This chapter contains sections titled: Epigraphs Twice‐Told Tales Darwin to the Rescue? Back to the Subject Contradiction? The Problem of Obsessive Repetition Reading Again—Again The End of the Beginning.

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Bardic Performance and Oral Tradition in HomerRuth ScodelAs homeric epic represents epic performance, song is distinct from the narrative performances of characters who are not bards. Song, despite its traditional content, does not depend on oral tradition for its transmission, and singers, although members of the audience may request or object to a particular song, do not adapt their narratives for individual audiences. Much recent Homeric scholarship, (...) however, minimizes differences between bardic and other narratives, treating Odysseus as epic poet and Demodocus or Phemius as narrators like Odysseus. This scholarship is not misguided or wrong. The epic poet identifies with his hero, and when the narrator’s point of view is close to that of Achilles or Odysseus, the distinction between character and poet may blur.1 Narratologically, there are many useful similarities between bardic and other narratives, and naturally scholars try to exploit these.2 Still, in emphasizing these aspects of Homeric poetics, we can too easily forget others. This danger is particularly strong where scholars have deliberately ignored or deconstructed the distinctions Homer maintains in order to make visible those elements in the Homeric, literary context that represent possible historical relationships among performers, their traditions, and their audiences.3 These distinctions, precisely because [End Page 171] they are fragile, define the special authority Homeric epic claims for itself, and when we too rapidly demystify them, we fail to see how the epic sees itself.To be sure, both bardic performances and other narratives, when fully successful, enchant their audiences, who listen in silence. The idealized bards of the epic are preeminently skilled at such enchantment, so that Eumaeus compares Odysseus to a bard because his tales are so enthralling (17.518–21). Odysseus is compared to a bard three times, twice by characters—Eumaeus, and Alcinous at 11.362–76—and once by the poet, at 21.406–9, when Odysseus bends the bow with the ease of a bard who strings a lyre. Thematically, the simile develops the contrast between Odysseus and bard, since the feast is about to conclude with death instead of entertainment.4 Similarly, the authority of Alcinous’ praise of Odysseus as bardlike, because not “tricky” (, 11.364), is perhaps undercut by Athena’s later praise of him as precisely the contrary, and by his many elaborate lies (13.291–92).5 In any case, although Odysseus is indeed bardlike in his narrative skill, the comparisons themselves indicate that such similarity between bards and other storytellers cannot be taken for granted.There are two important differences between bardic and other narratives. First, in the world depicted in the epic, “ordinary” narrative derives its authority either from personal experience or from human report, whereas epic performers are informed by the Muse, and do not depend on ordinary sources. This divine source for bardic knowledge results in only one significant practical difference between bardic narratives and those of less authoritative characters: the bard’s freedom to report the doings of the gods. Nonetheless, the Homeric narrator insists on it. Second, narrative outside the frame of epic performance normally either answers a request for information or serves an explicit paradigmatic function. It is occasional and specifically motivated, serving a specific communicative need within the social relationship of speaker and hearer(s). Bardic narrative, by contrast, ordinarily does not seek to manipulate its audience; it is essentially disinterested. Although the bard’s song may have special significance for the audience, or some members of the audience, on a particular occasion, the singer does not intend these effects. Audiences without a personal connection to the bard’s [End Page 172] subject simply enjoy the song, although hearers who feel personally touched may be deeply moved; in contrast, since nonbardic narrative takes place within an affective relationship, even a hearer with no connection to the events may express pity.These two distinctions are closely related. Narrative as the epic represents it may be seen as a continuum. At one extreme lie bardic performances, based on information provided by the Muses, potentially meaningful far beyond their immediate contexts, but with the details of content not specific to particular occasions, even if the subject of the song has been... (shrink)

