Scodel Ruth - Defining Greek Narrative

EDINBURGH LEVENTIS STUDIES 7
Previously published
Edinburgh Leventis Studies 1

Word and Image in Ancient Greece
Edited by N. Keith Rutter and Brian A. Sparkes

Envy, Spite and Jealousy: The Rivalrous Emotions in Ancient Greece
Edited by David Konstan and N. Keith Rutter

Ancient Greece: From the Mycenaean Palaces to the Age of Homer
Edited by Sigrid Deger-Jalkotzy and Irene S. Lemos

Pursuing the Good: Ethics and Metaphysics in Plato’s Republic
Edited by Douglas Cairns, Fritz-Gregor Herrmann and Terry Penner

The Gods of Ancient Greece: Identities and Transformations
Edited by Jan N. Bremmer and Andrew Erskine

Greek Notions of the Past in the Archaic and Classical Eras: History
without Historians
Edited by John Marincola, Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones and Calum
Maciver

Defining Greek Narrative
Edited by Douglas Cairns and Ruth Scodel
EDINBURGH LEVENTIS STUDIES 7
DEFINING GREEK
NARRATIVE
Edited by
Douglas Cairns and
Ruth Scodel
© editorial matter and organisation Douglas Cairns and Ruth Scodel, 2014
© the chapters their several authors, 2014
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The right of Douglas Cairns and Ruth Scodel to be identified

as Editors of this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988, and the Copyright and
Related Rights Regulations 2003 (SI No. 2498).
CONTENTS
Preface vii
Notes on Contributors ix
1 Introduction 1
Ruth Scodel
PART I DEFINING THE GREEK TRADITION

2 Beyond Auerbach: Homeric Narrative and the Epic of
Gilgamesh 13
Johannes Haubold
3 Homeric Battle Narrative and the Ancient Near East 29
Adrian Kelly
4 Narrative Focus and Elusive Thought in Homer 55
Ruth Scodel
5 Structure as Interpretation in the Homeric Odyssey 75
Erwin Cook
PART II THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE GREEK TRADITION

6 Exemplarity and Narrative in the Greek Tradition 103
Douglas Cairns
7 ‘Where do I begin?’: An Odyssean Narrative Strategy and
its Afterlife 137
Richard Hunter
8 Some Ancient Views on Narrative, its Structure and
Working 156
René Nünlist
9 Who, Sappho? 175
Alex Purves
viii contents
10 The Creative Impact of the Occasion: Pindar’s Songs for

the Emmenids and Horace’s Odes 1.12 and 4.2 197
Lucia Athanassaki
11 Narrative on the Greek Tragic Stage 226
P. E. Easterling
12 Stock Situations, Topoi and the Greekness of Greek
Historiography 241
Lisa Irene Hau
13 Heliodorus the Hellene 260
J. R. Morgan
PART III BEYOND GREECE

14 Livy Reading Polybius: Adapting Greek Narrative to
Roman History 279
Dennis Pausch
15 Pamela and Plato: Ancient and Modern Epistolary
Narratives 298
A. D. Morrison
16 The Anonymous Traveller in European Literature: A
Greek Meme? 314
Irene J. F. de Jong
Bibliography 334
Index 371
PREFACE
The present volume is the seventh in a series deriving from the bien-
nial Edinburgh Leventis Conference in Greek. The conference and
the visiting research professorship with which it is associated are
generously funded by a grant from the A. G. Leventis Foundation.
Since 1999 this grant has given the Edinburgh Classics department
the enviable luxury of being able to invite, every two years, one of
the world’s leading Hellenists to spend a semester in Edinburgh. The
main event and principal public face of the Leventis Professor’s tenure
is of course the conference, devised and organised by the Professor
on a theme of his or her choice, but each Professor has also made a
very substantial contribution to the intellectual life of the department,
especially through public lectures and seminars for students and col-
leagues. The seventh A. G. Leventis Professor in Greek, Ruth Scodel
(D. R. Shackleton Bailey Collegiate Professor of Greek and Latin,
University of Michigan), was no exception: throughout her stay Ruth
played a full part in the department’s academic and social activities.
For her part, she is honoured to have served as the Leventis Professor,
and was impressed by the engagement of her students and endlessly
charmed by the city of Edinburgh.
The seventh Leventis conference, 27–30 October 2011, was entitled
‘What’s Greek about Ancient Greek Narrative?’ All of the chapters
included in this volume were presented at that conference. Sadly,
other commitments have meant that not all of those who gave papers
at the conference are represented in the current volume. We should
like to record our thanks to Stephen Halliwell, Simon Hornblower,
Nick Lowe, Damien Nelis, Patricia Rosenmeyer, Meyer Sternberg
and Tim Whitmarsh, not only for the fine papers that they presented
but also for the part they played in making the conference such
a stimulating and enjoyable event. The success of the conference
was also due in no small part to the hard work of Classics secre-
taries Jill Shaw and Amanda Campbell; to the staff of Edinburgh
x preface
First, the University’s conference and accommodation specialists

(and especially Gordon Dow and Kate Lindey); to our ever-cheerful
student helpers (Maria Constantinou, Anthony Ellis, John Holton,
James Livingston, Houliang Lu, Peter Morton, Siobhan Privitera
and Pavlina Saoulidou); to the colleagues from other universities who
chaired sessions (Øivind Andersen, Jon Hesk, Anastasia Maravela
and Robin Mitchell-Boyask); and to the enthusiasm and support
of Edinburgh colleagues in chairing sessions, asking questions and
welcoming our visitors. All those who attended would also, we are
sure, wish to join us in recording our thanks to Edinburgh’s finest
institution, the Scottish Malt Whisky Society, whose tutored tasting
and dinner were the high point of the conference’s social programme.
The editors would like to thank Carol MacDonald and Fiona
Sewell for their care and skill in seeing this volume through to publica-
tion. Our greatest debt of gratitude, however, is to the A. G. Leventis
Foundation itself, for making possible the Professorship, the confer-
ences that each Professor presents and the volumes that result from
those conferences. We hope that this series of publications and the
events from which they derive might be felt to justify the Foundation’s
faith in Classics at Edinburgh and its investment in the future of
Hellenic studies in Scotland.
Douglas Cairns
Ruth Scodel
NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
Lucia Athanassaki is Professor of Classical Philology at the University

of Crete. She has co-edited Apolline Politics and Poetics (2009)
and Archaic and Classical Choral Song: Performance, Politics and
Dissemination (2011) and has published many articles and book chap-
ters, especially on Pindar.
Douglas Cairns is Professor of Classics in the University of Edinburgh.

He is the author of Aidōs: The Psychology and Ethics of Honour and
Shame in Ancient Greek Literature (1993), Bacchylides: Five Epinician
Odes (2010) and Sophocles: Antigone (2014). He has also edited or co-
edited a number of volumes, including Oxford Readings in Homer’s
Iliad (2001), Pursuing the Good: Ethics and Metaphysics in Plato’s
Republic (Edinburgh Leventis Studies 4, 2007) and Tragedy and
Archaic Greek Thought (2013).
Erwin Cook is T. F. Murchison Professor of the Humanities at

Trinity University, San Antonio, Texas. Among his publications
are The Odyssey in Athens: Myths of Cultural Origins (1995, paper-
back 2006); ‘Epiphany in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter and the
Odyssey’, Papers of the Langford Latin Seminar 15 (2012), 53–111;
and ‘“Active” and “passive” heroics in the Odyssey’, in L. Doherty
(ed.), Oxford Readings in Classical Studies: Homer’s Odyssey (2009),
pp. 111–34.
Irene J. F. de Jong holds the chair of Ancient Greek at the University of

Amsterdam. She has published extensively on Homer, Herodotus and
Euripides, and her work has been translated into Spanish and modern
Greek. At present she is co-editing a multi-volume history of ancient
Greek narrative, of which three volumes have appeared (Narrators,
Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature, 2004; Time in
Ancient Greek Literature, 2007; and Space in Ancient Greek Literature,
xii notes on contributors
2012). Recent publications include A Narratological Commentary on

the Odyssey (2001) and Homer: Iliad Book XXII (2012).
P. E. Easterling was Regius Professor of Greek at Cambridge

from 1994 until her retirement in 2001, having previously taught in
Manchester, Cambridge and London (UCL). Her main research
interests are Greek drama and its performance and reception in
antiquity, and the survival of ancient texts in later cultures. She con-
tinues to be a general editor of the series Cambridge Greek and Latin
Classics.
Lisa Irene Hau is Lecturer in Classics at the University of Glasgow.

She has published articles on Greek historiography, and is co-editor
of Beyond the Battlefields: New Perspectives on Warfare and Society in
the Graeco-Roman World (2008). She is currently working on a book
on moral didacticism in classical and Hellenistic historiography.
Johannes Haubold is Professor of Greek at the University of Durham

and a member of the Centre for the Study of the Ancient Mediterranean
and the Near East. He is the author of Homer’s People: Epic Poetry
and Social Formation (2000) and Greece and Mesopotamia: Dialogues
in Literature (2013), and has co-authored Homer: The Resonance of
Epic (2005) and Homer: Iliad Book VI (2010).
Richard Hunter is Regius Professor of Greek at the University of

Cambridge and a Fellow of Trinity College. His most recent books are
Critical Moments in Classical Literature (2009), (with Donald Russell)
Plutarch: How to Study Poetry (De Audiendis Poetis) (2011), Plato
and the Traditions of Ancient Literature: The Silent Stream (2012) and
Hesiodic Voices: Studies in the Reception of the Works and Days in
Antiquity (2014). Many of his essays have been collected in On Coming
After: Studies in Post-Classical Greek Literature and its Reception
(2008).
Adrian Kelly is Tutorial Fellow in Ancient Greek Languages and

Literature at Balliol College, Oxford, and Clarendon University
Lecturer in Classics at the University of Oxford. His publications
include A Referential Commentary and Lexicon to Homer, Iliad VIII
(2007), Sophocles: Oedipus at Colonus (2009) and assorted articles on
early Greek epic, Athenian tragedy and Hellenistic poetry. He is cur-
rently writing a commentary on Iliad XXIII and co-editing (with P. J.
Finglass) Studies in Stesichorus.
notes on contributors xiii
J. R. Morgan is Professor of Greek at Swansea University, and Leader

of KYKNOS (the Swansea and Lampeter Centre for Research on
Ancient Narrative Literatures). He has published extensively on the
Greek novels, has translated Heliodorus’ Ethiopian Story for B. P.
Reardon’s Collected Ancient Greek Novels (1989; 2nd edn 2008) and
is preparing a new text and translation of Heliodorus for the Loeb
Classical Library.
A. D. Morrison is Senior Lecturer in Classics at the University of

Manchester. He is the author of The Narrator in Archaic Greek and
Hellenistic Poetry (2007) and Performances and Audiences in Pindar’s
Sicilian Victory Odes (2007), and co-editor of Ancient Letters (2007)
and Lucretius: Poetry, Philosophy, Science (2013). He is currently
working on a monograph examining Apollonius Rhodius’ use of
historiography (especially Herodotus) and a commentary on selected
poems of Callimachus. He has edited Classical Quarterly since January
2013.
René Nünlist is Professor of Classics at the University of Cologne

and a co-founder of the Basel commentary on the Iliad (2000–). He
is the author of Poetologische Bildersprache in der frühgriechischen
Dichtung (1998, repr. 2011) and The Ancient Critic at Work: Terms
and Concepts of Literary Criticism in Greek Scholia (2009, paperback
2011) and has co-edited (with Irene de Jong) vols 1 and 2 of the series
Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative (2004, 2007).
Dennis Pausch taught Latin and Greek at Gießen University from

2000 to 2011. During this time and during his research stay in
Edinburgh as Feodor Lynen Fellow of the Alexander von Humboldt
Foundation he wrote his first book (Biographie und Bildungskultur:
Personendarstellungen bei Plinius dem Jüngeren, Gellius und Sueton,
2004) and his second book (Livius und der Leser: Narrative Strukturen
in Ab Urbe Condita, 2011), which was awarded the Bruno Snell Prize
of the Mommsen-Gesellschaft in 2011. Currently he teaches Latin at
Regensburg University.
Alex Purves is Associate Professor of Classics at UCLA. She is the

author of Space and Time in Ancient Greek Narrative (2010) and
co-editor with Shane Butler of Synaesthesia and the Ancient Senses
(2013).
Ruth Scodel is D. R. Shackleton Bailey Collegiate Professor

of Greek and Latin at the University of Michigan and was the
xiv notes on contributors
Leventis Professor at Edinburgh in 2011. She has written Credible

Impossibilities: Conventions and Strategies of Verisimilitude in Homer
and Greek Tragedy (1999), Listening to Homer: Tradition, Narrative,
and Audience (2002), Epic Facework: Self-Presentation and Social
Interaction in Homer (2008), (with Anja Bettenworth) Whither Quo
Vadis? Sienkiewicz’s Novel in Film and Television and An Introduction
to Greek Tragedy (2010). She is working on a commentary on Hesiod’s
Works and Days.
1
INTRODUCTION
Ruth Scodel
Behind this volume lies the hope that we will someday achieve a
general view of the history of ancient Greek narrative (henceforth,
for simplicity, often ‘Greek narrative’) – that is, that we will be able
to present a meaningful narrative about how the practices of telling
stories developed within Greek literature, and that this history will
contribute to the understanding of both Greek literature and narrative
generally. Before anyone can write a history, however, the historian
needs to be certain that the field has been meaningfully defined, both
temporally and spatially. A narrative requires a beginning and an
end, and a historical narrative also requires a decision about what the
subject is. These decisions will determine much of the history itself,
and the choice of boundaries is difficult and ideologically weighted.
While the ideological implications of literary history are sometimes
less obvious than those of the histories of nations, they are very
real, and the boundary difficulties present themselves immediately.
Originality conveys literary value, and literary value can be important
for a nation’s symbolic capital: this volume began as a conference in
Edinburgh, with its monuments to Robert Burns and Sir Walter Scott
nearby. There can be few cities where the significance of the cultural
and literary inheritance, and its interactions with power and national
identity, are so manifest.
Deconstruction made many academics abandon any belief in real
origins (‘toujours déjà’).1 Still, histories require them, and histories
matter: the United States, Australia and the UK have all seen bitter
controversies about the national history as represented in school
history curricula or in museums.2 The ideological significance of liter-
ary boundaries is especially heavy in Classics, since the field’s very
1 The expression appears twenty-five times in Derrida 1967 and became a catchword.
2 For the United States, see Ravitch 1998; for Australia, Macintyre and Clarke
2004.
2 ruth scodel
name defines it as normative, exemplary, of especially high value. The

canonisation of a set of texts, and anxieties about such canonisation,
begin no later than the classical period itself.3
So in this volume Morgan’s chapter discusses what has often been at
stake in such definitions. At the end of the Aethiopica of Helidorus, a
Greek novel whose protagonists at the conclusion take their places in
an idealised Ethiopia, the author defines himself as a Phoenician from
Emesa. Once, Hellenists both denigrated the quality of the Aethiopica
and argued that, because Heliodorus was not ethnically Greek, his
novel was not properly Greek either; the novel itself, as a genre, was
not really part of the modern canon of Greek literature. Recently,
readers have valued the novel precisely for its hybridity. Morgan’s
chapter is called ‘Heliodorus the Hellene’; he argues that the novel’s
Ethiopia reaches its ideal condition only when it is Hellenised, and
that the author’s origins do not conflict with a profound Hellenism.
We can at least try to transcend both the prejudices of the past that
established a narrow canon and aligned it with essentialist and racist
assumptions, and the longings of our present for Greek texts to vali-
date our liberal and multicultural values.
The Leventis conference on which this volume is based asked
‘What’s Greek about Ancient Greek Narrative?’ In posing the ques-
tion, we were aware of how much cultural freight ‘Greekness’ carries,
but it is still a question that needs asking, and, as Morgan’s chapter
explicitly argues, we are trying to develop a comparative eye that
neither homogenises nor ignores resemblances. Doubtless most of
the participants in the conference and in the volume are specialists
in Greek literature because they love it, but we do not need to be the
kind of lovers who attribute all excellences to the beloved and can see
none elsewhere. It should be possible to define what is particularly
Greek and what is generally ancient or even universal, along with
what changes through the history of Greek literature and what is
constant, without being excessively guided by our desires to create the
story that we want. Structuralist narratology had the great merit that
its schemata, whatever their limits, imposed a method that controlled
this kind of prejudice. It should also be possible to recognise differ-
ence without making judgements of value. Being more or less typically
Greek should not mean that a narrative is thereby superior or inferior.
The question, though, is real. If the qualities of Greek narrative are
universal, and Greek narratives could all be analysed in exactly the
same way as those of the nineteenth century, ‘Greek narrative’ would
fail as a useful definer, and although narratological studies of individ-
3 Porter 2008.
introduction 3
ual texts or genres would not lose all value, they would be interesting
only as they served interpretative goals.
The beginning of a history of Greek narrative is, from one point of
view, easy, since before Homer and Hesiod nothing is preserved. The
influence of Homer is so central in Greek literature that it can serve to
define the tradition: we can speak of ‘Greek narrative’ because the nar-
ratives composed in Greek from 700 bce to the end of antiquity all are,
directly or indirectly, descendants of the epic. However, the earliest
Greek narrative texts are obviously products of a long oral tradition.
Cook’s chapter on the Odyssey argues for a complex ring-structure.
Ring-composition is characteristic of oral poetry in many cultures, but
Cook argues that the way the Odyssey adapts narrative conventions to
control audience response is both distinctive and influential. Homeric
epic is equally obviously much influenced by the narratives of cultures
to the east, in Egypt, Anatolia and Mesopotamia. If Homeric narra-
tive, foundational in Greek, is not significantly different from ancient
narratives in Akkadian, Hittite or Hebrew, ‘Greek narrative’ may not
really be a useful category at all for the early period, and if it is not
meaningful at its origin, it may not be meaningful at all. Although
these narratives could all be significantly different from realistic
novels, and historical interpretation could still be culturally limited,
we would need to study all the ancient Mediterranean narratives as a
group. Three chapters in this volume argue that Greek epic, despite its
affiliations with other ancient narrative traditions, is distinct.
If there are features that appear more consistently within Greek
narratives of all periods than in other narrative traditions, or that
mark off particular forms of Greek narrative, or that develop within
the history of Greek literature, we have a valuable tool for studying
the boundaries – not in order to police them, deciding what deserves
to be considered Greek, but in order to understand the interactions
that take place at them. There are many narratives that survive in
the Greek language, whether the extant texts are translations or were
originally composed in Greek – most notably Jewish and Christian
narrative in Greek. With a clearer understanding of how Greeks told
stories, we will more clearly perceive in what ways these narratives are
or are not Greek.
‘Greek narrative’ can be a meaningful category even if individual
features are not unique. We are far from knowing the narratives
of the world well enough to make claims of uniqueness; more than
one participant in the conference was frustrated that so little schol-
arly work on Chinese narrative is available in western languages. It
may well emerge that features that appear in Greek, but not in, for
example, Egyptian texts, are not rare in classical Chinese. This could
4 ruth scodel
be analogous to convergent evolution, where similar traits (the wings

of birds and of bats) arise independently. Such resemblances would
not make a history of Greek narrative within its own origins and
descendants less meaningful, although knowing them would defend
the historian against false assumptions. Again, exceptions do not
change the entire story. If a papyrus presented a Greek narrative that
showed features we associate with the modernist or postmodernist
novel – an extended present-tense narrative, or one of that began at
the end of the fabula and went backwards towards the beginning, or
one filtered through the consciousness of a perplexed child, we would
be astonished at the experimental boldness of an ancient author, but
we would also recognise that this was an isolated instance.
Twentieth-century narrative theory has a complex history, and
many specialists in Greek literature were influenced by standard
works like Lubbock’s The Craft of Fiction and Booth’s The Rhetoric of
Fiction before the structural turn.4 Structuralist or ‘classical’ narratol-
ogy became an important field within literary studies generally in the
1980s, with the translation of the work of Genette and Bal.5 It entered
the study of Greek literature in 1987, with I. J. F. de Jong’s Narrators
and Focalizers.6 De Jong’s book, which followed the method of Mieke
Bal, made an outstanding contribution especially by showing that
the Homeric narrator uses embedded focalisation – the ‘objective’
narrator slips into the perception of a character. This substantially
changed the way we read Homer, and narratology became influential
throughout classical studies. Still, Greek literature has not contributed
to narratology as it might have, while Hellenists have for the most part
not engaged with the further development of narrative studies.
Very quickly, certain basic terms and methods became common
currency: not only specialists in literature, but almost any classicist
could be expected to understand the distinctions between story and
discourse, between narrator and focalisers, between heterodiegetic
and homodiegetic narrators. Although the basic taxonomies became
familiar, however, classicists have mainly used narratology as a (very
useful) toolbox whose contents often correspond to the tools available
to the narratives being studied (the term ‘analepsis’, for example, is
a tool for studying the use of the corresponding practice, a tool for
a narrator). Classicists have tended to adapt the systems of Genette
or Bal, without participating in the debates within narratology. Yet
4 Lubbock 1921; Booth 1961. There is a good treatment of the history and geneal-
ogy in Phelan and Rabinowitz 2008; Herman 2008 (on pre-structuralist work);
Fludernik 2008 (structuralist and later). See also Nünning 2003.
5 Genette [1972] 1980; Bal 1985.
6 De Jong [1987a] 2004.
introduction 5
Greek narratives often raise questions that could be central to basic,

theoretical narratological debates. Structuralist narratology, for all its
goal of a universal and scientific approach, worked almost exclusively
with the novel. Bakker, for example, argues that the familiar narra-
tological hierarchies of narrator/character are inadequate to describe
performed narrative.7
Structural or ‘classical’ narratology was by its nature unhistorical.
Although it tended to privilege the novel, its goal was a universal and
scientific system that would allow the classification of the characteris-
tics of all narratives. Inevitably, then, the application of narratological
method to Greek texts tended to erase both the process of develop-
ment of Greek narrative itself and the differences between Greek
and modern texts, or between Greek and other ancient literatures. A
large-scale project that attempted a narratological history of Greek
narrative has produced a series of essays on the narrative characteris-
tics of a range of authors and genres that provide much information
for such a history, but has not united them into a story of historical
development.8
Meanwhile, ‘new narratologies’ have proliferated, and narrative
theory (a wider term that avoids the close associations of ‘narratol-
ogy’ with the structuralist variety) has undergone a revival.9 A recent
collection considers three aspects of contemporary narratology – the
cognitive turn, the extension of narratology to media other than
strictly verbal narrative (transmedial), and comparative narratology.10
There are others, however, including feminist and cultural narratolo-
gies. Hellenists are just beginning to engage with them, though some
are, not surprisingly, more applicable than others. The 2009 volume
Narratology and Interpretation represents one such attempt, with
some chapters that incorporate poststructuralist narratology into the
interpretation of text, while other contributions also reflect the new
narratologies.11
I. J. F. de Jong’s chapter in Narratology and Interpretation addresses
the possibility of a truly historical, diachronic narratology, ending
with the comment: ‘In my view, classicists have an important task
to fulfill in the writing of a history of European story-telling, which
might well be the desired outcome of such diachronic narratology.’12
7 Bakker 2009.
8 De Jong et al. 2004; De Jong and Nünlist 2007; De Jong 2012.
9 Herman 1999 was an especially important volume; see also Alber and Fluernik
2010; Nünning 2000.
10 G. Olson 2011.
11 Grethlein and Rengakos 2009.
12 De Jong 2009.
6 ruth scodel
This chapter demonstrates one way in which we could historicise

Greek narratology. First, we can keep the structuralist toolkit, but
notice the ways Greek narrators use it differently. A technique defined
by the same narratological term can work very differently in actual
practice. De Jong’s chapter shows that ‘metalepsis’, the merging of dif-
ferent narrative levels, is used in archaic Greek literature in an entirely
serious way that is utterly unlike the postmodernist play with which
most contemporary readers associate it. Deborah Beck has shown
that Homer uses free indirect discourse, but Homer is still very differ-
ent from Flaubert or Henry James.13 In 1990, Don Fowler’s celebrated
paper on ‘deviant focalisation’ in the Aeneid – a paper important for
interpreters of a variety of ancient texts – showed that while the narra-
tological categories gave interpreters a way to label difficult passages,
it also gave them a too-easy way to avoid really confronting them.14
This is an issue in Greek literature, too. We could also historicise
in another way, by looking especially at the cases where the Greek
phenomena test structuralist typologies. Scodel’s contribution in this
volume seeks to encourage Hellenists to look at narrative outside the
categories of classical narratology, arguing that it can be impossible
to decide who focalises, and that the question is often less significant
than who is the centre of interest.
Finally, we could create an actual narratological history of Greek lit-
erature, which would trace how narrative practice develops over time.
This is an extraordinarily difficult task. Such projects are under way in
other literatures (for example, the Institut für deutsche Literatur at the
Humboldt University in Berlin has a collaborative project to histori-
cise the narratology of German fiction since the Enlightenment; http://
fheh.org/projekte/methodenlehre/34/157–historische-narratologie).
One path forward would surely be to consider narrative methods as
they develop within genres – epic or historiography, for example. In
Greek literature, a recent volume examines how ancient historians
deploy pasts earlier than their chosen scope.15
The chapters in this volume represent different, but related efforts.
Some are direct attempts at historical narratology. Pausch takes three
elements that affect author–audience relations in historical narrative:
the authorial first person, the use of summarising prefaces and the
management of narrative strands within a chronological system. He
contrasts Livy with Polybius. Perhaps the most striking and important
transformation is simply that Livy focuses his history on Rome; there
13 Beck 2012: 9–10, 57–78.

