Socrates Plays Stesichorus

Posted on May 9, 2012 by Andrea Capra

CHS Research Symposium, April 27-28 2012

Socrates Plays Stesichorus

Andrea Capra

I will take my cue from Attic comedy. Here is a sleight of hand scene where Socrates plays Stesichorus to the lyre while stealing a wine jug:

1. δεξάμενος δὲ Σωκράτης τὴν ἐπιδέξι’ 〈ἄιδων〉
Στησιχόρου πρὸς τὴν λύραν οἰνοχόην ἔκλεψεν (Eupolis, 395 PCG)

A possible connection between Stesichorus and Socrates, as well as with Plato, provides some background to my argument. Stesichorus was very much in vogue among Plato’s Pythagorean friends. They had appropriated his biography and interpreted his verse so as to make him the champion of a purified form of poetry. This was part of a broader strategy: as Marcel Detienne has shown, their final goal was to moralize the epic heroes, and especially Helen and Achilles. Plato, then, had every reason for ‘playing’ Stesichorus himself. In a way, Socrates does play Stesichorus in the Phaedrus, and the obvious starting point is of course his celebrated quotation from Stesichorus’ Palinode:

2. ἐμοὶ μὲν οὖν, ὦ φίλε, καθήρασθαι ἀνάγκη: ἔστιν δὲ τοῖς ἁμαρτάνουσι περὶ μυθολογίαν καθαρμὸς ἀρχαῖος, ὃν Ὅμηρος μὲν οὐκ ᾔσθετο, Στησίχορος δέ. τῶν γὰρ ὀμμάτων στερηθεὶς διὰ τὴν Ἑλένης κακηγορίαν οὐκ ἠγνόησεν ὥσπερ Ὅμηρος, ἀλλ᾽ ἅτε μουσικὸς ὢν ἔγνω τὴν αἰτίαν, καὶ ποιεῖ εὐθὺς

οὐκ ἔστ᾽ ἔτυμος λόγος οὗτος,
οὐδ᾽ ἔβας ἐν νηυσὶν εὐσέλμοις,
οὐδ᾽ ἵκεο Πέργαμα Τροίας

καὶ ποιήσας δὴ πᾶσαν τὴν καλουμένην Παλινῳδίαν παραχρῆμα ἀνέβλεψεν. ἐγὼ οὖν σοφώτερος ἐκείνων γενήσομαι κατ’ αὐτό γε τοῦτο· πρὶν γάρ τι παθεῖν διὰ τὴν τοῦ Ἔρωτος κακηγορίαν πειράσομαι αὐτῷ ἀποδοῦναι τὴν παλινῳδίαν, γυμνῇ τῇ κεφαλῇ καὶ οὐχ ὥσπερ τότε ὑπ’ αἰσχύνης ἐγκεκαλυμμένος (Phaedrus 243a-b)

Socrates has offended the god Eros, and is in need of expiation, lest he gets blinded like Homer. The palinode marks Socrates’ divine turn, namely the transition from his first speech to the second, divine one.

This three-line quote from Stesichorus is the culmination of a poetic climax, whereby Socrates presents himself as an inspired poet. Other notable moments of this strategy are the following. First, Socrates’ first speech begins with a curious invocation to the Muses:

3. ἄγετε δή, ὦ Μοῦσαι, εἴτε δι᾽ ᾠδῆς εἶδος λίγειαι, εἴτε διὰ γένος μουσικὸν τὸ Λιγύων ταύτην ἔσχετ᾽ ἐπωνυμίαν, ‘ξύμ μοι λάβεσθε’ τοῦ μύθου (Phaedrus 237a)

Second, this same speech ends on a poetic note, that is with some kind of epic verse, although there are philological complications and (at least) two different texts are possible:

4a. ὡς λύκοι ἄρνας ἀγαπῶσιν, ὣς παῖδα φιλοῦσιν ἐρασταί (Phaedrus 241d)
4b. ὡς λύκοι ἄρν’ ἀγαπῶσ’, ὣς παῖδα φιλοῦσιν ἐρασταί (Phaedrus 241d)

Whatever the case, this explains why a bit further, Socrates claims that he is beginning to deliver epe, epic verses:

5. οὐκ ᾔσθου, ὦ μακάριε, ὅτι ἤδη ἔπη φθέγγομαι ἀλλ᾽ οὐκέτι διθυράμβους, καὶ ταῦτα ψέγων; (Phaedrus 241e)

Third, Socrates’ great speech, where he rehabilitates divine madness against human wisdom, begins by quoting once again Steisichorus’ palinode:

6. οὑτωσὶ τοίνυν, ὦ παῖ καλέ, ἐννόησον, ὡς ὁ μὲν πρότερος ἦν λόγος Φαίδρου τοῦ Πυθοκλέους, Μυρρινουσίου ἀνδρός: ὃν δὲ μέλλω λέγειν, Στησιχόρου τοῦ Εὐφήμου, Ἱμεραίου. λεκτέος δὲ ὧδε, ὅτι οὐκ ἔστ᾽ ἔτυμος λόγος ὃς ἂν παρόντος ἐραστοῦ τῷ μὴ ἐρῶντι μᾶλλον φῇ δεῖν χαρίζεσθαι. (Phaedrus 243e-244a)

Ostensibly, passage 2 is Stesichorus’ and, by implication, Socrates’ palinode. Yet most scholars put it down to Plato himself: by juxtaposing Socrates’ inspired second speech to his first uninspired one, Plato would be rejecting his earlier positions as expressed in other dialogues. On this view, Socrates’ quotation from Stesichorus is little more than a stylistic device to attract the reader’s attention on Plato’s own recantation. One problem I see in this interpretation lies in the distribution of the references to Socrates’ inspiration. Here is a list of Socrates’ ‘sources’ (7):

a. Sappho and Anacreon and some prose writer (Sorates’ bosom is ‘full’ of them, 235c)
b. Muses (Socrates summons the Μοῦσαι…λίγειαι to contribute to his μῦθος, 237a)
c. Landscape (it makes Socrates νυμφόληπτος, and results in inspiration, ἐπιόν, 238d)
d. Nymphs (they make Socrates ‘enthusiastic’, ὑπὸ τῶν Νυμφῶν…ἐνθουσιάσω, 241d)
e. Ibycus and Stesichorus (implicitly: Socrates follows their lead, 242d-243b)
f. Muses (they arouse tender souls to a Bacchic frenzy, 245a)
g. The cicadas (they bestow upon humans the gift of the Muses, 258eff.)
h. The local gods and the Muses’ prophets (i.e. the cicadas, inspiring Socrates, 262c-d)
i. Pan and Nymphs (they outsmart Lysias, 263d. Cf. 278b, Νυμφῶν νᾶμά τε καὶ μουσεῖον)

Clearly, Socrates is inspired throughout the Phaedrus, including his first human and impious speech. My reading of the Phaedrus is designed, inter alia, to highlight this problem and to suggest a different solution.