Helen's self-disparagement is an anomaly in epic diction, and this is especially true of those instances where she refers to herself as "dog" and "dog-face." This essay attempts to show that Helen's dog-language, in that it remains in conflict with other features of her characterization, has some generic significance for epic, helping to establish the superiority of epic performance over competing performance types which treated her differently. The metaphoric use of χύων and its derivatives has not been well understood: the (...) scholiast's gloss "shameless" is no more than a functional equivalent, and interpretations linking it primarily with reckless courage or with sexual misconduct are not well founded. An analysis of contexts suggests that "dog" as an insult has a fundamental association with physical greed and even cannibalism. The implied notion of avarice, however, may also be extended into other behavioral spheres, including those of fighting and sexuality. A character may also be called "dog" for reviling or slandering another unjustly. These strongly negative implications are out of keeping with the character given to Helen in epic. For where tragedy and lyric generally represent Helen as blameworthy, Homeric epic tends to absolve her of blame and to make her personally as well as physically attractive. The unexpected application of dog-terms to her may therefore be read as an allusion to other versions of the Troy legend which were more hostile to Helen. Negative portrayals of Helen are likely to have figured in the ancient kitharodic narrative which was a precursor of both tragedy and lyric; these are perhaps the unfriendly "songs" mentioned by Helen at Il. 6.357. By referring to such defamatory narratives through the dog-insult and through other instances of Helen's self-blame, the epic performer marks his own more favorable treatment as a generic preference. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:American Journal of Philology 122.3 (2001) 429-432 [Access article in PDF] John Miles Foley. Homer's Traditional Art. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999. xviii + 363 pp. Bibl., indexes. Cloth, $48.50. With Homer's Traditional Art, which may well prove his most popular book, Foley attempts a synthesis of his theory of traditional oral aesthetics, which has been under construction for a decade, since Traditional Oral Epic (Berkeley 1990) (...) and Immanent Art (Bloomington 1991). Because substantial passages in the book have lived past lives, and the fresh material adapts arguments made elsewhere, we are looking here for a statement that gives coherence and new force to a program of study; one that cultivates, rather than breaks, new theoretical ground. That this is Foley's aim is confirmed by a description of his audience: "a wide spectrum of readers, from the advanced undergraduate to the professional scholar" (xv), representing "the greatest number and variety of readers" possible (317 n. 1). Foley offers three main justifications for this new synthesis. First is the doctrine of the Homeric sêma (a key sign open to interpretation), which Foley ingeniously cites as evidence for a Greek concept similar to that of the South Slavic rec=, or "word." This he takes from Parry's interviews with Yugoslav epic singers in which they proclaim the term's application to various levels of traditional discourse, from the formula to the proverb to larger narrative patterns. The second--if I read the book's stylistic motives correctly--is a new "Homeric" technique in scholarly prose. Homer's Traditonal Art is a rhetorical juggernaut that creates inevitable momentum by frequently signaling the progress of Foley's argument, often rewording parts of the theory, and, as if to demonstrate in prose the referential power of Homer's "traditional register" of speech, offering some sêmata of his own (5-7): six "proverbs" of his own coining that encapsulate the main findings of his previous studies (e.g., "Oral tradition works like language, only more so"). These recur steadily throughout, often in closing paragraphs or summing up evidence, and are lightly varied according to context, but always point back to larger critical vistas. Third is the début of the apparatus fabulosus, or running cues to the "traditional referentiality" of a passage; here some lines from Odyssey 23 (reproduced 254-55; cf. the similar printing of the Old English poem Deor, 275). This is an attempt to approximate an "original" experience of a traditional text in performance, though Foley has no illusions about its perfection. Again, the effort requires that he supply conventions of his own (introduced in chapter 7), which he promises to refine for future "editions" on traditional principles.The book is laid out in four large sections, subdivided into an introduction, eight main chapters, an afterword on Old English poetics, two appendices, a large [End Page 429] apparatus of notes, and a rich bibliography (with few serious omissions, such as Manetti's Theories of the Sign in Classical Antiquity [Bloomington 1993]), a good general index (including scholars cited), and index locorum. If this does not sound like a work for a general readership, that is because Foley has expressly sought to divide his voice in two: the main discussion was to be plainly worded and clearly laid out; the scholarly audience to be addressed in the notes. On the whole, this technique works well, only occasionally failing one side or the other. The editors made the strange and regrettable decision of omitting non-Greek works from the index locorum, so that you have to check all entries in the general index for discussions of key passages in Beowulf, Deor, the many recorded South Slavic epics discussed, and so on. Greek traditional phrases are indexed in translation, so that for a discussion of (e.g.) chlôron deos, you need to know how Foley happens to translate it. The Pennsylvania State University Press has atoned for such lapses by producing a handsome volume, printed on good paper and bound in signatures with linen thread, a delight to hold. (Teachers will want... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Transformative Change in Western Thought: A History of Metamorphosis from Homer to Hollywood eds. by Ingo Gildenhard and Andrew ZissosBenjamin Eldon StevensIngo Gildenhard and Andrew Zissos, eds. Transformative Change in Western Thought: A History of Metamorphosis from Homer to Hollywood. Oxford: Legenda, 2013. xv + 522 pp. Cloth, $89.50.This volume represents a wide range of approaches to the topic of “metamorphosis.” The topic is obviously quite large; in (...) other hands it could be thought somewhat nebulous. To the credit of the contributors and the editors, although there are some attempts at definition, these are not developed for their own sake but are clearly focused on particular texts and contexts. As a result, the volume is exciting, enjoyable as well as serious, and therefore not only suggestive for future research but also set to be useful in teaching. I would happily assign relevant portions of it in courses on classical traditions and receptions. Whether in the classroom or elsewhere, it deserves to reach a large audience.The “volume narrates an alternative history of European culture that brings into view evolved and evolving continuities as well as sedimentations and ruptures” (xi–xii). To say that the essays do not exactly constitute a “history” would be to quibble: the twelve chapters as such do cover a great span of time, while a narrative frame is provided in the four introductory essays (one general, the other three divided amongst the parts). The editors anticipate that “the results are anything but conclusive and the coverage necessarily selective.” But this is a virtue: approaching its general topic via particular close studies, “this book will intrigue readers from various backgrounds to think further” about a wide range of questions indeed.In what follows I seek to give an impression of each chapter’s argument on its own terms and in some relation to the volume’s purpose. For reasons of space I do not direct much attention to the introductions, which, however, should be recognized not only as substantial historical surveys but also as successful evocations of how a study of “transformative change” in Western culture well serves to raise fascinating questions. [End Page 492]Part one focuses on “Antiquity and Archetypes.” In their own chapter, the editors argue that “Medea... is the first, and by far the most prominent, human agent of transformation” in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (89). Further, “the human metamorphic involves a series of steps that must be carefully performed... this amounts to a veritable ‘technology of transformation’ entailing special skills and knowledge.” Ovid’s Medea thus represents a change in genre, a metapoetic change as much as a change in metamorphosis itself. The editors conclude by emphasizing this “overall reading of the episode as an elaborate allegory of poetic competition” (123) which depends on “Medea’s special status as the metaliterary champion of a rival poetic vision” (122).Sonia Macrì develops a similar argument about discourse, seeking “key coordinates in ancient thought to do with the distinction, but also the porous boundaries and interfaces, between animate and inanimate nature and diverse kinds of knowledge, from the folkloristic to the scientific” (133). Macrì argues that, for example, “ancient lore about the lynx and its precious stone interrelates the world of nature... and the world of myth: various types of speculation... relate the peculiarities of the animal, its urine, and its fossilized end-product to the human sphere” (139). Macrì concludes with a point about discourse that is intriguingly similar to that made in the previous chapter: Ovid’s “myth-historical narrative of how our world came into being simultaneously draws on and trumps the discourses of natural history and paradoxography” (147).Questions of discourse and genre are raised as well by Manuel Baumbach, who argues that the figure of Proteus is a symbol “that involves poetic inspiration and textual production as much as textual reception” (153) and that ultimately assumes “the role of ‘generic memory’ (Gattungsgedächtnis) within the Greek epic tradition” (154). Having acquired in Homer “his self-reflective significance above all in his narrations,” Proteus “becomes a figure of metapoetic significance” in later authors (161). In Nonnus, Proteus becomes “a Muse of inspiration... (shrink)

In their invocations of the Muses the early epic poets use indifferently verbs meaning ‘tell’, ‘speak of’ and the verb which we normally translate as ‘sing’ When they refer directly to their own performance they may use the non-committalμνήσομαι, or ἐρέω, ἐνισπεῖνbut more often it isάείδω, ἄρχομ ἀείδεινor something of the sort; and they will pray for goodἀοιδήor hope for reward from it. We cannot make a distinction between two styles of performance, one characterized asἀείδειν the other as ἐνέπεινthe Iliad (...) beginsμῆνιν ἄειδε θεάbut later hasἔσπετε νῦν μοι Μοῦσαι;Hesiod moves straight fromχαίρετε τέκνα Διός, δότε δ᾿ ἱμερόεσσαν ἀοιδήνtoεἴπατε δ᾿ ὡς... ταῦτά μοι ἔσπετε Μοῦσαι... καὶ εἴπατε; the author of the Hymn to Pan beginsἔννεπε Μοῦσαand endsἴλαμαι δέ σ᾿ ἀοιδῇ... καὶ σεῖο καὶ ἄλλης μνήσομ᾿ ἀοιδῆς. (shrink)

