Invisible Cities

I have been re-reading Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities while in Italy and it has been a remarkable experience. It is a very simply told book – an account of the conversations between Marco Polo and Kublai Khan, in which Marco Polo tells of the various fantastical cities he has visited on his travels. Each city takes only or two pages to describe, but on nearly every page there is an intriguing thought or a startling idea about travel, memory, desire, the past.

One of the themes that comes out very strongly is the impossibility of knowing a city – that cities are more than simply their buildings, people and geography, but are also composed of their pasts and the relationships between their peoples. Moreover as we travel to new cities, we can only ever interpret what we see through what we have seen before, and our experiences lead therefore to an understanding not of the new and the foreign, but only of the old and familiar – ultimately our own city of origin and our very selves.

not for memory, but reminder

I came across this footnote the other day in a book on the history of humanity's developing understanding of the universe:

In Plato's Phaedrus, Socrates recounts an old story of how the legendary King Thamus of Egypt had declined the Theuth's offer to teach his subjects how to write. "What you have discovered is a recipe not for memory, but for reminder," says King Thamus. "And it is no true wisdom that you offer your disciples, but only its semblance, for by telling them of many things without teaching them you will make them seem to know much, while for the most part they know nothing, and as men filled, not with wisdom, but with the conceit of wisdom, they will be a burden to their fellows." This remains one of the most prophetic denunciations of the peril of literacy ever enunciated - although of course, it is thanks to the written word that we know of it.

(Coming of Age in the Milky Way, Timothy Ferris, p.31)

It strikes me that much the same thing could be said of computers - that rather than helping people to think, they encourage shortcuts, shallow learning and laziness. This is something I see in my classrooms all the time, and which concerns me. On the other hand, the amount of knowledge has increased incredibly since Plato's day, and it would be impossible and probably undesirable to return to a reliance on memory alone. And indeed despite the kernel of truth of Plato's words, you would have to be particularly obtuse to deny that the written word initiated the growth of and sophistication* of human civilisation* and has been essential for many of the great achievements* of humankind. No doubt computer technology is in the same category. In years to come (and perhaps already) people will wonder how we ever did without it.

(*I realise that these are problematic concepts.)

For some more interesting reflections on computers see this post, over on Michael Gilleland's blog.

(And yes, I get the irony of blogging about this topic.)

kids books

Some Friday afternoon fun, not really Latin related. I've been reading a lot of kids books lately, here are three of my favourites:

• the elephant and the balloon
• everyone is different
• all my friends are dead

And here's a short selection of kids music from They Might Be Giants, just for fun:

• Nine Bowls of Soup
• Nine Pirate Girls
• Nonagon

Curses

I came across some interesting material on ancient cursing in a book on swearing that I read last year.

...quite a degree of energy was involved in cursing. The ancient Greeks and Romans employed the cursing tablet. At one time the baths at Bath were full of these tablets and versions of the practice are still known in parts of modern-day Tuscany and Ireland. The stone tablet* was inscribed with the tailor-made curse of one’s choice and then buried or, more commonly, thrown into deep water.

The Romans favoured throwing the curse-inscribed tablet into a sacred place... but the backyard well or the nearest river or ocean were also favoured spots. Generally, where you flung your tablet probably depended on how far you had to lug it.

Many of these tablets have been recovered and restored, and one of the best-known now resides in the Archaeological Museum at Johns Hopkins University. This particular specimen, from around 50BC, contains a most grisly curse made against an allegedly villainous man with the rather ominous name of Plotius...

‘Good and beautiful Proserpina (or Salvia, shouldest thou prefer), mayest thou wrest away the health, body complexion, strength and faculties of Plotius and consign him to thy husband, Pluto. Grant that by his own devices he may not escape this penalty. Mayest thou consign him to the quartian, tertian and daily fevers of war and wrestle with him until they snatch away at his very soul.’

From this point, the curse itemises poor Plotius’ entire anatomy:

‘I give thee the head of Plotius... his brow and eyebrows, eyelids and pupils... his ears, nose, nostrils, tongue, lips and teeth, so he may not speak his pain; his neck, shoulders, arms, and fingers, so that he may not sleep the sleep of health; his thighs, legs, knees, shanks, feet, ankles, heels, toes and toe-nails, so that he may not stand of his own strength. May he most miserably perish and depart this life.’