14 Fowler 1990.
15 Grethlein and Krebs 2012.
introduction 7
is no doubt where his centre of interest lies. De Jong traces the ‘anony-
mous traveller’ who filters the description of a place as a specific device
that has its beginnings in Greek and develops through the novel. The
chapter operates within the definitions of classical narratology, since it
distinguishes the third-person anonymous observer from the general-
ised ‘you’ who can serve a similar function. However, its subject is not
universal. There may occasionally be similar anonymous observers in
non-western literatures, but the device seems to have its origin in the
literature of travel (Herodotus) and to have the history it has in part
because travel literature sustains it (a search for the phrase ‘the travel-
ler who visits . . .’ gets 77,900 Google hits).
One group of chapters is directly comparative; these are not tracing
change in time, but using similarity and difference to define what is
typically Greek. Three chapters address some of the earliest Greek
narratives and their closest parallels in the Near East. Kelly looks at
battle narratives and shows how different Greek epic is from ancient
Near Eastern battle narratives. Both Scodel and Haubold turn to
Auerbach’s famous comparison of Homeric and Biblical narrative.
Scodel argues that Homeric narrative, although it does not use the
Hebrew Bible’s technique of leaving profound and radical gaps, often
leaves its audience uncertain about exactly what characters are think-
ing. Because the narrative shows the characters’ efforts to understand
each other, and encourages the audience to consider the perspectives
of minor characters, Homeric narrative regularly gives the impression
that its characters are at once known and opaque. Haubold looks
at Homer and Gilgamesh. He points to those moments at which the
apparently smooth surface of Homeric narrative is disturbed: Priam is
first called θεοειδής in Iliad 24, when he is experiencing an extreme of
human suffering. These chapters also direct attention to other aspects
of the volume: Haubold comments on Homer’s self-awareness. The
poems already reveal anxiety about their claim to present a transpar-
ent window on the past; self-reflexiveness about narrative is central to
the Greek tradition.
Morrison compares in a very different way, looking at the modern
epistolary novel and ancient collections of fictitious letters. Ancient
and modern epistolary fictions share features that make them worth
comparing – both are intensely interested in the motivations and psy-
chology of the letter-writers. The differences are also striking, however.
Modern epistolary novels often include non-epistolary material and
an ‘editor’. Ancient epistolary works do not, even though the ‘found
document’ was a device for other ancient fictions. The ancient collec-
tions are relatively short, are often not chronologically arranged, and
tend to feature famous historical figures. They do not seek to tell a
8 ruth scodel
full story as modern novels do, in part, surely, because they have close
affiliations with ancient rhetorical training. So the contrast points to a
characteristic of at least one genre of Greek narrative.
Some essays, though not explicitly comparative, also concentrate
on such particular, salient characteristics of Greek narrative itself
or of one of its genres. Athanassaki, for example, looks at how new
narrative material is generated. By examining a particular group of
Pindaric odes for a single family, the Sicilian Emmenids, she shows
how the needs of each occasion interact with the narrative work that
the poet has already performed in earlier compositions. In Pythian 8,
the poet imagines a victory procession at Delphi, site of the victory,
and the east frieze of the Siphnian treasury, showing the killing of
Memnon, provides the inspiration for the song’s myth. This song
defines both Achilles and Antilochus, son of Nestor, as exempla of
filial piety. The narrative of Olympian 2 is the product both of its
unique occasion and of the connections Pindar has already made. In
Isthmian 2, in contrast, there is no mythic narrative, but the chariot-
eer, exceptionally, becomes a narrative subject, perhaps because he
commissioned the poem. Even if other narrative traditions similarly
create new story-elements or new connections among stories under the
pressure of occasionality, this is certainly a typical feature of Greek
narrative. Cairns considers the ‘principle of alternation’ – the belief
asserted in many Greek texts that no human life is without vicissitude.
Similar ideas appear in many cultures, and this chapter also has a
strong comparative side. Greeks have no monopoly on the aware-
ness of mutability. The exemplary function of much Greek narrative,
though, gives the principle some of its peculiar force in Greek texts.
Occasionality and exemplary function are distinct but closely associ-
ated features of much Greek narrative – much Greek storytelling has
a direct rhetorical purpose that determines both what the discourse
selects or invents as ‘story’ from the available material and how it
will be handled. Purves moves in an utterly different direction, study-
ing Sappho’s refusal of narrative. Sappho 1 presents an inversion of
Homeric narrative convention. In epic, the poet asks the Muse who
was responsible for a significant heroic action. In Sappho, the speaker,
asking Aphrodite for her help with her present love, narrates how the
goddess visited her in the past, when Aphrodite asked Sappho who
her beloved was. The audience does not learn who Sappho’s previous
beloved was, or who it is now; Sappho’s poetry is marked by unsatis-
fying deictics that prime an audience’s expectations of narrative and
frustrate them. In some ways, Athanassaki’s Pindar and Purves’s
Sappho represent opposite ends on a spectrum of narrative possibil-
ity. Pindar, although he tells subjects from the shared Greek mythical
introduction 9
past, attaches them to particular events and places, and to his own
earlier narratives. Sappho, even when narrating personal experience,
universalises. Sappho’s particular effects are possible because the
wider Greek narrative tradition is much less oblique; if her practices
were common, they would not work as well.
Hau looks at Greek historiography as a distinct tradition. There are
general characteristics of the major monuments of Greek historiogra-
phy, such as the alternation between narrative by an impersonal nar-
rator and argumentative passages. The tradition has general features,
such as its interest in causality. Most striking, perhaps, are the stock
situations that occupy so much historical narrative. Only when we
consider what Greek historians ignore is it clear how much the specific
literary tradition governs the stock situations.
Easterling considers the particular nature of narrative in tragedy.
Structuralist narratology generated productive work on messenger
speeches, as well as some narratological studies of tragedy itself.16 Yet
here, again, when we move beyond the questions of classical narratol-
ogy, the thinking about tragic narrative points to some important
characteristics of tragedy that are all too easy to forget. First, tragedy
is highly compressed. Along with the ‘here’ of the visible stage and
orchestra, tragedies summon the invisible space behind the stage
façade, and along with the ‘now’ of the action they evoke both past
and future. Most interesting, as a narrative development specific to the
genre, is the evidence that the protagonist often delivered messenger
narratives. This is particularly striking in tragedies where a messenger
quotes direct speech, a technique that emphasises the fundamental
multiplicity of the form. This invites further reflection, especially
because the audience witnesses stage action and, in drama, narrative
(and the responses of other characters to it) is itself action.17
Finally, Nünlist and Hunter both look at one of the most dis-
tinctive features in the history of Greek narrative – that, strikingly
self-conscious from Homer onward (a point Haubold also makes),
it produces a critical discourse. While Nünlist looks at the ancient
scholia for their underlying assumptions about how narrative should
be structured, Hunter considers the long tradition in Greek narrative
of making the choice of beginning highly salient. Of course such self-
consciousness is far from unique; it is a defining trait of modernist and
postmodernist fiction. Indeed, because the assumptions and devices of
16 On messengers: De Jong 1991; Barrett 2002; tragedy and narratology: Goward

1999; Markantonatos 2002.
17 The importance of the other actors on stage and the difference between drama and
narrative is stressed by Sansone 2012, esp. 78–82, 84–6.
10 ruth scodel
highly self-aware fiction have permeated our sensibilities, we need to

be wary of reading too much self-consciousness into Greek texts. Still,
these two chapters offer a valuable and relatively unexplored direction
for the study of Greek narrative: its development in relation to the
critical discourse about how stories should be told.
Narrative theory and Greek literature still have much to learn from
each other. We hope for useful exchange.
PART I
DEFINING THE GREEK TRADITION
2
BEYOND AUERBACH: HOMERIC

NARRATIVE AND THE EPIC OF
GILGAMESH
Johannes Haubold
INTRODUCTION
One of the most ambitious attempts to define ancient Greek narra-
tive, and one of the most influential to date, is Erich Auerbach’s book
Mimesis. In the famous opening chapter, written in Istanbul in 1942,
Auerbach argues that Homeric narrative is all surface and illuminated
detail, whereas the Hebrew Bible is elliptic, deep and demanding of
its reader.1 To this day, Mimesis informs what modern readers see as
characteristic of Homeric narrative,2 and of classical Greek literature
more generally: for that reason alone, it seems important to revisit it
in this volume. I would like to take the opportunity to consider how
well Auerbach’s work has stood the test of time; and to reflect on what
it can tell us about the nature of this collection: what does it mean to
define Greek narrative? I begin by looking at how Auerbach’s vision
of Homeric narrative emerges from what he himself called ‘the par-
ticular situation’ in which he conceived it. I then sketch out what I see
as the circumstances in which, some sixty-five years after Auerbach,
we find ourselves engaged in a similar set of questions.
HOMER AND THE BIBLE

On a superficial reading, the opening chapter of Auerbach’s Mimesis
presents itself as a fairly straightforward exploration of Homeric
narrative technique. Auerbach looks at a specific passage in Odyssey
19: the disguised Odysseus has entered his palace and is having his
feet bathed by his old maid-servant, Eurycleia. Eurycleia notices a
scar which Odysseus acquired as a young man, while hunting with
1 Auerbach 1953: 3–23 [1946: 7–30].

2 E. Said 2003: xviii.
14 johannes haubold
his grandfather Autolycus. The scar serves as a mark of recognition

throughout the Odyssey, but here it threatens to give away Odysseus’
identity at an inopportune time: the hero reacts by clasping Eurycleia’s
throat and swearing her to silence. Between her initial recognition
and his violent reaction there intervenes a detailed narrative of how
Odysseus acquired the scar.
Auerbach opens on a conventional note, pointing out the vividness
and attention to detail of Homer’s account: everything is carefully
realised, nothing is ‘left in obscurity’.3 He then notes, again conven-
tionally, that Homer is not interested in building up suspense. In
fact, Auerbach claims, there is no aesthetic dimension at all to the
digression in Odyssey 19: ‘the true cause of the impression of “retar-
dation” appears to me to lie elsewhere – namely, in the need of the
Homeric style to leave nothing which it mentions half in darkness and
unexternalized’.4 As Auerbach explains further, ‘the Homeric style
knows only a foreground, only a uniformly illuminated, uniformly
objective present’.5
Sweeping claims about ‘the Homeric style’ were popular in clas-
sical scholarship of the early twentieth century: we may think for
example of Milman Parry’s work on Homer’s ‘traditional style’.6 But
Auerbach’s approach has an inflection all of its own, as can be seen
from his engagement, not with the specialised Homeric scholarship
of his day, but instead with Schiller and Goethe.7 As Edward Said
notes, Auerbach had a particular gripe with Goethe, whose poetry he
admired but whose ‘dislike of upheaval and . . . “revolutionary occur-
rences” ’ he saw as symptomatic of the nineteenth-century German
malaise which led to the rise of Nazism in the twentieth century.8 By
engaging with the arbiters of a specifically German literary sensibility,
Auerbach signals that his piece of seemingly anodyne Homeric criti-
cism is about to take a political turn. As he himself insists (Auerbach
1953: 573–4):
It is better to be consciously than unconsciously timebound. In

many learned writings one finds a kind of objectivity in which,
entirely unbeknownst to the composer, modern judgments and
prejudices (often not even today’s but instead yesterday’s or
those of the day before yesterday) cry out from every word, every
3 Auerbach 1953: 4.
4 Auerbach 1953: 5.
5 Auerbach 1953: 7.
6 Parry 1971; cf. Arend 1933; Van Otterlo 1944.
7 Auerbach 1953: 5.
8 E. Said 2003: xxviii–xxix.
beyond auerbach: homeric narrative and gilgamesh 15
rhetorical flourish, every phrase. Mimesis is quite consciously a

book that a particular person, in a particular situation, wrote at
the beginning of the 1940s.
Auerbach insists that Mimesis, like any other attempt at literary

engagement, had to be ‘timebound’. In its most general form that
claim seems straightforward enough, yet it acquires added point when
we consider Auerbach’s reference to ‘a particular person’ writing ‘in
a particular situation’. The situation was Istanbul in the early 1940s,
the person a German Jewish professor of Romance philology and
renowned expert on Dante, who had been ousted from his chair in
Marburg in 1935.9 James Porter has recently studied Mimesis in the
context of its author’s exile from Nazi Germany and in that connection
has argued that ‘in Mimesis . . . Auerbach’s Jewishness spectacularly
emerges’.10 As Porter shows, Auerbach reclaims the Hebrew Bible at a
time when Christian theologians like Walter Grundmann attacked it
as undeutsch (‘un-German’).11 In Mimesis, the Old Testament strikes
back, emerging as the only legitimate epic of the western literary
tradition (Porter 2008: 133): ‘As the essay progresses, the points in
the Bible’s favor mount up. Indeed, in Auerbach’s hands the Bible is
destined to usurp the classical labels of (Schillerian) “tragedy” and
ﬁnally of “epic” itself.’
Auerbach’s positive validation of the Bible comes at the expense of
Homer, the master poet of the German literary and philological tradi-
tion. Indeed, Auerbach takes the opportunity to launch a scathing
attack on Homer as the figurehead of German philhellenism, turning
the established clichés of Homeric scholarship – the vividness, fullness
and breadth of Homer’s account – against the epic master himself
(Porter 2008: 134):
Auerbach’s Homer is in a sense a caricature of the inherited clas-

sicized Homer, itself a cliché familiar already to Nietzsche in the
mid-nineteenth century; he is all surface, no depth, all foreground,
momentary presence, clarity, brilliance, sensuousness, simplicity,
tranquil appearance (pure phenomenality), Apollonian.
What Porter calls ‘the cliché’ of an ‘inherited classicized Homer’

needs to be seen in the wider context of German philhellenism, with
9 Bremmer 1999; Konuk 2010.

10 Porter 2008: 116; cf. Porter 2010.
11 Porter 2008: 122–3; cf. Heschel 1994.
16 johannes haubold
its broadly antisemitic Tendenz.12 Like Freud before him,13 Auerbach

subverts the terms of that discourse: whereas, he argues, the Hebrew
Bible demands historical and moral commitment from its readers,
Homer, via an association with the ephemeral pleasures of legend,
comes to stand for the siren songs of (Nazi) propaganda, and the
moral and historical amnesia which they induce. Auerbach’s Homer
‘bewitches’ and ‘allures’ whereas the Bible forces us – imperiously – to
plumb the moral and historical depths of human existence. In 1942,
at the height of the Nazi threat, this was cultural guerrilla warfare of
extraordinary subtlety, brilliance and daring.
Auerbach’s attack on the German Homer became productive as
a piece of literary criticism in its own right: to this day, leading clas-
sicists look to it for inspiration, often misreading it as an endorsement
of Homer’s narrative art.14 Auerbach’s comparison with the Bible
has made less of a mark, perhaps unsurprisingly so, given how unin-
terested he was in the positive contribution it could make to Homeric
scholarship. As Porter points out (Porter 2008: 127): ‘Auerbach is
not so much offering a comparison as he is creating a stark contrast
or, rather . . . an incommensurability that renders comparisons and
contrasts moot.’ Porter’s claim can be illustrated by looking at the
decisive moment in ‘Odysseus’ Scar’ when Auerbach introduces the
tale of Abraham and Isaac as his main comparandum. I first quote it
in Trask’s much-used English translation (Auerbach 1953: 7):
The genius of the Homeric style becomes even more apparent

when it is compared with an equally ancient and equally epic style
from a different world of forms.
In Trask’s translation, Auerbach’s argument sounds suitably compar-

ative and, from the point of view of Homeric classicism, reassuringly
encomiastic (the ‘genius of the Homeric style’). In fact, Auerbach
wrote nothing of the sort (Auerbach 1946: 12):
Die Eigentümlichkeit des homerischen Stils wird noch deutlicher,

wenn man einen ebenfalls antiken, ebenfalls epischen Text aus
einer anderen Formenwelt ihm gegenüberstellt.
Eigentümlichkeit is best translated as ‘peculiarity’ or ‘idiosyncracy’,

not ‘genius’: this is one of several instances where Trask’s translation
12 Gossmann 1994.
13 Leonard 2012.
14 E.g. Bakker 1999: 14; Clay 2011b: 33–4.
seriously distorts the thrust of Auerbach’s prose. Another point is

more relevant to the present argument: the German verb gegenüber-
stellen (‘confront with’), unlike Trask’s ‘compare’ (and unlike German
vergleichen, which Auerbach might have used instead), emphasises the
element of conflict which pervades Auerbach’s essay at every level.
In truth, the point of ‘Odysseus’ Scar’ was never to compare, only to
contrast: as Porter quips, ‘Auerbach ought to be remembered as the
father of incomparative literature.’15
What can we learn from Auerbach’s Gegenüberstellung? First of all,
there is the basic point that context matters; and that what is distinc-
tive about Greek narrative can only emerge from comparisons that
are meaningful in a specific cultural and historical context. Auerbach
knew this better than most, as we have seen: Homer and the Bible,
Odysseus’ scar and Abraham’s sacrifice, are selected to frame a specific
set of problems, personal experiences and historical circumstances (‘a
particular person, in a particular situation’). Indeed, it seems almost
impossible to imagine what Mimesis might have looked like had
Auerbach chosen different texts – impossible because through writing
about Homer and the Bible Auerbach tackled the much broader issue
of German philhellenism and its antisemitic implications. The stakes
are very much lower now than they were for Auerbach, and it is far
from obvious that we can, or should, aim for similar levels of generali-
sation when thinking about how we might define Homeric narrative
today. But as readers of Auerbach, we do well to ponder what texts
we compare when asking what is specifically Greek about Homeric
narrative, and what is at stake in comparing them.
My first point, then, is about context, and political commitments.
My second point is about the commitment that is required of us as
readers. James Porter insists that ‘the current attempts in some quar-
ters to “correct” or “refute” Auerbach’s philology miss the contextual
premises of his essay entirely’.16 That may be true, but ‘Odysseus’
Scar’ is not simply a political manifesto, and among its ‘contextual
premises’ we must surely include Auerbach’s own commitment to
philology, and philological debate. After all, he frames the opening
chapter of Mimesis not as cultural polemic (which of course it also
is), but as a committed reading of two texts: Homer and the Bible.
One might call this a ploy, but the resonance which his work has had
suggests something more: in the end, and above all else, ‘Odysseus’
Scar’ is a powerful reading, something that Auerbach himself insisted
15 Porter 2008: 120.

16 Porter 2008: 137.
18 johannes haubold
could no longer be done.17 Not for us the pathos of reading amidst

war and industrialised mass murder. But the basic point still holds:
the characteristics of Greek narrative must emerge, not from abstract
theorising or cultural polemic, but from a committed encounter with
specific texts.
We no longer live at a time of acute crisis in the west, yet Homeric
epic has once again become a cultural battleground. Auerbach could
treat Homer unproblemactically as an example, indeed the example
par excellence, of ‘western literature’ (abendländische Literatur). Sixty-
five years on, that idea has come increasingly into question.18 The
‘problem’, if that is what we want to call it, has been a steady
encroachment of ‘non-western’ readers, literatures and ideas on the
formerly ‘western’ territory of Homeric poetry. At the level of recep-
tion, Homer as oral-traditional poet has become very much a citizen
of the world, as Graziosi and Greenwood have shown.19 A similar
blurring of familiar lines can be observed in the study of the ancient
world, from Martin West’s (in)famous quip that ‘Greek literature is a
Near Eastern literature’ to Sarah Morris’s more specific claim that ‘it
may be a greater challenge to isolate and appreciate what is Greek in
Homeric poetry than to enumerate its foreign sources’.20
Many scholars have reacted to these developments by affirming
the essential Greekness of Homeric narrative. Thus, Barry Powell
derives its vividness – for him, unlike Auerbach, an unquestionably
positive feature – from the ability of the Greek alphabet to capture
‘human thought’ with unrivalled accuracy. Sarah Morris has stressed
the ‘uniquely Greek heroic dimensions’ of Homeric epic, while James
Redfield sees ‘Greek secularism’ as a defining characteristic of the Iliad
in particular.21 What these scholars have in common, it seems to me, is
a tendency to fence off Homeric narrative from other literatures in the
ancient Mediterranean. I am reminded of an image that Mary Louise
Pratt once used to describe the study of comparative literature prior to
the Bernheimer Report of 1993. She writes (Pratt 1995: 58):
In Perth County, fencing is a big issue. You have to keep your

cattle in, your neighbour’s out, keep your chickens in and the
foxes out, keep the bulls from the cows, the boars from the sows,
and everybody out of the manure pile. Fences take a lot of moni-
toring and maintenance . . . The impression . . . is that to be in the
17 Auerbach 1953: 13.

18 Bremmer 1999: 7–8.
19 Graziosi and Greenwood 2007.
20 M. L. West 1966: 31; Morris 1997: 623
21 Powell 1997: 11; Morris 1997: 599; Redfield 1994: 247.
field of comparative literature is to be a farmer always walking

the fences and patching them up to make sure nothing wild gets
in, nothing valuable gets out, no unforeseen matings and cross-
breedings occur.
Fencing off the western canon and making sure ‘nothing wild gets in’
seems to me to be an accurate description of much current work on
Homer. Unlike Pratt I am not convinced that the answer can be simply
to take down the fences and let the foxes into the henhouse: Homerists
in particular will do well to acknowledge their investment in a tradition
of reading that stretches back over 2,500 years. But the challenge, in the
twenty-first century, must surely be to extend our range as readers, and
in so doing to explore ‘new forms of cultural citizenship’.22 In pursuit of
this goal, I sketch a comparative reading of Homer which takes its cue
from Auerbach but looks beyond the western literary canon.
HOMER AND GILGAMESH

My comparison focuses on the Epic of Gilgamesh, a text that more
than any other has challenged notions of an essentially Greek canon
of western literature. For many years now, Gilgamesh has loomed
large in Homeric studies: thematic parallels with the Iliad and Odyssey
were noticed from early on, often with a view to establishing – or
disproving – literary influence.23 Much has been written about the
practicalities of transmission, but there has been less sustained interest
in the experiences of readers: many classicists were content to treat
Gilgamesh as a repository of Homeric ‘stories’, ‘motifs’ or ‘techniques’
(Haubold 2006). In this chapter, I want to resist the current trend
towards literary-historical abstraction, and revisit some of the ques-
tions that interested Auerbach: how does Gilgamesh represent reality,
and how does its approach compare to that of Homer? What is ‘exter-
nalised’, what is left to the imagination? What work of interpretation
are we, the readers, expected to do, and to what purpose?
The Epic of Gilgamesh introduces its protagonist as ‘he who saw the
deep’ (Tablet I, line 1). Coming from Auerbach, one is struck by the
obvious resonances of this opening, as indeed of the lines that follow:
amur, ‘see!’; itaplas, ‘look!’ (SB Gilg. I.13 and 15 (George)). The
issue of how we are to envisage reality is squarely put on the agenda.
Initially, this takes us on an upward trajectory (ilī-ma, ‘go up!’), as we
scale the walls of Uruk and contemplate the temples, orchards and
22 Pratt 1995: 62.

23 Morris 1997; M. L. West 1997; Haubold 2002, 2013.
20 johannes haubold
clay pits of Gilgamesh’s home town. But soon we are led downward,
to where the text itself awaits us in its cedar box. We must find it, then
open the lid of its secret, then read (SB Gilg. I.19–28 (George)). As
we pass into the subterranean world of this text, the question arises
of how the adventures of Gilgamesh relate to what we see around us.
Appearances are rarely self-explanatory or straightforward in this
text. Just as the reader must look beneath the surfaces, so do the char-
acters within it. Gilgamesh himself is a good example: after the death
of Enkidu, he goes in search of his ancestor Utanapishti, who alone of
all humans survived the deluge. This is a special man and it ought to
show. However, when they finally meet, Gilgamesh is puzzled by what
he sees (SB Gilg. XI.1–4 (George)):
d
GIŠ-gím-maš a-na šá-šu-ma izakkara(mu)ra a-na mUD-
napišti(zi) ru-ú-qí
a-na-aṭ-ṭa-la-kúm-ma mUD-napišti(zi)
mi-na-tu-ka ul šá-na-a ki-i ia-ti-ma at-ta
ù at-ta ul šá-na-ta ki-i ia-ti-ma at-ta
Gilgamesh spoke to him, to Utanapishti the Far-Away:

‘As I look at you, Utanapishti,
your form is no different, you are just like me,
you are no different at all, you are just like me.’
Utanapishti is a riddle. Gilgamesh cannot read him, not, that is,

without the extended narrative of the deluge that takes us beyond the
level of surface appearances: Utanapishti himself announces it as a
‘precious account’ (amat niṣirti) and a ‘secret of the gods’ (pirišti ša
ilī) at SB Gilg. XI.9–10 (George). The riddle of Utanapishti’s existence
mirrors that of Gilgamesh’s own. Utanapishti, on first glimpsing him
from afar, is baffled by his presence on Urshanabi’s boat (SB Gilg.
X.184–6 and 191–3 (George)):
m
UD-napišti(zi)tim ana ru-qí i-na-aṭ-ṭa-l[a-áš-šu(m)-ma]
uš-tam-ma-a ana lìb-bi-šú a-ma-ta i-[qab-bi]
it-ti ra-ma-ni-šu-ma šu-ú i[m-tal-lik]
[. . .]
a-na-aṭ-ṭa-lam-ma ul ia-[ú amēlu]
a-na-aṭ-ṭa-lam-ma u[l . . .]
a-na-aṭ-ṭa-lam-ma [. . .]
Utanapišti was watching [him] in the distance,

talking to himself he [spoke] a word.
He [was taking counsel] in his own mind.