Challenging recent arguments that the implicit poetics of Homeric epic presents a poetry without rhetoric and a view of bards as independent of the context of performance, this article explores the Phaiakian episode in the Odyssey in an effort to demonstrate that the interactions between Odysseus' tale, the songs of Demodokos, and Homer's treatment of his hero reveal the workings of a rhetorical poetics. The predominance of a rhetorical stance in the poem is closely related to skepticism, the chief (...) cognitive state of agents in the Odyssean world, and to the proto-Machiavellian treatment of aretē as a performative excellence combining practical intelligence, a situational approach to speech, and an appreciation for the relativism of value-traits that link rather than alienate the hero and the bard. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Siren Songs: Gender, Audiences, and Narrators in the OdysseyErwin F. CookLillian Doherty. Siren Songs: Gender, Audiences, and Narrators in the Odyssey. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1995. viii 1 220 pp. Cloth, $37.50.Siren Songs makes a significant contribution to feminist literature on Homer. Most importantly, Doherty is able to show in detail how the very sensibilities that make Homer appealing to the modern reader can seduce the (...) unwary into accepting the poem’s androcentric frame of reference. If her book’s ideological model based on gender and class hierarchy leads to repeated imprecisions and reductionism, this affects its argument in detail, but not in outline.Doherty’s methodology is objectivist, assumes an essentialist definition of the female, and consciously avoids positioning the Odyssey in the context of archaic Greek gender constructions. One place where she at least acknowledges that the Odyssey originated in a specific culture exposes a problem some will have with this book: “It may be objected that my conclusions are hardly surprising given the aristocratic focus of early Greek epic and the patriarchal norms of archaic Greek society. In this context, it may be urged, the surprise is to see lower-class and female characters even this fully represented” (170). She responds that her conclusions refute arguments by Farron and Rose that in giving prominence to female and lower-class characters Homer makes an antiaristocratic statement. This tactic runs the risk of reducing her own efforts to a book-length refutation of a pair of articles.Many Homerists will also be surprised to read that “the production and reception of a narrative text is never a direct act of communication between the author and the external audience but a ‘bracketed’ or mediated communication” (87). Thus, the poem’s external audience is not “composed of living human beings, who have read and judged the epic since its creation, but... a hypothetical audience posited by the epic narrator” (19). Further, no true repetition exists in literature (182–83). These assertions derive from critical approaches to the modern novel, and although true to a certain extent of all literature they are arguably least true of poetry composed in performance using metrical formulae.Chapter 1 surveys scholarship on whether Penelope recognizes Odysseus before the mnesterophonia. Doherty argues that Penelope’s motivation remains obscure because of an accumulation of narrative indeterminacies created by multiple focalization (45–46; though cf. her apparent assumptions on 143). She lauds Felson-Rubin and Winkler for their insistence on regarding Penelope as an agent capable of acting in her own self-interest, and equal to her husband in metis. Yet they ultimately fail to stand outside the poem’s androcentric frame of [End Page 461] reference and to see that Penelope’s excellence is based on traits she shares with males. It thus becomes necessary to establish narrative openings that expose “instabilities within ideology” (52) or permit the reader “to project active and even subversive female subject positions” (63). Narrative redundancies serving to reinforce the androcentric frame must also be acknowledged, however, for opening the text may inadvertently render its androcentric frame more palatable.Chapters 2 and 3 reconstruct the poem’s internal and external audiences. Doherty argues that these audiences included women. Although Eumaeus’ ability to evaluate the beggar’s storytelling ability proves he is no stranger to epic performance, he “must be considered an ‘overhearer’ rather than a member of the regular audience” (72–73). Eumaeus can, however, support a very different view of class relationships in Homer: when Telemachus appears unexpectedly, Eumaeus kisses his eyes and greets him as a father greets a long-absent son, and Telemachus addresses him as atta; Eumaeus is able to buy a slave on his own; and he may have an advisory role at court since he says he used to question people claiming to have seen his master.The Nekuia is central to Doherty’s project in these chapters. Odysseus’ decision to pause after his catalogue of women divides the Nekuia “roughly along gender lines, and draws attention to the fact that the internal audience of Phaeacians is also marked for gender” (67). In her approval of Odysseus’ tale, Arete... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:American Journal of Philology 127.1 (2006) 137-140 [Access article in PDF] Derek Collins. Master of the Game: Competition and Performance in Greek Poetry. Hellenic Studies 7. Washington, D.C.: Center for Hellenic Studies, 2004. Distributed by Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass. xx + 267 pp. Paper, $19.95. Collins states the purpose of his book clearly in the opening paragraph of his introduction (ix): "to offer a detailed examination of the (...) competitive performance of Greek poetry from the late archaic to the classical period. Its central argument is that the basic response pattern called "capping" is a pervasive competitive performance technique common to tragic and comic stichomythia, dramatic representations of lament, forms of Platonic dialectic and dialogue, the sympotic performance of elegy, skolia and related verse games, as well as the rhapsodic performance of epic." In order to fulfill this ambitious purpose, Collins divides his book into three parts: drama, symposia, and epic. An introduction, two appendices (one on ritual aischrologia and the other a brief survey of comparative typologies), bibliography, and indices complete the volume.Collins focuses on specific elements within these genres: stichomythia in Aeschylus, Aristophanes, Euripides' Cyclops, and Plato's Euthydemus occupy part 1. Part 2 is based on skolia, Aristophanes, and a selection of poets—Xenophanes, Heraclitus, Solon, and Anacreon—who offer a sympotic perspective on rhapsodes and competition. In part 3, Collins' evidence for the competitive and creative nature of rhapsodic performance ranges from scholiasts through Homer, the Certamen, Polybius, and inscriptions. Collins has brought together a very wide range of material, complete with translations, which he discusses in a way that I often found convincing and, even when I did not, found stimulating to consider.Collins bases much of his discussion on capping, enjambement, and word play, specifically riddles and puns. He offers a brief definition of capping, the fundamental concept of his work (ix): when two (or more) speakers or singers perform, "one participant sets a topic or theme in speech or verse to which another responds by varying, punning, riddling, or cleverly modifying that topic or theme." Without giving a detailed definition of enjambement, Collins shows its importance for the speaker who must respond to a line already sung by the first performer and argues that enjambement should be seen as a mark of a singer's creativity, his ability to adapt the material given him by the first singer. Collins applies the terms "pun" and "riddling" somewhat too loosely, I think, to many of the passages from tragedy that he discusses. If we understand a pun to be word play based on a word with more than one meaning or based on two different words that are similar in sound, then I am not certain why the image [End Page 137] of famine as an ally of the Greeks, in the words of Darius (Aeschylus, Persians 490–91) should be considered one (9). And what is riddling about the exchange between Talthybius and the elder coryphaeus (Agamemnon 538–50; pp. 15–16)? These passages seem to me simply to be ambiguous. Collins' discussion of puns and riddles in symposia is more convincing (124–29).Collins' reading of the exchange between Euripides and Aeschylus in Aristophanes' Frogs (1198–1248), in which Aeschylus caps Euripides' prologues with the tag ("he lost his little bottle of oil"), is particularly valuable, because he does not limit himself to one approach or perspective. He shows the many grammatical and metrical subtleties of the exchange, its links to other genres, and the possibly sexual jokes (33–43). We can imagine everyone in the audience finding something to laugh at in this scene.Collins conceives of symposia as occasions for amusement, intellectual discussion, and even for violence, if drinking or teasing get out of hand. He suggests that symposiasts and rhapsodes have more in common than we might imagine if we look only at what the symposiasts say about themselves or at the metrical and philosophical differences between the two kinds of performances (85, 135–46). Whether the antagonism toward rhapsodes expressed by oligarchs at symposia has any... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:FROM SACRIFICIAL VIOLENCE TO RESPONSIBILITY: THE EDUCATION OF MOSES IN EXODUS 2-4 Sandor Goodhart Purdue University When toward the end of his life Moses tried to stave off death, God said to him: "Did I tell you to slay the Egyptian?" (Midrash in Plaut 383) I. Education in Plato and Judaism The word "education", of course, comes from the Latin, educare, meaning "to lead out" or "to bring up," (...) and both its Latinate morphology and the semantic value it assumes in English reflect its peculiar history. To "lead out" implies in the first place leadership, which is to say a relationship between one designated as a "leader" and another (or others) designated as the "led." The notion of leadership also entails a movement through which the leader propels the led, namely from a region designated as "inside," to another designated as "outside." Within the Western context, which is to say, within the Western European historical experience which traces itselfback through the romance language speaking countries to Rome and ultimately to Greece, the primary articulator ofthe notion of education we have inherited is, of course, Plato. Although Plato's Republic is nominally about justice, and even more specifically the "just" state, commentators have long pointed out that it is really about education (see, for example, Havelock). How shall the guardians ofthe state that we shall term "just" be educated?, Plato's interlocutors ask themselves. In this regard, of course, Plato was challenging the educational system already in place at the time at the head of which was Homer and the Homeric epics, and substituting for an older oral culture founded on an elaborate system of mnemonics another founded more decisively upon writing and the alphabet. Some have argued that in place of a aural or Sandor Goodhart1 3 hearing-centered culture Plato was inaugurating a visual or video-centric cultural organization, and much work is currently being done in this area (see, for example, Ong). What was Plato's educational solution? It was an appeal, in short, to the true, to the language of reason, and to the realm of the ontological as the context in which the true could be defined. The true, as the phenomenological tradition has taught us, may be regarded as the separation of that which has being from that which does not have being, that which only appears or seems to be from that which truly is. Reason in this context is the method or modality ofthinking by which such difference or distinction between the true and the false becomes articulated. Education may then be said to be the process by which all of this occurs, by which one learns to separate appearances from reality, the true from the false, the reasonable from the unreasonable, and thereby the process by which one avoids slavery. For at bottom the enemy for Plato remains slavery and the goal remains freedom from its ravages. Plato, for one, defines his program in specific opposition to Greek tragedy, which he takes among the species ofmimesis or of mimetic poesis that he cites to be the worst threat to his program of absolute difference. The tragic poets leave us without an antidote, he tells us, to its irresistible seductions. Even the best of us—by which he would certainly include Socrates, who has been educating these young men about the processes of education—go to the theater, follow the theatrical performance with enthusiasm, beat their breasts along with the players, and finally praise as most worthy those playwrights who most enable this enthusiasm to take place. The distinction between the true and the mimetic, between the true and the imitational or representational, between that which has being and that which only shadows being, is always on the verge of collapsing in this context. And as a consequence the only safe state, Plato tells us, is the one that excludes theatrical performance from its premises. There is no place in the present context to develop any further the complicated relationship Plato has with his predecessors, and I have hinted at this relationship elsewhere (see Goodhart 261). Suffice it to say that Plato remains in this regard the master in Western circles ofall... (shrink)