A touch laboured perhaps, but very thorough. It’s also pre-emptive. In the full text the curser reveals that she fears that Plotius has organised his own cursing tablet, so she wants her curse to be visited on Plotius by the end of February. Payment is promised on delivery: ‘as soon as thou has made good my vow’. Wisely Cautious.

An iron spike was driven through this tablet before it was cast into the river, a symbol of the longed-for piercing of the enemy’s soul. Clearly a physical demise was insufficient: the soul too had to be targeted.

(Language Most Foul, Ruth Wajnryb)

[*I was under the impression that the tablets were more often metal – lead or pewter]

You can find a copy of the Plotius curse here.

Tiresias

Here's another passage from Eucalyptus, which reminded me of a story from Ovid's Metamorphoses.

So there he is in Bathurst, our traveller from Britain.

It is at Bathurst, or rather on the outskirts, that the story develops a sudden twist. On the second day he was wandering along the river when he came across two brown snakes - ne shedding its skin. He killed the wrong one, and was turned into a woman. That's apparently what happened.

When last heard of he was living in Seattle - or was it San Francisco? - as a woman.

Eucalyptus

I recently finished reading Eucalyptus, by Murray Bail. It's quite a slow-moving story, but I found it very captivating. On the surface the book is about a father who decides that the man who correctly names every eucalypt on his property will win the hand of his daughter, but it turns into a series of loosely connected stories suggested by the scientific  (i.e. Latin or Greek) names of the various eucalypts.

It reminded me a lot of Ovid's Metamorphoses, which likewise is a loosely connected series of myths, and at some points the resemblence goes even deeper. Have a look at the following passages and see if they remind you of some of the myths you might find in Ovid:

Silphium

Here is a recipe, taken from the Roman gourmand Apicius:

Oxygarum (which is similar to garum or rather an acid sauce) is digestible and is composed of:

• 1/2 ounce of pepper
• 3 scruples of Gallic silphium
• 6 scruples of cardamom
• 6 of cumin, 1 scruple of leaves
• 6 scruples of dry mint.

These ingredients are broken singly and crushed and made into a paste bound by honey. When this work is done or whenever you desire add broth and vinegar to taste.

Calling forth Eurydice

I've just finished reading the Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood, which was not quite what I'd expected it to be, but compelling reading all the same. The blurb on the back describes it as 'Moving, vivid and terrifying' which it certainly was, and while that didn't make it particularly enjoyable to read it was deeply engaging.

How not to plan a career

Anyway. Here's how not to plan a career: (a) split up with girlfriend; (b) junk college; (c) go to work in record shop; (d) stay in record shops for rest of life. You see those pictures of people in Pompeii and you think, how weird: one quick game of dice after your tea and you're frozen, and that's how people remember you for the next few thousand years.

Eunoia

I read a review of what sounds like a fascinating book in the paper on the weekend. Here are some excerpts:

Eunoia. Sounds like a urinary tract infection, doesn't it? It's not. It's Greek for "beautiful thinking" and is the shortest English word to contain one instance of each of the English vowels. An appropriate title, then, for a book devoted to fetters of its own making...

Eunoia is a collection of "univocalic lipograms" - a verbose, tautological way of saying it contains texts each of which is devoted to one particular vowel. There are only five vowels so it's a shortish book...

"A" tells the story of Hassan Abd al-Hassad, an Agha Khan, who dies a painfully asthmatic death amid mildly magical events. ("A fantast chants 'abracadabra' as a mantra, wags a wand and (zap) a sandglass cracks.") "E" is a retelling of The Iliad from the perspective of Helen. ("She feels neglected... regrets her wretchedness... nevertheless, she keeps her deepest regrets secret".) "I" begins and ends with "I" ("Writing is inhibiting. Sighing, I sit, scribbling in ink this pidgin script")...