My aim is also to provide a sample of my work as resulting from different approaches. Let me begin with a point of vocabulary, namely the strange beginning of Socrates’ first speech (see above, passage 3). In order to grasp the extravagant sound of this invocation, one has only to recall the funny commentary provided by Dionysius of Alicarnassus: as he funnily remarks, he was quietly reading the Phaedrus until Socrates’ lofty invocation struck him as a bolt from the blue, making him jump out of his skin (De Demosthenis dictione, 7.9 ff ).

One striking feature of passage 3 is surely the epithet ligeiai: this is the only place in extant classical prose to feature this adjective. In archaic poetry, the form ligeia usually modifies the phorminx. Only occasionally does it modify the Muse(s): no individual Greek poet (that is if we discard the Homeric Hymns) has more than one such instance. The one exception is Stesichorus, who uses it twice to refer to the Muses:

8. δεῦρ’ ἄγε Καλλιόπεια λίγεια (Stesichorus, 240 PMG)

9. ἄγε Μοῦσα λίγει’ ἄρξον ἀοιδᾶς †ἐρατῶν ὕμνους†
Σαμίων περὶ παίδων ἐρατᾶι φθεγγομένα λύραι (Stesichorus, 278 PMG)

The analogy with Socrates’ invocation is immediately obvious: note the verb ago, and note also that the subject of the second fragment is paederotic. Another strange feature of Socrates’ invocation is his strange request for cooperation as opposed to full inspiration (ξύμ μοι λάβεσθε). This possibly points to the beginning of Stesichorus’ Oresteia as quoted in Aristophanes’ Peace, which also have the same exceptional “with me” motif:

10. Μοῖσα σὺ μὲν πολέμους ἀπωσαμένα μετ’ ἐμοῦ (Stesichorus, 210.1 PMG)

In sum, one might begin to suspect that Socrates’ odd invocation is a concoction of Stesichorean mannerisms. This is confirmed, I argue, by the conclusion of Socrates’ first speech (see above, passage 4). We now move to a philological issue, which in turn entails a metrical point.

The manuscripts feature a quasi-hexameter (4a ὡς λύκοι ἄρνας ἀγαπῶσιν, ὣς παῖδα φιλοῦσιν ἐρασταί). Yet recent editors and commentators usually print or favour a different text, resulting in a full hexameter line (4b ὡς λύκοι ἄρν’ ἀγαπῶσ’, ὣς παῖδα φιλοῦσιν ἐρασταί). Is this reasonable? The grounds for preferring the hexametrical text are the following:

- first, there is some support from the indirect tradition, as is clear from Moreschini’s Belles Lettres apparatus (ἄρν’ἀγαπῶσ’ HERMIAS 61,26 Bekker ἄρνα φιλοῦσιν HERMIAS 61,7 Stephan. ἄρνα φιλεῦσ’ HERMOG.);

- second, Socrates claims he is uttering epe, epic verse (see above, passage five 5): accordingly, commentators have no doubts: “It is certain” – I quote from the new Cambridge commentary by Harvey Yunis – “that Plato composed a hexameter verse for this spot” (ad loc.);

- third, the alleged hexameter is slightly irregular, in that it violates Hermann’s bridge as a result of an unexpected caesura (παῖδα | φιλοῦσιν). This calls to mind the two ‘Homeric’ lines that Socrates will quote later, one of which features the same violation (252b-c, see below, passage 13). Jules Labarbe, then, interpreted the violation as Plato’s jocular ‘signature’: on this view, the very irregularity of the verse, somewhat paradoxically, becomes an argument against the text of the manuscripts.

In my opinion, none of these arguments is persuasive:

- first, the indirect tradition is inconsistent, as is clear from the apparatus. This seems to reflect different attempts to create a full hexameter line so as to confirm Socrates’ claim to epic inspiration as expressed in passage 5. The reverse scenario – a full hexameter got lost in the tradition – is much less likely: as a general rule, the metre tends to ‘protect’ the original wording;

- second, epe does not really mean “hexameters”, but can refer equally well to the quasi-epic verse of Stesichorus, as is clear from the following passages:

11. καθάπερ Στησιχόρου τε καὶ τῶν ἀρχαίων μελοποιῶν οἳ ποιοῦντες ἔπη
(Heraclides Ponticus, 109.23 Schütrumpf)

12. ἐπιδεικνύουσι δὲ Ἡρακλέους τῶν παίδων τῶν ἐκ Μεγάρας μνῆμα, οὐδέν τι ἀλλοίως τὰ ἐς τὸν θάνατον λέγοντες ἢ Στησίχορος ὁ Ἱμεραῖος καὶ Πανύασσις ἐν τοῖς ἔπεσιν ἐποίησαν. (Pausanias, 9.11.2);

- third, the parallel with the lines from the Homeridae simply backfires. Let us have a look at the relevant passage:

13. τοῦτο δὲ τὸ πάθος, ὦ παῖ καλέ, πρὸς ὃν δή μοι ὁ λόγος, ἄνθρωποι μὲν ἔρωτα ὀνομάζουσιν, θεοὶ δὲ ὃ καλοῦσιν ἀκούσας εἰκότως διὰ νεότητα γελάσῃ. λέγουσι δὲ οἶμαί τινες Ὁμηριδῶν ἐκ τῶν ἀποθέτων ἐπῶν δύο ἔπη εἰς τὸν ἔρωτα, ὧν τὸ ἕτερον ὑβριστικὸν πάνυ καὶ οὐ σφόδρα τι ἔμμετρον· ὑμνοῦσι δὲ ὧδε

τὸν δ᾽ ἤτοι θνητοὶ μὲν ἔρωτα | καλοῦσι ποτηνόν,
ἀθάνατοι δὲ Πτέρωτα, διὰ πτεροφύτορ᾽ ἀνάγκην.

τούτοις δὴ ἔξεστι μὲν πείθεσθαι, ἔξεστιν δὲ μή (Phaedrus 252b-c)

By assigning them to the Homeridae, Socrates is no doubt discrediting these two lines. He even registers the shameless irregularity of the second one!