In this paper I aim to test a general interpretation of television series as narrative epics, in the sense defined by Aristotle’s Poetics and canonised by Renaissance literary theorists.

Film is the supreme medium for mythmaking. The gods and heroes of mythology are both larger than life and deeply human; they teach us about the world, and they tell us a good story. Similarly, our experience of film is both distant and intimate. Cinematic techniques--panning, tracking, zooming, and the other tools in the filmmaker's toolbox--create a world that is unlike reality and yet realistic at the same time. We are passive spectators, but we also have a personal relationship with (...) the images we are seeing. In Cinematic Mythmaking, Irving Singer explores the hidden and overt use of myth in various films and, in general, the philosophical elements of a film's meaning. Mythological themes, Singer writes, perform a crucial role in cinematic art and even philosophy itself. Singer incisively disentangles the strands of different myths in the films he discusses. He finds in Preston Sturges's The Lady Eve that Barbara Stanwyck's character is not just the biblical Eve but a liberated woman of our times; Eliza Doolittle in the filmed versions of Shaw's Pygmalion is not just a statue brought to life but instead a heroic woman who must survive her own dark night of the soul. The protagonist of William Wyler's The Heiress and Anieszka Holland's Washington Square is both suffering Dido and an awakened Amazon. Singer reads Cocteau's films--including La Belle et la Bête, Orphée, and The Testament of Orpheus--as uniquely mythological cinematic poetry. He compares Kubrickean and Homeric epics and analyzes in depth the self-referential mythmaking of Federico Fellini in many of his movies, including 8½. The aesthetic and probing inventiveness in film, Singer shows us, restores and revives for audiences in the twenty-first century myths of creation, of the questing hero, and of ideals--both secular and religious--that have had enormous significance throughout the human search for love and meaning in life. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman WorldsGeorge A. KennedyTeresa Morgan. Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. xviii + 364 pp. Cloth, $64.95. (Cambridge Classical Studies)This book is a study of the evidence for elementary education found in papyri in comparison with what is found in literary sources, especially in descriptions of teaching reading and writing by Quintilian, Plutarch, and his (...) alter ego, Pseudo-Plutarch. Although H.I. Marrou (A History of Education in Antiquity [New York 1956]) and others have cited exercises on papyri, much of the information is scattered and difficult for the nonspecialist, and Morgan performs a valuable service in reviewing it systematically. About four hundred exercises have been found on papyri, dating from the third century before Christ to the Byzantine period. They provide a record of practice in writing and evidence for what was read at an elementary stage in Greco-Roman Egypt. Morgan classifies them into copies of single letters, alphabets, syllabaries, word lists, gnomic sayings (the largest single group), short nongnomic quotations, scholia, grammatical exercises, rhetorical exercises, and other. The nongnomic quotations come chiefly from the Homeric poems (total 58), Euripides (20), and Menander (7). Rhetorical exercises are limited to rather simple narratives of myths, fables, chrias, and incidents from epic, with a very few historical subjects; there is no example of declamation or exercise in argumentation in the papyri.Morgan argues (pp. 71-72) for a "core" curriculum, consisting of methods of learning to read and write, with reading of gnomic sayings and of parts of the Homeric epics, and a "peripheral" curriculum, in which individual teachers experimented with other texts and other types of exercise. Students in Egyptian towns and villages were on the margins of Greek culture, and in many instances Greek was not their native language. Greco-Roman literate education gave them access, at varying social levels, to a world of culture and a route to power. "We can now begin to see how that culture is imparted," she says (103). "It [the education] begins by reducing the pupil to a reciter of nonsense, before feeding him, bit by bit, fragments of cultural information out of context." This is highly [End Page 331] authoritative: the pupil must accept what the teacher says before thinking or articulating anything originally, and this is repeated at every stage of education short of the schools of rhetoric and philosophy. The reference to "him" is necessary, for the papyri provide no evidence for the education of girls, and references to women in the exercises are almost entirely negative in tone.In a chapter entitled "Grammar and the Power of Language" (152-89) Morgan argues persuasively that formal grammar was not used in antiquity as a way to teach Greek to nonnative speakers; it was, instead, an initiation into a slightly higher level of education and taught the student how to recognize, and to a limited extent how to use, "correct" language. She speculates that it also provided a model of the relationship between the grammar of a sentence and what it represents in the world, "such that the grammatical accuracy of a sentence helps to guarantee the truth of the utterance" (188). However that may be, classicists need to understand how pervasive, all over the world, is the use of separate registers of formal language; to be taken seriously, speakers and writers everywhere have needed to employ the appropriate linguistic register as well as a number of other formal conventions (see my recent discussion in Comparative Rhetoric: An Historical and Cross-Cultural Introduction [Oxford 1997] esp. 64-68, 101-5, 125-27, 228).The following chapter, "Rhetoric: Art and Articulation" (190-239), attempts, as Morgan puts it, "to widen a little what we understand as the aims and effects of learning rhetoric" (197). Elementary rhetorical exercises as found in the papyri would not have produced a civic orator: "They teach pupils, most of whom are likely to use their literacy as bureaucratic middleman in a variety of posts, to read and analyse complicated texts, to articulate and pass on information in clear and concise form. The pupils who had learnt this much... (shrink)