Underpinning all of it is a central paradox, which is best summed up in a final end-note: "The text makes a Sisyphean spectacle of its labour, wilfully crippling its language in order to show that, even under such improbable conditions of duress, language can still express an uncanny... thought."

Lipograms go back as far as the Greeks, some of whom seem to have had an aversion to the 's' sound (the Greek letter sigma). The Roman poet Fulgentius also managed to write a history of the world (De aetatibus mundi et hominis) with each chapter omitting a different letter. If you're interested to know more, there's an interesting column here giving a brief overview of lipograms in Greek and Latin.

[Update: Yann Martel has also written a review]


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Metamorphosis

I've just started reading An Imaginary Life by David Malouf- a short novel, told from the perspective of the Roman poet Ovid, in exile at Tomis on the Black Sea.

I was struck by this passage I read on my way to school the other day:

...the stone sleeping in the sun has once been molten fire and became stone when the fire was able to say, in its liquid form: "I would be solid, I would be stone"; and the stone dreams now that the veins of ore in its nature might become liquid again and move , but within its shape as stone, so that slowly, through long centuries of aching for such a condition, for softness, for a pulse, it feels one day that the transformation has begun to occur; the veins loosen and flow, the clay relaxes, the stone, through long ages of imagining some further life, discovers eyes, a mouth, legs to leap with, and is toad.

Vivid descriptions of transformations are of course one of Ovid's strengths. Here are two of my favourites- the statue Galatea, crafted by Pygmalion, coming alive, and Daphne, pursued by Apollo, becoming a laurel tree:

vix prece finita torpor gravis occupat artus,
mollia cinguntur tenui praecordia libro,
in frondem crines, in ramos bracchia crescunt,
pes modo tam velox pigris radicibus haeret,
ora cacumen habet: remanet nitor unus in illa.
Hanc quoque Phoebus amat positaque in stipite dextra
sentit adhuc trepidare novo sub cortice pectus
complexusque suis ramos ut membra lacertis
oscula dat ligno; refugit tamen oscula lignum.

Scarcely had Daphne finished her prayer, when a heavy slowness seized her limbs, her soft breast is embraced by thin bark, her hair grows into leaves, her arms into branches, her feet, just now so speedy, stick fast with sluggish roots, the canopy hides her face: only her shining beauty remains unchanged. Apollo loves her still, and placing his right hand on her trunk, he feels her heart still trembling beneath the new bark, and he embraces her branches with his arms, as if they were really limbs, and kisses her woody trunk; yet even as a tree she shrinks from his kisses!

(Metamorphoses I.548-556)

ut rediit, simulacra suae petit ille puellae

incumbensque toro dedit oscula: visa tepere est;

admovet os iterum, manibus quoque pectora temptat:

temptatum mollescit ebur positoque rigore

subsidit digitis ceditque, ut Hymettia sole

cera remollescit tractataque pollice multas

flectitur in facies ipsoque fit utilis usu.

dum stupet et dubie gaudet fallique veretur,

rursus amans rursusque manu sua vota retractat.

corpus erat! saliunt temptatae pollice venae.

When Pygmalion returned, he made for the statue of his girl and, lying on the couch, began to kiss her: she seemed to be warm; again he brings his mouth near, and he also tries her breasts with his hands: the ivory softens as it is touched and having lost its hardness gives way beneath his fingers and yields, just as Hymettian wax softens in the sun and, kneaded by the thumb, is moulded into many shapes, and becomes usable by being used. While he gapes in amazement and doubtfully rejoices and fears that he is deceived, the lover strokes the answer to his prayer again and again with his hand. She was flesh! As he touches them, the veins throb beneath his thumb.

(Metamorphoses X.280-289)

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Cicero's Rhetorical Theory

Here are some more extracts from Rhetoric at Rome, from Chapter V; Cicero’s Rhetorical Theory.