In sum, there is nothing wrong with the manuscripts. What are we left with, then? In my view, Socrates’ closing words do form a complete verse anyway, as should be clear from the following outline (14):

> a) ὣς παῖδα φιλοῦσιν ἐρασταί  (Phdr. 241d1 = final words of Socrates’ first speech)
≈ b) Οὐκ ἔστ᾽ ἔτυμος λόγος οὗτος (PMG 192.1 = line 1 of palinode according to Plato)
≈ c) οὐδ᾽ ἵκεο Πέργαμα Τροίας     (PMG 192.3 = line 3 of palinode according to Plato)
≈ d) Δεῦρ’ αὖτε θεὰ φιλόμολπε     (PMG 193.9f. = incipit of palinode 1, cf. Chamaeleon)
≈ e) Χρυσόπτερε πάρθενε*       (PMG 193.11 = incipit of palinode 2, cf. Chamaeleon)
*<Μοῖσα> suppl. West (or a Siren, as suggested by Giovanni Cerri)

No matter how we call it, ὣς παῖδα φιλοῦσιν ἐρασταί is precisely the type of verse one finds in Stesichorus’ palinode. To begin with, it scans precisely like two of the three verses that Socrates quotes from Stesichorus’ palinode to introduce his second speech (14b and 14c). Even more importantly, it scans like the very incipit of Stesichorus’ twofold palinode as quoted by Chamaeleon (14d and 14e). This is crucial for my argument: to the ears of Plato’s original audiences, then, Socrates’ final words announce the rhythm of the palinode. This is why Socrates calls them epe. Both of Socrates’ speeches are in fact inspired by Stesichorus, and Socrates is probably re-enacting Stesichorus’ own movement from one song (let us call it the Helen) to another (let us call it the Palinode).

Stesichorus’ Helen poem(s) is a notorious conundrum: how many odes and palinodes were there? This is not the place to address such a complex question. Let me just mention that the consensus is moving towards the idea that there was just one song, as David Sider, Graziano Arrighetti and Adrian Kelly, among others, have argued. In a highly charged performance, the poet would first denigrate Helen, which results in his notional blindness. At a later stage, he would move to a second and possibly to a third section of the song and rehabilitate Helen against the epic tradition. At this point, the performer would pretend to regain his sight as a result of his recantation. When reading came to replace performance, the different sections began to circulate as independent poems, which accounts for the contradictions we find in later sources. Now, this spectacular scenario fits very well the Phaedrus: we now move to a performative factor.

Some years ago, Marian Demos drew attention to Socrates’ strange ‘acting’ in the Phaedrus. Socrates covers his head before delivering his first, “impious” speech, only to uncover it when he launches ingo his palinode: I am referring back to passage 2, and in particular to the phrase γυμνῇ τῇ κεφαλῇ. Demos makes the important point that – I quote – “the legend that Stesichorus lost his sight because of his defamation of Helen is analogous to Socrates’ lack of vision during the speech he delivers with his head covered” (p. 70). Once we replace “legend” with “performance” this makes perfect sense: Socrates’ delivering of his two speeches is clearly analogous to Stesichorus’ performance, and Socrates goes so far as to ask Phaedrus for directions:

15. ΣΩ: ποῦ δή μοι ὁ παῖς πρὸς ὃν ἔλεγον; ἵνα καὶ τοῦτο ἀκούσῃ, καὶ μὴ ἀνήκοος ὢν φθάσῃ χαρισάμενος τῷ μὴ ἐρῶντι. ΦΑ: οὗτος παρά σοι μάλα πλησίον ἀεὶ πάρεστιν, ὅταν σὺ βούλῃ. (Phaedrus 243e)

As if he were a blind man, he asks “where’s my boy, the one I was talking to”? and Phaedrus promptly reassures him “He’s here”.

*

I have discussed a sample of lexical, philological, metrical and performative factors, and I could add more. For instance, the “untrue story” motive is touched upon early in the Phaedrus:

16. … ὦ Σώκρατες, σὺ τοῦτο τὸ μυθολόγημα πείθει ἀληθὲς εἶναι; (Phaedrus, 229b)

These words are uttered well before the delivering of the speeches: I interpret this as the triggering of the palinode theme. These and other factors all converge in suggesting one and the same conclusion: Socrates is consistently appropriating Stesichorus’ persona and re-enacting his Helen poem. In other words, Socrates re-enacts both the ode and the palinode of Stesichorus, which eventually helps understand why inspiration is scattered throughout the dialogue and may even promote a fuller understanding of Stesichorus’ song. As for the Phaedrus, far for pointing to Plato’s alleged palinode or philosophical ‘evolution’, this signals a dialectical movement, whereby every concept is analyzed in utramque partem.

Socrates qualifies Stesichorus, and by implication himself, as mousikos as opposed to ‘unmusical’ Homer (see above, passage 2). On the one hand, this revives a traditional opposition, which Walter Burkert once labeled “rhapsodes versus Stesichorus”. There was a rivalry or juxtaposition between the musical performances of Stesichorus’ songs and the increasingly rigid recitations of Homeric rhapsodies. On the other hand, this can be seen as the hallmark of philosophical discourse as opposed to other speech-acts. It comes as no surprise that rhetoric, towards the end of the dialogue, is conceptualized precisely as a form crystallized rhapsody:

17. Ὁ δέ γε ἐν μὲν τῷ γεγραμμένῳ λόγῳ περὶ ἑκάστου παιδιάν τε ἡγούμενος πολλὴν ἀναγκαῖον εἶναι, καὶ οὐδένα πώποτε λόγον ἐν μέτρῳ οὐδ’ ἄνευ μέτρου μεγάλης ἄξιον σπουδῆς γραφῆναι, οὐδὲ λεχθῆναι ὡς οἱ ῥαψῳδούμενοι ἄνευ ἀνακρίσεως καὶ διδαχῆς πειθοῦς ἕνεκα ἐλέχθησαν, ἀλλὰ τῷ ὄντι αὐτῶν τοὺς βελτίστους εἰδότων ὑπόμνησιν γεγονέναι … (Phaedrus 277e-278a).

Thanks to Nietzsche, we all remember the accusation voiced by Aristophanes, namely that Socratic philosophy was an attempt against traditional mousike:

18. χαρίεν οὖν μὴ Σωκράτει
παρακαθήμενον λαλεῖν,
ἀποβαλόντα μουσικὴν
τά τε μέγιστα παραλιπόντα
τῆς τραγῳδικῆς τέχνης. (Aristophanes, Frogs 1491-1495).

In the Phaedrus and elsewhere, Plato provides a powerful reply to that accusation: unlike ‘rhapsodic’ rhetoric, which presented itself as a purely human agency, philosophy is definitely a form of primal mousike, a Muse-inspired art. This paradox of Plato’s authorial voice lies at the heart of my research at the CHS.

Note

This is the written version – a sort of script, as it were – of my talk for the CHS Research Symposium. I develop my argument in full in the first chapter of the book I am completing (see previous post).

References:

Arrighetti G., Stesicoro e il suo pubblico, MD 32, 1994, 9-30.

Burkert W., The Making of Homer in the Sixth Century B.C.: Rhapsodes versus Stesichorus, in A.A.V.V., Papers on the Amasis Painter and his World, Malibu 1987, 43-62, then in W.B. Kleine Schriften, I, Göttingen 2001, 198-217.

Cerri G., Dal canto citarodico al coro tragico: la Palinodia di Stesicoro, l’Elena di Euripide e le sirene, Dioniso 55, 1984-1985, 157-174.

Demos M., Lyric Quotation in Plato, Lanham (Md.), 1999.

Detienne M., Homère, Hésiode et Pythagore. Poésie et philosophie dans le Pythagoreisme ancien, Bruxelles – Berchem 1962.