The Homeric epics are among the greatest masterpieces of literature, but when they were produced is not known with certainty. Here we apply evolutionary-linguistic phylogenetic statistical methods to differences in Homeric, Modern Greek and ancient Hittite vocabulary items to estimate a date of approximately 710–760 BCE for these great works. Our analysis compared a common set of vocabulary items among the three pairs of languages, recording for each item whether the words in the two languages were cognate (...) – derived from a shared ancestral word – or not. We then used a likelihood-based Markov chain Monte Carlo procedure to estimate the most probable times in years separating these languages given the percentage of words they shared, combined with knowledge of the rates at which different words change. Our date for the epics is in close agreement with historians' and classicists' beliefs derived from historical and archaeological sources. (shrink)

This chapter contains sections titled: A Preliminary Distinction Aesthetics and Philosophy of Art Plato's Problem Aesthetic Properties More Plato and a Little Bit of History A Little More History Hearing with the Inner Ear.

One of the more powerful recurring motifs in theIliadis that of the grief-stricken woman lamenting the death of a hero. As with much else in the Homeric epics, these scenes have a formulaic character; when Briseis laments Patroclus, and Hecuba, Andromache and Helen lament Hector, each is depicted delivering a specialized form of speech, specific to the context of a woman's lament. The narrative depiction of grieving women, as well, is formalized, with specific gestures and recurring images that (...) typify these scenes. One element of this depiction that has largely escaped serious consideration is the comparison of a woman in her initial moment of recognition of the corpse to Aphrodite. In this article, I will argue that the allusion is not merely to her beauty but to the myth of Aphrodite and Adonis, specifically the moment of the goddess’ discovery of the death of her mortal lover. As the earliest surviving explicit reference to Adonis in Greek literature appearsc.600b.c.e., this would require a raising of theterminus ante quemfor the transmission of the Adonis myth from the Near East to the mid eighth century. (shrink)

In antiquity, works of culture, created by the Greek-Roman people, passed centuries, the test of centuries and reached our era. Many samples of European literature, born in the Modern Age, have long been forgotten, and unique works, such as the Homeric epic and the tragedies of Sophocles, have been translated again and again, always bringing spiritual energy and aesthetic pleasure to readers’ hearts. Homer was unique among the poets of that time, and indeed the supposed author of the Iliad (...) and the Odyssey must undoubtedly be one of the world's greatest literary artists. The two epics formed the basis of Greek education and culture throughout the classical era and laid the foundation of human education up until the time of the Roman Empire and the spread of Christianity so this is proof that Homer is also one of the most influential authors in the broadest sense. The article reveals the ideological and artistic features of the ancient Greek poet Homer’s poems “Iliad” and “Odyssey”. The authors of this article analyze the thematic, ideological, and artistic features of these epic works. The methodological basis of the work is the principle of historicism, which contributes to the objective study and evaluation of literary phenomena in the process of evolutionary development. The scientific article uses a traditional set of analysis methods: typological, systemic, and comparative. (shrink)

When assessing Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) and its impact on company performance there may be an informational asymmetry caused by differences in Familiarity with the firm assessed. This study uses participants' ratings of six large UK retailers to establish the direct relationships between the CSR components of Economic, Legal, Ethical, and Discretionary, and the firm performance dimensions of Reputation, Trust, and Customer Satisfaction, then explores whether Familiarity mediates the relationships between the CSR and the performance dimensions. The findings show CSR (...) Economic, Legal, and Discretionary are associated with firm Reputation and Trust, but not Customer Satisfaction, and that CSR Ethical is associated with Reputation, Trust, and Customer Satisfaction. Familiarity acts as a mediator between CSR Economic, Legal and Discretionary, and Trust and Customer Satisfaction. Familiarity also mediates the relationship between CSR Discretionary and Reputation. The link between CSR Economic and Legal, and Customer Satisfaction only emerges in mediation analysis. Managerial implications suggest increasing familiarity is vital through open and continuous communication about CSR programs is essential to keep customers aware. Methodological implications propose reevaluating the methods used to measure (CSR), taking into consideration its' multi‐faceted nature and the diverse impacts that different aspects have on familiarity and performance measures. (shrink)

This prose translation of the Odyssey is so successful that it has taken its place as one of the few really outstanding versions of Homer's famous epic poem. It is the story of the return of Odysseus from the siege of Troy to his home in Ithaca, and of the vengeance he takes on the suitors of his wife Penelope. Odysseus's account of his adventures since leaving Troy includes his encounter with the enchantress Circe, his visit to the Underworld, and (...) the lure of the Sirens. ABOUT THE SERIES: For over 100 years Oxford World's Classics has made available the widest range of literature from around the globe. Each affordable volume reflects Oxford's commitment to scholarship, providing the most accurate text plus a wealth of other valuable features, including expert introductions by leading authorities, helpful notes to clarify the text, up-to-date bibliographies for further study, and much more. (shrink)

This article explores the significance of the following fact: in neither the Iliad nor the Odyssey does one find a simile about Zeus. I argue that just as ancient Near Eastern texts characterize a god by declaring it impossible to fashion a comparison about him or her, so the Homeric epics characterize Zeus by avoiding statements in the shape “Zeus (is) like X.”.

Some sixty times in the Iliad and Odyssey, the narrator describes a sequence of events with the climactic phrase, "And now X would have happened, had not Y intervened." Though some recent studies have begun to focus on this narrative technique, a fuller accounting of its properties remains desirable, as many of the passages where it is employed are quite significant to the overall construction of the plots. I have termed the phenomenon pivotal contrafactuals. The present study argues that the (...) composer achieves three general narrative benefits by employing this device. First, it is a method for emphatically changing the direction of the plot . Second, it allows the narrator to confer added emphases of various kinds upon the events he describes. Third, the narrator often uses the construction to make an editorial comment upon the character on whose behalf the intervention occurs. Intriguingly, Homer appears to link some pivotal contrafactuals together through various means. Some occur as equivalent elements in different multiforms of a common type scene. Some occur in different narratives describing the same event. These latter raise the possibility that divine intervention of which he is unaware occurs in Odysseus's narrative of his wanderings. Finally, I suggest that a passage at the beginning of the Catalogue of Ships, which has attracted various interpretations, is a modified pivotal contrafactual. (shrink)