[In De Inventione] Cicero makes one of his characters, the lawyer Scaevola, dispute the claim of oratory to have civilised mankind. Was it not rather men of practical good sense, without any special gifts for oratory, who performed this function? Eloquence had in fact been actually harmful at times, as in the case of the Gracchi.[1] Moreover it might be said that oratory was merely an instrument to serve certain purposes, ‘to make the case you are pleading in the law courts appear to be the better and more plausible, and to make your speeches to the people and the senate as effective as possible, in fact to make the wise think your speech eloquent and fools even think it true.’[2]… In his practice he might use the arts and crafts of rhetoric to make the worse cause appear the better, and might boast of having thrown dust in the eyes of the jury,[3] but in his theory oratory was purely a power for good. (p. 54)

Cicero is indeed less interested in the appeal to the head than that to the heart. ‘Men’s judgements’, he tell us, ‘are more often formed under the influence of hatred, love, desire, anger, grief, joy, hope, fear, misconception or some other emotion, than by truth or ordinance, the principles of justice, the procedure of the courts or the laws.’[4] (p. 58)

His main emphasis now is on the necessity for the orator to feel the emotions he tries to arouse. ‘It is impossible’, he says, for the hearer to feel grief, hatred, prejudice, apprehension, to be reduced to tears and pity, unless all the emotions which the orator wishes to arouse in the juror are seen to be deeply impressed on the orator himself.’[5] If anyone wondered how the orator could be constantly moved to anger, grief, or other emotions in matters which did not concern him personally, the answer was that the sentiments and topics he made use of had such power to move that there was no need for simulation. The very nature of the speech whose object was to move the audience would be such as to move the speaker more than anyone else. Like the actor, the orator would live his part.[6] Antonius, who in this part of De Oratore serves as Cicero’s mouthpiece, records his defence of M’. Aquilius, and claims that his pathetic peroration came from the heart, and that when he displayed his client’s wounds the action was not premeditated, but inspired by violent grief.[7] Speaking in his own person in the Orator, Cicero says much the same; in all his pathetic passages it was not so much his talent as his capacity for experiencing the feelings he expressed that accounted for his success.[8] (p. 59)

From the appeal to the heart we turn to the appeal to the ear. The consideration of style occupies most of the third book of De Oratore, and though in the main the matter is traditional, it is worth noting where Cicero lays the emphasis. Of the four virtutes dicendi, the first two, ornate and apte congruenterque, are the important qualities. It is these that make men thrill with terror, gaze open-mouthed at the speaker, cry aloud and think him a god among men.[9] Above all it is the ability to use ornatus that constitutes the crowing glory of eloquence.[10] How is this adornment to be come by? The answer is that it will come of its own accord to the learned orator.[11] ‘Rerum enim copia verborum copiam gignit’, says Cicero, giving a new turn to the old maxim of Cato, rem tene, verba sequentur. If the matter is honourable, the words in which it is expressed will have a natural splendour. (p. 60)

[1] De Oratore I. 35f.
[2] De Oratore I. 44
[3] Quintilian II. xvii. 21
[4] De Oratore II. 178
[5] De Oratore II. 189
[6] De Oratore II. 191, 193. But writing as a moralist in the Tusculans he says oratorem vero irasci minime decet, simulare non dedecet.
[7] De Oratore II. 195
[8] Orator 130, 132
[9] De Oratore III. 52-3
[10] De Oratore III. 104
[11] De Oratore III. 124f.

Roman Oratory Before Cicero

I've been reading an interesting book lately, Rhetoric at Rome; A Historical Survey by M.L. Clarke. Here are some highlights from chapter IV- Roman Oratory Before Cicero:

The age of the Gracchi, with its clash of ideals and personalities, was conducive to high and excited political oratory. The two brothers were famous for their eloquence; Cicero, in spite of his disapproval of the uses to which it was put, cannot forbear to praise[1]…

Cicero recalls a passage of one of Gaius’s speeches: ‘Quo me miser conferam? quo vertam? in Capitoliumne? at fratris sanguine madet. an domum? matremne ut miseram lamentantem videam et abiectam?’ [2] Cicero’s theme is the importance of actio, and he tells us that Gaius’s eyes, voice and gestures when uttering these words were such that even his enemies could not refrain from tears…