Kelly A., Stesikhoros and Helen, MH 64, 2007, 1-21.

Labarbe J., Socrate épique dans le Phèdre de Platon, AntClass 63, 1994, 225-230.

Sider D., The Blinding of Stesichorus, Hermes 117, 1989, 423-431.

Yunis H. (ed.), Plato, Phaedrus, Cambridge 2011.

Posted in Language/Literature, Mythology/Religion, Philosophy | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

POxy XXX 2513: Iphigenia in the Corinthiaca of Eumelus

Posted on May 9, 2012 by Andrea Debiasi

What follows is the text of the presentation I gave on the occasion of the CHS Research Symposium (April 28, 2012). I am glad to post it here, since I find it representative of the type of research on Eumelus I could conduct in this very special and conducive environment. A more detailed discussion on this topic will appear soon in a scholarly journal.

I take advantage of this post to thank the entire Staff of the CHS as well as my fellow Fellows for their support, assistance and friendship.

*

In a 2003 essay, I argued for an early date of the epic fragment preserved in POxy LIII 3698 (2nd century) [1]. Its Argonautic subject features both Orpheus and Mopsus: the former plays the lyre [2] the latter delivers a prophetic speech concerning the wedding between Medea and Jason. This fits very well the Corinthiaca of Eumelus. Moreover, the fragment closely parallels some of Eumelus’ fragments as well as a passage from Apollonius’ Argonautica that is clearly shaped on the Corinthiaca.

The appearance and the paleographic features of POxy LIII 3698 bring to mind POxy XXX 2513, which likewise preserves the remnants of some hexameter lines redolent of Homer. As the editor of POxy LIII 3698 [3] pointed out, the papyrus proves to be “written in the same hand as 2513 and apparently from the same manuscript… the physical appearance of the two fragments is so similar as to leave little doubt that they are parts of one and the same manuscript, one would guess from the same vicinity”.

POxy XXX 2513 has been investigated by R. Janko, who tentatively traced it back to the Cypria [4]. Given that the lines from POxy LIII 3698 are likely to belong to the Corinthiaca, POxy XXX 2513 should also be ascribed to Eumelus. A fresh analysis of POxy XXX 2513 can provide additional evidence.

We can partially read the central section of some 37 hexameters verses straddling the median caesura. As was suggested by E. Lobel [5], the first editor of the papyrus, Iphigenia (Iphige]neia) stands out in l. 14. She is referred to as e]upl[ok]amos in 15 and is connected with an an]ax andrō[n in 16. In all likelihood, the anax andrōn is her father Agamemnon, given that in the Homeric poems the phrase refers to him no fewer than 48 times (as against five instances where it qualifies other heroes).

From this vantage point, Janko managed to discern some hints pointing to the sacrifice of Iphigenia in the remaining lines, and he supplemented them accordingly: his tentative text is found in the handout [item #1].

To be sure, the Aulis episode is not Homeric: we know from Proclus that it belonged to the Cypria [6], whence Janko’s attribution. However, Iphigenia’s famous trials did not belong exclusively to the Cypria: the episode was narrated, or at least hinted at, in a number of archaic poems, including those of Hesiod and Eumelus.

Eumelus’ “Corynthian Epic Cycle” [7] encompasses numerous mythical topics within an organic structure, and it may well have mentioned Iphigenia. The Eumelian corpus appropriates and reinterprets all of the major sagas, in a Corinthian (mainly Bacchiad) perspective, something that is especially conspicuous in the Corinthiaca [8].

The case of Glaucus, son of the ruler of Corinth Sisyphus, is remarkable both from a general viewpoint and for my specific argument, in that it helps shed light on POxy XXX 2513. We know from Schol. ad Apoll. Rhod. 1.146-149a [handout item #2] that “Eumelus in the Corinthiaca says that Leda’s father was Glaucus the son of Sisyphus and her mother Panteidyia: he records that when his horses were missing Glaucus went to Lacedaemon, and there made love to Panteidyia, who they say [variant: he says] subsequently married Thestius <and bore Leda>, so that she was biologically the child of Glaucus, though officially of Thestius” [9] (tr. M.L. West). In this way, Leda and her Spartan offspring could trace their origin back to the royal Corinthian lineage.

Eumelus mentioned the Tyndarids, since we know that the Dioscouroi (Castor and Polydeuces) were members of the Argonautic expedition [handout item #3] [10]. Similarly, Clytaemestra and Helen must have received some attention by a poet who, according to G.L. Huxley, “followed the Spartan royal line down at least as far as the Trojan war” [11]: Eumelus recorded the extramarital affair between Helen’s husband Menelaus and the nymph Cnossia, who bore him Xenodamus [12] [handout item #4a], and “it is a reasonable guess that the amorous encounter occurred on the fatal occasion when Menelaus went to Crete for the funeral of his maternal grandfather Catreus, leaving Helen to look after the house-guest Paris” [handout item #4b] [13].

In fact, Eumelus’ Corinthian Cycle could hardly neglect events and myths connected with the Trojan war: the role of Corinth in the conflict must have been emphasized, especially considered how marginal it is in the Homeric poems.

In Olympian 13 for Xenophon of Corinth, Pindar draws several motifs and figures from Eumelus [14]: interestingly enough, at ll. 50-60 [handout item #5] Corinth is praised for the metis and heroic excellence of its ancestors: the Argonautic and the Trojan sagas are juxtaposed, where Sisyphus and Medea are mentioned as well as the Corinthians who fought at Troy on both sides.

From Eumelus’ perspective, the Trojan war becomes a “family affair”: based on the line of descent Glaucus–Leda–Helen, the Corinthians brought help to Agamemnon and Menelaus in order to recover the grand-daughter of Sisyphus’ son [15].

The figure of Iphigenia, the daughter of Agamemnon and Clytaemestra, fits very well in this genealogical frame: on her mother’ side, Leda is her grandmother and Glaucus her great-grandfather [handout genealogical table]. Possibly, it is not accidental that the sacrifice of Agamemnon’s daughter, called Iphimede, is found in the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women [16], a major influence on Eumelus’ Corinthiaca [17].

The traditional setting of the sacrifice at Aulis, on the Boeotian shore opposite Euboea, provides both a geographical and a mythical frame to Hesiod [18] and Eumelus [19]. The setting is of course traditional, and yet in some major sources the story does not end in Aulis: rather, Artemis rescues Iphigenia and takes her to the land of the Tauroi in Crimea. This version is followed by the author of the Cypria (where the girl becomes an immortal) [20] as well as by Euripides.

The plot of the Iphigenia in Tauris is especially informative: Iphigenia becomes a (mortal) priestess, whose task is to sacrifice strangers to Artemis; in the course of time, her brother Orestes arrives among the Tauroi together with Pylades: the two friends need Artemis’ statue to seek purification from the recent murder of Clytaemestra; as Iphigenia recognizes Orestes and Pylades, who have been captured and brought before her as prospective victims, she devises a plan to rescue them. Eventually, she follows them to Greece, where a cult in Artemis’ honor is established.