Este trabajo se propone examinar algunas características de la máscara del coquus en el corpus plautino. En primer término, se estudia el modo en que este personaje, a partir de las referencias al castigo físico y a la pasividad sexual, es construido como un cuerpo subordinado al servicio de otros. Luego, se consideran sus apariciones como ladrón y como proveedor de placeres corporales. Proponemos que la forma en que los cocineros son representados en la palliata de Plauto pone en evidencia (...) el vínculo que la axiología republicana establece entre actores sociales subalternos, corporalidad y amenaza a los mores maiorum. This paper examines some characteristics of the coquus mask in the plautine corpus. First, we study how this character, from references to physical punishment and sexual passivity, is built as a subordinate body to the service of others. Then, we consider his appearances as a thief and a provider of bodily pleasures. We propose that the way cooks are represented in Plautus' palliata shows us the link established by Republican axiology between subaltern social actors, body and threat to mores maiorum. (shrink)

Although the influence of Homer on Western literature has long commanded critical attention, little has been written on how various generations of readers have found menaing in his texts. These seven essays explore the ways in which the Illiad and the Odyssey have been read from the time of Homer through the Renaissance. By asking what questions early readers expected the texts to answer and looking at how these expectations changed over time, the authors clarify the position of the Illiad (...) and the Odyssey in the intellectual world of antiqueity while offering historical insight into the nature of reading. The collection surveys the entire field of preserved ancient interpretations of Homer, beginning with the fictional audiences portrayed within the poems themselves, proceedings to readings by Aristotle, the Stoics, and Aristarchus and Crates, and culminating in the spritiualized allegorical reading current among Platonists of the fifth and sixth centuries C.E. The influence of these ancient interpretations is then examined in Byzantium and in the Latin West during the Renaissance. Contributors to this volume are Robert Browning, Anthony Grafton, Robert Lamberton, A.A. Long, James Porter, Nicholas Richardson, and Charles Segal. Robert Lamberton is Assistant Professor of Classics and John J. Keaney is Professor of Classics, both at Princeton University. Originally published in 1992. The Princeton Legacy Library uses the latest print-on-demand technology to again make available previously out-of-print books from the distinguished backlist of Princeton University Press. These editions preserve the original texts of these important books while presenting them in durable paperback and hardcover editions. The goal of the Princeton Legacy Library is to vastly increase access to the rich scholarly heritage found in the thousands of books published by Princeton University Press since its founding in 1905. (shrink)