On the other hand Cicero could give Gaius lessons in rhythm. Take that sentence, he says, From Gracchus: ‘Abesse non potest quin eiusdem hominis sit probos improbare qui improbos probet.’ How much better if he had written ‘qui improbos probet probos improbare.’[3] (pp 43-44)

The stoics believed in speaking the truth in plain words; they eschewed ornament and emotional appeal. Their style, says Cicero, was a meagre one, hardly calculated to win popular applause.[4] How true this was shown by the experience of Rutilius Rufus. As a good Stoic he expressed the strongest condemnation of such theatrical tricks as had won Galba acquittal,[5] and when he was himself accused, quite unjustly, of maladministration, he disdained to use such arts. He made no appeals to the mercy of the jury and would not allow more than the simple truth to be said in his defence.[6] ‘There were no groans or exclamations on the part of his advocates’ says Cicero, ‘no expression of grief or indignation, no appeals to the commonwealth, no supplication; why no one stamped his foot, for fear, I suppose, that the Stoics might hear of it.’[7] (p 45)

Wit as a weapon of oratory belongs to the Roman tradition. So no doubt does pathos. ‘Demosthenes’, wrote Swift, ‘who had to deal with a people of much more Politeness, Learning and Wit, laid the greater weight of his oratory upon the Strength of his Arguments offered to their Understanding and Reason. Whereas Tully [i.e. Cicero] considered the Disposition of a sincere more ignorant and less mercurial Nation by dwelling almost entirely on the Pathetick Part.’[8] Whether this analysis of national character is correct or not, the pathetic is a note which sounds stronger in Roman than in Greek oratory. It sounded at full blast in Antonius’ defence of Aquilius, when he contrasted the former glories of the consul and triumphant commander with his present piteous and precarious condition, displayed his client in person, sorrowing and dressed in mourning, tore open his shirt and showed his wounds.[9] (pp 47-48)

[1] De Oratore I. 38, Brutus 103, De Hauspicum Responsis 41. In early life Cicero was more favourably disposed to the politics of the Gracchi. In De Inventione (I.5) they are bracketed with Cato, Laelius and Africanus as men in whom was ‘summa virtus et summa virtute amplificata auctoritas et quae et his rebus ornamento et rei publicae praesidio esset eloquentia.’
[2] De Oratore III .214, fragment 58 Malcovati, Oratorum Romanorum Fragmenta Liberae Rei Publicae. Cf. Quintilian XI. iii. 115
[3] Cicero, Orator 233
[4] Cicero Brutus (id) 114
[5] Cicero De Oratore I. 228
[6] De Oratore 237-230 Brutus 115. One of his advocates was Q. Mucius Scaevola, also a Stoic, whose sober legal judgements proved ineffective against Crassus’s mockery in the causa Curiana. See p. 47.
[7] De Oratore I 230. Other Stoic orators were Q. Aelius Tubero, whose mode of speaking, according to Cicero, matched the harshness and uncouthness of his life (Brutus 117, De Officiis III. 63), Mummius (Brutus 94, cf De Republica V. 11) and Fannius (Brutus 101).
[8] A letter to a Young Gentleman lately enter’d into Holy Orders.
[9] Cicero De Oratore II. 195.

finding nemo

I recently finished reading Into the Wild, the biography of Christopher McCandless (which has also been made into an excellent movie). At the age of 23 Chris donated all his money to Oxfam, and lived as a homeless hitchhiker for a couple of years, trying to escape the commercialised, consumerist culture which he had come to hate, and eventually ending up in the Alaskan wilderness.

In one section of the book the author detours to discuss other famous Americans who have done similar things, including Everett Ruess. Here's part of what he writes about Ruess:

...like McCandless, upon embarking on his terminal odyssey, Ruess adopted a new name or, rather, a series of new names. In a letter dated March 1, 1931, he informs his family that he has taken to calling himself Lan Rameau... Two months later, however, another letter explains that "I have changed my name again, to Evert Rulan..." and then in August of that same year, with no explanation, he goes back to calling himself Everett Ruess and continues to do so for the next three years- until wandering into Davis Gulch. There for some unknowable reason, Everett twice etched the name Nemo - Latin for "nobody" - into the soft Navajo sandstone - and then vanished. He was twenty years old.