The narrative core of the story refers to ancestral rituals and thus seems to be early. That everything here is Euripides’ invention [21] is questionable: it is far more likely that he also draws from some archaic material. Eumelian influences on Euripides’ plays are frequent and significant [22].

Like Aulis, the Pontic land of the Tauroi is a highly suitable setting for Eumelus’ own version of the story. Iphigenia and Orestes, both descendants of Sisiphus, succeeded Medea in the sovereignty on Corinth; by following Jason, Medea moved to Greece from the Colchian land in the Black Sea, where her father Aietes had previously settled after leaving Ephyra (i.e. Corinth) [23].

Eumelus’ mentioning of the Colchian land [handout item #6] [24], of Sinope [handout item #7] [25], of the river Borysthenis (i.e. Dniepr) [handout item #8] [26], as well as the linking of Aietes, Medea and the Argonauts with the Pontic background, is hardly coincidental. In the archaic period, the Greeks visited this region at a relatively early date, and this is reflected in Eumelus’ epics [27]. That Orestes’ venture into the Black Sea featured in Eumelus’ poem, moreover, is a very likely possibility, in that his enterprise closely parallels Jason’s: they both venture into the same region, and they both bring to Greece a heroine – Iphigeneia and Medea respectively.

In the Corinthiaca, Medea is represented as a benign sorcerer who successfully performs some ancestral rituals of rejuvenation: Medea’s boiling cauldron is a recurrent image in Eumelus [28]. Two passages from Lycophron (Alex. 196-199) [handout item #9] and Nonnus (Dion. 13.116-119) [handout item #10] provide an intriguing parallel: this time it is Iphigenia who uses a cauldron to boil her sacrificial victims in the land of Tauroi. In both texts the facts of Aulis inextricably cross and entangle with those of Tauris. A similar pattern must have occurred in Eumelus too and it can be detected in P      Oxy XXX 2513 as well.

Lycophron and Nonnus may well be echoing the Iphigenia episode as told in the Corinthiaca: first, Lycophron’s tendency to draw motifs and rare details from archaic epic is well-known [29]; second, we know that Nonnus does occasionally follow Eumelus: although his narration is arguably based on Lycophron’s for this specific passage [30], Eumelus’ influence cannot be ruled out either [31].

Iphigenia’s metamorphosis into a malign witch is no doubt the result of Lycophron’s influence [32]: here Nonnus surely imitates the Alexandra [33]. Still, the ritual tearing apart and the boiling cauldron are peculiar to Eumelus. In Nonn. Dion. 13.119 Orestes seems to receive such a treatment from Iphigenia, who saves him and brings him back to life soon afterward [34]: this closely recalls Medea’s sorceries in the Corinthiaca.

All in all, a number of passages from Lycophron and Nonnus, as well as Euripides’ Iphigenia in Aulis and Iphigenia in Tauris, may help shed light on POxy XXX 2513. A new scenario emerges, whereby Iphigenia is both a sacrificial victim and a sacrificing priestess, in Aulis and Tauris respectively. While resulting in a different attribution, this interpretation does not affect Janko’s textual reconstruction as a whole. Rather, it can reinforce it and provide a solution to a number of thorny problems (cf. Janko’s remark: “There are difficulties in reconciling all of it with Proclus’ summary”).

Time does not allow for a detailed analysis of the single lines. I shall confine myself to a few selected remarks.

At l. 3: kher]niba(s?), the holy water used before sacrifices, has been restored by Janko, based on a passage of the Iph. Aul. (1568-1569). But we can also compare some passages from the Iph. Taur 622 and 644-5 and Lycophr. Alex. 196, where Iphigenia is sacrificing among the Tauroi.

At l. 4: Pēlē]iadē[(s?) Janko (tentatively) since “]iadē[ will admit numerous supplements” and Pēlēiadēs is always genitive in Homer. Cf. the pivotal motif of the wedding between Achilles and Helen in Eur. Iph. Aul. and Iph. Taur.; Nonn. Dion. 13.110-112. Cf. esp. Lycophr. Alex. 186-194 and 200-201: wanderings of Achilles searching in vain Helen through Scythia and the Black Sea.

At l. 8: Thrē<i>kō[n  Winds from Thrace? So Janko (thinking of the sacrifice of Iphigenia at Aulis). But cf. also the wider meaning of Thrace/Thracian = Scythian, Pontic. Cf. Lycophr. Alex. 186-187.

At l. 11: demelainan[ “ought to contain part of melaina, but whether this refers to black fate or black sea is uncertain” (Janko). But cf. also Alex. Lycophr. Alex. 198: Iphigenia (sacrificing) is melaina; 325: Iphigenia (sacrificing) is kelainē. Cf. the archaic assimilation of Iphigenia with Hecate: Hes. fr. 23b M.-W.; Stesich. PMG fr. 215 Page = PMGF p. 209 Davies.

At l. 22 dy[s]kheimerō[i (Lobel) is interesting: dyskheimerōs is the land of the Scythians/Tauroi in Herod. 4.28.

At l. 25 we have probably kasig]nētoi (Lobel). For Janko “there seems no place for these brothers in the apotheosis of Iphigeneia”. Still, if our text belongs to the Corinthiaca, the apotheosis of Iphigenia (mentioned in the Cypria) is no longer a requirement. In such a context the kasignētoi may be either Iphigenia and Orestes (brother and sister) or Orestes and Pylades: kasignētos may mean “cousin” in more general sense [35].

At l. 29 kephalēn is likely the head of the victim. We might compare the description of Taurian sacrificial rituals in Herod. 4.103.1-2, according to which the Tauroi “strike the victim’s head with a club… they impale the head”. Interestingly enough in Lycophr. Alex. 187 Iphigenia is Hellados karatomos.

Finally I would like to attract attention to the image of the wind (pnoiē) shared by both POxy LIII 3698 l. 8 and POxy XXX 2513 l. 26. In the Argonautic fragment, which includes Mopsus’ prophetic speech concerning the wedding between Medea and Jason, this possibly refers to adverse winds preventing Argos from sailing (cf. POxy LIII 3698 l. 25 and 30); as such, it provides a compelling parallel to the Iphigenia episode, especially if Mopsus reveals the measures necessary to achieve a cessation [36], as he does in Apoll. Rhod. 1.1092 ff. (drawing likely from Eumelus).

Mopsus’s counterpart is Calchas. The wedding motif underlies both fragments: in one case the marriage is that of Medea and Jason; in the other, the wedding couple is Iphigenia and Achilles, although the marriage is of course an excuse. POxy LIII 3698 foreshadows the Colchians’ expedition to recover Medea. In Hyginus fab. 261 [handout item #11] Orestes’ expedition in the Black Sea is described as a mission in Colchis (Iphigenia… cognovit fratrem Orestem, qui… cum amico Pylade Colchos petierat). That Hyginus may have drawn from the Corinthiaca is hardly surprising, considered that elsewhere he knows Eumelus demonstrably well [37].