[. . .]
‘I am looking – he is no [man of] mine,
I am looking – he is no [. . .]
I am looking – [. . .]’
Utanapishti ‘the distant’ (rūqu) is here defeated by a distant sight: ‘I

am looking . . . I am looking . . . I am looking’. In Tablet I, the wild
man Enkidu was told to ‘look at Gilgamesh and contemplate him
carefully’: he would see an embodiment of human beauty, strength
and power (ll. 234–7). Now, Gilgamesh himself has become a riddle,
as he chases after the most elusive of all sights. ‘Nobody can see the
face of death’, says Utanapishti to Gilgamesh at Tablet X.304–5. Or
perhaps Enkidu can, when he dreams of a terrifying young man who
takes him down to the underworld (SB Gilg. VII.168–86 (George))?
The answer to that question depends on how we interpret the
dream. Dreams are famously important in Gilgamesh. They are vivid
and memorable, in a sense the most characteristic form of visual expe-
rience in the text. Yet they precisely do not allow us unproblematic
access to reality. Their imagery is charged with symbolism and hidden
meanings. The effect is confusing to the onlooker, and calls for careful
decoding. The following example is fairly typical (SB Gilg. IV.99–107
(George)):
[i]b-ri a-ta-mar šalušta(3)ta šu-ut-ta

ù šu-ut-ta šá a-mu-ru ka-liš šá-šá-át 100
[i]l-su-ú šamû(an)ú qaq-qa-ru i-ram-mu-um
[u]4–mu uš-ha-ri-ir ú-ṣa-a ek-le-tum
[ib-r]iq bir-qu in-na-pi-ih i-šá-a-tum
[nab-l]u iš-tap-pu-ú iz-za-nun mu-ú-tu
[id-’]i-im-ma né-bu-tú ib-te-li i-šá-tu 105
[iš-tu?] im-taq-qu-tu i-tu-ur ana tu-um-ri
[ta-’-al-d]am-ma ina ṣēri(edin) mit-lu-ka ni-le-’-[i]
‘My friend, I have seen a third dream,

and the dream that I saw was completely confused.
The heavens cried aloud, while the earth was rumbling,
the day grew still, darkness went forth.
Lightning flashed down, fire broke out,
[flames] kept flaring up, death kept raining down.
The fire so bright dimmed and went out,
[after] it had diminished little by little, it turned into embers.
[You were] born in the wild, can we take counsel?’
22 johannes haubold
Two points stand out about this dream. First, it is an intensely

visual experience: line 101 sets the scene in terms of sound, but then
silence falls, and darkness prepares for a visual display of rare inten-
sity. Yet this display – and that is my second point – is difficult to
comprehend: although there is a presumption that it has a meaning
at the level of plot, that meaning is not obvious and needs to be
unpacked.
Dreams are of defining importance to the narrative art of Gilgamesh:
they punctuate the text, confronting us with striking images but point-
ing towards a hidden reality.24 In Homer, dreams have a far less
prominent role, and are visually less impressive.25 Agamemnon’s in Il.
2.5–42 brings a message from the gods which deceives him but which
to us is perfectly transparent. Penelope’s dream at Od. 19.535–69
is more detailed and challenging, but in the end it interprets itself.
Perhaps most interesting is Penelope’s dream of her husband at Od.
20.87–90: why, we may ask, does he look as he did when he set off for
Troy? The question is worth pondering, but the poet does not dwell on
it. In terms of intensity, range of expression and sheer detail, even the
dreams of Penelope cannot compare with those of Gilgamesh.
In a simile at Il. 22.199–201, Homer describes in vivid detail a
specific type of dream (the frustrated chase). Similes, in a sense, are
to Homer what dreams are to Gilgamesh. Here we find elaborate
images mapped onto the story: Hector is like a lion; Achilles is like
a star. Yet Homeric similes are not symbolic in the way that dreams
are in Gilgamesh. Rather, they allow the poet to pull away from the
point of comparison, and in so doing create a separate visual field. So,
Achilles is not just like a star but ‘like that star which comes on in the
autumn and whose conspicuous brightness far outshines the stars that
are numbered in the night’s darkening, the star they give the name of
Orion’s Dog, which is brightest among the stars, and yet is wrought as
a sign of evil and brings on the great fever for unfortunate mortals’ (Il.
22.26–31). This image too is ominous, but it requires no interpretation
(contrast the stars that feature in Gilgamesh’s dreams, with very dif-
ferent effect); rather, Homer superimposes two images that are equally
transparent, and that both retain a high degree of autonomy. The
technique of the extended simile, it has often been noted, is quintessen-
tially Homeric: there are plenty of similes in Gilgamesh too, but they
are always short, and even the famous image of the lioness at Tablet
VIII.61–2 can hardly be called vivid. The similes of Gilgamesh create
not a separate visual field so much as a fleeting interference: ‘he fell on
24 Noegel 2007: ch. 2.

25 For detailed discussion see Kessels 1978.
them like an arrow’ (X.96); ‘death rained down on them like a mist’
(V.136). The effect here is suggestive rather than vivid, in a manner
that I have argued is characteristic of Gilgamesh more generally.
I have written of the complexities of the gaze in Gilgamesh and the
‘deep vision’ it requires of its readers. Homeric narrative too has its
complexities, but these are of a different order. Here is an ancient com-
mentator on Iliad 6 (Schol. bT on Il. 6.467):
ταῦτα δὲ τὰ ἔπη οὕτως ἐστὶν ἐναργείας μεστά, ὅτι οὐ μόνον ἀκούεται

τὰ πράγματα, ἀλλὰ καὶ ὁρᾶται. λαβὼν δὲ τοῦτο ἐκ τοῦ βίου ὁ ποιητὴς
ἄκρως περιεγένετο τῇ μιμήσει.
These lines are so full of vividness [enargeia] because we do not

just hear about the events but see them too. Taking this scene
from real life, the poet achieves the highest degree of imitation.
Access to reality is not a problem here, or rather, it is not presented

as a problem: all we need to do is acknowledge the marvel of vivid-
ness, enargeia: ‘we do not just hear about the events’, says the ancient
commentator, ‘but see them too’. And that leads him to remark on
Homer’s ability to imitate real life. The scholiast’s comments capture
an aspect of Homeric narrative which has spoken powerfully to
readers throughout the ages: Homer invites us to imagine events as
if we were present – from grand panoramic vistas to detailed observa-
tions at close quarters, including the famous descriptions of battle
wounds which to this day startle the reader with their gory realism.26
As Auerbach points out, Homer’s attention to detail has a corollary
even at the level of grammar (Auerbach 1953: 6–7):
The separate elements of a phenomenon are most clearly placed

in relation to one another; a large number of conjunctions,
adverbs, particles, and other syntactical tools, all clearly circum-
scribed and delicately differentiated in meaning, delimit persons,
things, and portions of incidents in respect to one another, and at
the same time bring them together in a continuous and ever flex-
ible connection; like the separate phenomena themselves, their
relationships . . . are brought to light in perfect fullness; so that
a continuous rhythmic procession of phenomena passes by, and
never is there a form left fragmentary or half-illuminated, never a
lacuna, never a gap, never a glimpse of unplumbed depths.
26 Grand vistas: Purves 2010: ch. 1; Clay 2011b. Wounds: J. Tatum 2003.
24 johannes haubold
I shall return to the question of ‘unplumbed depths’ in a moment, but

for now I note that Auerbach’s analysis chimes with recent work on
Homeric language. Egbert Bakker, for example, makes a similar point
when he suggests that Homer’s language guides the reader from one
focus of consciousness to another, with particles and other syntactical
aids helping to keep the audience engaged.27 Vividness seems indeed
the all-pervasive concern.
BEYOND AUERBACH
Having started from Auerbach’s Gegenüberstellung, I have arrived
at conclusions that in some ways look familiar: yet again, Homeric
poetry emerges as fully illuminated, blindingly of the present; whereas
the Epic of Gilgamesh, by contrast, was seen to foster a ‘deep vision’ of
reality, challenging us to probe further than might be comfortable or
enjoyable. Much of this recalls the findings of Mimesis. But there are
differences too. At a general level, there seems to be no reason to call
the Homeric approach superficial. Consider the famous passage which
introduces the Iliadic catalogue of ships (Il. 2.484–93):
ἔσπετε νῦν μοι, Μοῦσαι Ὀλύμπια δώματ’ ἔχουσαι –
ὑμεῖς γὰρ θεαί ἐστε πάρεστέ τε ἴστε τε πάντα, 485
ἡμεῖς δὲ κλέος οἶον ἀκούομεν οὐδέ τι ἴδμεν –
οἵ τινες ἡγεμόνες Δαναῶν καὶ κοίρανοι ἦσαν.
πληθὺν δ’ οὐκ ἂν ἐγὼ μυθήσομαι οὐδ’ ὀνομήνω,
οὐδ’ εἴ μοι δέκα μὲν γλῶσσαι, δέκα δὲ στόματ’ εἶεν,
φωνὴ δ’ ἄρρηκτος, χάλκεον δέ μοι ἦτορ ἐνείη, 490
εἰ μὴ Ὀλυμπιάδες Μοῦσαι, Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο
θυγατέρες, μνησαίαθ’ ὅσοι ὑπὸ Ἴλιον ἦλθον.
ἀρχοὺς αὖ νηῶν ἐρέω νῆάς τε προπάσας
Tell me now, you Muses who have your homes on Olympos –
for you are goddesses, are present, and know all things, 485
but we hear only the kleos, and know nothing –
who were the leaders and commanders of the Danaans.
I could not tell the masses nor name them,
not even if I had ten tongues and ten mouths,
a voice that cannot break, and a heart of bronze inside me, 490
unless the Muses of Olympos, daughters of aegis-bearing
Zeus, remembered all of those who came to Ilios;
but now I will tell the leaders of the ships, and all the ships there
were.
27 Bakker 1997.
At one level, this passage confirms Auerbach’s analysis: once again,

the emphasis is on the possibility of a direct encounter with the
past. Yet, as Andrew Ford points out, the passage also articulates
a problem: ‘the poet’s problem is not simply the finitude of human
existence; it is also an aesthetic problem, a difficulty with representa-
tion itself, with the project of recounting experience’.28 As Ford goes
on to argue, there is an awareness, already in Homer, that what we
are promised is in effect a paradox, ‘a true account of an unaccount-
able reality’.29 The problematic nature of this arrangement emerges
more fully in a passage in the Odyssey, which describes the blind bard
Demodocus. Blindness separates Demodocus from his audience; but it
also marks a different, divine, kind of vision (Od. 8.63–4):
τὸν περὶ Μοῦσ’ ἐφίλησε, δίδου δ’ ἀγαθόν τε κακόν τε·

ὀφθαλμῶν μὲν ἄμερσε, δίδου δ’ ἡδεῖαν ἀοιδήν.
The Muse loved him greatly, and gave him both good and evil:
she took his eyesight but gave him sweet song.
Ancient readers thought that this description of Demodocus was

autobiographical: Homer’s blindness, just like Demodocus’, was
thought to be compensated for by his poetry. As the image of the blind
bard suggests, there remains a gap between our own experience of the
world and that of the poet. The Contest of Homer and Hesiod takes
up this idea when it pits Homer against Hesiod to determine who is
the leading poet of Greece. Asked to select his best piece of poetry,
Homer opts for the following passage (Contest of Homer and Hesiod
ch. 12 (West)):
ἔφριξεν δὲ μάχη φθεισίμβροτος ἐγχείῃσιν

μακραῖς, ἃς εἶχον ταμεσίχροας. ὄσσε δ’ ἄμερδεν
αὐγὴ χαλκείη κορύθων ἄπο λαμπομενάων
θωρήκων τε νεοσμήκτων σακέων τε φαεινῶν,
ἐρχομένων ἄμυδις. μάλα κεν θρασυκάρδιος εἴη
ὃς τότε γηθήσειεν ἰδὼν πόνον οὐδ’ ἀκάχοιτο.
The murderous battle bristled with long spears

that they held to slice the skin; eyes were dazzled
with the glint of the bronze from the shining helmets,
the fresh-polished corselets, and the bright shields
28 Ford 1992: 76.

29 Ford 1992: 77.
26 johannes haubold
as the armies clashed. It would have been a bold-hearted man

who felt joy at the sight of that toil and not dismay.
What makes this passage remarkable in the context of the present

discussion is Homer’s ability to depict a scene so gruelling that we
would not want to witness it directly. Only Homer can contemplate it
unscathed, and in so doing can convert a grim reality into vivid, enjoy-
able representation. There could hardly be a more pointed reminder
that the modalities of representation are as much an aesthetic concern
in Homer as they are in Gilgamesh: far from reflecting a mere quirk
of the Greek mentality, a ‘need’ that had to be fulfilled at all costs
(Auerbach), Homeric enargeia was a quality to display, reflect on and
worry about. There is a sense that the Homeric text makes it a point of
concern, and that later generations of readers did the same.30
Indeed, I would argue that Homer is particularly interested pre-
cisely in those moments where the narrative surface cracks and, pace
Auerbach, we do catch glimpses of ‘unplumbed depths’ beneath it.
This is perhaps most obvious in the Odyssey, which reflects on what it
is to be ‘a/the man’ through an elaborate play of disguise and recog-
nition.31 Yet the Iliad too challenges us to look beyond appearances.
Consider the following passage from near the end of the poem (Il.
24.477–84):
τοὺς δ’ ἔλαθ’ εἰσελθὼν Πρίαμος μέγας, ἄγχι δ’ ἄρα στὰς

χερσὶν Ἀχιλλῆος λάβε γούνατα καὶ κύσε χεῖρας
δεινὰς ἀνδροφόνους, αἵ οἱ πολέας κτάνον υἷας.
ὡς δ’ ὅτ’ ἂν ἄνδρ’ ἄτη πυκινὴ λάβῃ, ὅς τ’ ἐνὶ πάτρῃ 480
φῶτα κατακτείνας ἄλλων ἐξίκετο δῆμον,
ἀνδρὸς ἐς ἀφνειοῦ, θάμβος δ’ ἔχει εἰσορόωντας,
ὣς Ἀχιλεὺς θάμβησεν ἰδὼν Πρίαμον θεοειδέα·
θάμβησαν δὲ καὶ ἄλλοι, ἐς ἀλλήλους δὲ ἴδοντο.
Tall Priam came in unseen by the others and stood close beside
him
and caught the knees of Achilles in his hands, and kissed the
hands
that were dreadful and manslaughtering and had killed so many
of his sons.
As when dense disaster takes hold of a man who has murdered
30 For discussions of post-Homeric enargeia, see variously Zanker 1981; Walker

1993; Webb 1997; Manieri 1998; Zangara 2004; Spina 2005; Otto 2009.
31 Goldhill 1991; Murnaghan [1987] 2011.
another man in his homeland, and he comes to the country of

others,
to a wealthy man, and wonder seizes those who behold him,
so Achilles wondered as he looked at godlike Priam,
and the rest of them wondered also, and looked at each other.
Priam has come to Achilles’ tent to beg for Hector’s dead body. After
slipping in unseen, he suddenly appears before the man who killed his
son. A poignant reverse simile captures some of the complexities of
the situation: if anybody is rich it is Priam; and if anybody is a killer, it
ought to be Achilles.32 The obvious mismatch between the simile and
the situation it describes leads on to a challenging visual encounter. As
Achilles and his men marvel at Priam, outward appearance is empha-
sised: Achilles ‘wondered as he looked at godlike Priam’; ‘and the
rest of them wondered also, and looked at each other’. The language
of θάμβος is suggestive of epiphany, a characteristic feature, I have
argued, of traditional narratives inspired by the Muses (24.482–3; cf.
LfgrE s.vv. θάμβος, θαμβέω). However, what is at issue here is not
the easy illumination which for Auerbach becomes the hallmark of
Homeric narrative: Priam’s presence amazes but also puzzles those
around him – how could he possibly be here? Slightly later, Achilles
will ask that very question (Il. 24.519), and will take it as the starting
point for an extended reflection on what it is to be human. What we
see here is not a narrative surface without depth or moral significance,
but a poet in search of the elusive humanity that unites even Achilles
and Priam.
CONCLUSION
Auerbach was right: the Homer who emerges from my discussion is
still a master of immediacy. Conversely, and rather like Auerbach’s
Bible, the Epic of Gilgamesh challenges us to probe beyond the
surfaces of the perceptible world. Two very different approaches,
then, each articulated in a distinctive voice: didactic, even cajoling,
in Gilgamesh; seductive in Homer. These differences, I have argued,
are aesthetically meaningful rather than merely betraying different
mentalities: Gilgamesh configures the relationship between reality and
representation as oblique and challenging whereas Homer invites us
to acquiesce in the epiphanic powers of the Muse. But Homeric repre-
sentation too reveals hidden depths, and more generally, the different
aesthetic choices which I have described do not preclude convergences
32 Macleod 1982: 126.

28 johannes haubold
at a deeper level: both Homer and Gilgamesh use their poetic resources
to reflect on the human condition; and both insist that what makes us
human cannot be read off the surface of things.
I argued at the beginning of this chapter that what is characteristic
about Greek narrative can only emerge from comparisons that are
meaningful in a specific cultural and historical context. It makes sense
that Auerbach, writing in exile from Nazi Germany, should have
juxtaposed Homer and the Bible; and that he should have found them
to be strictly incompatible. I have argued that it makes equal sense
for us today to compare Homer with Gilgamesh; and to discover that,
for all the differences between them, they do in fact share some key
concerns. Yet even while allowing for shared concerns, and perhaps
especially then, we must respect the poetic fabric of the texts we read.
Auerbach’s example, it seems to me, can be helpful here: despite his
profound commitment to rehabilitating the Hebrew Bible – and his
equally profound misgivings about the Homer of Schiller and Goethe
– he insisted on approaching both as a close reader. At a time when
many classicists find themselves caught between their philological
commitment to Greek literature and their political commitment to
opening up the canon of western literature, applying the skills of com-
mitted and close reading across the texts we consider and compare
– which is what Auerbach did – seems crucial.
3
HOMERIC BATTLE NARRATIVE AND

THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
Adrian Kelly
How do we define ancient Greek narrative? The theme of this volume,

and the conference on which it is based, is more than a timely one.
Thanks to the efforts of many scholars – Walter Burkert and Martin
West above all – classicists now take very seriously the role of compar-
ative study in helping to illuminate the culture of early archaic Greece,
usually by listing apparently parallel phenomena in the many civilisa-
tions of the ancient Near East (hereafter ANE).1 Whilst the broaden-
ing of horizons in this way must be a welcome development, not all of
the new vistas are equally fair, and some are so tempting as to have
distracted us from the task at hand. As Robin Osborne observed some
time ago, ‘[i]t is worth stopping to ask what is really at stake here . . .
If I choose to disagree with with that claim [i.e. of a parallel], what is
at stake? . . . What is really at stake is my ability to understand the
Iliad.’2 These stakes were then famously upped by Sarah Morris’s
claim that ‘in the final analysis, it may be a greater challenge to isolate
and appreciate what is Greek in Homeric poetry than to enumerate
its foreign sources’.3 The current chapter takes up that challenge, and
suggests that ANE texts should not be treated as direct source mate-
rial for the Iliad and Odyssey. Classicists should not ignore this mate-
rial, of course, but we must move beyond the methodologically naive
I should like to thank Bill Allan, Sophie Gibson, Chris Minkwoski, Richard
Rutherford and Christopher Metcalf for their help with this chapter and its
material; Douglas Cairns, Ruth Scodel and the School of History, Classics and
Archaeology at the University of Edinburgh for arranging this volume and the
conference at which it was presented; and Peter Kruschwitz, Ian Rutherford and
the Department of Classics at the University of Reading for a first, and very gener-
ous, hearing. I apologise to all specialists in ancient Near Eastern studies for using
English translations of their primary sources.
1 For bibliography on the orientalist revolution, see Rollinger 1996: 156–9, 2004:
369–6, 2011 or 2012.
2 Osborne 1993: 232.
3 Morris 1997: 623.
30 adrian kelly
‘ parallelomania’4 which currently characterises the project. In short,

the time has come to stop heaping up similarities between texts sepa-
rated by language, distance and time, and then suggesting that these
lists can ‘speak for themselves’. Instead, we must be explicit about the
aims and limitations of comparative study.
Those aims can be defined in two general directions: (1) genealogy,
or the use of other texts to elucidate a particular historical relationship
with a target text; and (2) analogy, or the use of other texts to illumi-
nate the particular qualities of that target.5 Of course, these two direc-
tions are not opposed, and the Greeks were profoundly influenced by
the several neighbouring cultures with which they interacted, so that
analogy and genealogy can and should be combined.6 But a simplify-
ing and simplistic form of the latter has become almost the default
function of comparative study in Homeric scholarship: the Iliad and
Odyssey are mined for parallels with non-Hellenic texts, these parallels
are isolated in their Homeric contexts as ‘strange’, ‘faulty’ or ‘un(der)
motivated’, and their presence in Homer thus explained as yet another
form of the Quellenforschung so familiar from the work of the Analysts
and Neoanalysts,7 with the only development being the addition of
the vast literatures of the ANE to the list of potential source docu-
ments. There are more nuanced approaches to be found,8 but many
more comparisons have simply pushed this obviously limited method
to almost absurd extremes.9
The material chosen to make my point in this chapter is the battle
narrative in the Iliad, principally because this kind of poetry was
considered in Graeco-Roman antiquity as something particularly
4 The term is owed to Sandmel 1962: 1: ‘that extravagance among scholars which
first overdoes the supposed similarity in passages and then proceeds to describe
source and derivation as if implying literary connection flowing in an inevitable or
predetermined direction’.
5 For the conceptual dichotomy in practice, see Taylor 2007.
6 Cf. MacDonald 2000: 8–9 for a very rigorous method for identifying textual
interaction.
7 The former has recently been revived, not uncoincidentally, by M. L. West 2011;
for the latter, see most recently the papers in Montanari et al. 2012.
8 Cf. esp. Haubold 2002 and 2006, and I. Rutherford 2009 for an excellent discus-
sion of the dynamic between Hesiodic poetry and ANE traditions. For a broader
critique of the models of cultural contact in vogue amongst classicists, cf. Hall
2004.
9 Cf., e.g., Louden 2011 for a particularly egregious example, while B. Currie 2012
even argues for a Homer who bears more than a passing resemblance to T. S.
Eliot, alluding not only to the Epic of Gilgamesh, but also to the way that this
composition alludes to much earlier Sumerian narratives! ANE specialists are
very wary of this type of intertextuality (cf., e.g., Westenholz 2010: 30), and more
generally of the way classicists use their material; cf. esp. George 2003: 55–7 and
Haubold 2006.
homeric battle narrative and the ancient near east 31
Homeric: in the Contest of Homer and Hesiod, for instance, ‘Homer’

chose as his signature piece two scenes of massed battle from the
thirteenth book of the Iliad (126–33, 339–44),10 and his association
with combat persisted throughout antiquity.11 Given the hermeneu-
tic stakes with which we opened this chapter, this should be a good
testing ground for my project.12 I shall argue that representations
of battle in ANE sources give us no assistance in understanding the
Homeric texts, if we are seeking to make a genealogical link between
the traditions. Homer did not derive his techniques of combat repre-
sentation – directly or indirectly – from those sources. The compara-
tive material can, nonetheless, show us by analogy what makes this
central element of Homer’s poetry so unique, indeed so typically and
characteristically Greek.
In keeping with these two basic dynamics of comparative study,
the present chapter seeks to do two things. The second is to hazard
some generalisations about battle narrative in Homer and ANE tradi-
tions, and thus grab at something of the Greek text’s unique quality.
But first it will examine an example of an apparent direct interaction
between the traditions, in this case from the Hebrew Bible, to illustrate
the drawbacks of the genealogy method, at least as it is currently prac-
tised. Along the way, I hope to find some new things to say about the
Homeric episode; this is, ironically, one of the unintended benefits of
what elsewhere has been called ‘hard Orientalism’:13 it makes us look
afresh at the problems and challenges of our texts, in order to explain
them better.
10 Cf. Graziosi 2002: 175–80.