(Into the Wild, John Krakauer, p93)

The name 'Nobody' has been used by others before and after Ruess. In Homer, Odysseus calls himself 'Noboby' in order to trick the Cyclops Polyphemus:

When the wine had coiled its way round his understanding, I spoke to him in meek-sounding words: "Cyclops, you ask what name I boast of. I will tell you, and then you must grant me as your guest the favour that you have promised me. My name is Nobody; Nobody is what my mother and father call me; so likewise do all my friends."

To these words of mine the savage creature made quick response: "Nobody then shall come last among those I eat; his friends I will eat first; this is to be my favour to you."

After Odysseus and his men had blinded Polyphemus, his cries of pain attracted the attention of the other Cyclopes:

Hearing his cries they hastened towards him from every quarter, stood round his cavern and asked him what ailed him: "Polyphemus, what dire affliction has come upon you to make you profane the night with clamour and rob us of our slumbers? Is some human creature driving away your flocks in defiance of you? Is someone threatening death to yourself by craft or by violence?"

From inside the cave the giant answered: "Friends, it is Nobody's craft and Nobody's violence that is threatening death to me."

Swiftly their words were carried back to him: "If nobody is doing you violence - if you are alone - then this is a malady sent by almighty Zeus from which there is no escape; you had best say a prayer to your father, Lord Poseidon."

With these words they left him again, while my own heart laughed within me to think how the name I gave and my ready wit had snared him.

How appropriate then that Krakauer describes Ruess' journey as an 'odyssey'.

Nemo is also the name of the captain of the submarine Nautilus in Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea, another character who spurned society in favour of a nomadic life, and I presume that Nemo the clownfish was named after the captain.

de scribendo

I've been reading Love in the Time of Cholera recently, and the other day I came across a passage which reminded me of something Ovid wrote. Firstly here's the passage from the book:

The worst years were the early ones, when he was appointed clerk to the Board of Directors... Florentino Ariza wrote everything with such passion that even official documents seemed to be about love. His bills of lading were rhymed no matter how he tried to avoid it, and routine business letters had a lyrical spirit that diminished their authority. His uncle came to his office one day with a packet of correspondance he had not dared put his name to, and gave him the last chance to save his soul.

"If you you cannot write a business letter you will pick up the trash on the dock," he said.

Florentino Ariza made a supreme effort to learn the mundane simplicity of mercantile prose, imitating models from notarial files with the same diligence he had once used for popular poets... But at the end of six months, no matter how hard he twisted he could not wring the neck of his die-hard swan.[His uncle] kept his threat to have him pick up trash on the dock, but he gave him his wod that he would promote him, step by step, up the ladder of faithful service until he found his place. And he did. No work could defeat him, no matter how hard or humiliating it was, no salary no matter how miserable, could demoralize him, and he never lost his essential fearlessness when faced with the insolence of his superiors... Florentino Ariza moved through every post during thirty years of dedication and tenacity in the face of every trial. He fulfilled all his duties with admirable skill... but he never won the honor he most desired, which was to write one, just one, acceptable business letter.

Late in life, in exile far from Rome, Ovid wrote of his own experience as a young boy, when he was first drawn to poetry:

frater ad eloquium viridi tendebat ab aevo,
fortia verbosi natus ad arma fori;
at mihi iam puero caelestia sacra placebant,
inque suum furtim Musa trahebat opus.
saepe pater dixit 'studium quid inutile temptas?
Maeonides nullas ipse reliquit opes.'
motus eram dictis, totoque Helicone relicto
scribere temptabam verba soluta modis.
sponte sua carmen numeros veniebat ad aptos,
et quod temptabam scribere versus erat.

(Ovid, Tristia IV X.17-26)

My brother tended towards oratory from a young age,
he was born for the bold weapons of the noisy forum;
but the holy rites of heaven pleased me more, even as a boy,
and the Muse was drawing me secretly to her service.
Often my father would say 'Why try such a useless pursuit?'
Even Maeonian Homer left no wealth behind.'
I was moved by what he said, and left Helicon behind completely
and tried to write words set free from rhythm.
But of its own accord, a poem came, in a suitable meter
and whatever I tried to write was poetry.

tenebrarum cor

As I head off to Latin camp with 26 year 8 students, I thought I would leave with a passage from the Heart of Darkness (no connection, honestly), which I finished reading recently.