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

 

Barigazzi 1966: A. Barigazzi, “Nuovi frammenti dei Corinthiaca di Eumelo”, RFIC 94, 1966, 129-148.

Bernabé 2008: A. Bernabé, “Viajes de Orfeo”, in Orfeo y la tradición órfica. Un reencuentro, eds. A. Bernabé and F. Casadesús, Madrid 2008, 59-74.

Bernabé 2010: A. Bernabé, BMCR 2010.5.38 (review of La favola di Orfeo: letteratura, immagine, performance, eds. A. M. Andrisano and P. Fabri, Ferrara 2009) [http://bmcr.brynmawr.edu/2010/2010-05-38.html].

Braund 2005: D. Braund, “Reflections on Eumelus’ Black Sea Region”, in Proceedings of the Conference Pont-Euxin et Polis. Polis Hellenis et Polis Barbaron. Hommage à O. Lordkipanidzé et P. Lévêque (Vani 2002), eds. D. Kacharava, M. Faudot, É. Geny, Besançon 2005, 99-113.

Chuvin 1991: P. Chuvin, Mythologie et géographie dionysiaques. Recherches sur l’oeuvre de Nonnos de Panopolis, Clermont-Ferrand 1991.

Corsano 1992: M. Corsano, Glaukos. Miti greci di personaggi omonimi, Roma 1992.

Debiasi 2003: A. Debiasi, “POxy LIII 3698: Eumeli Corinthii fragmentum novum?”, ZPE 143, 2003, 1-5.

Debiasi 2004: A. Debiasi, L’epica perduta. Eumelo, il Ciclo, l’occidente, Roma 2004.

Debiasi 2005: A. Debiasi, “Eumeli Corinthii fragmenta neglecta?”, ZPE 153, 2005, 43-58.

Debiasi 2008: A. Debiasi, Esiodo e l’occidente, Roma 2008.

Debiasi, forthcoming [a]: A. Debiasi, “Dioniso e i cani di Atteone in Eumelo di Corinto (Una nuova ipotesi su POxy. XXX 2509 e Apollod. 3.4.4)”, in the Proceedings of the Conference Redefinir Dioniso / Redefining Dionysus (Madrid 2010), editor A. Bernabé, Berlin-New York.

Debiasi, forthcoming [b]: A. Debiasi, “Riflessi di epos corinzio (Eumelo) nelle Dionisiache di Nonno di Panopoli”, in the Proceedings of the Conference Corinto: luogo di azione e luogo di racconto (Urbino 2009), ed. P. Angeli Bernardini, Roma.

Debiasi, forthcoming [c]: A. Debiasi, “Trame euboiche (arcaiche ed ellenistiche) nelle Dionisiache di Nonno di Panopoli: Eumelo ed Euforione”, in Hespería. Studi sulla grecità di occidente (Studi miscellanei per Lorenzo Braccesi), Roma.

de Fidio 1991: P. de Fidio, “Un modello di mythistoríe. Asopia ed Efirea nei Korinthiaká di Eumelo”, in Geografia storica della Grecia antica, a cura di F. Prontera, Roma-Bari 1991, 233-263.

Gigante Lanzara 1995: V. Gigante Lanzara, “I vaticini di Cassandra e l’interpretazione trasgressiva del mito”, SCO 45, 1995, 85-98.

Gigante Lanzara 2000: V. Gigante Lanzara, Licofrone. Alessandra, Milano 2000.

Gonnelli 2003: F. Gonnelli, Nonno di Panopoli. Le Dionisiache, II. (Canti XIII-XXIV), Milano 2003.

Haslam 1986: M. W. Haslam, The Oxyrhynchus Papyri, LIII, London 1986.

Hurst – Kolde 2008: A. Hurst – A. Kolde, Lycophron. Alexandra, Paris 2008.

Huxley 1969: G. L. Huxley, Greek Epic Poetry from Eumelos to Panyassis, London 1969.

Janko 1982: R. Janko, “P. Oxy. 2513: Hexameters on the Sacrifice of Iphigeneia?”, ZPE 49, 1982, 25-29.

Janko 1992: R. Janko, The Iliad. A Commentary, IV. (Books XIII-XVI), Cambridge 1992.

Kyriakou 2006: P. Kyriakou, A Commentary on Euripides’ Iphigenia in Tauris, Berlin-New York 2006.

Lobel 1964: E. Lobel, The Oxyrhynchus Papyri, XXX, London 1964.

Schmidt 1991: M. Schmidt, s.v. kasignētos, in LfgrE XIV 1991, 1340-1344.

Schulze 1973: J. F. Schulze, “Die Iphigenie-Geschichte bei Nonnos”, ZAnt 23, 1973, 23-27.

Vian 1995: F. Vian, Nonnos de Panopolis. Les Dionysiaques, V. (Chants XI-XIII), Paris 1995.

West 2002 : M. L. West, “‘Eumelos’: a Corinthian Epic Cycle?”, JHS 122, 2002, 109-133.

West 2003: M. L. West, Greek Epic Fragments. From the Seventh to the Fifth Centuries BC, Cambridge (Mass.)-London 2003.

[1] Debiasi 2003. For a further attribution to Eumelus of an epic fragment transmitted by an Oxyrhynchus Papyrus, cf. Debiasi, forthcoming [a].

[2] Orph. test. 1005a (I) Bernabé. The ascription to Eumelus is accepted by Bernabé 2008, 63; Bernabé 2010.

[3] Haslam 1986, 10-15.

[4] Janko 1982.

[5] Lobel 1964, 13-15.

[6] Cypr. arg. ll. 42-49 Bernabé = arg. ll. 55-63 Davies = arg. 8 West. Cf. Cypr. fr. 24 Bernabé = fr. 17 Davies = fr. 20 West.

[7] As it has been aptly defined by West 2002.

[8] West 2002; Debiasi 2004, 19-107.

[9] Eum. fr. 7 Bernabé = Cor. fr. 8 Davies = fr. 25 West.

[10] Eum. fr. 8 Bernabé = Cor. fr. 12 Davies = fr. 22* West.

[11] Huxley 1969, 74.

[12] Eum. fr. 9 Bernabé = Cor. fr. 9 Davies = fr. 33 West (incertae sedis).

[13] West 2002, 127. Cf. Apollod. epit. 3, 3.

[14] Barigazzi 1966, 138-140; Debiasi 2004, 78.

[15] Corsano 1992, 80.

[16] Hes. fr. 23a M.-W.

[17] Cf. de Fidio 1991, 253; Debiasi 2004, 22 and passim.

[18] Debiasi 2008, 17-37 (chap. 1: “Esiodo tra Beozia ed Eubea”) and passim.

[19] Debiasi 2004, 19-107 and passim.