11 Cf., amongst many other examples, Cicero Tusc. Disp. 5.39.114, who notes the
‘quae species formaque pugnae, quae acies’ as one of the ‘picturae’ typically
afforded to the Homeric audience.
12 For orientalising and genealogical treatments of Homeric battle narrative, see esp.
Rollinger 1996 and M. L. West 1997: 206–17; also below, n. 41. I do not attempt
here to discuss all the supposed parallels raised by these two treatments, but none
is sufficiently strong to suggest Homer’s direct knowledge or interaction with ANE
sources, as Rollinger 1996: 159 admits: ‘es soll . . . betont werden, daß die angefüh-
rten Beleg- und Parallelbei[s]piele nicht unbedingt als jene orientalischen Werke
betrachtet werden müssen, von denen die betreffenden Motive in die griechische
Welt flossen. Sie sind vielmehr als Elemente eines “Genpools” gedanklicher
Konzepte, wie sie in der altorientalischen literarischen Welt greifbar sind, anzuse-
hen, mit dem in auch die Griechen der früharchaischen Zeit in irgendeiner Form
in Berührung kamen und der sowohl für ihr Denken als auch für ihre literarische
Formgestaltung nicht ohne Folgen blieb.’ However compelling the parallels with
the few, isolated (and widely disparate) motifs listed by West and Rollinger, they
cannot account for Homeric battle narrative when taken as a whole (see below,
pp. 40–54).
13 Kelly 2008b: 292–3, 302–4.
32 adrian kelly
GENEALOGY, THE DIAPEIRA AND THE BOOK OF JUDGES

The episode in the second book of the Iliad known as the Diapeira has
puzzled scholars since antiquity: Agamemnon’s suggestion of testing
the army (2.73–5) comes with no warning, and adds what has been
considered an unnecessary and confusing new element to the begin-
ning of battle. Moreover, its substance – deceiving his troops into
thinking he wants to go home, and then causing them to rush down to
their ships – is an unusual way to motivate an army before a new phase
in the fighting. Critics have unsurprisingly struggled to make sense of
the scene and its justification: some look to Agamemnon’s damaged
standing in the army as the poet’s point; others to the war-weary
attitude of the Greeks; still others to the presence or interference of an
inferior poet.14
But Martin West has pointed to another solution. Noting the
episode’s standard difficulties (‘Was there ever such a custom, in life
or letters? It would not seem a very sensible one’), he then finds the
answer in the Book of Judges from the Hebrew Bible (‘Yet we find a
clear parallel’),15 specifically the passage in which the hero Gideon is
instructed by Yahweh to ‘test’ his army (7.2–3):16
(2) The LORD said to Gideon, ‘The troops with you are too
many for me to give the Midianites into their hand. Israel would
only take the credit away from me, saying “My own hand has
delivered me.” (3) Now therefore proclaim this in the hearing
of the troops, “Whoever is fearful and trembling, let him return
home.” ’ Thus Gideon sifted them out; twenty-two thousand
returned, and ten thousand remained.
As one of a series of actions designed to reduce the size of Gideon’s

forces, so as to increase their awareness of Yahweh’s role in the victory,
the test has a direct and explicit purpose in the Hebrew narrative. West
is not explicit about the reconstruction of textual relationships in this
case, but it is clear from the way he introduces the parallel that he is
inclined to follow the usual reasoning of ‘better motivated = original’.
14 For a recent summary of approaches and bibliography, cf. Latacz 2003: 29–30,
40–1, adding Sehnert-Siebel 1994 and Cook 2003.
15 M. L. West 1997: 207–8. M. L. West 2011: 100–8 posits an Analytical solution,
suggesting that the whole of 2.50–441 was an insertion, by the same poet, into his
original version, in which Thersites urged the army to leave: the test is thus an
‘afterthought’ (p. 103). Much of West’s argument depends on the ‘paradoxical’
nature of the test, for which see below.
16 The Hebrew Bible is quoted here and throughout from the New Standard Revised
Version.
He was not, however, the first to note the similarity with the Iliadic
passage: Ronald Knox and Joseph Russo go even further, linking
the Diapeira not only with the test from Judges but also the various
prescriptions on warfare in the twentieth chapter of Deuteronomy
(specifically 20.8):17
The officials shall continue to address the troops, saying ‘Is

anyone afraid or disheartened? He should go back to his house,
or he might cause the heart of his comrades to melt like his own.’
Knox and Russo therefore propose a standard rule underlying both

Greek and Hebrew traditions, conditioned either by a universal need
for ‘holy war’ or through a common ‘third cultural force’. Though
West seems more inclined to think of that third force as the reason
for the similarity, these two treatments are fundamentally similar, in
looking outside Homer to fix a Homeric ‘problem’.
In evaluating these claims of influence, one of the first issues
is the dating of the texts involved. The so-called ‘Deuteronomic
History’ of the Hebrew Bible, the portion of narrative running from
Deuteronomy itself to the Second Book of Kings, is variously placed
in the seventh or sixth centuries bce,18 though that does not mean that
it does not preserve much older material, perhaps beyond the turn of
the first millennium. A seventh-century date would of course still fit
with the downdating of the Iliad favoured by West (and others),19 but
the increasingly popular sixth-century position would largely rule out
Homeric interaction of the type usually envisaged. In both cases, of
course, older oral traditions are coming into textualised forms at some
point between the eighth and sixth centuries bce, but the chances are
that the Hebrew text, in the form in which we have it, is later than the
Iliad.
Leave that point to one side, for direct interaction between the
traditions need not depend on a single (or final) textualised version
of Judges. A more important question is why a Greek poet would
notice, let alone emulate, this relatively brief Biblical episode. Knox
and Russo call it a ‘famous’ passage; whether that is true or not of its
standing today, we should be wary of concluding that it was famous
in the eighth or seventh (or sixth) century bce. It is not impossible, of
17 R. Knox and Russo 1989.

18 Cf. esp. Römer 2007 for a review of the entire question (I am indebted to Ruth
Scodel for this reference). It is uncertain whether the narrative is the work of a
single author, which would demand the later date, or the result of a series of redac-
tions and recompositions of earlier material.
19 See most recently M. L.West 2011: 15–27.
34 adrian kelly
course, that a Greek poet came across the theme and realised that it
was shamefully underexploited. Nonetheless, if West and others are
right that the test is misused or misunderstood in the Iliad and that this
is a sign of its derivation from the Hebrew narrative, then the Greek
poet must have been so powerfully struck by the original version in
Judges as to use it without complete harmonisation or recomposition
in the Iliad (on which more later). The interaction must be possible, of
course, but – given the scale and relative unimportance of the Hebrew
passage – is it likely?
This doubt applies even if we confront Knox and Russo’s belief
that such a method was a ‘rule’ widely used all over the ancient world.
Their evidence in this regard – Deuteronomy 20.8 (quoted above) – is
problematic: in Judges, Yahweh brings about the test ‘not in order
to reduce the fear in others’ (as in Deuteronomy), but just in order
to reduce the size of the army and thus increase his own glory. His
purpose there certainly has nothing to do with Deuteronomy’s sound
military reasoning. Can, then, these two very different passages
amount to anything like a rule?20 Moreover, even if we do assume
that a ‘discouragement test’ designed to elucidate an army’s negative
response was a widespread general custom in the ancient world (on
which more below), we have much less warrant to think in narrow
stemmatological terms: not only could such a custom could arise
independently in several places, so that its presence in any two of those
places need not be directly linked,21 but any process of transfer need
not depend upon its textual manifestations alone.22
But what if this is a case of indirect interaction of some sort,
that is, it is not this specific example of the motif in Judges (or even
Deuteronomy) but another example, perhaps in an oral version, with
which a Greek – not even necessarily a poet – became familiar at
any point from the ninth century onwards, or perhaps even earlier?
20 Furthermore, there is some suspicion that Deut. 20.8 is a late addition to the text,
perhaps modelled on the very passage from Judges; cf. Rofé 2002: 162 and n. 48.
21 Richard Rutherford reminds me aptly of the magnificent St Crispin’s Day speech
in Henry V (Act IV Sc. 3): ‘Rather proclaim it presently through my host / that he
which hath no stomach to this fight, / let him depart. His passport shall be made
/ and crowns for convoy put into his purse. / We would not die in that man’s
company / that fears his fellowship to die with us.’ Shakespeare may well have
come across the passage in Judges, but is anyone prepared to argue that Henry’s
speech owes anything to it?
22 R. Knox and Russo 1989: 352 also argue that this is a rule on the Greek side of the
equation because Agamemnon labels it θέμις (2.73). Yet such claims in Homeric
epic are exercises in self-justification in a particular context, and not mere recita-
tions of legislative fact: cf., e.g., Il. 9.33, 16.796, 23.44 and 24.652, next to more
clearly customary usages as 9.134 = 276, 11.779, 14.386, 19.177; cf. Scodel 1998b:
49–50.
Though Serge Frolov and Allen Wright have recently cast great doubt
on the frequency and depth of contacts between Greeks and Jews
during this period,23 let us allow the hypothesis, since it is certainly
more likely than a direct interaction thesis. Once more, however, we
are immediately faced with the problem that the motif of the ‘discour-
agement test’ is found only in these two places in the Hebrew Bible
and nowhere else – as far as I know – in ANE literatures. We cannot,
therefore, follow Knox and Russo in their claim that it was a typical
motif in several traditions, and that it was in this form that the motif
became known to Greek audiences or poets vel sim. If there were
heroic traditions informing later representations of Israelite heroes
and kings, as Susan Niditch has argued,24 then the ‘discouragement
test’ does not seem to have been a particularly prominent part of those
stories, for it has left very little trace.
But there are, of course, many prior questions. In leaping straight
to wondering about how precisely Homer (or someone) came into
contact with the motif we find in Judges and Deuteronomy, it might
seem that we’ve conceded the parallel status of the episodes and
undertaken the burden of sundering them. Instead, let’s approach the
issue, as we should, from the other direction: are they actually ‘real’
parallels or, in other words, how many differences do we need before
we start doubting the validity of the equation in the first place?
The general similarity in context and progression is clear: a leader,
with backing from his supreme deity, tests the courage of his army.
Yet there are also several important departures, and the first three lie
in the role of the respective deities: first, Yahweh demands this test in
Judges, while Zeus doesn’t mention it in the Iliad; second, Yahweh
wants his side to win immediately and for him to get all the credit,
while Zeus wants the Greeks to lose, at least temporarily, in fulfilment
of his promise to Thetis; third, Yahweh explicitly wants the army
reduced in size,25 while Agamemnon definitely does not. Finally, of
course, the consequence is also different: whilst Gideon is left with a
harder core of supporters for even further reduction in another, sepa-
rate test (Judges 7.4–8), the entire Greek army eventually returns to
the fight with its enthusiasm strengthened.
Indeed, given these differences, perhaps we should examine more
closely the initial stimulus for the parallel – the apparently problem-
atic or defective nature of the Iliadic episode. Though the Diapeira
23 Frolov and Wright 2011.

24 Niditch 1993: 90–105.
25 Cf. Niditch 2008: 97: ‘The outcome of the battle depends not upon Israelite exper-
tise, but upon the prowess and goodwill of the divine warrior, protector of Israel.
The fewer the number of human soldiers, the greater the victory of God.’
36 adrian kelly
seems initially a surprising ploy on Agamemnon’s part, much of what

motivates and structures the episode is typical within the Homeric
corpus itself. The importance of such an analysis is that it may provide
a simpler explanation for the shape of the Diapeira, simpler both in the
sense that it does not require the extra step of an external source, and
in the sense that it is based in accepted and established fact – Homer’s
relationship with his own epic tradition.
The first source of comparison is the ‘suggestion of retreat’ theme.26
Frequently in the Iliad a character suggests to a group that they should
retreat, as Agamemnon in Book 9 after the disastrous showing on the
second day of battle (16–29), or again in Book 14 when things look
even more bleak (64–81); on the Trojan side, consider Polydamas’
two such suggestions to Hector (12.208–29, 18.249–82).27 On each
occasion, the suggestion is rejected, sometimes eventually (as in Book
9) and sometimes immediately (as Books 14, 12 or 18), but only
after telling reactions from those around the suggesting speaker. For
instance, in Book 14 Odysseus and Diomedes are required to prevent
Agamemnon from suggesting retreat to the army as a whole (82–132),
whilst in Book 9 the combined efforts of Diomedes and Nestor are
similarly needed (31–77), though this time – unlike in the Diapeira –
the army gets to witness Agamemnon’s real, tearful breakdown.
These subsequent conversations all make clear why the suggestion
is not to be followed, why the Greek army cannot leave Troy and why
the Trojans must stay out in the field: Diomedes and Nestor focus
inter alia in Book 9 on the inevitability of the Trojans’ eventual defeat
(32–49, 42–78), Odysseus in Book 14 on the need not to let the Greeks
hear of such a plan in their current situation (82–102, esp. 90–102),
Hector in Book 12 on Polydamas’ apparent stupidity and cowardice
26 Cf. 2.109–368: Agamemnon suggests (109–41) – Odysseus rejects (183–332) –

Nestor rejects (and amplifies) (333–68); 9.16–77: Agamemnon suggests (16–29)
– Diomedes rejects (31–49) – Nestor rejects (and amplifies) (52–77); 14.64–132:
Agamemnon suggests (64–81) – Odysseus rejects (82–102) – [Agamemnon submits
(103–8)] – Diomedes rejects (and amplifies) (109–32); 12.208–50: Polydamas sug-
gests (208–29) – Hector rejects (230–50); 18.249–309: Polydamas suggests (249–82)
– Hector rejects (284–309). For slightly less complex sequences, cf. 2.224–42
(Thersites suggests – Odysseus rejects), 5.241–50 (Sthenelus suggests – Diomedes
rejects), and for successful examples (all of which are prefaced by divine interven-
tion to that end; Kelly 2007: 164–5), cf. 5.590–606 (Diomedes suggests – crowd
follows), 8.138–44 (Nestor suggests – Diomedes eventually follows), 15.281–300
(Thoas suggests – basileis follow), 17.621–3 (Meriones suggests – Idomeneus
follows).
27 These examples are chosen merely for reasons of space and prominence in the
poem. All of the examples in the previous footnote show the same pattern, with
the natural exception of those cases – preceded by direct divine intervention to
that end – where the suggestion is followed.
in going against the clear indications of Zeus’ favour (230–50), and

again in Book 18 on the wasting of the Trojans’ resources as a reason
for forcing the issue now (284–309).
This is one very important illuminating context for Agamemnon’s
decision to deceive the army, since it allows the poet (1) to suggest to
his audience the failure of the suggestion, and (2) to throw emphasis
on the process which prevents the Greek retreat: at first it looks
extraordinarily as if they will abandon Troy, until Odysseus brings the
troops back to their places (155–211) after Athena’s intervention, but
even then an act of rebellion from Thersites requires a further moment
of Odyssean consolidation (212–44). After beating down the rebel,
and being explicitly (!) approved for it by the rank and file (270–7),
Odysseus’ speech calls the audience’s attention back to omens received
at the start of the war (299–332) before Nestor seals their renewed
eagerness for the fight with practical instructions for the coming battle
(336–68).
The Diapeira is, therefore, a uniquely long example of the ‘sugges-
tion of retreat’, one which involves not only two of the most promi-
nent counsellor figures in the Greek camp, and their most prominent
divine protector, but also a potential rebel and the approbation of
the ordinary troops. Such an expansion of perspective and scale is
precisely what we should expect at the start of this poem; consider
only the Catalogues of Ships and Trojan allies later in Book 2, or the
duel between Menelaus and Paris in Book 3, and the oath-breaking in
Book 4. Thus, the basic movement behind the Diapeira is an entirely
typical part of the poet’s repertoire, and its extension is completely in
keeping with the Iliad’s strategy of reactivating the war as a whole.
But one could still argue that it’s a strange way to get an army into
the field, rather than actually just telling them to get into the field.
This is where the second typical background for the Diapeira – the
‘testing with words’ (πειρᾶσθαι + ἐπε-) theme28 – becomes important,
28 Cf. 2.71–4 (Agamemnon to the basileis about the army): πρῶτα δ’ ἐγὼν ἔπεσιν
πειρήσομαι, ἣ θέμις ἐστί, | καὶ φεύγειν σὺν νηυσὶ πολυκλήϊσι κελεύσω· | ὑμεῖς δ’
ἄλλοθεν ἄλλος ἐρητύειν ἐπέεσσιν; 4.5–6 (Zeus to Hera): αὐτίκ’ ἐπειρᾶτο Κρονίδης
ἐρεθιζέμεν Ἥρην | κερτομίοις ἐπέεσσι παραβλήδην ἀγορεύων; Od. 24.239–40
(Odysseus to Laertes): ὧδε δέ οἱ φρονέοντι δοάσσατο κέρδιον εἶναι, | πρῶτον
κερτομίοισ’ ἔπεσιν διαπειρηθῆναι. These three examples are used as our principal
cases, once more, because they are particularly clear and prominent, but cf. also
Il. 8.8–9 (Zeus to the other gods): μήτέ τις οὖν θήλεια θεὸς τό γε μήτέ τις ἄρσην |
πειράτω διακέρσαι ἐμὸν ἔπος; 9.344–5 (Achilles to the ambassadors): νῦν δ’ ἐπεὶ ἐκ
χειρῶν γέρας εἵλετο καί μ’ ἀπάτησε | μή μευ πειράτω εὖ εἰδότος· οὐδέ με πείσει; Od.
9.281 (Odysseus narrating Polyphemus’ trick): ὣς φάτο πειράζων, ἐμὲ δ’ οὐ λάθεν
εἰδότα πολλά; Od. 15.304–6 (Odysseus among his servants in Eumaius’ hut): τοῖς δ’
Ὀδυσεὺς μετέειπε, συβώτεω πειρητίζων, | ἤ μιν ἔτ’ ἐνδυκέως φιλέοι μεῖναί τε κελεύοι
| αὐτοῦ ἐνὶ σταθμῷ ἦ ὀτρύνειε πόλινδε·; Od. 19.215 (Penelope to the ‘stranger’):
38 adrian kelly
for in these circumstances the speaker deceitfully attempts to provoke

a reaction by suggesting the opposite of the truth, and in doing so
manipulates the circumstance to his own ends. Consider Zeus’ teasing
of Athena and Hera at the start of Iliad Book 4, where he jokingly
suggests ending the war, provoking an outraged response, before
he confirms that Troy is indeed to fall (30–49); or Odysseus’ testing
of Laertes in Odyssey 24, where he provokes considerable paternal
anguish before confirming to the old man that his son has in fact
returned home (318–48).29 The narrative then proceeds in the direc-
tion established before the ‘test’, but the speaker also derives a more
oblique advantage: without conceding his control over the direction of
the war, Zeus forces a concession from Hera that he may sack any of
her favourite cities whenever he wants (4.39–42, 50–56), and the truce
is broken up; Odysseus reveals himself to Laertes and the recognition
pattern then continues, but he also tricks his father into an emotional
reaction, and then – after passing the test set by his father about
the veracity of his encounter-story (287–92, 303–14) – immediately
reverses their position in the dialogic process. Having just deceived his
father by proving the fake persona, Odysseus then abruptly reverses
the direction of their encounter by offering his identity and its tokens
(320–46).30 In each case the narrative proceeds as the speaker intended,
but with his authority over interlocutor and situation greatly, if indi-
rectly, reinforced.
The associations of this theme feed into the deceptive nature of
the entire circumstance in the Diapeira, but also key the audience
into the implication of an oblique advantage. Of course the most
obvious deception is that aimed at the troops: Agamemnon pretends
to want something from them other than that which he does. But
here we should recognise that a major point of the episode – from
Agamemnon’s point of view, at least – is to make sure his several
commanders react in the correct manner, as he says explicitly (ὑμεῖς δ’
ἄλλοθεν ἄλλος ἐρητύειν ἐπέεσσιν, 2.75). Agamemnon is talking about
(footnote 28 continued)
ἐξαῦτίς μιν ἔπεσσιν ἀμειβομένη προσέειπε· | νῦν μὲν δή σευ ξεῖνέ γ’ ὀΐω πειρήσεσθαι
κτλ.; cf. also Latacz 2003: ad 2.73, 30.
29 R. Knox and Russo 1989: 352 mention this parallel for the Diapeira, but dismiss
it as ‘a peculiar and intimate expression of Odysseus’ character’ opposed to
Agamemnon’s ‘rule’ (on which error, cf. above, n. 22). I suggest that the psycho-
logical subtlety seen in Homer’s depiction of Odysseus’ character should not be
precluded from his construction of Agamemnon.
30 As he generally does for the male members of his household. For recent discussion
with further bibliography, cf. Kelly 2012: 10. Revelation and recognition in the
Odyssey are always a matter of contest, and Odysseus ‘defeats’ his father in their
encounter.
basileutic intervention after his injunctions to the army to flee, and

so at the very least he countenances the army’s flight to the ships.
Focus falls here on the action of the basileis, and their willingness to
support Agamemnon’s enterprise, within the general deception of
the army provided by his subsequent address. After the open chal-
lenge to the expedition’s power structure in the very public quarrel of
Book 1, the need for a display of the support from the other basileis
is surely rather important, as Erwin Cook has most recently argued.31
So Agamemnon wants to get the Greek army up and running for the
renewed fighting in response to the Dream he has been sent by Zeus,
but he also wants the basileis publicly working for him towards that
end, and this is precisely what – eventually – happens.32
Therefore, the Diapeira combines two entirely typical narrative
themes: (1) ‘suggestion of retreat’, which focuses on the way in which
the suggestion fails, and (2) ‘testing with words’, which works by
reversing the addressee’s (i.e. the troops’) expectations, and suggests
some indirect advantage beneath the surface of the encounter. The
superficial paradox of the first theme is lessened by its universal con-
sequence (failure to flee), and then resolved in the deceptive currents
underlying the second. Together, they produce the desired result: the
Greek army ready for action, with its power structures strained but
apparently re-established. This is a unique combination of those two
themes in the Iliad, and one which produces an extremely fruitful
and entirely natural reading of the episode’s function.33 The Diapeira
does not, therefore, require what seems to be a minor, differently pur-
posed, differently focused episode from another, probably later text,
in another language, as its explanation.34 The sources of the scene’s
31 Cook 2003.
32 It must, however, be signficant that it is only Odysseus of the other princes who
eventually – after Athena’s intervention – steps in to stop the retreat. M. L. West
2011: 103 takes this as grounds for thinking the Diapeira an intrusion into an
earlier version (cf. above, n. 15) because it adumbrates the unfulfilled involvement
of others, but their failure to get involved is surely deliberate, and an important
index of Agamemnon’s rather troubled authority within the camp, not a hint of
an earlier layer of composition which has been inadequately concealed; cf. also
below, n. 34.
33 In any case, we have indeed reached a very strange pass if we think that Homer
was only able to reproduce the precisely paralleled elements in his poetic inherit-
ance, and never to recombine them in new ways. Homeric individuality should not
be cast aside so lightly.
34 Within his theory of a broader interpolation (cf. above, nn. 15 and 32), M. L.
West 2011: 103 writes that the proposal is ‘paradoxical’ because, first, ‘it is ignored
in Nestor’s speech and in much of the later narrative’. However, why must it be
mentioned in Nestor’s speech (and cf. now Nünlist 2012 on Nestor’s many tactful
silences; for him (153) ‘this is a deliberate omission on Nestor’s part’), and how
many mentions does it need? Odysseus, after all, does explicitly refer to it when
40 adrian kelly
c onstituent elements can be found entirely within the formular tradi-

tion of early Greek epic poetry, and the narrative makes complete
sense within that tradition. In conclusion, I would suggest that the
Diapeira and Gideon’s test from the Book of Judges are entirely unre-
lated, their similarities fortuitous and vastly overplayed.
Beyond this narrow demonstration, what does this case suggest
about comparative study pursued for genealogical ends? First, let us
not be too quick to see flaws or problems in a Homeric episode (vel
sim.) where there are only interpretative opportunities and challenges.
Second, we should look more closely at parallels within the long
Homeric tradition to help explain the construction and sense of said
episode, before we go searching elsewhere for answers. Third, when we
do go elsewhere, let us be sure that the parallel is actually that – a real
parallel. Finally, we must then be certain that it makes sense to link the
texts involved, in terms of both date and scale. In short, it is time to
stop assuming external sources as the first explanation for a Homeric
‘problem’. Genealogy can be a fun game, but – to pursue the metaphor
– definitive proof can only established through the subject’s DNA.
BATTLE NARRATIVE AND ANALOGY