'I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here [England], nineteen hundred years ago - the other day... Imagine the feelings of a commander of a fine - what d'ye call 'em? - trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered suddenly to the north; run overland across the Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these craft the legionaries - a wonderful lot of handy men they must have been too - used to build, apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, if we may believe what we read. Imagine him here - the very end of the world, a sea the colour of smoke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a concertina - and going up this river with stores, or orders, or what you like. Sand-banks, marshes, forests, savages - precious little to eat fit for a civilised man, nothing but Thames water to drink. No Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and there a military camp lost in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle of hay - cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and death - death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. They must have been dying like flies here. Oh yes - he did it. Did it very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking much about it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had done through his time perhaps. They were men enough to face the darkness. And perhaps he was cheered by keeping his eye on a chance of promotion to the fleet at Ravenna by-and-by, or if he had good friends in Rome and survived the awful climate. Or think of a decent young citizen in a toga - perhaps too much dice, you know - coming out here in the train of some prefect, or tax-gatherer, or trader even, to mend his fortunes. Land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him - all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. There's no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable. And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination - you know, imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.'

books

Some books that caught my eye in the latest Abbeys Catalogue:

The Penguin Book of Classical Myths
The figures and events of classical myths underpin our culture; the constellations named after them fill the night sky. Whether it's the raging Minotaur trapped in the Cretan labyrinth or the 12 labours of Hercules, Aphrodite's birth from the waves or Zeus visiting Danae as a shower of gold, the mythology of Greece and Rome is full of unforgettable stories. The Greek tragedies - Oedipus, Medea, Antigone - are also included, as well as the Trojan wars, Odysseus' and Aeneas' epic journeys and the founding of Athens and Rome. These are the strangest tales of love, war, betrayal and heroism ever told and, while brilliantly retelling them, this book shows how they echo through the works of much later writers, from Chaucer and Shakespeare to Camus and Ted Hughes.

The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel
The Greek and Roman novels of Petronius, Apuleius, Longus, Heliodorus and others have been cherished for millennia, but never more so than now. This Companion contains 19 original essays by an international cast of experts in the field. The emphasis is upon the critical interpretation of the texts within historical settings, both in antiquity and in the later generations that have been, and continue to be, inspired by them. All the central issues of current scholarship are addressed: sexuality, cultural identity, class, religion, politics, narrative, style, readership and much more. Four sections cover the cultural context of the novels, their contents, literary form and their reception in classical antiquity and beyond.

My Mistress's Sparrow is Dead

I came across the review of an interesting looking book the other day while reading the paper- it was the title that intitially caught my eye, My Mistress's Sparrow is Dead: Great Love Stories from Chekhov to Munro. The title is a reference to Catullus, as the opening of the article explained:

The title of this anthology comes, according to its editor, from the poetry of Catullus, who he claims “was the first poet in the ancient world to write about a personal love affair in an extended way”. Two of Catullus’ poems concern the death of the sparrow beloved by Lesbia, the object of the poet’s obsession and Eugenides adds, “Despite the multiplicity of subjects and situations treated here, one Catullan requirement remains in force throughout. In each of these 26 love stories, either there is a sparrow or the sparrow is dead”

He speaks figuratively, of course, but his point is that a love story “can never be about full possession”, that it depends on “disappointment, on unequal births and feuding families, on matrimonial boredom and at least one cold heart”. Disappointment and incompleteness are central to the editor’s conception of the love story.

Here's part of the poem where Catullus mourns for Lesbia's sparrow:

Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque...
passer mortuus est meae puellae,
passer, deliciae meae puellae,
quem plus illa oculis suis amabat.
nam mellitus erat suamque norat
ipsam tam bene quam puella matrem,
nec sese a gremio illius movebat,
sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc
ad solam dominam usque pipiabat.