[20] See above, n. 6. In the Catalogue of Women (see above, n. 16) – or rather, what it is possibly an interpolation in it – there is the same notion of apotheosis but no mention of the Tauroi.

[21] Cf. e.g., recently, Kyriakou 2006, 21.

[22] Debiasi 2004, 88; 92.

[23] Eum. frr. 3; 5 Bernabé = Cor. frr. 2; 3A Davies = frr. 17-18; 20; 23 West.

[24] Eum. fr. 3 Bernabé = Cor. fr. 2 Davies = fr. 17 West.

[25] Eum. fr. 10 Bernabé = Cor. fr. 7 Davies = fr. 29 West. Cf. Debiasi 2004, 28-29 con n. 67.

[26] Eum. fr. 17 Bernabé = fr. dub. 2 Davies = fr. 35 West. Cf. Debiasi 2004, 29 con n. 68, 59-62.

[27] Debiasi 2004, 28-31; Braund 2005.

[28] On Medea rejuvenating Jason, Aison, and the nurses of Dionysus in the Eumelian epics, see  Debiasi 2004, 34-37.

[29] Cf. Debiasi 2004, passim.

[30] Schulze 1973, 25-26.

[31] Debiasi, forthcoming [b] and [c].

[32] Gigante Lanzara 1995, 94-98; cf. Gigante Lanzara 2000, 221-226.

[33] Schulze 1973, 25-26; Gonnelli 2003, 76.

[34] See (pace Vian 1995, 219), Chuvin 1991, 39; Gonnelli 2003, 77.

[35] Schmidt 1991; Janko 1992, 289 (ad Il. 15.545-546).

[36] Haslam 1986.

[37] Hyg. fab. 183 = Titan. fr. 7 (II) Bernabé = fr. 4B Davies = Eum. fr. 11 West; fab. 275.6 = Eum. fr. 1 (II) Bernabé; cf. also fab. 150, on which, see West 2002, 113; and fab. 273.10-11, on which, see Debiasi 2005, 54-55. Diod. 4.44.7 and Arg. Orph. 1076-1077 are also worth noting, where they both mention the episode of Iphigenia within an Argonautic context.

Posted in Epigraphy/Papyrology, Language/Literature, Mythology/Religion | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Presentation Text: The institution of the warrior in several Greek tragedies

Posted on May 2, 2012 by Synnøve des Bouvrie

I will introduce my contribution to the symposium by commenting on the title of my project, which I have called: ‘The institution of the warrior in several Greek tragedies’. This title however is an abbreviation of the proper but more complex research question I pose. An expression like ‘the warrior in tragedy’ suggests the interpretative effort of identifying characters with certain attributes and describing as well as evaluating the personal features of these individuals. This would result in the standard literary criticism of the drama.

Current literary criticism is based upon assumptions about ‘representation’ as the final aim of tragic drama, it makes a halt at describing and evaluating the tragic events and characters. This method of tracing causation and motivation is so widespread that it is difficult not to be engulfed by it.

What I am aiming at is an anthropological analysis and in that effort a proper title should have been considerably longer. An anthropological method will in addition ask how these dramatic representations are pervaded by the ‘tragic disruptions’ of the institutional order, and how these disruptions acted on the audience participating in the performance. Such a method is supported by Aristoteles’ statement that tragedy not just offers μίμησις (every art form does so) but in addition evokes tragic ἔλεος and φόβος in the audience: their reaction to the violation of institutional values in the drama.

My anthropological method differs from the standard approach in two ways.

Firstly, it is my contention that in spite of the fact that they appear as individuals, the heroes of tragic drama at the same time served as vehicles of cultural symbols or institutional values.

Secondly, I do not ask‚ ‘What image of life is represented, or what philosophical message do these dramatic events convey in terms of causation?’  Such questions presuppose a distanced relationship and an intellectual-aesthetic attitude on the part of the audience. Instead I ask the anthropological question, ‘In what way are fundamental institutional values disrupted aiming at upsetting the audience and rousing the reactions of instant tragic shock and horror?’ Not the chain of causality, but the bare fact of disruption is at stake: hamartia not as fault but as fact, that is what Aristoteles says. I emphasize, this method is presupposing the original audience of Athenian citizens imbued with the institutional values of the polis.

In his fourteenth chapter of the Poetics, Aristoteles insists on telling that the condition for rousing the tragic reactions in the audience is that the characters involved in violent attacks should be philoi, that is, relatives united in the institutional bond of philia. It is not physical violence perpetrated on individuals, but violations of this institutional value that create tragedy. Not only murder on a philos, but incest as well create such a tragic violation and release the  tragic reactions (thus Aristoteles). Plato in the Laws (837-838) underscores the same insight: in tragedy cases of incest are staged, reinforcing, he says, the audience’s reactions of abhorrence at the crime of incest, this other violation of the sacrosanct bond of philia.

Tragic drama did not only offer representation but it launched a process of  what I prefer to call ‘tragic workings’ acting dynamically on the original audience.

Seen in this light the expression ‘the warrior in tragedies’ is certainly misleading. We should lift our view and focus on ‘the warrior outside of the tragedy’  as well, and study the dynamic interaction between the warrior on the  scene and the warrior in the audience. These spectators were imbued with the sense of the symbolic value of the warrior institution. Here I refer to the anthropological notion of ‘key symbol.’ Key symbols convey a cluster of ideas charged with affective power, and they tend to mobilize the community adhering to the symbol. I refer to an investigation by the American anthropologist Sherry Ortner.[1]

What we have then to include in our analysis of tragic drama is its dynamic character working on the original audience. [2]

What my title thus suggests is that in order to get to grips with the specific nature of ‘the tragic’ in the poets’ contemporary society we have to find out:

  • firstly, what symbolic value may be said to be violated, and
  • secondly, how does the symbol run through a drama aiming at shocking the original audience, in this way mobilizing them and revitalizing this unquestionable value. By applying the term ‘unquestionable’ I refer to the study of Sally Moore and Barbara Myerhoff.[3]

These anthropologists found that communal celebrations tend to stage presentations of concrete events which however implictly convey ‘socially unquestionable truths’, the fundamental values of the community.

It is a difficult task we have set ourselves, because we will never recover the actual reactions of the 5th century audience. However, there is something objectively to be recovered in our object of study, that is, the discrepancy between the dramatic state of affairs  on the scene and the normal or ideal social order in society.

There is another aspect of the tragic genre that is neglected in our standard literary criticism: the fact that the dramatic events do not offer a static picture of a single character or a message to be culled from everywhere in the drama, but it manifests a process of changing identities and twisted balances. This shift in identity and twisting of balance is very prominent in Sophokles King Oidipous and Antigone, but I suspect it is a general feature of the dynamic nature of Sophokles’ tragic drama.  These features, along with the fundamental disruption, I likewise subsume under the notion of ‘tragic workings.’