This section of the chapter will attempt to demonstrate the ‘Greekness’
of Homer, in itself an almost impossible task, but made more difficult
because it involves surveying and summarising almost two thou-
sand years’ worth of non-Greek narrative traditions, spread across
several literary traditions. Three caveats are required at the outset:
(1) it cannot claim anything like the same familiarity with the ANE
materials;35 (2) it will summarise, with no proper consideration of the
individual particularities or forms of the ANE texts, their main differ-
ences from Homer’s battle representations; and (3) it is not limited to
traditions hitherto defined by scholars as ‘epic’, largely because there
is little agreement on the usefulness of such a term in the non-Greek
rebuking the chieftains at 2.192–4 (οὐ γάρ πω σάφα οἶσθ’ οἷος νόος Ἀτρεΐωνος· |
νῦν μὲν πειρᾶται, τάχα δ’ ἴψεται υἷας Ἀχαιῶν | ἐν βουλῇ δ’ οὐ πάντες ἀκούσαμεν οἷον
ἔειπεν) and it is clear that Agamemnon has miscalculated (cf. Odysseus’ tactful
reference to it at 2.252–3: οὐδέ τί πω σάφα ἴδμεν ὅπως ἔσται τάδε ἔργα, | ἢ εὖ ἦε
κακῶς νοστήσομεν υἷες Ἀχαιῶν). Second, according to West, ‘it is never explained
to the army that they were being tested’. Again, why should we expect it to be so
explained? The army is never given a clear view into the decision-making processes
of their leaders, as Odysseus explains to his several addressees in this very episode
(2.200–6, 246–7 etc.).
35 I am particularly indebted to Christopher Metcalf for help with this material.
context.36 This section lays no claim to anything like a definitive cov-

erage, and it should be read principally as an invitation, especially to
specialists in the several fields addressed, to continue the project.
The argument pursued here is that battle is a common theme in the
texts37 of the ANE, but that the techniques and emphasis of Homeric
battle representation cannot be paralleled in any meaningful way in
those traditions. There are isolated examples of episodic and thematic
similarity, but the differences are enormous, and they can be summed
up simply: Homer narrativises and aestheticises battle in a way, and to
an extent, not found in ANE traditions. That is, battle is a subject of
its own narrative and interest in Homeric poetry, and in fact serves as
the dramatic backdrop for much of the Iliad. The poet expends a great
deal of energy on battle narrative, and is obviously dealing with an
audience who found descriptions of combat pleasing and interesting
in themselves.38
There is only space here for the briefest sketch of Homer’s practice,
but consider, first, how much of the poem is concerned with, or set
during, battle: from the end of Book 4 (if we exclude all the introduc-
tory elements in Books 2 and 3) all the way to the end of Book 22,
the poet constructs his narrative against a backdrop of continuous
fighting. Whilst there are episodes around and between periods of
fighting, the battle itself is now the continuous context of the Iliad’s
actions during this period. Moreover, the poem is actually structured
around the four battle days (A: 2.1–7.380/B: 8.1–9.713 or 10.579 || B2:
11.1–18.617/A2: 19.1–23.108), with the actions of the first and fourth
(A and A2) mirroring one another, as do the actions of the second and
third (B and B2), but with noticeable disparities in scale, as Tables 3.1
and 3.2 make clear.
In this respect, battle is also a vehicle of meaning: compare the
fighting and achievements of Diomedes on the first day with those
of Achilles on the fourth, and one sees the tremendous differences
between the potentialities of those characters, and the progression
in the Iliad’s plot. Similarly, consider the dynamics between the
second and third battle days: the second day prepares for the third,
36 On the vexed question of genre in the ANE, cf. Hallo [1975] 2010a: 57–84;
Westenholz 1997: 17–24; Holm 2007; Sasson 2005, esp. 218–20; cf. also the indi-
vidual essays by Michalowski, Westenholz, Gilan and Niditch in Konstan and
Raaflaub 2010.
37 There is simply not the space here to treat visual traditions, though I have not
come across a single example that either depicts the ‘enemy’ triumphing over the
home team, or suggests that anything more than victory was important.
38 This is clear, above all, in the highly traditional and stylised manner of battle scene
composition, on which several scholars have written in great depth; cf. Albracht
[1886–95] 2005; Fenik 1968; M. Mueller 2009: 76–101.
42 adrian kelly
Table 3.1 The first (A) and fourth (A2) days of battle
1. Daylight preparation
• A: Assemblies and catalogues
• A2: Assembly and arming scene (Achilles)
2. Delayed joining (narration) of battle
• A: Duel between Menelaus and Paris, and its consequences (3.15–4.445)
• A2: Preparation for the theomachia (20.4–75)
3. Single figure drives the narrative (A: Diomedes | A2: Achilles)
4. Single figure aided by Athena (A: against Aeneas and Pandarus | A2: against
Hector)
5. Single figure fights deities (A: Aphrodite/Ares | A2: Scamander)
6. Single figure almost fights Apollo protecting a Trojan (A: Aeneas | A2: Agenor)
7. Deities fight one another (A: Athena/Ares | A2: theomachia)
8. Successful duel with Hector closes the battle (A: Ajax versus Hector | A2: Achilles
versus Hector)
9. Closed by two-day funeral scenes (Greek and Trojan dead | Patroclus)
• A: Gathering and burning of corpses (7.381–432)
• A: Construction of the wall (7.433–482)
• A2: Mourning and burning Patroclus (23.109–225)
• A2: Deposition and funeral games (23.226–57/257f.)
introducing its major actions and general plight, but with significant
differences on the third which help to underline, once more, how the
plot progresses towards its goal. Indeed, the entire poem seems to be
structured around this alternation.
Battle narrative does not seem to have been used in this way, or to
have played this role, in the varied literary traditions of the ANE.39
Standard surveys of military tactics and strategy across and within
those traditions constantly note the lack of detail about the actual
engagements.40 As a first example, consider the Hebrew Bible, where
fighting tends to be dealt with very swiftly, frequently without any or
39 That this is true across such a breadth of contiguous cultures, over such a period of
time, makes the exceptionalism of Homer and the Greek epic tradition seem all the
more pronounced in the Mediterannean and Mesopotamian context; cf. below, n.
72, for brief speculation as to its origin.
40 Cf., e.g., Yadin 1963; Younger 1990; Hamblin 2006. For statements concentrat-
ing on individual traditions, cf., e.g., Younger 1990: 89 on the Assyrians: ‘actual
combat . . . is infrequent’ and 124: ‘actual combat . . . is normally passed over’;
Gilan 2010: 60 on the Hittites: ‘our survey of the material suggests that the
ancient authors and their audiences found no delight whatsoever in juicy, bloody
depictions of “heroic” military actions and battle scenes . . . Interestingly, Hittite
historiography too . . . lacks battle scenes . . . depictions of the military actions
themselves are rare and scanty’; Janzen 1972: 162 on the Hebrew: ‘Israel did not
glorify death in war. There are no cenotaphs in the Old Testament. Strangely
absent are also the hero stories that fill the Homeric epics, or the tendentious
accounts of successful campaigns that fill the monuments of Egyptian and
Table 3.2 The second (B) and third (B2) days of battle
1. Zeus on Mt Ida isolated from other gods (B: 8.41–52 | B2: 11.78–83, 181–4)
2. Initial Greek success followed by Trojan gains
3. Teucer and Telamonian Ajax fight as a pair until counteraction from Hector
• B: Against Hector (8.266–334); Teucer wounded by Hector (322–34), who
attacks (335f.)
• B2: Against (a) Sarpedon (12.370–436)/Hector attacks (437f.)
• B2: Against (b) Hector (15.442–83); Teucer’s bowstring broken by Zeus
(15.463–5) and Hector attacks (484f.)
4. Diomedes faces down Hector, prevented from following up
• B: Thunderbolts from Zeus (8.117–29/130ff.)
• B2: Wounded by Paris (11.349–68/369ff.)
5. Hera joins forces with another deity to counteract Trojan success – unsuccessfully
• B: With Athena (8.350–96)
• B2: With Hypnos (and Poseidon) (14.153–361)
6. Zeus openly threatens recalcitrant pair
• B: Athena and Hera – delivered by Iris (8.461–84)
• B2: Hera – delivered by Zeus himself (15.13–78); Poseidon – by Iris
(15.157–219)
7. Hector worsted by major Greek hero in battle
• B: Diomedes (8.116–29)
• B2: Diomedes (11.310–60) and Telamonian Ajax (14.402–32)
8. Paris wounds important Greek with a bow
• B: Nestor(’s horse) (8.81–2)
• B2: Diomedes (11.369–78), Machaon (11.505–7) and Eurypylus (11.581–4)
9. Play ends with Trojans on plain, in assembly led by Hector (B: 8.489–542 | B2:
18.243–313)
• B: Hector only speaker (8.493–541)
• B2: Polydamas speaks first and suggests retreat, Hector contradicts
(18.284–313)
perhaps just one episode individuated within the whole encounter.41

In the military career of Saul as told in the First Book of Samuel,
for instance, there are four individual battles with Israel’s enemies in
which he is commander (and several more in which the lead is taken
by David) and some general description of his constant warring. None
of the encounters receives more than token coverage.42 Instead, the
Assyrian monarchs’; cf. also Crouch 2009: 76. For a recent introduction to the
study of ANE warfare (excluding Egypt), cf. S. F. C. Richardson 2011.
41 This has not prevented scholars from making claims about a direct relationship
between the Homeric and the Hebrew traditions on this point; cf., e.g., Gordon
1967; de Vaux 1972; Niditch 1993: 104–5; Hamblin 2006. Frolov and Wright 2011
sunder the Homeric link in favour of older ANE traditions, and Taylor 2007:
24–7 looks to the later books of the Hebrew Bible for evidence of the influence of
Homeric battle narrative. For more general studies of battle in the Hebrew Bible,
cf. esp. Niditch 1993; Berman 2004; Crouch 2009: 65–118, 156–90.
42 Cf. 11.11 (first battle): ‘The next day Saul put the people in three companies. At
the morning watch they came into the camp and cut down the Ammonites until
44 adrian kelly
interest lies in what happens before or after battle: the skirmish which
begins the third battle, a victorious encounter with the Philistines
(14.1–15), focuses much more on Jonathan’s ruse than the actual
contact; when Saul destroys the Amalekites in his fourth battle (15),
far more time is spent on the issue of what happens to the cattle and
sheep, and the initial sparing of their King Agag, than what actually
happened on the field of battle or, rather, how it had happened; even
Saul’s sixth and final battle is over before the author decides to give
any details, in this case his suicide (31). Here, and generally in this
portion of the Hebrew Bible, the concern of the author is with other
things. The snippets of battle serve a wider purpose, to set the success
and failure of Israel in a causational and historical relationship with
the divine, while Joshua Berman has recently shown that the battles
tend to follow non-battle narratives to exemplify their lessons or
morals.43 Narrative sophistication is not at stake here, of course,
merely narrative scale and interest.
Brevity is indeed the watchword generally in ANE representations
of battle, and one of the big debates focuses on the journal style
(Tagesbuchstil) of many of these sources, which says much about their
‘battle aesthetic’. Thus, for instance, the Biblical historical narra-
tives are sometimes said to combine heroic traditions (i.e. interesting
stories) with the Tagesbücher or Kriegsberichte.44 These influential
sources have stylised ways to talk about battle, but they do not exploit
the drama of battle exchanges. Instead, typical themes include the
exchange of diplomatic correspondence between the king and the
transgressive figure, the summoning of forces (both friendly and oth-
erwise), the invasion of the recalcitrant country followed by its swift
defeat (usually with the aid of the gods who go before the king into
the heat of the day; and those who survived were scattered, so that no two of
them were left together.’ The rest of his military career is similarly summaristic,
and entwined with David’s: 13.3 (second battle), 14.20–3 (third battle), 14.47–8
(general summary of his whole career), 15.7–8 (fourth battle), 17.51–2 (fifth
battle, after the slaying of Goliath), 18.30 (David’s early career), 19.8 (David’s
first battle), 23.5 (David’s second battle), 27.8–9 (David’s third battle), 30.16–18
(David’s fourth battle), 31.1–7 (Saul’s sixth battle); cf. Gunn 1974: 288, and 293:
‘Moreover the rather terse sequence, in markedly circumscribed language, occurs
in the face of some important variables, viz. the relative length and particular
details of the stories in which it occurs’ (my italics).
43 Berman 2004; cf. also Kang 1989. Hamblin 2006: 12 takes this as characteristic
of the ANE: ‘war was the means by which the gods restored cosmic order through
organized violence undertaken in their name by their divinely ordained kings’ (his
italics).
44 Cf. Hoffmeier 2002: xxiv. On the role of this kind of source in Egyptian texts, cf.
Younger 1990: 168–75, and in Neo-Assyrian, cf. Frahm 1997: 251–7.
battle), the siege of the capital, which results in either flight or death
for the enemy, and the imposition of tribute or political order of some
sort. Kenneth Lawson Younger’s comprehensive and definitive study
of these sequences in Assyrian, Hittite, Egyptian and Hebrew tradi-
tions reveals that combat – though sufficiently common to be consid-
ered a typical element – is by some way the briefest, least exampled
and emphasised feature across the traditions.45
Just as a sample of the limited range of narrative features, consider
the following Akkadian texts. In a poem with multiple versions and
a transmission history of well over a thousand years (beginning in
the second millennium bce), and promisingly named Sargon King of
Battle, Sargon of Akkad’s victory over his enemy Nur-daggal is over
in double-quick time.46 The bulk of the poem consists of the preceding
lengthy encounter with merchants who encouraged Sargon’s expedi-
tion, and the following extended speech of obeisance delivered by
Nur-daggal after his defeat.47 The course of the fighting is just unim-
portant; what matters is the fact of victory.48 The Tukulti-Ninurta Epic
(thirteenth century bce) shows much the same sort of scalar disparity,
but at least it describes the fighting: several preparatory diplomatic
exchanges occur between the protagonist Assyrian king and his enemy
Kashtilias (a Kassite ruler of Babylon), but once more lots of general
preparation and the sending of messages. The battle between them is
continually delayed by this means, then a skirmish is fought in gener-
alised terms before the final battle,49 in which Tukulti-Ninurta himself
manages to kill a nameless foe.50 Finally, the Hymn to Tiglath-Pileser
45 Cf. Younger 1990: 79–80, e.g., but passim; also above, n. 40. The same point is
made in Van der Deijl 2008, esp. 643–4, but seemingly in ignorance of Younger’s
work.
46 ‘Nur-daggal had not finished speaking | when Sargon dug into (?) his city, | he
widened the Gate of Nobles two field-lengths! | He threw it down, he slashed
through the top of its ramparts, | he smote the most outstanding of the general’s
men!’ (Foster 2005: III B 7 (a), 341). For the many other poems about Sargon, all
of which show the same brevity when it comes to battle narrative, cf. Westenholz
1997: 57–140; Foster 2005: I B 3 (a)–(b), 57–8; II B 6 (a), 107–12, III B 7 (a),
338–43.
47 Westenholz 1997: 102–40; Foster 2005: III 7 (a), 338–43.
48 Cf. also the equally popular stories of Naram-Sin; cf. Westenholz 1997: 173–368;
Foster 2005: I B 3 (c) 59–62; II B 7 (a), 115–21; III B 7 (b), 344–56.
49 ‘The valiant warriors of Assur espied | the Kassite kings’ preparations, | they did
not have their armour on, | but sprang forward like lions, | Assur’s unrivalled
weapon met the onslaught of [his] ar[my?] | and Tukulti-Ninurta, the raging, piti-
less storm, | made [their blood] flow. | The warriors of Assur [struck] the king of the
Kassites | like a serpent, | A mighty attack, an irresistible onslaught [ ] upon them’
(Foster 2005: III A 1, 311–12).
50 ‘The lines of battle were drawn up, | combat was joined on the battlefield. | There
was great commotion, | the troops were quivering among them. | Assur went first,
| the conflagration of defeat burst out upon the enemy, | Enlil was whirling in the
46 adrian kelly
I (1115–1077 bce) places battle much more to the fore, and yet the
same lack of precision or interest in combat description beyond the
stereotypical is evident: first the enemies rebel, then the king decides
to destroy them and prepares his forces; the gods enter the battle
and deal the usual rain of death in support of the Assyrian king; the
Assyrians win and the poem breaks off with ‘the mountains submitted
fully to Assur’.51 The brevity we see in the Akkadian sources is no less
remarkable than its tenacity and ubiquity in other traditions.52
This contrasts powerfully with the Homeric battle scenes, their
length and their poikilia – the sheer variety of narrative styles, tech-
niques and units expended on combat, and how they are combined and
recombined in order to create something new every time. Individual
midst of the foe, | fanning the blaze, | Anu set a pitiless mace to the opponent . . .
[etc. etc.] . . . Behind the gods, his allies, | the king at the head of the army sets to
battle, | He let fly an arrow, the fierce, overwhelming, | crushing weapon of Assur,
| he felled one slain. | The warriors of Assur cried ‘To battle!’ as they went to face
death, | They gave the battle cry, “O Ishtar, spare (me)!” | and praised the mistress
in the fray | without any armour, | They had stripped off their breastplates, | dis-
carded their clothing, | They tied up their hair and polished (?) their weapons, | The
fierce, heroic men danced with sharpened weapons. | They roared at one another
like struggling lions, | with eyes aflash (?), While the fray, particles drawn in a
whirlwind, | swirled around in combat’ (Foster 2005: III A 1, 313–14).
51 ‘Stationed behind them [i.e. the typical list of gods doing their battle work], he was
raining down weaponry. | Daily he set devastation upon them’ (Foster 2005: III A
3, 326). This absolute and relative brevity continues in the Neo-Assyrian tradition:
cf. Shalmaneser III’s Campaign to Urartu (Livingstone 1989: 17, 44–7 at 46) or the
Defeat of Teumman and the Annexation of Elam (Livingstone 1989: 31, 67–8 at 67),
whilst in a whole series of (admittedly, badly damaged) texts (Livingstone 1989:
18–24, 48–53) there is no battle narrative at all; cf. Younger 1990: 79–122 for many
more examples.
52 In the Sumerian tradition, cf. the very swift defeat of the King of Akka in
Gilgamesh and Akka (COS 1.171.95–9), or the conquests of Urnanshe of Lagash
(c. 2495–2475 bce) (Cooper 1986: La 1.6, 25): ‘[Urnanshe, king of Lagash] went
to war against the leader of Ur and the leader of Umma: | The leader of Lagash
(r.ii) defeated the leader of Ur. He captured [etc. etc.] | (r.iii) . . . He defeated
the leader of Umma. (r.iv) He captured [etc. etc.].’ For his grandson Eanatum’s
‘Stela of the Vultures’, cf. below, n. 60, but cf. also Eanatum’s shorter narratives
of conquest (Cooper 1986: La 3.2–10, 39–45) as well as those of his descendants
Enanatum (Cooper 1986: La 4.2, 47–8), Enmetana (Cooper 1986: La 5.1, 54–7)
and Urukagina (Cooper 1986: La 9.5, 78–9), all of which also elide the narrative
of battle in favour of its (plundering vel sim.) outcome. For the Hittite royal tradi-
tions, cf., e.g., the short battle of Harashu in The Queen of Kanesh and the tale of
Zalpa (COS 1.71, 181–2), and several brief encounters and ambushes in the Deeds
of Suppililiuma (COS 1.74, 185–92), the Annals of Mursili II (COS 2.16, 82–90) etc.
(COS 1.75–7, 192–204); for the typical structure of Hittite narrative, cf. Younger
1990: 132–6, and 137–73 for many more examples; cf. also Gilan 2010. The same
brevity can be observed in the Ugaritic sources, e.g., the Epic of Kirta (COS 1.102,
333–43), pace the list of similarities with Homeric motifs in Gordon 1967: 46–55.
elements therein can be paralleled in the ANE,53 as with arming

scenes or duels, which may be found between David and Goliath,
Marduk and Tiamat in the Akkadian Enuma Elis, or Humbaba,
Gilgamesh and Enkidu in the Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh – though
the fighting is itself very brief, and much more time is spent on the
journey to find Humbaba, and speeches between the three as they
prepare for the combat, and then deal with its aftermath.54 Indeed, if
we consider the conflicts between Ninurta and Azag in the Sumerian
Ninurta Epic (Black et al. 2004: 163–80), between Ninurta and Anzu
in the Babylonian Anzu (COS 3.147), between the Hittite Storm God
and Illuyanka (COS 1.56), between Anat and Aqhat in the Ugaritic
Epic of Aqhat (COS 1.103), and between Yammu and Baal in the
Ugaritic Epic of Baal (COS 1.86), it becomes clear that elaborated
conflict between named and characterised adversaries seems much
more popular in the ANE when applied to gods or clearly mythologi-
cal figures.55
But once more the hugely greater scale, multiplication and detail
of Homeric battle are clear, especially in those tales explicitly dealing
with mortals. In the Egyptian Tale of Sinuhe (early second millennium
bce) for instance, there is just one detailed combat,56 with very little
elaboration or drama, and reticence about detailed combat narrative is
constantly in evidence in other Egyptian sources. There are exceptions
to this, notably the thirteenth-century bce poem commemorating the
involvement of Ramesses II (r. 1279–13 bce) in the battle of Qadesh
(1274 bce), which contains a great deal of generalised combat descrip-
tion as the king – all alone! – kills and drives his enemies from the field,
but no one else on either side kills anyone, and there is no reciprocity
or variety in the king’s progress (COS 2.5A). (See Table 3.3.)
Despite its greater length, this text is not interested in exploiting the
battle for any purpose other than to show the invincibility of the iso-
lated king, though at least here we do find a relatively long narrative
about his achievements on the field, with speeches and some limited
53 Cf. above, n. 12.

54 Cf. Gilgamesh Tablet III–IV SBV for the journey, Tablet V.131–43 for the con-
frontation itself (George 2003: 602–15).
55 Kang 1989: 23–42 relates this to the role of theological justification in ANE
warfare.
56 ‘He came toward me while I waited, having placed myself near him . . . (fearful
reactions) . . . He <raised?> his battle axe and shield, while his armful of missiles
fell toward me. When I had made his weapons attack me, I let his arrows pass by
me without effect, one following the other. Then, when he charged me, I shot him,
my arrow sticking in his neck. He screamed; he fell on his nose; I slew him with his
axe. I raised my war cry over his back, while every Asiatic shouted’ (COS 1.38, 79).
48 adrian kelly
Table 3.3 Ramesses II in the battle of Qadesh
1–56 [Preparations for battle, Ramesses’ qualities and advance into Syria]
56–74 [Ramesses alone ambushed by Hittites]
75–91 [Ramesses attacks]
* ‘Then His Majesty set forth at a gallop, he plunged into the midst of the
forces of the Hittite foe, he being entirely on his own, no one else with him.’
92–127 [Ramesses complains to Amun, who comes to aid him]
128–42 ‘My heart I found strong, my mind joyful, All I did came off well, I was
just like Montu. I shot to my right, and captured to my left, I was like
Seth in his moment, in their sight. I found that the 2,500 chariots (of
the Hittites), in whose midst I was, fell prostrate before my horses . . .
I slaughtered them just as I wished, none looked behind him, no other
turned around, whoever of them fell, he did not rise again.’
143–65 [Hittites attack once more; Ramesses counters; no one can face him]
* ‘I launched myself against them, being like Montu; I gave them a taste of
my fist in the space of a moment. I wrought mayhem among them, slain on
the spot . . .’
166–204 [Ramesses continues the attack, calls to his troops rebuking them]
205–13 [Menna the shield-bearer counsels retreat]
214–23 [Ramesses refuses, counterattacks]
* ‘Then his Majesty set off quickly, and he went off at a gallop, into the
midst of the foe, for the sixth time of attacking them. I was like Baal in the
moment of his power, I did not let up.’
224–50 [Egyptian army comes up and praises Ramesses]
251–76 [Ramesses rebukes them]
277–320 [Ramesses renews battle, the Hittite king submits]
* ‘When dawn came, I marshalled the battle line in the fight, I was prepared
to fight like an eager bull. I appeared against them like Montu, arrayed
in the accoutrements of valour and victory. I entered into the battle lines,
fighting like the pounce of a falcon, [etc. etc.] . . . thereupon my Majesty
seized them, killing among them, without letting up, sprawled before my
horses, lying together in their own blood.’
321–30 [Close of the fight]
character interaction, notably with Menna the shield-bearer.57 Given

that it was written in Ramesses’ honour, of course, it is not unreason-
able that the poem should draw him in such positive and victorious
terms. A variety of other Egyptian texts reflect the same royalist
influence and focus,58 which can also be seen in the way in which the
57 The greater ‘poetic’ freedom of some Egyptian narratives like the Qadesh poem is
discussed by Younger 1990: 168–76, 189–93.
58 Cf., e.g., the battle of Megiddo in the Annals of Thutmose III (COS 2.2.84b–89),
in which displacement of the forces takes more space than the eventual combat
(‘Then his majesty overpowered them while leading his army. They saw his majesty
overpower them. They fled . . . ’), or the several swift battles in the Gebel Barka
Stela of Thutmose III (COS 2.2B), in which the personal might of the pharoah is
always the determinative factor; cf. also COS 2.2C–4G, 2.7 (the Victory Stela of
motif of the dominant warrior-king is found even in inscriptions of

subordinates, such as Ahmose of Nekheb (fl. mid-sixteenth century
bce), whose description of the several battles he fought contains only
one individual victory – the pharaoh’s.59
The ruler’s invincibility is thematised much earlier, in a Sumerian
inscription of Eanatum (the Stele of the Vultures), a king of Lagash in
the third millennium bce, who wins the day despite being wounded,60
and much later, when the seventh-century bce Assyrian king
Sennacherib describes his achievements in similarly unselfconscious
ways. His Annals are particularly rich in description, with similes, an
arming scene etc., but once more it is an ego-list of achievements – no
drama, no alteration or alternation, just the inevitable manifestation
of the king’s immanent excellence, moral justification and personal
brutality (columns V–VI of the Chicago Prism).61 (See Table 3.4.)
This theme of personal royal dominance is met again and again across
the traditions, for instance in the Neo-Assyrian Eighth Campaign of
Sargon II (721–705 bce) or Expedition to Urartu of Shalmaneser III
(858–824 bce),62 but never again with this kind of narrative detail.
Compare these stories with their closest Homeric analogue, the aris-
teia, as exemplified in Diomedes’ course across the battlefield in Iliad
5 and 6. Here the poet combines general descriptions of his progress
with a series of single encounters in which he is victorious, his wound-
ing and the interruption of his victories, the summoning of the god to
King Piye) for many other examples, and Baines 1998 for the underpinning ideol-
ogy. The survey of Partridge 2002 disproves his own contention that these sources
are ‘full’ of combat details; cf. Younger 1990: 165–95.
59 ‘His majesty raged like a panther . . . his majesty fired his first arrow, sticking in
the neck of that enemy. Then these enemies fled, weakened by his Uraeus which in
a moment turned them into carnage’ (COS 2.1.29b–35). Royal dominance is also
reflected in the common artistic motif of the pharoah holding a mace in one hand
and a defeated foe by the hair in the other; cf. Partridge 2002: 1–2 and passim.
60 ‘He fought with him. A person shot an arrow at Eanatum. He was shot through by
the arrow and had difficulty moving. He cried out in the face of it. The person . . . ’
(Cooper 1986: La 3.1 (ix), 33–9). This is only a tiny part of the stele, and Eanatum
obviously survived the wound, as the rest (i.e. vast majority) of the narrative has
him receiving the allegiance of the defeated king of Umma; cf. Hamblin 2006:
52–9.
61 Luckenbill 1924: 44–7. It is interesting to note that this prism was not for public
display (a fact which seems to have escaped most classicists who use this mate-
rial); cf. Frahm 1997: 36 on Sennacherib’s inscriptions generally, which ‘sollten
erst dann wieder ans Tageslicht kommen, wenn ein späterer Herrscher im Zuge
von Renovierungsarbeiten die jeweilige Baulichkeit ganz oder teilweise abreißen
ließ’; Frahm goes on to quote from the Chicago prism itself a passage (VI.76–8)
which actually says this (I am indebted to Christopher Metcalf for this reference).
Though the current chapter has generally ignored Sitz im Leben for reasons of
space, it is important for anyone trying to draw lines between the texts.
62 Foster 2005: IV A 2 (c) 125–44, 790–813 (798); IV A 1 (a) 47, 779–82 (781).
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Table 3.4 The achievements of Sennacherib
V.60 ‘They blocked my passage and offered me battle.’