continent. 1.1 (2011): 27-32. “My”—what does this word designate? Not what belongs to me, but what I belong to,what contains my whole being, which is mine insofar as I belong to it. Søren Kierkegaard. The Seducer’s Diary . I can’t sleep till I devour you / And I’ll love you, if you let me… Marilyn Manson “Devour” The role of poetry in the relationalities between people has a long history—from epic poetry recounting tales of yore; to emotive lyric poetry; to (...) rude, irreverent limericks; to Hallmark cards which have ditties that allow one to cringe, and somehow fall in love at the same moment. Without going into a notion of aesthetics, or attempting to choose which form of poetry is superior, we might want to consider why the form of poetry itself has long been a part of relationality. And whilst doing so, we might always keep in mind that poetry—especially poetry that moves, transports us—is the form that Plato has been warning us about, particularly if we want to become good citizens.As Avital Ronell teaches us in Stupidity : the poet, irremediably split between exaltation and vulgarity, between the autonomy that produces the concept within intuition and the foolish earthly being, functions as a contaminant for philosophy—a being who at least since Plato, has been trying to read and master an eviction notice served by philosophy. The poet as genius continues to threaten and fascinate, menacing the philosopher with the beyond of knowledge. Philosophy cringes (287). And considering that the philosopher is the lover of wisdom, we might begin to ask ourselves why one lover is warning against another—if the philosopher is in love with wisdom, then is the poet perhaps his rival, his challenger, for that very love? For, one must also remember that Plato—through Socrates—mentions constantly that Homer is his favourite. Moreover, by adopting both his own voice, whilst mixing it with Socrates’, Plato is adopting the form of poetry that he warns most about—the warning almost serves more as a homage to poetry than anything else. Here, we might open the register that one of the main reasons that he ejects a particular kind of poet is on the grounds of effecting effeminacy on the populace—good poetry moves you, affects you, transports you, shifts you beyond reason, puts you “out of your mind.” However, Plato also teaches us that rhetoric in its highest form requires divine inspiration by way of the daemon, or the muse. This moment of divine intervention is one that seizes—perhaps even ceases—you; putting you “beyond yourself.” In other words, a good rhetorician must always already be open to the possibility of otherness—the same otherness that possibly resides in the feminine. One could also trace this back to the poet that he both loved, and feared, most—Homer. Perhaps the effect of effeminacy that Homer's poetry opened is precisely the source of its power: through listening to Homer, one's body, one’s habitus is opened to the possibility of the feminine. And here, one must remember that the source of all learning—and all teaching—also lies in mimesis, in repetition, in habit. Once the habitus is opened to the possibility of invasion, of intervention, of otherness, there is quite possibly no possibility of distinguishing whether the mimesis is that of reproduction, or if there is always already a productive aspect to it. And by extension, if learning cannot be controlled, the very notion of teaching itself is shifted from a master-student relationality to one where the master is potentially changed as well—the relationality between the master and the student is not only inter-changing, but one cannot even know who is teaching, or learning, at any point. All that can be said is that they are in a relationality; which means that one is ultimately unable to locate the locus of knowledge, of wisdom—the site of which Plato is attempting to convince us is the sole domain of the philosopher. And it is this that philosophy is cringing from. To compound matters, philosophy is striving for wisdom; which can only come from the Gods. In other words, this is a gift that has to be bestowed on them—and more than that, wisdom is always already exterior to one’s control and knowledge. At best, it is the role of one to recognise the gift, to answer the call as it were. Here, if we listen carefully, we can hear the echo of Alexander Graham Bell, and the telephone. And as we are attempting to respond to the call of wisdom—the call that both poetry and philosophy are listening out for—it might be helpful to recall the agreement between Alexander Graham Bell and his brother Melville. In the biography, Alexander Graham Bell and the Conquest of Solitude , Robert V. Bruce notes that Aleck and Melly made a “solemn compact that whichever of us should die first would endeavour to communication with the other if it were possible to do so” (63). Since Melville was the one who passed on first, this pact put the onus on Aleck to receive the call of his brother. If you take into consideration the fact that until Melville’s death, both brothers had been working on an early prototype of the telephone, the instrument of distant sound can be read as an attempt by Aleck to maintain the possibility of keeping in touch with Melly, of hearing the voice from beyond. However, this was a connection that was not premised on any knowing, reason, or rationality; it was rather, one that was based on hope, and born out of love. And here, if we eves-drop on a cross-line with The Telephone Book , we can pick up the voice of Avital Ronell once again and hear, “the connection to the other is a reading—not an interpretation, assimilation, or even a hermeneutic understanding, but a reading” (380). In other words, the telephone can be read as the openness to the possibility of responding to the other; one that might always remain unknown. Even in this day of caller-identification, we can never know for sure who the other person on the line is until we pick up: hence, the only decision we can make—the effects of which we remain blind to until it affects us—is to either pick up or not, to either respond or not. And it is not as if the decision to pick up comes without risks: each time we answer a call, we run the risk of it ruining our day. Even when we don’t know who the caller is, perhaps especially when we don’t know who the person on the other end of the line is—and here one only has to think of prank calls—we are leaving ourselves completely open to being affected by another. Thus, philosophy finds itself in the position of Vladimir and Estragon. Since they have no idea who Godot is, they can never know if or when he shows up—thus, if he (and we are taking his gender on the word of the boy, some boy—we don’t even know if it is the same boy—who comes round in the evening) has already come, they would not be in the position to know it. And even if someone comes to them and announces that “I am Godot,” the wait would not be over—without referentiality to the name, they would have to take on faith that that person is indeed Godot. Hence, all they can know is that they are waiting for Godot; and Godot is the name of that waiting itself. All philosophy can know is that it is waiting; and wisdom is the name of that waiting itself. Which brings us to Tina Turner’s eternal question, “what’s love got to do, got to do with it?” In order to begin to consider that, we have to first attempt to examine the notion of love itself. Perhaps we might begin to consider what the difficulty of the statement “I love you.” For, if love is a relationality between two persons—both of whom remain singular, and are attempting to respond to each other—this suggests that neither of them subsume the other under themselves. In other words, the other remains wholly other. If this is so, then the “you” in the statement always remains shrouded in mystery. And even if the “you” was replaced with the name of the person, the veiling remains: for, names refer both to the singularity that is the person, and also every other person bearing that name, at exactly the same time. To compound matters, the only time one has to utter a persons name is in their absence—thus, the correspondence of a name to that particular person is at best an affect of memory. And if we consider the notion of memory, we have to also open the register of forgetting—bringing along with it the problem that there is no object to forgetting. For instance, when one utters “I forgot,” all one is uttering is the fact that one has forgotten, and nothing more—the moment there is an object to the statement, one has strictly speaking remembered what one has forgotten. Moreover, we have no control over when forgetting happens to us. And since it is always already exterior to us, affects us, and has no necessary object, there is no reason to believe that every moment of memory might not bring with it a moment of forgetting. Hence, whenever we utter a name—even if we accept the correspondence between the utterance and the person in front of us—all we are doing is uttering the fact that we are naming. Thus, it is not so much that ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet’ but more appropriately, ‘a rose is a rose is a rose’—the relationality between its name and the phenomenon of its sweet smell can only be established after that moment of naming, that instance of catachresis. So, whenever one utters “I love you,” not only is it a performative statement, it is the very naming of that love—all you are doing is establishing a relationality between you and the other. And since there is no necessary referent—one is naming that referentiality as one utters it—this suggests that it is always already a symbolic statement; without which the mystery of the other cannot me maintained. In other words, one cannot love the other without maintaining this symbolic distance—through a ritual; in this case the utterance “I love you.” This might be why Valentine’s Day seems to provoke such a massive reaction: the most common one from people (besides florists) being, Valentine’s Day is mere commercialism. Those among the nay-sayers who maintain a soft spot for Karl Marx would proceed to call it the commodification of relationships; those who prefer the Gods would claim that the sanctity of relationships has been profaned; the gender theorists would note how the fact that males buy the gifts only serves to highlight the unequal power-relation between the genders. Whichever side and variation of the arguments they choose boils down to this: the discomfort lies in the fact that they are confronted with the notion of relationships moving into a mediated sphere. The underlying logic is that love is between two persons only; it should not only remain between them, but more pertinently, be an unmediated experience between two persons. Which of course completely misses the point. For, if we reopen the register that relationships are the result of a negotiation between two persons, there must then be a space between them for this very negotiation to occur. Otherwise, all that is happening is, one person is subsuming the other within their own sphere of understanding; effectively effacing the other. If that were the case, there would no longer be any relationality; all negotiation is gone and the other person is a mere extension of the self—one is in a masturbatory relationality with one’s imaginary. Hence, any relationship must always already carry with it the unknown, and possibly always unknowable. The other person is an enigma, remains—must remain—enigmatic to you. This is the only way in which the proclamation “I love you” remains singular, remains a love that is about the person as a singular person—and not merely about the qualities of the person, what the person is. For, if the mystery of the other is unveiled, then the love for the other person is also a completely transparent love: one that you can know thoroughly, calculate; a check-list. And if they are knowable, this suggests that they can also be negated, and hence, the love can also go away. Only when the love for the other person is an enigmatic one, one that cannot be understood, can that love potentially be an event—and if it is an event, then strictly speaking, it cannot be known before it happens; at best, it can be glimpsed as it is happening, or perhaps even only realised retrospectively. At the point in which it happens, it is a love that comes from elsewhere: this strange phenomenon is best captured in the colloquial phrase, I was struck by love;” or even more so by, “I was blinded by love.” This is a blinding to not only the subject of the encounter—the self—but also of the very object of that encounter, the “you”—all that can be said is that there is an encounter. And it is for this reason Cupid is blind: not just because love is random (and can happen to anyone at any time), but more importantly because even after it happens, both the reason you are in love, and the person you are in love with, remain blind to you. Since there is an unknowable relationality with the other person, the only way you can approach it is through a ritual. This is the lesson that religions have taught us: since one is never able to phenomenally experience the God(s), one has no choice but to approach them symbolically. These rituals are strictly speaking meaningless—the actual content is interchangeable—as it is the form that is important. Rituals allow us momentary glimpses at secrets; and secrets are never about their content(s). Rather, secrets entail the recognition that they are secrets; the secret lies in their form as secret. This can be seen when we consider how group secrets work: since the entire group knows the secret, clearly the content of the secret is not as important as the fact that only members within the group are privy to this secret. Occasionally the actual content can be so trivial that even other people outside the group might know the information; they just do not realize its significance. For instance, if I used my date of birth as my bank-account password, merely knowing when I was born would not instantly give you the key to my life savings. In order for that to happen, you would have had to recognise the significance of the knowledge of my birthday. This means that you have to know that you know something. Since the God(s) are, strictly speaking, unknowable, this suggests that rituals put one in a position to potentially experience the God(s). The meaningless gestures on Valentine’s Day play precisely this ritualised role. It is not so much what you give the other person, but the fact that you give it to them. The gift in this sense is very much akin to an offering; the gift opens the possibility of an exchange. Gift-giving does not guarantee that you will like what is returned; there is always a reciprocation of the gift, but what is returned to you is never known in advance, until the moment it is received. This means that the worst thing that one can do is not give the gift: that would be akin to a cutting off of all possibilities, a complete closing of all communication with the other person. This at the same time also means that you cannot wait for the other person to give you something before you get them their gift: if that were the scenario, the reciprocal gift would be nothing more than a calculated return. The only manner in which both persons can give true gifts is to offer them independently of the other person, whilst keeping them in mind. In this way, the two gifts are always already both uncalculated (in the sense of not knowing what the return is) and also a reciprocation for the other (without knowing whether the other person actually has a gift in the first place). Naturally, this would seem like an irrational, even stupid, way of buying gifts. But it is precisely the stupidity involved that saves the relationship from being banal—more importantly, stupidity prevents it from entering the mere profane. This is not to say that an enigmatic love cannot end—of course it can. However, the difference lies in the fact that if the relationality is wholly transparent, it is subsumed under reason—completely predictable, within the self, and thus never open to the possibility of otherness, exteriority, musing. A love that is an event is one that is also open to the possibility of the divine, the sacred—always already closer to the possibility of wisdom. If we establish that both love and wisdom are exterior, to our knowledge, and the finitude to our selves, this suggests that both are names for the possibility of openness to otherness. In other words, and what choice do we have here but to use the words of the other, the philosopher—the lover of wisdom—is a name for one who is waiting, and nothing more. But that still leaves us with the question of this uncomfortable relationality between philosophy and poetry. But before we address that question, we have to take a momentary detour, and consider the whether it is possible to call one a poet. For, if we take the notion of a poet to be one who reaches the highest levels of rhetoric (beyond the lawyer, and the orator, who only aim to either please the crowds, or convince by way of sophistry), then we must also acknowledge that one can only become a poet at the moment of seizing, the point of inspiration, by the muses. Without this divine moment, all (s)he can do is practice her craft. As no one can control when the muses make their appearance, one could always be practising in vain—in some way, one is always already practising to be least in the way when the muse whispers into one’s ear; one is practising so as not to be vain. And since one cannot know when the muse will appear, there is no time frame to the practising—unlike the lawyer who speaks against a clock, poetry knows no time; the only time that matters is the time appropriate to poetry itself. Thus, all the poet (if one can use this term) is practising for the possibility of effacing her/him self—and waiting. Thus, in order for poetry to occur, in order to be seized, the poet—along with all her concerns—must cease. In other words, there is no poet; there is only the possibility of poetry. However, even as there is no time frame to this waiting, even as all we can say is that poetry is a name for waiting, the one who is practising is always already also in time. And since (s)he is in a symbolic relationality with the possibility of poetry, this suggests that the practising is her sacrifice, and time is precisely what she is sacrificing. Here, it might be helpful to turn to a strange source when it comes to poetry—Georges Bataille—and consider his teachings in the first volume of The Accursed Share where he reminds us that, the “essence [of sacrifice] is to consume profitlessly .” This is where each exchange is beyond rationality, beyond calculability, beyond reason itself, “unsubordinated to the ‘real’ order and occupied only with the present.” He continues: Sacrifice destroys that which it consecrates. It does not have to destroy as fire does; only the tie that connected the offering to the world of profitable activity is severed, but this separation has the sense of a definitive consumption; the consecrated offering cannot be restored to the real order.” (58) Since there is no need for a physical change in the object of sacrifice—“it does not have to destroy as fire does”—this suggests that the tie is severed symbolically. Hence, there is an aspect of trans-substantiation in this sacrifice: the form remains the same; in fact there is no perceivable change—this is the point at which all phenomenology fails—but there is always already a difference, an absolute separation from the “real order,” from logic, calculability, reason. The object of sacrifice, the victim [,] is a surplus taken from the mass of useful wealth…Once chosen, he is the accursed share , destined for violent consumption. But the curse tears him away from the order of things…” (59). And it is this tearing away from the order of things—the order of rationality—that “restores to the sacred world that which servile use has degraded, rendered profane” (55). For, only when it is no longer useful, when it is no longer abstracted—subjected, subsumed under—merely a use-value, can the object be an object as such, can a subject be a subject as such; be a singularity. Thus, it is never so much who or what is sacrificed, but the fact that there is a sacrifice. So even as (s)he is sacrificing her time to poetry, it is always already beyond her knowledge whether what (s)he is doing is actually preparing her for poetry or not—all (s)he can know is that she is sacrificing and nothing more. Hence, all (s)he can do is to open her self to the possibility of this relationality—all (s)he can do is be in love with poetry. At the moment the muse whispers into her ear, (s)he ceases to be, and becomes a medium for poetry—and since this possession is always already beyond our cognitive knowledge, this is also a moment of divine wisdom. In other words, there is no difference between poetry and wisdom—the moment of poetry is the moment of wisdom. And this might be the very reason for the philosopher’s aversion to poets. Not so much because they may corrupt the youth (this is after all the aim of all thinking, all philosophy), but precisely because in order to do so, the philosopher must wait for a moment of possession, for divine musing, for poetry. Hence, all thought, all thinking, all philosophy, is nothing but the waiting for the possibility of poetry itself. (shrink)

