sarah Grover, class of 2007, is a concentrator in Comparative Literature. 

David Guttmann, class of 2007, is a concentrator in Biochemistry. 

Ariayné Hilliard, class of 2007, is a concentrator in Classics. 

Nicholas Kay, class of 2009, is a concentrator in Classics. 

Mark Morales, class of 2010, is undecided. 

Lindsey Brett Meyers, class of 2009, is a concentrator in Classics and in Comparative 

Literature. 

Scott Nelson, class of 2007, is a concentrator in Classics and in Geology. 

Matthew Nicholson, class of 2007, is a concentrator in Classics.

2 

David Fusaro 

Morgan Palmer, class of 2007, is a concentrator in Classics and in Comparative 

Literature. 

Pook Panyarachun, class of 2010, is a concentrator in Visual Arts. 

Maia Peck, class of 2009, is a concentrator in the History of Art and Architecture. 

Francesco Pucci, class of 2008, is a concentrator in Classics and in Neuroscience. 

Jonah Rosenberg, class of 2009, is a concentrator in Classics. 

Janelle Sing, class of 2007, is a concentrator in Visual Arts. 

Kam Sripada, class of 2009, is a concentrator in Neuroscience. 

Curtis Steyers, class of 2007, is a concentrator in Classics. 

Eleanor Thomas, class of 2007, is a concentrator in Classics and in Neuroscience.

Volume 19, 2007 - Brown University

You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles

Delete template?

Save as template?