61–7 [gods come to his aid]
68–75 [arming scene]
76–81 ‘At the word of Assur, the great Lord, my Lord, on flank and front, |
I pressed upon the enemy like the onset of a raging storm. | With the
weapons of Assur, my Lord, and the terrible onset of my attack, | I stopped
their advance, I succeeded in surrounding them, | I decimated the enemy
host with arrow and spear. | All of their bodies I bored through like – ’
82–VI.9 [victorious advance of the king’s chariot]63
9–16 ‘With the bodies of their warriors | I filled the plain, like grass. (Their)
testicles I cut off, and tore out their privates like the seeds | of cucumbers of
Siwan. Their hands I cut off. [etc. etc.]’
16–23 [capture and killing of rebellious nobles]
24–31 [flight of the kings of Elam, Babylon and princes of Chaldea]
*30–1 ‘They were beside themselves | they held back (?) their urine, but let their
dung go into their chariots.’
heal him, and his re-entry into battle. Then the narrative focus moves
away from him entirely for several hundred verses, with victories
for Sarpedon and Hector, before returning to him in retreat before
a god, his teaming up with Athena and his attack on Ares. His run
of supremacy concludes in Book 6 with an aborted single combat, at
the end of which he exchanges guest gifts with the Lycian Glaucus. In
this extended narrative, the audience follows the above all-changeable
course of Diomedes’ progress over the battlefield; it is not simply a
victorious moment in which his might is evinced, or even a series of
such moments described in a variety of ways as in the Qadesh poem or
the Annals of Sennacherib,64 though of course Diomedes’ superiority
is important.
Instead, it is the narrativised course of this trial of strength, the to
and fro of his successes and setbacks, and those of the other Greeks
and Trojans, which the poet seems interested in, not ‘just the facts,
ma’am’ or – better – ‘just the propaganda, ma’am’. Even in a case
63 Burkert 1992: 118–19 suggests this as a parallel for Il. 20.498–501, where Achilles’
chariot is stained with the blood of corpses as it rides over them, though here
(p. 119) ‘one might even toy with the idea that some Greek singer had arrived in
Assyria together with the mercenaries, and that he composed this song . . . which
so much pleased the king that it was incorporated in the official annals, where it
forms a strange contrast to the standard dreary and dull list of battle and plundering’
(my italics). This is an adventurous thesis, but at least it shows how isolated this
narrative is in its Assyrian context.
64 It is remarkable that the two battles celebrated in these rather unusual texts,
Qadesh and Halule, were both stalemates or losses for the celebrating side;
cf. Frahm 1997: 255 on the latter: ‘je kritischer die Lage, desto massiver die
Propaganda’.
like Achilles’ aristeia, in which no one else is said to enjoy a victory,

the course of the fighting is tremendously varied and the battle is
studded with individual episodes, such as the combat with the river,
the encounter with Aeneas or the slaying of Lycaon, designed to
elucidate the character of Achilles at this point in the poem. There is
much greater depth and human purpose to his portrayal as victor than
anything in the ANE sources. Even when they seem to rival the scale
and intensity of Homeric battle, the Qadesh poem and the Annals of
Sennacherib have nothing like its characterisational force or dramatic
variety.
So, too, with the depiction of the foe. In ANE texts, the single
enemy usually remains a cipher, much less individuated than the
Trojans. In the Tale of Sinuhe the enemy duellist is called simply the
‘hero of Retenu’, and Goliath is little more than arrogant sling-meat
(First Book of Samuel 17), whilst in the Qadesh poem there are name-
less Hittite and other victims, but no serious attempt to characterise
or individuate them; they are there, generally, simply to be killed or
overcome.65 Sometimes the foe is enshrined in the figure of the ruler,
who usually has the attribute of moral brazenness in rebelling or
doubting the power of the victor king, but who eventually comes back
into the fold or dies in rebellion: Tukulti-Ninurta and Kashtiliash
in the Tukulti-Ninurta Epic, Sargon and Nur-daggal in Sargon King
of Battle, Sennacherib and Hezekiah and so on. Reflect now on the
Homeric situation, and the way in which the Trojans and their allies
throw up their fair share of admirable and pathetic characters in
the moment and processes of combat; or consider the way in which
sympathy is dredged up for even relatively nameless and unimpor-
tant victims during the course of the fighting, typically but not only
through the brief biographies analysed long ago by C. R. Beye.66
Battle for Homer, in sum, is an interesting process in itself, with tre-
mendous possibilities for the generation of – and alternation between
– triumph and tragedy, victory and sympathy, the appreciation of
the humanity and quality of the enemy. In the variously formed and
preserved narrative traditions of the ANE, on the other hand, it is
generally only the result which matters, almost to the entire exclusion
of anything else.67
How do we explain this difference? Some argue that royal ideology
65 Cf. Younger 1990: 67–9 on Assyrian demonisation of the enemy, 128–30 on the
Hittite attitude, 177–85 on the Egyptian, 233–6 on the Hebrew.
66 Beye 1964.
67 It is no coincidence, then, that ‘in the ancient Near Eastern conquest accounts,
reports of casualties within one’s own army are rare . . . it is very common in these
texts to describe the total annihiliation of the enemy’ (Younger 1990: 261).
52 adrian kelly
discouraged such a broadening of individual prowess in traditions

where scribal authority and royal patronage were so important.68
We saw above how Ahmose of Nekheb, for example, described his
own military career by reference to the personal might of the king.
Yet there are countercases: for instance, in Nebuchadnezzar in Elam,
a poetic narrative inscribed on a late second-millennium bce monu-
ment commemorating a series of land grants by the Babylonian king
to one of his officers, Sitti-Marduk, the achievements of this faithful
servant are celebrated,69 while an eighth-century bce Assyrian com-
mander-in-chief, Samsi-ilu, lists his achievements in the typical way
without making any mention whatsoever of his king (COS 2.115A,
278).
Moreover, it is hard to see why the aristeia topos in the Qadesh
poem or the Annals of Sennacherib, for all its differences from
the Homeric form, should not be in more evidence in the royally
dominated contexts of the ANE; if historical truth were generally an
obstacle in these circumstances, then Ramesses and Sennacherib must
have had extremely thick skins,70 and it does not explain why, for
example, the popular and long-lived legends of the third-millennium
Sargon of Akkad never include greater personal or heroic exploits at
the moment of battle itself. Given that these narratives were designed
to be supportive of monarch and monarchy, and they continued to be
retold because they served that purpose, such a development would
have made a great deal of sense. The impression one gets is that ANE
verbal artists and their audiences, in several contexts, simply weren’t
interested in lengthy, detailed combat narrative.
Of course, we do not know as much as we would like about per-
formance and dissemination of those traditions which we could
properly or improperly call ‘epic’. Perhaps these too were intended in
the first instance for royal or court audiences, or to propagate royal
ideology, and other (maybe oral) narrative traditions have simply not
68 Cf., e.g., M. L. West 1997: 211.

69 ‘Sitti-Marduk, head of the house of Bit-Karziabku, whose chariot did not lag
behind the king’s right flank, and who held his chariot ready, he feared no battle
but went down to the enemy and went farthest in against the enemy of his lord.
By the command of Ishtar and Adad, gods who are the lords of battle, he routed
Hulteludish, king of Elam, he disappeared. Thus King Nebuchadnezzar tri-
umphed, seized Elam, and plundered its possessions’ (Foster 2005: III C 12 (c),
383–5 at 384).
70 Cf. Baines 1998: 36 (on Amenhotep II’s athletic prowess): ‘contemporaries will
have known that this could not be done and accepted either that their ruler had
superhuman powers or that the matter was one of hyperbole where literal accu-
racy was irrelevant. What was important was that the king was beyond compari-
son with anyone else.’
survived.71 In this sense, Homer’s sharing of the glory might indicate

a relatively politically uncontrolled form of entertainment, in which
even the criticism of power structures was made possible by the more
fragmented, less centralised society of early archaic Greece. But this
is pure speculation; we can only deal with what we have, and what
we have from the ANE offers no compelling parallel for either the
form or the function of Homeric battle narrative. Nor is there any
reason, apart from current scholarly fashion, for us to expect them
to. Perhaps, too, this is all coming perilously close to asking why one
group of traditions does not match up to the expectations formed
from another. Let us only imagine the displeasure of classicists if we
were to inquire of them why the Greeks were so bloodthirstily primi-
tive as to rejoice in blow-by-blow combat narrative, replete with levels
of blood and guts at which even a civilised Assyrian – well, that is
perhaps a bit of a stretch – might blanch.
For all these uncertainties, and however we choose to explain it,
there is no getting away from the fact that nothing like the Homeric
levels of narrativisation and aestheticisation can be found in ANE
representations of battle. Importantly, the formalisation of combat
in the Iliad shows that Homer did not himself come up with these
conventions: whilst he may or may not have been the first to construct
combat narrative on this scale, the individual motifs and themes are
typical, traditional and inherited parts of his poetic thesaurus. It is not
unreasonable to suggest, therefore, that something like Homer’s battle
scenes was typical of Greek heroic narrative long before he took up his
phorminx. This is thus a distinctive, and powerful, difference between
the narrative traditions of Greece and the ANE.72
71 For other factors contributing to the lack of detailed battle description, cf., e.g.,
Younger 1990: 169–70 on genre in Egyptian narratives; Cooper 1986: 10 on early
Sumerian and Akkadian royal inscriptions; Gilan 2010: 60–1 on Hittite traditions
of ‘epic’ and ‘historiography’. On the potential role of orality and transmission, cf.
Vogelzang and Vanstiphout 1992.
72 Homer was not autochthonous, of course, and his tradition has a long back-
ground, one important part of which was Indo-European; cf. M. L. West 2007, esp.
447–503. The Indian epic Ramayana, especially its final book (the Yuddhakanda),
is particularly comparable; cf. R. Goldman et al. 1984: 98–105 and 2009: 22–5,
91–2. That the Greeks were aware of Homeric similarities with Indian traditions
is suggested by Dio (Disc. 53.6–8), Aelian (VH 12.48) and Plutarch (Mor. 328D);
cf. Derrett 1992. On battle in the Ramayana, cf. Brockington 1998: 162–86, and
esp. R. Goldman et al. 2009: 21–2: ‘Valmiki’s descriptions of the realities, the tech-
nologies, and the consequences of war are numerous, vivid and interesting. On the
one hand he can be brutally direct and graphic, giving almost Homeric accounts
of the devastating effects of the violence . . . On the other hand, the poet is fond
of bringing out what one may call the aesthetics of violence by glossing the ugliness
of the carnage with various poetic figures’; 24–5: ‘the author deploys some of the
traditions’ repertory of poetic techniques of “ornamentation” in order to soften
54 adrian kelly
Though there are many gaps both in my research and in the evi-
dence, we can give a firm answer to Sarah Morris’s challenge at the
start of this chapter: there is something distinctively Greek about
Homer’s battle scenes, something that cannot be paralleled in the
literatures of the ANE. There are a few combat motifs and episodes
which scholars have tried to treat genealogically, as the supposed link
between the Diapeira and the Book of Judges, but they require careful
re-examination, and are overshadowed entirely by the tremendous
differences in the usage and fundamental conception of battle narra-
tive. These differences show us, by analogy, the remarkable singularity
of this element from the Greek epic tradition in the Mediterranean
and ancient Near Eastern setting. As one of the most prominent and
characteristic weapons in his poetic thesaurus, Homer’s battle narra-
tive can be defined as Greek in its conception, function and execution.
and aestheticize the graphic violence . . . Thus the frightful images that inspire the
sentiments of fear, horror, or disgust are often skilfully crafted by the poet to rouse
other sentiments critical to the aesthetic appreciation of the piece, such as the senti-
ments of valor and wonder’; 91–2: ‘the foregrounding and aestheticization of violence
. . . Valmiki appears to delight in graphic descriptions of massive and sanguinary
violence . . . what is noteworthy is the poet’s constant effort to beautify the grisly
details of the carnage that takes place on the killing fields . . . Valmiki manages to
create a poetry of violence that, even as it details the horrific effects of weaponry
on the bodies of men . . . and so gratifies the voyeuristic appetites of its audiences,
frequently diverts the reader/auditor’s eye from the sanguinary to the charming
through the exploitation of an elaborate and highly conventionalized set of tropes
of comparison’ (my italics). This would be a more than adequate description
mutatis mutandis of Homeric battle narrative, though the relative brevity of (e.g.)
individual combat encounters when compared with those in Irish epic shows that
much work remains to be done fully to elucidate the Homeric genealogy; cf. esp.
Renehan 1987.
4
NARRATIVE FOCUS AND ELUSIVE

THOUGHT IN HOMER
Ruth Scodel
This chapter will consider three aspects of Homeric narrative whose

interaction produces characteristic and influential effects. The first,
and most famous, is reliance on direct speech.1 Homer accomplishes
his characterisations largely through speeches (including speeches
in which characters attribute motives or traits to each other).2 By
itself, Homer’s reliance on direct speech does not mark a uniquely
Greek narrative tradition, since Sanskrit epic, for example, also pre-
sents many speeches. Furthermore, the evidence suggests that in this
respect the Homeric epics were outliers in early Greek epic tradition
(Aristotle, Poetics 1460a5–11), and Apollonius uses direct speech far
less than the Homeric epics do.3
Reliance on character-speech is one typical quality of Homeric nar-
rative. Others are not quite as familiar. First, ‘interest-focus’ – where
the audience directs its attention – changes frequently. ‘Interest-
focus’ is Chatman’s term; structuralist narratology has not given
careful attention to interest-focus, perhaps because it is so closely
connected to characterisation, which classic narratology neglected.4
Also, structuralist narratologists were preoccupied with precision
about the nature of focalisation in the strict sense, and with critiques
of the concept.5 Shifts of interest-focus do not present such difficult
theoretical problems, even though they are inherently harder to define
1 Griffin 1980: 50–80.

2 Edwards 1987; Minchin 2007.
3 Apollonius 29 per cent, in contrast to the Iliad’s 45 per cent and the Odyssey’s 67
per cent. The Aeneid is Homeric in this respect at 47 per cent. See Hunter 1993:
138–51, on the narrator’s mediation in Apollonius.
4 Weststeijn 2007: n. 4 comments that his comment on the lack of attention paid to
character in narrative studies is itself a cliché of narrative studies. In Barthes [1970]
1974 (S/Z) characters become collocations of semes; in Greek studies, character
receives a similar treatment in Goldhill 1990. Exceptions include Phelan 1989 and
a series of papers by Margolin (see Margolin 2007).
5 Greater clarity is the goal of Bal’s critique of Genette (Bal 1985).
56 ruth scodel
with precision. Yet such shifting obviously makes a great difference in

how audiences experience narratives, especially as it gives temporary
importance to minor characters.6 Speaking is a significant marker of
interest-focus, and as N. J. Lowe has pointed out, nearly one-third
of the Iliad’s seventy-seven speaking characters speak only once, and
more than half speak only in one book.7
Second, characters often make inferences or guesses about the
mental states of others. Classical narratology often treated such mind-
reading as a form of focalisation, but one of the newer narratologies,
cognitive narratology, has made Theory of Mind a distinct and sig-
nificant topic in narrative studies.8 However, this field is too recent
to have generated accessible studies of Theory of Mind that deal with
ancient texts, so that it not easy to compare Greek literature with
other pre-modern literatures.
Third, the omniscient Homeric narrator often provides information
about the mental activity of characters – but not always, while the
information he provides is very limited.9 So Homeric speakers model
how hard it can be to understand other people, and the poems, even
though their narrators are omniscient, train their audiences in inter-
preting characters through their speech.
The Homeric narrative thereby provides a basis for drama, in which
the audience must make sense of the action without a narrator’s help.
In Greek tragedy, interest-focus often shifts radically. The interac-
tion among these characteristics – shift of interest-focus, emphasis on
mind-reading, and self-limitation by the omniscient narrator, along
with the constant self-revelation through speech of Homeric charac-
ters – makes Homeric narrative foundational for the western narrative
tradition, for it shows narrative possibilities that were to be developed
by tragedy, Virgil and the realist novel.
A single chapter on such topics can inevitably be only sugges-
tive. At one level, this discussion continues two important tradi-
tions in Homeric studies. One is the debate over Snell’s claim
that Homeric characters lack interiority.10 Although scholars now
agree that Homeric characters have coherent selves, narratologi-
cal approaches have not contributed as much as they could to this
6 Woloch 2003 is a fascinating study of how minor characters function in the novel
(and, in a brief preface, in the Iliad).
7 Lowe 2000: 115–17.
8 Zunshine 2006.
9 The classical narratological question of whether such narratorial self-limitation is
a form of focalisation is not relevant here. Fludernik [1996] 2010b and Jahn 2007
are helpful discussions.
10 Snell [1948] 1953.
narrative focus and elusive thought in homer 57
argument.11 Second, Auerbach famously argued in the first chapter

of Mimesis that Homeric narrative is all surface, in contrast to the
Hebrew Bible, with its intense interiority.12 This debate has also been
productive. Homerists, partly in response to Auerbach, have been
right to insist on Homer’s use of suspense, foregrounding and other
techniques that Auerbach denied. At the same time, they have, like
Auerbach, emphasised Homer’s vividness, how the epics make the
past almost present before an audience’s eyes.13
Homeric narrative and Biblical narrative differ in significant ways.
Biblical narrative obviously does not provide the visual detail of
Homer. It often leaves radical gaps, so that the characters’ motiva-
tions are profoundly opaque and the reader must work very hard to
infer them. The omniscient Homeric narrator does not create such
profound gaps, but provides information about a character’s feelings
or motives that is not easy to reconcile with the character’s speech
and action. Often he creates situations in which the character has
many plausible motives for an action. Often a character’s general aim
is clear, but details are not. Homeric epic typically provides very full
knowledge about what is visible, and more than an observer without
access to others’ mind could have – but not very much more.
SHIFTS OF FOCUS
On a large scale, the Odyssey obviously shifts among Telemachus,
Odysseus and Penelope as the interest-focus. This practice is quite
different from what cyclic poetry seems often to have done, simply
moving serially among different characters from episode to episode
(cf. Aristotle’s famous criticism of the Cypria and Little Iliad at
Poetics 1459a–b), because the Odyssey’s characters are in rich and
complex interaction with each other; their concerns form a single plot.
Shifting also happens on the small scale. So for example, at Il.
1.326 we follow the heralds and are given some information about
their mental state (τὼ δ’ ἀέκοντε βάτην, ‘they went unwillingly’). The
heralds could be unwilling for two (general) reasons: they may be
unhappy at being engaged in an action that they think is wrong; or
they may be afraid of Achilles. They could very easily feel both these
11 Especially important against Snell have been Williams 1993: 21–38; B. M. W.

Knox 1993: 38–47; Gaskin 1990; Pelliccia 1995.
12 Auerbach 1953: 1–20. Especially cited critiques have been Segal 1994: 6–9;
Köhnken [1976] 2006, 2009; and De Jong [1994] 2009; more positive reappraisal in
Bakker 1997; Clay 2011b: 33–4. Porter 2008 historicises Auerbach’s comparison,
showing how it redeems the Jewish Bible; see Haubold, this volume.
13 Ford 1992: 53–5; Bakker 1997, esp. 156–83; and Clay 2011b.
58 ruth scodel
emotions. When they arrive, the scene, following Homer’s practice, is

initially focalised by those arriving (329):14
τὸν δ’ εὗρον παρά τε κλισίῃ καὶ νηῒ μελαίνῃ

ἥμενον· οὐδ’ ἄρα τώ γε ἰδὼν γήθησεν Ἀχιλλεύς. 330
τὼ μὲν ταρβήσαντε καὶ αἰδομένω βασιλῆα
στήτην, οὐδέ τί μιν προσεφώνεον οὐδ’ ἐρέοντο·
αὐτὰρ ὃ ἔγνω ᾗσιν ἐνὶ φρεσὶ φώνησέν τε·
They found him sitting beside his shelter and black ship. And
Achilles did not rejoice when he saw those two. The two of them,
frightened and feeling respect for the chief, stood there, and they
did not address him or ask a question. But he understood in his
mind and said . . . (Il. 329–33)
What follows is a triple shift in focalisation, at least as many nar-

ratologists define it. 15 However, ‘focalisation’ is not really the most
useful way to describe this sequence. In the middle of 330 we are
told about Achilles’ internal response as he sees the heralds, but his
seeing in no way filters what the audience learns. Jahn’s critique of Bal
applies here:16
according to Bal, any act of perception (brief or extended; real,

hypothetical, or fantasized) presented in whatever form (nar-
rated, reported, quoted, or scenically represented) counts as a
case of focalization . . . Arguably, unless these acts of perception
open distinct windows of focalization, unless A and B turn into
genuine reflectors, no internal focalization, let alone an embed-
ded one, takes place.
The narrator must be responsible for the litotes of ‘did not rejoice’ and
γε (which puts particular emphasis on the preceding dual pronoun).
Agamemnon said in the assembly that he would come personally to
take Briseis (Il. 1.184–7). He then changed his mind, telling the heralds
that he would come himself if Achilles refused to give up Briseis (Il.
14 The visit type-scene has been studied since Arend 1933: 34–53. See De Jong
[1987a] 2004: 107–10 for the focalisation through the arriving visitor.
15 The Basle Gesamtkommentar (Latacz 2000) ad loc. calls this a ‘triple, rapid change
of perspective’ from 330b Achilles, 331–2 heralds, 333 Achilles.
16 Jahn 1996: 260. See also Fludernik [1996] 2010b: 344–5; p. 404, n. 39 has a bibli-
ography on the debate to that point (1996). These are arguments with Bal 1985:
160–3 and with Genette [1972] 1980. Jahn 2007 is a recent survey, as is Niederhoff
2011.
1.322–5). They are presumably to convey this threat if necessary,

although he does not explicitly say so. When the narrator reports that
Achilles is unhappy at seeing the heralds, he is summarising a complex
mental process through which Achilles has inferred Agamemnon’s
change of plan, but γε marks this process as easy – when Achilles sees
these two men, who are heralds, he immediately knows their errand.
‘Saw and did not rejoice’ is a unique adaptation of the common
Homeric collocation ‘saw and rejoiced’ (five instances in the Iliad, one
in the Odyssey). The tone seems dry, almost ironic, perhaps because
Achilles’ anger is entirely predictable.
The narrator’s report of Achilles’ mental state may also be the
perception of the heralds, since the next two lines presumably narrate
their reaction to Achilles’ reaction; though they were uneasy even
before they saw Achilles, the inability of professional speakers to
speak is extraordinary. These lines describe both the internal mental
state of the heralds and their external behaviour. Achilles does not
have direct access to their mental states, although he can, of course,
register their failure to speak. Line 331 informs the audience that both
possible motives for the heralds’ unhappiness with their task are in
play: they are afraid, but they also feel respect before Achilles. They
presumably respect Achilles’ superior status, and fear his anger. 17
That their respect renders them unable to speak surely shows that they
believe that their errand violates social norms. Then, at 333, Achilles
draws a correct inference about their feelings from their behaviour
and responds courteously, and he becomes both focaliser and interest-
focus. Indeed, he simultaneously confirms that the heralds have
been an interest-focus and appropriates the attention that they have
received – the audience can sympathise more readily with Achilles
because he reacts generously to the heralds’ discomfort.
To describe this sequence in terms of focalisation does not capture
how it works. The narrator provides information about the characters’
perceptions and their internal responses to them, but the characters
are not reflectors. The audience sees the heralds seeing Achilles and
Achilles seeing the heralds. The narrator, typically, provides minimal
information about the characters’ mental states. Line 333 requires
that the audience infer a complex mental process in Achilles, as he
not only comprehends how they feel, but evaluates how to respond
and controls his feelings (at Il. 11.653–4, Patroclus suggests that such
behaviour is not characteristic of Achilles).
17 On this distinction, see Cairns 1993: 88–9; Zaborowski 2002: 168. Kirk ad loc.
points out that their fear is described in an aorist participle, their respect in the
present (fear belongs to this moment; respect is continuing).
60 ruth scodel
This episode points to another characteristic of Homeric narrative.

The heralds are not important characters. Eurybates does not function
as an interest-focus again, though he goes on the embassy. Talthybius
obeys Agamemnon’s orders at 3.118 and 4.193. Then, at 7.274–6,
Talthybius and Idaeus intervene in the combat between Hector and
Ajax. This is a significant action, but the narrator does not say how
they reached an understanding or what their motives are; and neither
focalises. Only Idaeus speaks. The heralds here are not apparently of
interest for themselves. Talthybius appears thereafter only to serve
Agamemnon, but Idaeus takes a message from Troy to the Achaeans
later in Book 7. He has an arrival scene, making him a focaliser of the
Achaean assembly, and he does not simply deliver his message, but
inserts his own wish that Paris had died before he brought Menelaus’
property to Troy and the information that the Trojans urge Helen’s
return (7.390–4). He also attributes Priam’s request for a truce to the
Trojans generally (394). Later, when he assists Priam on his journey
to the Achaean camp, he first sees Hermes, and suggests to Priam
that they either both mount the chariot and flee (Idaeus is driving the
mule-wagon) or supplicate the stranger (24.352–7). Priam, however,
is too paralysed by panic to act. Idaeus, in other words, has his own
perspective. Briseis is another such minor character. At 1.348, the
narrator tells us that Briseis went with the heralds ἀέκουσ’ (like the
heralds, she is ‘unwilling’). Nothing further points to her inner state
until she laments Patroclus at 19.282–301, when she receives interest-
focus. There is no way to predict which minor characters will receive
interest-focus, so that every character has to be understood as poten-
tially a focus.18
The Homeric narrator’s habit of shifting interest-focus is not unique
to Greek. It appears in the Hebrew Bible:
He [Isaac] went out to the field one evening to meditate, and as

he looked up, he saw camels approaching. Rebekah also looked
up and saw Isaac. She got down from her camel and asked the
servant, ‘Who is that man in the field coming to meet us?’ ‘He
is my master,’ the servant answered. So she took her veil and
covered herself. Then the servant told Isaac all he had done. Isaac
brought her into the tent of his mother Sarah, and he married
Rebekah. So she became his wife, and he loved her; and Isaac was
comforted after his mother’s death. (Gen. 24: 63–7)
18 There are also the anonymous figures who are often very briefly focalisers and/or
centres of interest in similes, as Purves notes in this volume (p. 177).
In this passage, classical focalisation (‘who sees’) is also interest-focus.