The Alexandrian emphasis on smallness, elegance, and slightness at the expense of grand themes in major poetic genres was not preciosity for its own sake: although the poetry was written by and for scholars, it had much larger sources than the bibliothecal context in which it was composed. Since the time of the classical poets, much had changed. Earlier Greek poetry was an intimate part of the life of the city-state, written for its religious occasions and performed by its (...) citizens. But eh conquests of Alexander had altered the structure and the boundaries of the Greek world to an astonishing degree. Alexandria, the center of the poetic culture of the new age, was a city that had not even existed at the time of Euripides; it was in Egypt, not in Greece, and was a huge, polyglot community. As immigrants immersed in a new, impersonal, and bureaucratic society, the poets not unreasonably sought out what was small, intimate, and personal in their verses. The heroes of early Greek poetry are larger than life; those of Alexandrian poetry are life-size. They are human, like us; they have a childhood and an old age; they are afraid or in love or caught in a rainstorm. It was simply one way of reducing the world to more manageable dimensions. At the same time, the new world of Alexandria needed a new poetry. To continue writing epics about a mythology that seemed very far away was senseless; it was impossible to recapture either the style or the immediacy of Homer, lyric poetry, or Attic tragedy. The scholar-poets of Alexandria admired the literature of classical Greece; for them Homer was incomparable and inimitable, to be studied—but not to be copied. Far better, then, to find a new voice on a more manageable scale: instead of oral epic, erudite epyllion; instead of lyric, epigram; instead of tragedy, mime. The poets of an urban and unheroic world might long for but could never re-create the grandeur of the past. James E. G. Zetzel is associate professor of classics at Princeton University and editor of the Transactions of the American Philological Association. He is the author of Latin Textual Criticism in Antiquity and, with Anthony T. Grafton and Glenn W. Most, has translated Friedrich August Wolf’s Prolegomena ad Homerum. (shrink)

This book examines the progress of literacy in ancient Greece from its origins with the introduction of the alphabet in the eighth century to the fourth century, when the major cultural institutions of Athens became totally dependent on alphabetic literacy. Professor Robb introduces much new evidence and re-evaluates older evidence to demonstrate that early Greek literacy can only be understood in terms of the rich oral culture that immediately preceded it, one that was dominated by the oral performance of epical (...) verse, or "Homer". The eventual dependence of Athenian democratic institutions, notably law and higher education, on the technology of writing contributed to the "miracle" of Greece. (shrink)

The period from the eighth to the fifth centuries B.C. was one of extraordinary creativity in the Greek-speaking world. Poetry was a public and popular medium, and its production was closely related to developments in contemporary society. At the time when the city states were acquiring their distinctive institutions epic found the greatest of all its exponents in Homer, and lyric poetry for both solo and choral performance became a genre which attracted poets of the first rank, writers of the (...) quality of Sappho, Alcaeus and Pindar, whose influence on later literature was to be profound. This volume covers the epic tradition, the didactic poems of Hesiod and his imitators, and the wide-ranging work of the iambic, elegiac and lyric poets of what is loosely called the archaic age. The contributors make use of recent papyrus finds to fill out the picture of a cosmopolitan and highly sophisticated literary culture which had not yet found its intellectual centre in Athens. (shrink)