In addition a tragedy may not only manifest a violation but also run towards a restoration of the institutional value. In Sophokles’ Antigone, in spite of all unhappy endings, it is evident that the violation of the philos’ claim to  a proper burial in the end is restored.

Our questioning in the anthropological method has to consider: How do the ‘tragic workings’ interfere with the dramatic level, that is, the mimetic events, setting in motion the mimetico-tragic process?

Applying this anthropological method to Sophokles’ Aias, we will find that the ‘tragic workings’ transform the dramatic representation, carrying the audience from a disruption through a restoration of essential elements of the ‘warrior institution,’ hereby transforming identities and twisting balances.

Sophokles’ Aias presents a warrior camp and a protagonist who was traditionally next to Akhilleus only. Early in the drama however the audience is presented with a mad warrior, who intended to attack his own comrades in arms. As such he operates as an enemy of his community, and one who does deserve to be dishonored. In addition, in a brief passage (vss 756-779) Aias is said to have insulted the goddess Athena, and so he is on several accounts represented as a negative character.

As an enemy of his camp, his comrades, as well as of the goddess, Aias is driven to his doom, and the punishment of being left unburied is hanging over him. I will identify this development as the vital violation of the ‘warrior institution’.

In the course of the dramatic events, however, Aias’ identity is gradually transformed, the audience being induced into revising their initial judgment, in a tragic process, we should assume, set in motion under pressure from the drama’s  implied truth and ‘institutional value’. The climactic scene, a tug of war between the Atrid brothers denying burial, and Teukros demanding funeral rites, turns around this value: the violation of the honor due to a noble warrior as well as a philos, and in the end the transformation of the madman has taken place. There is no doubt that the tragic disruption has given way to a tragic restoration, tilting the balance into a positive outcome: Aias emerging as the great warrior and philos of his community is to be honored with a proper burial. In the exodos, Athena is heard no more. Instead Zeus the Olympian, as well as  ever-mindful Erinys and all-powerful Dike are invoked. sounding the final chord. Aias is here denoted as an ‘ἀνὴρ ἀγαθός’, the qualification of the supreme warrior.

While the dramatic events develop in causal links of motivation, the tragic workings subtly transform characters and twist negative balances: the negatively charged warrior is transformed into the positive standard embodying the ‘unquestionable truth’ of obligation to the fallen warrior, our philos. The audience, while initially identifying with the negative response to the outrageous madman is subtly guided into viewing Aias in a positive light. The intimate scenes with Aias’ concubine Tekmessa and his young son Eurysakes, as well as with his loyal half-brother Teukros, are a driving force in the ‘tragic workings’ of the drama. This tragic process does not allow for  static conclusions on the character of the protagonist. While the audience undoubtedly was fascinated with the personality and morals of the individual characters, imperceptibly they were carried away on the stream of the mimetico-tragic process, and drawn by the tragic workings into the ‘unquestionable truth,’ sanctioned by divine powers that ordain the burial of the fallen warrior.[4]

In Sophokles Philoktetes, and Aiskhylos’ Seven against Thebes similar processes seem to be going on.

[1] Sherry Ortner, 1973. ‘On key symbols,’ American Journal of Anthropology  75, 1338-46, reprinted in William A. Lessa, Evon Z. Vogt, John M. Watanabe (eds.), Reader in Comparative Religion: An anthropological approach (New York) 1979, 92-98.

[2] With the term ‘working’ i refer to the dynamic nature of symbolic action within the social process, as has been emphasized by Victor W. Turner, see e.g. Victor W. Turner, ‘Social Dramas and Ritual metaphors,’ in V.W. Turner, Dramas, fields and metaphors. Symbolic action in human society (Ithaca and London) 1975, 23-59 (p. 55).

[3] Sally F. Moore and Barbara G. Myerhoff, ‘Introduction,’  in S.F. Moore and B. Myerhoff (eds.), Secular Ritual (Assen, Amsterdam) 1977, 3-24.

[4] For various aspects of the tragic performance cf.

Synnøve des Bouvrie, ‘Myth as a mobilizing force in Attic warrior society,’ Papers at The Celtic conference in Classics, Rennes, 1-4 Sept. 2004, Kernos. Revue internationale et pluridisciplinaire de religion grecque antique 18, 2005, 185-201;

Synnøve des Bouvrie, ‘Euripides’ Hiketides: Why is this drama a tragedy?’ in Dieter Metzler (ed.),  Mazzo di fiori. Festschrift Herbert Hoffmann (Ruhpolding and Mainz)  2010, 114-138.

Synnøve des Bouvrie, ‘Continuity and change without agency. The Attic ritual theatre and the “socially unquestionable” in the tragic genre,’ in Angelos Chaniotis (ed.), Ritual Dynamics in the Ancient Mediterranean: Agency, Emotion, Gender, Representation. (Stuttgart) 2011, 139-178.

Synnøve des Bouvrie, ‘Greek festivals and the ritual process,’ International conference, Rosendal, 19.-22. May 2006, in Rasmus Brandt and Jon Iddeng (eds.), Greek and Roman Festivals. Content, Meaning, and Practice (Oxford) forthcoming 2012.

Posted in Language/Literature | Leave a comment

Abstract: The persistence of ancient poetic craft in the modern world

Posted on April 19, 2012 by Reginald Gibbons

My project is a hybrid of translation and comment.  I set out to translate Pindar’s fourth Pythian and seventh Olympian odes and to write about them in order to explore the continuity of at least some aspects of poetics from ancient to modern poets.  But I later realized that it wasn’t poetics in the broadest sense that interested me, but only those stances, strategies and many aspects of poetic craft which still survive.  My purpose is best served, then, by selecting passages that clearly illustrate this most curious aspect of poetry, which is that despite enormous cultural, historical and linguistic differences, many elements of ancient Greek poetic craft (as, I presume, of other ancient poetry in Indo-European languages) are still in use today by poets who have no knowledge of ancient poetry.  With translations and comments, I intend to spell out some of this apparently unwitting heritage.  It comes down to us across the tremendous gap between the public ceremonial and cultural function, as well as the artistic practice of the poet Pindar, on the one hand, and on the other, the sheer variety of present-day poetic practice in European languages and the absence in the latter of almost all functions except the individual, expressive one.  I have now chosen a number of passages, mostly very brief, in which Pindar comments (sings!) metapoetically about his craft and art and his purpose as a poet, and I am organizing them into a scheme of poetic craft, along with the craft elements themselves.  I have begun to translate longer passages that I will use as specimen texts.  In March during my last visit of this short-term-fellowship year, I had the good fortune to discuss with Leopoldo Iribarren some archaic ideas about poetics and poetic craft.  I was also lucky to coincide with Ryan Platte and to learn about his project on “equine poetics,” which also interests me a great deal, and bears on a different essay on poetry on which I have been working for some time.  Both of these continuing interchanges will continue to be immensely helpful to me.  I hope to complete this project by the end of the summer.

Posted in Abstracts, Language/Literature | Leave a comment