Isaac has taken no part in the preparation for his marriage. Although
he has obviously been thematically central, the narrative has taken
very little interest in him.19 So it is significant that the narrator first
shows Isaac as he sees the caravan approach, then turns to Rebekah
as she sees Isaac, and then turns back to Isaac. It is harder to evaluate
shifting between major and minor characters, since Biblical narrative
is highly episodic compared to Greek epic, and many characters are
centres of interest-focus but then vanish (in this story, for example,
Abraham’s servant).20
This shifting, then, is not uniquely Greek, but it is characteristic and
important for the later history of Greek literature. First, it prompts
later authors to create cameos. The tragedians not infrequently create
vivid but very minor characters. While these serve particular functions,
they are more alive than these functions require: Cilissa, the Nurse in
Libation Bearers, for example, has a practical plot function (she tells
Aegisthus that he does not need a bodyguard) and a thematic func-
tion (undercutting Clytemnestra’s maternal role), but her complaints
about the difficulties of baby care present a sort of mimetic excess – she
has been individualised because the poet imagined how a person of a
particular kind would react in such a situation, and the audience is,
however briefly, interested in her for herself. The Guard in Sophocles’
Antigone is another famous example. His individuality serves various
dramatic and thematic functions: his evasive chattiness annoys Creon
in a way that tells the audience more about what kind of person Creon
is; his concern for self-preservation serves as a foil for Antigone’s lack of
concern for her own life, so that, like the heralds, his individuality is sec-
ondary to his function. Yet he, like Cilissa, briefly matters for himself.21
On the larger scale, the Homeric practice of giving focal moments to
many characters invites later authors to create new plots by changing
the focus of familiar stories, moving the margin to the centre. Sophocles
and Euripides make Electra the centre of the story of Orestes’ revenge.
When classical Greek poets develop heroic legend, however, there is a
significant distinction between secondary characters, who can become
protagonists (Hecuba or Phoenix), and minor characters, whose lower
social class limits how far they can be developed. Outside these nar-
ratives of the past, interest-focus is not so socially limited (the ‘I’ of
Archilochus, for example), and in Hellenistic narrative even stories
19 On the passivity of Isaac, see Alter 1981: 64; Teugels 1994.

20 Cf. also the shifting gaze in Gilgamesh discussed by Haubold in this volume
(pp. 19–23).
21 I think, however, that Yoon 2012 goes too far in subordinating anonymous
characters to the main tragic figures (on the Watchman, 55–9).
62 ruth scodel
set in the heroic past can maintain sustained interest-focus on a non-

heroic character (such as Callimachus’ Hecale).
MIND-READING
Homeric characters themselves frequently try to understand each
other’s thoughts. For example, they interpret non-verbal behaviour
with more or less success. Achilles recognises that the heralds are
embarrassed by their errand; he can probably understand their hesita-
tion because it fits what he would want them to feel.
It seems clear that Achilles actually knows why Patroclus is crying
at the opening of Iliad 16 (5–19), even though he pretends that he does
not:
τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ᾤκτιρε ποδάρκης δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς, 5

καί μιν φωνήσας ἔπεα πτερόεντα προσηύδα·
‘τίπτε δεδάκρυσαι Πατρόκλεες, ἠΰτε κούρη
νηπίη, ἥ θ’ ἅμα μητρὶ θέουσ’ ἀνελέσθαι ἀνώγει
εἱανοῦ ἁπτομένη, καί τ’ ἐσσυμένην κατερύκει,
δακρυόεσσα δέ μιν ποτιδέρκεται, ὄφρ’ ἀνέληται· 10
τῇ ἴκελος Πάτροκλε τέρεν κατὰ δάκρυον εἴβεις.
ἠέ τι Μυρμιδόνεσσι πιφαύσκεαι, ἢ ἐμοὶ αὐτῷ,
ἦέ τιν’ ἀγγελίην Φθίης ἐξέκλυες οἶος;
ζώειν μὰν ἔτι φασὶ Μενοίτιον Ἄκτορος υἱόν,
ζώει δ’ Αἰακίδης Πηλεὺς μετὰ Μυρμιδόνεσσι; 15
τῶν κε μάλ’ ἀμφοτέρων ἀκαχοίμεθα τεθνηώτων.
ἦε σύ γ’ Ἀργείων ὀλοφύρεαι, ὡς ὀλέκονται
νηυσὶν ἔπι γλαφυρῇσιν ὑπερβασίης ἕνεκα σφῆς;
ἐξαύδα, μὴ κεῦθε νόῳ, ἵνα εἴδομεν ἄμφω.
Seeing him, godlike sure-footed Achilles felt pity, and addressing

him he spoke winged words: ‘Why are you crying, Patroclus, like
a girl, a little girl, who runs by her mother and urges her to pick
her up, holding her robe, and holds her back when she is hurry-
ing, and looks at her weeping, until she picks her up. Like her,
Patroclus, you are shedding a soft tear. Do you have something
to tell the Myrmidons, or myself, or have you alone heard some
news from Phthia? They say Menoetius, Actor’s son, is alive, and
Peleus, son of Aeacus. lives among the Myrmidons. We would be
grieved at the deaths of them both. Or are you lamenting for the
Argives, who are dying over their hollow ships because of their
own transgression? Speak out, do not hide it in your mind, so that
we can both know.’
Achilles’ list of other, implicitly better reasons for Patroclus to be

distressed must be disingenuous. It is most unlikely that Patroclus
would have news from Phthia before Achilles, and by sending
Patroclus to Nestor he has almost guaranteed that Patroclus would
try to persuade him to return to battle.22 The comparison to a little
girl points the same way, since the simile implies that Patroclus wants
something from Achilles, as indeed he does (and it further implies
that Achilles will eventually grant it). He can read Patroclus’ thoughts
effectively not only because he knows Patroclus well, but also because
he and Patroclus are both deeply concerned about the situation of
the Achaeans, as he has revealed by sending Patroclus to Nestor; he
would not expect Patroclus to be upset about anything else. Indeed,
the other character who uses the language of line 19 is Thetis, who
tells Achilles at 1.363 not to hide the cause of his grief, although he
immediately responds that she knows already. She varies the formula
slightly at 18.74–5, ἐξαύδα, μὴ κεῦθε· τὰ μὲν δή τοι τετέλεσται / ἐκ Διός
(‘Speak out, do not hide it. The things from Zeus have been accom-
plished that you asked for’), when she again asks Achilles the cause
of his grief.23 So although the passage is mysterious, because Achilles’
speech does not appear to express the pity that the narrator attributes
to him (on this more below), it shows that Homeric characters make
successful inferences about each other’s mental states.
Such pseudo-questions are common. When Hera and Athena do
not rise when Zeus enter his halls, he asks them why they are behaving
this way:
αἳ δ’ οἶαι Διὸς ἀμφὶς Ἀθηναίη τε καὶ Ἥρη

ἥσθην, οὐδέ τί μιν προσεφώνεον οὐδ’ ἐρέοντο· 445
αὐτὰρ ὃ ἔγνω ᾗσιν ἐνὶ φρεσὶ φώνησέν τε·
‘τίφθ’ οὕτω τετίησθον, Ἀθηναίη τε καὶ Ἥρη;
οὐ μέν θην κάμετόν γε μάχῃ ἔνι κυδιανείρῃ
ὀλλῦσαι Τρῶας, τοῖσιν κότον αἰνὸν ἔθεσθε.’
22 Rothe 1910: 279 remarks that Homeric characters often use a ‘harmless Tone’
in addressing others who are obviously agitated. It is true that speakers often
assume such emotional disengagement, but the narrator’s comment on Achilles’
pity makes this a complex instance. De Jong [1987a] 2004: 170 thinks Achilles’
pity means that he cannot be mocking Patroclus; Taplin 1992: 177 comments that
he must know why Patroclus is distressed; Zanker 1994: 14–15 calls it ‘chaffing
sarcasm’; Janko 1992 on 16.7–19 calls it ‘a friendly rebuke’; Edwards 1991: 257
considers the simile mocking.
23 Thetis, despite her divine knowledge and her intense concern for her son, is
ignorant of what has happened. See Reinhardt 1961: 26–7, who points out that
Achilles has never shown an awareness that his prayer to his mother is being
fulfilled.
64 ruth scodel
Only Athena and Hera sat in respect to Zeus, and they did not
address him or ask a question. But he understood in his mind and
said, ‘Why are you upset like this, Athena and Hera? You have
surely not got worn out in battle where men win glory, killing
Trojans, against whom you have made your resentment terrible.’
(Il. 8.444–9)
Lines 445–6 repeat 1.332–3 (substituting ‘sat’ for ‘stood’), but the
dynamic of emotion and power is very different. In other cases, a
speaker may ask and then formulate a hypothesis, but the question
seems to be genuine (for example, Il. 15.90–1), where Themis asks
Hera why she is distressed, and then answers her own question, as the
narrator represents Themis’ Theory of Mind in action.
Homeric characters also make assumptions about what others do
or do not know. When Nestor asks Patroclus why Achilles laments the
wounded Achaeans, and claims that Achilles does not comprehend
the grief of the army (11.657–8), it is impossible to say whether Nestor
is right that Achilles is ignorant – in any case, what he means is prob-
ably not that Achilles does not know, but that his emotional response
is inadequate. The Odyssey’s suitors are completely wrong when they
hear Penelope cry out:
ὧδε δέ τις εἴπεσκε νέων ὑπερηνορεόντων·

‘ἦ μάλα δὴ γάμον ἄμμι πολυμνήστη βασίλεια24 470
ἀρτύει, οὐδέ τι οἶδεν, ὅ οἱ φόνος υἷϊ τέτυκται.’
One of the arrogant young men would speak as follows: ‘No

doubt, the much-courted lady is preparing a marriage for us, and
she doesn’t know that her son’s murder has been crafted.’ (Od.
4.769–71)
Actually, she knows about their plot – the herald Medon has just
informed her – and her cry concludes a prayer she has made to Athena
to stop their plans. The suitors are, not surprisingly, consistently
wrong in their inferences about other people.
Both Homeric epics, then, frequently draw attention to how often
human interaction involves guessing the mental states of others.
24 The particle ἦ indicates a speaker’s confidence in his judgement and is common in

passages depicting Theory of Mind (Scodel 2012).
GAP MANAGEMENT
Often, the narrator does not provide as much information about the
mental states of characters as we might want, and the characters’
attempts at understanding one another serve as reminders for the
external audience of how much or little they know. Because Homeric
narrative is so full, and the characters talk so much about their mental
states, it is easy to assume that we know more than we do.
In Iliad 9, ambassadors pray as they walk to Achilles’ camp that they
will easily persuade Achilles (Il. 9.184; I am bracketing the problem of
the duals here). Persuasion is an attempt to change another person’s
mental state, so the audience is primed to believe that the ambassadors
will be trying to understand what Achilles is thinking and feeling and
themselves to consider what Achilles may be thinking and feeling. We
follow the ambassadors as they arrive in a typical ‘visit’ passage:
τὸν δ’ εὗρον φρένα τερπόμενον φόρμιγγι λιγείῃ

καλῇ δαιδαλέῃ, ἐπὶ δ’ ἀργύρεον ζυγὸν ἦεν,
τὴν ἄρετ’ ἐξ ἐνάρων πόλιν Ἠετίωνος ὀλέσσας·
τῇ ὅ γε θυμὸν ἔτερπεν, ἄειδε δ’ ἄρα κλέα ἀνδρῶν.
Πάτροκλος δέ οἱ οἶος ἐναντίος ἧστο σιωπῇ, 190
δέγμενος Αἰακίδην ὁπότε λήξειεν ἀείδων.
They found him delighting his heart with a high-pitched lyre, a

beautiful and elaborate one, with a silver cross-piece, that he got
from the booty when he destroyed Eëtion’s city. With that he was
delighting his heart, and he was singing the famous deeds of men.
Only Patroclus was sitting across from him, in silence, waiting for
the son of Aeacus, whenever he would stop singing. (Il. 9.186–91)
Even if the visitors know where Achilles obtained his lyre, they are
unlikely to be thinking about this at this moment. The narrator pro-
vides this information. Who tells us that Achilles is ‘delighting his
heart’? Is it their inference that he enjoys what he is doing? Again,
they presumably see where Patroclus is sitting and notice that he is
the only member of Achilles’ audience and that he is silent. Do the
visitors realise that Patroclus is waiting for Achilles to stop, or is this
narratorial information? They could presumably infer this either from
their knowledge of norms of behaviour or because they understand
the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus. Even though there
is no shifting, this passage, like Il. 1.329–33, problematises classical
focalisation, because it is impossible entirely to distinguish what the
characters see and infer from what the narrator infallibly knows. The
66 ruth scodel
ambassadors are the interest-focus here; whoever perceives and under-

stands particular details, the ambassadors are the emotional centre.
Then, however, Achilles responds to the arrival and we are told that
he is surprised (193–5):
ταφὼν δ’ ἀνόρουσεν Ἀχιλλεὺς

αὐτῇ σὺν φόρμιγγι λιπὼν ἕδος ἔνθα θάασσεν.
ὣς δ’ αὔτως Πάτροκλος, ἐπεὶ ἴδε φῶτας, ἀνέστη. 195
In surprise, Achilles jumped up, still holding the lyre, leaving the
seat where he had been sitting. And likewise Patroclus, when he
saw the men, stood up.
Perhaps the narrator provides the detail that Achilles still holds the
lyre in order to indicate that Achilles’ surprise is visible to the ambas-
sadors. Achilles greets the visitors, and the narrator reports from an
equal distance on both Achilles and his guests as he seats them. The
visitors, however are still the interest-focus, as Achilles and Patroclus
perform an elaborately narrated series of hospitable actions. Since we
have been led to care about his state of mind at this point primarily
as it affects the Achaeans, although we do not watch these actions
through the ambassadors, we still watch with them, hoping that the
warm reception Achilles gives them indicates that he will also be open
to their mission.
Then we receive another small bit of information about a mental
state, when Ajax nods to Phoenix, and Odysseus notices the gesture
(1.224: νεῦσ’ Αἴας Φοίνικι· νόησε δὲ δῖος Ὀδυσσεύς), and begins speak-
ing. We have to infer that Ajax thinks that Phoenix should speak, but
that Odysseus decides to open the conversation instead. Although
we know very well what the ambassadors want, we are painfully
under-informed about what precisely anybody is thinking; we do not
know why Odysseus chooses to speak. He has probably been fooled
by Achilles’ gracious hospitality into misjudging his receptiveness to
Agamemnon’s offer. When Achilles delivers his very long and intense
reply, we infer that something in Odysseus’ approach has offended
him, but we have no more knowledge of Achilles’ actual thoughts than
his visitors do.
Near the end of the episode, Achilles nods to Patroclus:
Ἦ, καὶ Πατρόκλῳ ὅ γ’ ἐπ’ ὀφρύσι νεῦσε σιωπῇ 620

Φοίνικι στορέσαι πυκινὸν λέχος, ὄφρα τάχιστα
ἐκ κλισίης νόστοιο μεδοίατο· τοῖσι δ’ ἄρ’ Αἴας
ἀντίθεος Τελαμωνιάδης μετὰ μῦθον ἔειπε·
He spoke, and he silently nodded under his brows to Patroclus

to spread a thick bed for Phoenix, so that they would be thinking
about returning from his hut immediately. Ajax then, the godlike
son of Telamon, spoke among them . . . (Il. 9.620–3)
The dative plural τοῖσι tells the external audience that, although Ajax’
speech is addressed to Odysseus only, it has a wider audience; δ’ ἄρ’
suggests that it is part of the ongoing sequence of moves, and it is
called a μῦθος, a speech claiming authority.25 However, since Phoenix
is apparently going to remain with Achilles, when Ajax speaks to
Odysseus, the two of them are the only active members of the embassy
remaining, and Ajax speaks as if the ambassadors were the only rati-
fied participants:
διογενὲς Λαερτιάδη, πολυμήχαν’ Ὀδυσσεῦ

ἴομεν· οὐ γάρ μοι δοκέει μύθοιο τελευτὴ 625
τῇδέ γ’ ὁδῷ κρανέεσθαι· ἀπαγγεῖλαι δὲ τάχιστα
χρὴ μῦθον Δαναοῖσι καὶ οὐκ ἀγαθόν περ ἐόντα
οἵ που νῦν ἕαται ποτιδέγμενοι. αὐτὰρ Ἀχιλλεὺς
ἄγριον ἐν στήθεσσι θέτο μεγαλήτορα θυμὸν
σχέτλιος, οὐδὲ μετατρέπεται φιλότητος ἑταίρων 630
τῆς ᾗ μιν παρὰ νηυσὶν ἐτίομεν ἔξοχον ἄλλων
νηλής· καὶ μέν τίς τε κασιγνήτοιο φονῆος
ποινὴν ἢ οὗ παιδὸς ἐδέξατο τεθνηῶτος·
καί ῥ’ ὃ μὲν ἐν δήμῳ μένει αὐτοῦ πόλλ’ ἀποτίσας,
τοῦ δέ τ’ ἐρητύεται κραδίη καὶ θυμὸς ἀγήνωρ 635
ποινὴν δεξαμένῳ· σοὶ δ’ ἄληκτόν τε κακόν τε
θυμὸν ἐνὶ στήθεσσι θεοὶ θέσαν εἵνεκα κούρης
οἴης·
Zeus-descended son of Laertes, much-contriving Odysseus, let’s

go. For I do not think that the end of our speech will be accom-
plished, at least not on this journey. We should report his speech
to the Danaans immediately, though it is not good – they are
surely now sitting and waiting for it. But Achilles has made the
great-hearted spirit in his chest wild, and he does not care about
the friendly feeling of his companions – the friendliness through
which we honoured him beyond others by the ships. Pitiless! A
person accepts wergild from the killer of his brother, or his own
child who has died. So one man stays in his community after
paying great compensation, and the other’s heart and o ver-manly
25 Martin 1989.
68 ruth scodel
spirit are restrained, since he has accepted compensation. But

the gods have made the spirit in your breast unceasing and bad
because of one girl. (Il. 9.624–38)
This is, pragmatically, an exceptionally interesting speech. Ajax begins

with a polite directive to Odysseus, followed by an explanation of the
directive. He then offers a comment on Achilles, speaking about him
in the third person for 8.5 lines. Only at 636 does he use the second-
person pronoun and speak to Achilles directly.
Hainsworth on 624–36 says: ‘Aias begins by ostensibly addressing
Odysseus, but more and more as he proceeds his remarks are made for
Akhilleus’ ears, until he finally slips into the 2nd person in 636.’ This
comment is not entirely clear. If Ajax is from the start only ‘ostensi-
bly’ addressing Odysseus, he is really speaking to Achilles from the
start, and his remarks are not directed at Achilles any more than they
initially were. Hainsworth also follows Higbie in inferring from the
periodic enjambement of the passage that Ajax is angry.26
These lines could represent several slightly different strategies and
emotional states in Ajax. He evidently recognises Achilles’ gesture to
Patroclus as an indirect signal to the guests (although Achilles presum-
ably intends the signal for the guests to be the making of the bed, not
his nod). He could, indeed, intend his words for Achilles from the
beginning, perhaps reacting to Achilles’ indirection with his own (and
does this reaction to a nod in some way echo the earlier ‘intercepted’
nod of Ajax to Phoenix?). Achilles is then an ‘indirect target’.27 If
Achilles is the intended audience, there is still a range of ways we could
interpret the speech. Is it planned from the beginning – that is, is the
address to Odysseus a deliberate manoeuvre? Is Ajax consciously
displaying his own unwillingness to let the Achaeans endure suspense
as an implicit rebuke to Achilles? Is he gradually allowing his anger
to leak as a rhetorical strategy? Or does he address Odysseus simply
because this is the most effective way he can express his frustration with
Achilles? However, he may actually be addressing Odysseus when he
starts. As he expresses his concern for the Achaeans who are waiting
for the return of the embassy, his frustration mounts and he begins to
complain about Achilles, until finally he turns to Achilles directly.
There are parallels on both sides, spontaneity and rhetorical
strategy, of an angry speaker’s switch of addressee. In Od. 17.238–6,
26 Higbie 1990: 118–20; Hainsworth 1993: 142 on 625–42 and 624–36.

27 Levinson 1988: 161–227, esp. 21–2. Indirectly targeted participants often respond
as if they had been addressed, and sometimes participants show that they are
themselves uncertain whether a participant has been indirectly targeted or not.
Eumaeus prays to the Nymphs. Melanthius, addressing Eumaeus,

has spoken abusively about the beggar at length, has directly insulted
Eumaeus himself, and has kicked the beggar. The narrator informs
the external audience in advance that Eumaeus will both abuse
Melanthius and pray:
τὸν δὲ συβώτης

νείκεσ’ ἐσάντα ἰδών, μέγα δ’ εὔξατο χεῖρας ἀνασχών·
‘Νύμφαι κρηναῖαι, κοῦραι Διός, εἴ ποτ’ Ὀδυσσεὺς 240
ὔμμ’ ἐπὶ μηρί’ ἔκηε, καλύψας πίονι δημῷ,
ἀρνῶν ἠδ’ ἐρίφων, τόδε μοι κρηήνατ’ ἐέλδωρ,
ὡς ἔλθοι μὲν κεῖνος ἀνήρ, ἀγάγοι δέ ἑ δαίμων.
τῶ κέ τοι ἀγλαΐας γε διασκεδάσειεν ἁπάσας,
τὰς νῦν ὑβρίζων φορέεις, ἀλαλήμενος αἰεὶ 245
ἄστυ κάτ’· αὐτὰρ μῆλα κακοὶ φθείρουσι νομῆες
The swineherd rebuked him looking straight at him, and he

prayed loudly, holding up his hands: ‘Nymphs of the fountain,
daughters of Zeus, if ever Odysseus burned thigh-pieces to you,
hiding them in rich fat, of lambs or goats, fulfil this request for
me – that that man come, and the divinity bring him. Then he
would scatter away all your adornments, which now you carry
around while you behave abusively, always going around in the
town. But bad herdsmen ruin flocks.
Although the narrator does not actually tell us that Eumaeus frames
his prayer so that he can easily make the transition to addressing and
abusing Melanthius, because we know from the beginning that he will
do both, we probably assume that he intends both from the start.
On the other hand, at Il. 17.18–32 the narrator informs the audience
of Menelaus’ general state of mind and specifies that he is speaking to
Euphorbus:
Τὸν δὲ μέγ’ ὀχθήσας προσέφη ξανθὸς Μενέλαος·

‘Ζεῦ πάτερ, οὐ μὲν καλὸν ὑπέρβιον εὐχετάασθαι.
. . .
ὥς θην καὶ σὸν ἐγὼ λύσω μένος εἴ κέ μευ ἄντα
στήῃς· ἀλλά σ’ ἔγωγ’ ἀναχωρήσαντα κελεύω 30
ἐς πληθὺν ἰέναι, μηδ’ ἀντίος ἵστασ’ ἐμεῖο
πρίν τι κακὸν παθέειν· ῥεχθὲν δέ τε νήπιος ἔγνω.
Greatly angered, blond Menelaus addressed him: ‘Father Zeus,

it is not a fine thing to boast arrogantly. . . . So I will surely undo
70 ruth scodel
your life-energy if you stand against me. But I urge you to retreat
and go back into the mass, and don’t stand opposite me, before
you suffer something bad. A fool learns by suffering.’
After his opening address to Zeus, Menelaus elaborately complains

of the excessive arrogance of the sons of Panthous, then boasts of his
killing of Hyperenor before threatening Euphorbus himself.
In all the other examples of Ζεῦ πάτερ in the two epics (thirty-two
instances at line-initial), the speaker is genuinely praying or complain-
ing to Zeus. Indeed, at 13.620 Menelaus, having killed Peisandrus,
delivers a boast addressed to the Trojans generally (Τρῶες ὑπερφίαλοι,
621). At 624–5 he accuses them of having no fear of Zeus, and at 631
he addresses Zeus directly, complaining that he favours the hybris-
tic Trojans (Il. 13.631–5). The change of addressee here is clearly
spontaneous; Menelaus’ thoughts turn from the Trojans, to their
disrespect for Zeus, to Zeus’ apparent toleration of this disrespect.
So the progression of Menelaus’ speech to Euphorbus, although it is
from the start an indirect speech-act aimed at Euphorbus, could also
be spontaneous. He begins by addressing Zeus, probably intending to
demonstrate that Euphorbus has shown the kind of arrogance that
Menelaus believes that Zeus deplores and so indirectly to threaten
Euphorbus, but his complaint slips into a vaunt and a direct threat.
Parallels and formal considerations, then, cannot tell us exactly
what Ajax intends. Even if the narrator had told us more about the
emotional state of Ajax, we still would not know exactly how his
mind was working. Sometimes the narrator does provide information
about a character’s mental state, but it does not instantly fit what the
character says. At the beginning of Iliad 16, discussed above, we are
told that Achilles pities Patroclus, but his speech is not an obvious
expression of pity. The word is ᾤκτιρε, from the less common of the
two word-families for ‘pity’ (oiktos rather than eleos, which seems in
Homer to be more directly associated with consequent action).28 Still,
it is striking that the speech gives no sign of sympathy with Patroclus
at all. When Achilles reaches the real reason for Patroclus’ tears, he
insists that the Achaeans’ sufferings are their own fault. Where is the
expression of pity here? Patroclus does not bother to answer the false
proposals Achilles has made about the cause, and begins his reply
by saying μὴ νεμέσα (‘Do not be indignant’); he has apparently not
perceived Achilles’ pity, or does not trust it. Earlier, when Patroclus
tells Nestor that Achilles has sent him to ask about Machaon, Nestor
immediately asks ‘Why does Achilles grieve like this for the sons of the
28 Sternberg 2005: 22–4 argues that the words are impossible to distinguish.
Achaeans, however many have been wounded?’ (Il. 11.656–7). Only

a few lines later, he complains that Achilles does not ‘care about or
pity’ the Danaans (using ἐλεαίρει, from the eleos-family, Il. 11.665).
In Nestor’s view, since Achilles could so easily, by fighting, end the
Achaeans’ distress, it is perverse that his message indicates that he
feels pity. Nestor and narrator both indicate a disjuncture between
Achilles’ feelings and his behaviour.
We should probably infer that if Achilles did not pity Patroclus, he
would not invite him to speak about the Achaeans at all. By encour-
aging him to speak, he indicates that he will compromise, and this
indication is confirmed by his response to Patroclus’ speech. His friend
accuses him of pitilessness and inhumanity. Although the narrator
says that he is very upset (16.48), his reaction is controlled – his mild
indignation is overtly directed at the suggestion that he is staying away
from battle because of a prophecy (16.49). He is distressed, prob-
ably, not because Patroclus wants him to fight, but because he feels
that Patroclus does not share his view of how terribly Agamemnon
offended. Nonetheless, he quickly offers to dismiss the past. He is,
indeed, ready to concede, but the concession is preceded by mockery,
because his pity does not supersede his need to justify his behaviour
up to this point. All this is, however, entirely inference. What we are
given is minimal information about Achilles’ feelings, and speeches
that do not seem exactly to fit those feelings. If we think that we fully
understand Achilles, we are deceiving ourselves.
Another complex example comes in Odyssey 8. Alcinous sees that
Odysseus is weeping as Demodocus sings about the wooden horse
(Od. 8.533–4), and Alcinous knows that the stranger requested this
very song, even though the stranger also wept at Demodocus’ earlier
song about Troy. He also knows that Odysseus fought at Troy, and
that he was probably an important hero, both because he has claimed
to have been second only to Philoctetes as an archer (Od. 8.219–20),
and because he has shown himself to be a person of high status since
he arrived. So Alcinous first encourages the stranger to say his name,
his parents and his country, pointing out that the Phaeacians will need
to know where to convey him. This direct request for the guest’s name
is itself unusual,29 but Alcinous also makes clear that he has noticed
that the stranger has craftily avoided identifying himself:
τῶ νῦν μηδὲ σὺ κεῦθε νοήμασι κερδαλέοισιν,

ὅττι κέ σ’ εἴρωμαι· φάσθαι δέ σε κάλλιόν ἐστιν.
29 Webber 1989: 10–13.