Mourn, all you Venuses and Cupids...
the sparrow of my girlfriend has died,
the sparrow, the darling of my girl,
whom she loved more than her eyes.
He was sweet as honey, and he knew his mistress
as well as a girl her own mother,
and he would not budge from her lap,
but jumping around, now here, now there,
he was always chirping for his mistress alone.

You can read the two sparrow poems (in English) here and here. As far as I can tell, apart from the title the book doesn't have much to do with Catullus' poetry, or Latin in general.

Related posts

• more than my eyes
• onomatopoiea

Orpheus Rising

An interesting book review caught my eye the other day, which may be of interest to my year 11 class. The book is called Orpheus Rising- here's part of the review:

Ryan's story is a modern retelling of the Orpheus myth: an artist goes to the underworld to retrieve his beloved lost wife but disobeys the gods by looking back and so loses her forever. In his quest to reconnect with his murdered wife, Ryan becomes a medium who can see and talk to dead people, and convey their messages back to the living...

The whole thing is elaborately crazy but in an entertaining, Irish way.

My year 11 class recently read Virgil's version of the myth from the Georgics. This is how he describes the moment when Orpheus looks back at his wife, following behind him:

...subita incautum dementia cepit amantem,
ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere manes.
restitit Eurydicenque suam iam luce sub ipsa
immemor heu! victusque animi respexit. Ibi omnis
effusus labor atque immitis rupta tyranni
foedera...

A sudden madness seized the unwary lover, forgiveable indeed, if only the dead knew how to forgive. He stopped and, alas, forgetful of his dear Eurydice, now on the very verge of daylight, conquered in his resolve, he looked back. Then all his work was wasted, and the conditions of the cruel queen were broken...

Virgil, Georgics IV.488-93

It's a sad moment, and Virgil wants us to feel sorry for Orpheus- he portrays him as the passive victim (seized by madness, conquered in his resolve), he repeats himself (ignoscenda, ignoscere) as if to say he understands what Orpheus has done, and he gives us a glimpse of his own feelings when he inserts himself into the story, crying immemor heu (alas, forgetful).

You can watch the story of Orpheus and Eurydice at Winged Sandals, and over at Eternally Cool there are some modern retellings of myths from Ovid's Metamorphoses, such as Apollo and Daphne and Cupid and Psyche.

books

Every month I get an Abbeys catalogue in the mail- I thought I’d post the reviews of some of the book which looked interesting to me from this month’s catalogue.

Imprimatur11 September 1683, Rome. The citizens of the city wait anxiously for the outcome of the battle for Vienna as Ottoman forces lay siege to the defenders of Catholic Europe. Meanwhile, a suspected outbreak of plague causes a famous Roman tavern to be placed under quarantine. A plot to assassinate the pope and plans to use the plague as a weapon of mass destruction in the battle between Islam and the West are discovered. Drawing on original papers discovered in the Vatican archives, this meticulously researched and brilliantly conceived thriller sheds new light on the power struggles of 17th century Europe, the repercussions of which are still felt today.

Cleopatra: Last Queen of EgyptShe was the last ruler of the Macedonian dynasty of Ptolemies who had ruled Egypt for three centuries. Highly educated (the only one of the Ptolemies to read and speak ancient Egyptian, as well as the court Greek) and very clever (her famous liaisons with Julius Caesar and Mark Antony were as much to do with politics as the heart), she steered her kingdom through impossibly taxing internal problems and against greedy Roman imperialism. Stripping away our preconceptions (many of which are as old as her Roman enemies) in this magnificent biography, Tyldesley uses all her skills as an Egyptologist to give us a rich picture of a country and its Egyptian queen.

A Brief History of the Private Lives of Roman EmperorsBlond’s scandalous expose on the life of the Caesar’s is a must-read for anyone interested in what really went on in ancient Rome. Julius Caesar is usually presented as a glorious general, when in fact he was an arrogant charmer and a swank. Augustus was so conscious of his height that he put lifts in his sandals. But they were nothing compared to Caligula, Claudius and Nero! This book makes fascinating reading, eye-opening in its revelations and endlessly entertaining.