72 ruth scodel
Therefore, do not hide with crafty purposes what I ask you. It is

finer for you to speak.
Alcinous’ question, with its adjective κερδαλέοισιν, may express some

frustration – the Phaeacians have not behaved in a way that would
justify a guest’s manipulativeness, and he is violating social norms.30
The external audience does not know any more than Alcinous does
exactly why Odysseus has avoided revealing his identity for so long;
this is a familiar interpretative problem in the poem. When Arete first
asks him his home and parentage, she infamously also asks where he
got the clothes he is wearing: ‘Who of men are you, and are where are
you from? Who gave you these clothes? Don’t you claim to have come
here by wandering over the sea?’ (Od. 7.238–9). Odysseus explains his
wandering over the sea and the clothes, but not his origins, which he
does not reveal until he answers Alcinous’ question. The hearer may
be too distracted by the immediate problems Odysseus confronts in
this scene to think about his evasion of the question, but the follow-
ing episodes make it highly salient, especially when Demodocus sings
about Odysseus’ quarrel with Achilles, not knowing that Odysseus is
present (Od. 8.73–82), and when Euryalus insults him, and his angry
response almost identifies him, since he boasts that he was the second-
best archer at Troy, after Philoctetes (Od. 8.219–22). There may even
be a metanarratological joke here, since Odysseus’ skill with the bow
is essential to this narrative, but he does not use the bow in the Iliad,
and apparently did not use it in Trojan War stories generally.31 It is
thus likely that even though he was among the best archers, neither
the Phaeacians nor the external audience have heard stories that
would make ‘second-best archer at Troy’ a reliable identifier. Alcinous
has referred in passing to the stranger’s ‘children’ – the audience, of
course, knows that Odysseus has only a single son.
At any rate, Odysseus is obviously delaying the revelation of his
identity past the point at which ordinary caution might be in order,
and while the external audience can infer, as Alcinous does, that he
does this because he thinks it is in his self-interest, and also, knowing
who he is, that manipulative behaviour is characteristic of him, the
external audience does not know exactly why he waits so long to
identify himself, and never indeed finds out. We may assume, since
he is usually so rational, that he has a good reason, and I have sug-
gested elsewhere that he has in the past discovered that some of
30 De Jong 2001: 219 notes this as an example of the ‘delayed reaction presentation’
technique.
31 Cf. Danek 1998: 151–3.
those he meets have heard prophecies about him by name (Circe and
Polyphemus), and so wants to be exceptionally careful.32 But this can
be only an inference.
Alcinous, having asked the stranger’s identity, then asks why the
stranger weeps at the song; he infers that Odysseus must have lost
a close relative or good friend in the war (Od. 8.577–86). Alcinous’
ignorance serves as foil for the audience’s knowledge but also for their
ignorance. The external audience knows the stranger’s name, parents
and home, but not exactly why he is weeping. He has lost not one
but many companions; is he weeping for all of them, or does he care
especially about some of them? Is he weeping at the contrast between
his triumph at Troy and the misery he has endured since? Is he even,
as the simile of the captive woman at Od. 8.523–31 suggests, weeping
at the misery caused to so many, including the Trojans, by the war?
Did Odysseus ask for this song because he knew it would make him
cry, and he, guessing that his tears would push Alcinous to demand
his name, wanted this prompt for the beginning of his story? Or did
he want this story to introduce his own, but not realise how it would
affect him?33 Odysseus could have many motives for requesting the
song and for weeping at it, motives not incompatible with each other
but nonetheless distinct.
Alcinous’ only partially successful mind-reading first directs the
hearer to what the external audience knows and the internal audience
does not, but it can also point to what the external audience does
not know – namely, exactly what Odysseus is thinking and feeling,
and a consideration of the characters’ work at understanding each
other brings us back to what even the external audience, with all its
advantages – including, probably, other versions of the same basic
story – does not know.
The narrator’s interest in the characters’ Theory of Mind is thus
important for both Homeric psychology in general and characterisa-
tion in particular – it is a technique for showing how perceptive indi-
viduals are and how fully they are ‘in tune’ with each other. But it is
also important for expositional technique. The narrator frequently
points to the difficulty people have in understanding others when they
are not already closely aligned. Yet the audience may feel perplexed
even when it has more information than the characters and its sympa-
thies may be fully engaged, as with Odysseus among the Phaeacians,
because the narrator severely limits the information he provides about
32 Scodel 1999.
33 The same debates recur over the foot-washing later. See E. Schwartz 1924; 196 and
the discussion in Fenik 1974: 43–4.
74 ruth scodel
the characters’ mental states, even as he invites the audience to care

about them.
I doubt that it would be possible to see any particular system in the
Homeric management of gaps, but it is important to be aware that the
level of gapping is variable, though in neither epic is it radical. Both
the external narrator and other characters stress that Penelope is loyal
to Odysseus; we do not know exactly what she is thinking – hence the
‘Penelope question’ – but we know the general state of her mind.34
I would suggest that when we look at Homeric narrative in this way,
it is a little more like the characteristic narrative of the Hebrew Bible
than it seems superficially, but it is still different. Biblical narrators
are often extremely sparse in providing information about mental
states. In the sacrifice of Isaac, the narrator gives only the barest clues
about the feelings or thoughts of the participants, even as he offers
considerable details about externals (the servants, the donkeys, the
wood). Homeric characters, in contrast, talk and talk, and we hear
so much about them and their motives that it is only when we reflect
that we realise that we still need inference and imagination. Sometimes
we are left completely uninformed about a character’s motives for a
significant action – for example, why Odysseus reports to the Achaean
council only Achilles’ initial response to the embassy and not his later
modifications (Il. 9.674–92) – but Odysseus’ motives would not pro-
foundly change the narrative if we knew them.
This, again, is one of the techniques that made it possible to
create drama out of narrative forms. Tragedy takes the further step
of requiring the external audience to use its Theory of Mind all the
way through, to make sense of what characters say and do without
side-knowledge, except what prior knowledge of a myth or a divine
prologue may offer.35
34 Survey in Doherty 1995: 31–54; see also Heitman 2005.

35 Budelmann and Easterling 2010.
5
STRUCTURE AS INTERPRETATION IN
THE HOMERIC ODYSSEY
Erwin Cook
‘Defining Greek narrative’ poses an interesting challenge for

Homerists, like myself, committed to the proposition that the epics
reflect the compositional practices of oral poetry the world over.1 In
terms of formal approaches, many scholars, including contributors to
this volume, have found it productive to apply narratology to eluci-
date Homer, a methodology with greater universalising assumptions
than oral theory. Nevertheless, an aspect of the epics that I believe is
distinctive, and in certain respects unique, is the ways in which they
manipulate traditional conventions so as to guide reception. Although
Scodel rightly cautions against assuming homogeneous audiences of
epic connoisseurs, the practice does, I think, imply audience members
able to recognise the patterns and respond to the manipulation.2 An
example is the ascending scale of affection Phoenix employs as a
persuasive device in Il. 9.574–94: he positions the category of ‘friends’
(585: ἑταῖροι) higher up the scale than is typical, because it is largely
on the basis of friendship that he hopes to convince Achilles to return
to battle.3
I am grateful to Douglas Cairns and Ruth Scodel for inviting me to the confer-
ence, and for their hospitality during my stay in Edinburgh. I would also like
to thank them and the following colleagues for reading and commenting on
various drafts of the chapter: Jonathan Burgess, Tom Jenkins, Lenny Muellner,
Corinne Pache and Greg Thalmann. Thanks are also due to Egbert Bakker for an
extremely helpful conversation and series of emails on ring-composition. Please
credit them with anything you find convincing, and attribute all errors of fact and
interpretation to me.
1 This is the premise that guided Parry and Lord in their fieldwork, and it is main-
tained by what I take to be the majority of US Homerists. See, e.g., Martin 1989,
esp. 5–12, 89–100; A. Lord 2000; Scodel 2002, esp. 1–20; Doherty 2009: 3; see also
Jensen 2011: chs. 1–4.
2 Scodel 2002, esp. 4–13, 36–41.
3 Kakridis 1949: 18–27; Lohmann 1970: 258–63; see also Arthur 1981. For another
example of manipulation, see Heubeck’s analysis of the Cyclopeia as aristeia, in
Heubeck and Hoekstra 1989: 33, on Od. 9.375–94.
76 erwin cook
My point of departure is ring-composition and the plot of the

Odyssey, which I argue need to be considered together.4 At first
glance, ring-composition may seem unpromising: deciding on what
constitutes a ring is always open to the charge of subjectivity, and
there is nothing unique about such structures in Homer, or oral
poetry.5 Still, I hope to demonstrate that in the Odyssey they create
some highly sophisticated effects that, inter alia, help guide reception.
For example, a series of rings at the close of Book 4 provides com-
mentary on the passages so related, while simultaneously announcing
that the narrative starts over with the divine assembly of Book 5.
I mean ‘starts over’ quite literally as I also argue that the Odyssey
consists of a repeated story-pattern that structures the Telemachy,
Phaeacis and Revenge.6 This sort of highly symmetrical and balanced
narrative architecture is in fact a defining feature of Homeric epic that
influenced subsequent authors such as Aeschylus and Herodotus. It
is thus distinctively Greek and it can also be paralleled in Greek art
from the geometric to the classical period.7 Yet nothing matches the
sophistication of Homer’s architectonics until Virgil, who learned the
technique from Homer.8
Whereas ring-composition is over-diagnosed it is also undertheo-
rised in terms of the large-scale structures I examine, and scholars
have traditionally focused on the Iliad, where little agreement has
been reached. (As a consequence of this focus, my theoretical survey
will be skewed to the Iliadic material.) We are better off when it comes
to small-scale rings, where at least five, overlapping explanations
have been offered. Thalmann, for example, identifies ‘enclosure’ that
creates a ‘self-contained whole’ as the ‘most basic effect’ of ring-
composition.9 As a result, the concluding ring can have a ‘resump-
4 Edwards 1991: 44–48; see also Stanley 1993: 6–9. In what follows, I limit my
diagnosis of rings to (nearly) identical or antithetical themes, regarding as suspect
parallels that require significant decoding.
5 For comparative study, see Douglas 2007; Welch 1981; see also Rubin 1995: 221,
274–7; for Aeschylus and Herodotus, see Van Otterlo 1944, esp. 1–16; Sheppard
[1922] 1966: appendix; and Lang 1984: 1–12; for Bacchylides, see Cairns 2010, esp.
41–4, 101–6; further bibliography in Stanley 1993: 307 n. 21.
6 The analysis, first outlined in Cook 1991, has some points of contact with Louden
1999.
7 Myres 1932 and Whitman 1958: chs. 5 and 11 press the analogy between the Iliad
and geometric art, though as N. J. Richardson 1993: 4–5 notes this has not been
widely accepted. An important exception is Mackay 1999a, esp. 116–17, whose
comparanda, however, are from early sixth-century Attic vase-painting; see also
Andreae and Flashar 1977; Lewis 1981.
8 For Heliodorus, see Lowe 2000, esp. 137, 235–58; Lowe, pp. 110–11, does not,
however, consider ring-composition to be ‘part of the poetics of classical plotting’.
9 Thalmann 1984: 9; cf. Van Otterlo 1944: 3; Douglas 2007: 137–38.
structure as interpretation in the homeric odyssey 77
tive effect’, after a digression, although ‘all inserted passages of this

type will be found to add something to the surrounding context’.10
Van Otterlo, on the other hand, argues that rings are created when
the author anticipates an outcome at the beginning of a passage.11
Edwards finds that rings anticipate at the beginning and repeat at the
end: ‘first comes an anticipation of the outcome of a passage . . . then
the idea presented at the beginning is repeated at the end, sometimes
reinforced . . . by intervening material or otherwise developed, and
poet and listener alike return, with ease and security, to the narrative
at the point at which it was dropped’.12
Bakker situates ring-composition in the wider context of framing
and addition, noting that Homer routinely introduces complex state-
ments with a preview (a), followed by anecdotal information (b),
and then the goal (c), supplying details of the preview. These units
are added paratactically, but not randomly: ‘More often than not a
unit is not only connected with what precedes but also leads to what
follows, and this relation of any given present moment to its past and
its future is what gives the listener an orientation and the discourse its
meaning.’13 The individual units thus have a reciprocal relationship so
that (a) frames (b) and (c), and (b) also frames (c), while (c) adds to (b)
and (a), and (b) likewise adds to (a). (See Fig. 5.1).
(A) PREVIEW
ADDS (B) ANECDOTAL INFORMATION FRAMES
(C) GOAL
Figure 5.1 Framing and adding

Source: Adapted from Bakker 1997: 119
For example, the statement that Menelaus killed Scamandrius is fol-

lowed by an anecdote and description of how Menelaus kills him (Il.
5.49–58). The anecdote, about Artemis having taught Scamandrius to
hunt, is not a digression from the main narrative but allows ‘the killing
proper [to] take place within the context of the victim’s tradition’.14
Accordingly, ‘The global-framing statement, uttered during a moment
of orientation, has become a specific, fully contextualised concept by
10 Thalmann 1984: 11.

11 Van Otterlo 1944: 43.
12 Edwards 1991: 48.
13 Bakker 1997: 115; cf. Bassett 1938: 119–28; Lang 1984: 1–12; Thornton 1984: ch.
7.
14 Bakker 1997: 118.
78 erwin cook
Table 5.1 The sequence of days in the Iliad
A 1, 9, 1 and 12 days Book 1

B 1 day Fight
C 1 day Burial
D 1 day Wall
E 1 day Truncated battle
F 1 night Embassy
Eʹ 1 day Great battle
Dʹ 1 day Fight
Cʹ 1 day Funeral rites
Bʹ 1 day Games
Aʹ 12, 1, 9 and 1 day Book 24
Source: Whitman 1958: 257
the time the speaker reaches the goal.’15 In other words, (c) differs fun-
damentally from (a) on account of the intervening information, even
though it repeats its contents.
None of these scholars investigates large-scale patterns. Whitman
offers a genetic explanation, arguing that ring-composition origi-
nated as a mnemonic device used in small-scale narratives.16 Ring-
composition loses its original function, however, ‘when it becomes
the structural basis of a fifteen-thousand-line poem such as the Iliad.
It has become an artistic principle.’17 By ‘artistic principle’, Whitman
means that the structural properties of rings were exploited to balance
and frame, so that ‘the use of “hysteron proteron,” giving the effect of
concentric circles, was gradually transformed from a mnemonic device
to an architectonic one’.18
One of Whitman’s most important findings concerns the Iliad’s
temporal sequence, in which Books 1 and 24 balance each other,
with Book 9 at the centre (Table 5.1). In an earlier study, Myres
identified Book 9 as the temporal and structural centre of the Iliad.19
Richardson, however, notes that Myres’s analysis has been scepti-
cally received because it divides the narrative unevenly.20 Speaking of
ring-composition generally, Gaisser declares that ‘The primary objec-
tion to this type of structural analysis is that the scale is not always
consistent.’21
15 Bakker 1997: 121.

16 Whitman 1958: 98, 254; cf., e.g., Lohmann 1970: 209–12, 284; Rubin 1995: 275.
17 Whitman 1958: 98.
18 Whitman 1958: 98.
19 Myres 1932, esp. 283–94.
20 N. J. Richardson 1993: 4–5.
21 Gaisser 1969: 2.
Although Richardson rejects the level of detail in Whitman’s analy-

sis, there is ultimately little to distinguish between his and Whitman’s
understanding of how large-scale rings actually operate. Richardson
observes that whereas there is broad consensus that Books 1 and 24
complement and balance each other, scholars have had difficulty iden-
tifying the Iliad’s structural centre. He then proceeds to review pairs
of books in chiastic order, concluding that meaningful parallelism can
be observed as far as six books, or roughly 50 per cent, of the way into
the poem in either direction.22 The inference he draws is that the poet
‘will naturally take most care over the opening and closing parts of his
work, where consequently we find the clearest correspondences, pro-
viding the narrative “frame” ’.23 As we approach the centre, however,
the rings ‘gradually fade out’.24
Douglas observes that rings are a species of structural parallelism,
which, drawing on the work of Roman Jakobson, she sees as ‘hard-
wired in the brain’:25 ‘Jakobson’s idea implies an aesthetic theory about
the satisfaction derived from the brain making images of itself at work
and duplicating its own structure and activity.’26 This is why authors
throughout history have employed ring-composition: ‘The brain
works by making parallelisms. No other explanation is necessary.’27
As for why authors should resort to the chiastically ordered parallel-
ism of ring-composition, Douglas observes that rings are difficult to
execute, and can thus authenticate narrator and narrative.28 Douglas
finds a second explanation for ring-structures in their ability to provide
closure through return to the beginning. This she identifies as product
of ‘a home seeking urge’, concluding ‘that “homing” is another of our
fundamental mental resources, like making analogies and parallel-
isms’.29 Meaning, however, is conditioned by context: ‘The myth of
eternal return can be taken to be comforting and stabilising, or it can
be seen as a frustratingly sinister trap. Alternatively, it is equally pos-
sible for every ending to be an opening on a new ring, a philosophy of
renewal and regeneration.’30
22 Cf. Bierl 2012: 173–4.

23 N. J. Richardson 1993: 13.
24 N. J. Richardson 1993: 5; cf. Whitman 1958: 258–9; Lewis 1981: 92.
25 Although Douglas’s analysis assumes conscious intent in the construction of rings,
her theoretical model could be used to explain the lack of scholarly consensus on
ring-composition in terms of both theorisation and diagnosis. It could even be
used to assert that alternative structural patterns are not inherently exclusive.
26 Douglas 2007: 40, 72.
27 Douglas 2007: 99–100.
28 Douglas 2007: 27–30.
29 Douglas 2007: 134, 137.
30 Douglas 2007: 73–4.
80 erwin cook
Douglas identifies these formal elements as characteristic of large-

scale ring-compositions:31 a prologue introduces the central theme and
characters; the narrative is divided in two by a ‘mid-turn’ echoing the
prologue and conclusion; the second half of the narrative runs parallel
to the first in chiastic order; all subsections are clearly demarcated,
often by minor ring-structures, especially the mid-turn; closure is
signalled with the repetition of key words and themes from prologue
and mid-turn; an epilogue, or ‘latch’, is common in long narratives
and sets ‘the text as a whole in a larger context, less parochial, more
humanist, or even metaphysical’;32 to identify individual rings, we
need ‘at least two distinctive items found in both members of the pair,
but nowhere else’.33
In contrast to Richardson, Douglas lays particular emphasis on the
‘mid-turn’, which she finds definitive of ring-composition and its most
important feature.34 The flanking rings serve to frame a structural
centre which they thus identify and emphasise.35 However, ‘The mid-
turn is not in the middle in any quantitative sense. The best way to
recognise it is by the two supporting series flanking it on either side
and showing a conspicuous correspondence to each other.’36
To identify the Iliad’s mid-turn, Douglas turns to Whitman’s analy-
sis of the temporal sequence. As Whitman notes, the embassy is flanked
by single days of fighting, and Douglas is able to find, in addition to
their clearly signposted temporal markers, two corresponding ‘items’
that identify them as parallel: ‘On day 4 Zeus sends up his eagle (8.247)
. . . and Zeus also prophesies Patroclus’s death and Achilles’ entry into
the war. On day 5 the eagle portent is repeated and the prophecies of
day 4 come true.’37 One may add that Zeus supplements his prophecy
in Book 8 with further prophecy in Book 15, in both cases to Hera. In
contrast to what he does in the other battle narratives, Zeus forbids
the other gods from interfering, while he actively does so.
After praising the ‘excellence’ of the poem’s mid-turn, however,
Douglas declares that ‘at this point my eulogy for the Iliad’s compli-
ance with ring conventions must come to a pause’.38 The difficulty is
that Douglas finds the ‘presumptive parallels’ between the remaining
days and nights to be ‘weak, barely recognisable’.39 Although the tem-
31 Douglas 2007, esp. 36–8.

32 Douglas 2007: 126.
33 Douglas 2007: 89.
34 Douglas 2007: e.g., x, 31–2, 34, 85–6.
35 Assumed by Whitman 1958; see also Cairns 2010: 42–4, 80–1.
36 Douglas 2007: 109.
37 Douglas 2007: 114.
38 Douglas 2007: 117.
39 Douglas 2007: 119.
Table 5.2 The structure of the Iliad
A Quarrel: between Agamemnon and Achilles

B Day of battle: the Greeks triumph, led by Diomedes
C Day of battle: the Trojans triumph, led by Hector
D Night-time embassy: Agamemnon offers to reconcile with Achilles
Cʹ Day of battle: the Trojans triumph, led by Hector
Bʹ Day of battle: the Greeks triumph, led by Achilles
Aʹ Reconciliation: between Priam and Achilles
poral sequence does identify the mid-turn, better results obtain if we

link the individual battles: assemblies in Books 1 and 2 are followed
by a battle lasting from Books 3 to 7. It is framed by complementary
duels, between Menelaus and Paris in Book 3, and between Ajax and
Hector in Book 7.40 The intervening narrative is structured by the
aristeia of Diomedes, widely recognised as a surrogate Achilles.41
Whereas Agamemnon and Achilles quarrel in the assembly of Book 1,
and the quarrel is echoed by the speech of Thersites in the assembly of
Book 2, in Book 19 we have another assembly in which Agamemnon
and Achilles reconcile, followed by the aristeia of Achilles in Books
20 to 22. His aristeia is bracketed by complementary duels, between
Aeneas and Achilles in Book 20, and between Hector and Achilles in
Book 22. Poseidon spirits Aeneas away before he is killed, a service
that Aphrodite performs for Paris in Book 3, while Hector loses the
duels to Ajax and Achilles. Finally, Zeus remains aloof from these
battles while the other gods participate, and Ares and Aphrodite are
wounded42 (Table 5.2).
In other words, more than one organisational structure is at work:
a sequence of days, and a contrapuntal sequence of battles. Whether
or not it is legitimate to pursue the analysis to the level of granular
detail attempted by Myres, Whitman and more recently Stanley, the
overarching structure seems clear.43
To sum up before proceeding to the Odyssey: Douglas offers a cog-
nitive theory that can be applied to ring-composition at any scale of
narrative and that assumes an author consciously striving to create the
effect as a source of aesthetic pleasure. On the other hand, Bakker’s
theory that small-scale ring-structures provide orientation for the
listener can also be extended to large-scale compositions. It is thus
essentially a functional theory, but it is not ultimately incompatible
40 Sheppard [1922] 1966: 34–5.

41 Sheppard [1922] 1966: 40, 46; N. J. Richardson 1993: 10; Scodel 2002: 27; Cook
[1999] 2009: 143 with n. 35; Christensen forthcoming, with n. 3.
42 N. J. Richardson 1993: 10–11; cf., however, Il. 22.209–13, 403–4.
43 Stanley 1993; see Nimis 1999.
82 erwin cook
Table 5.3 Framing the Necyia
A Cicones
B Lotus Eaters
C Cyclopes
Bʹ Aeolians
Aʹ Laestrygonians
D Circe
E Elpenor
Cʹ Necyia
Eʹ Elpenor
Dʹ Circe
F Sirens
G Scylla
Cʹʹ Thrinacia
Gʹ Charybdis
Fʹ Calypso
Source: Adapted from Whitman 1958: 288
with the view that such structures are also a source of aesthetic pleas-
ure. Where Bakker and Douglas differ most significantly is in their
assessment of the enclosed centre: for Bakker the centre adds and
contextualises, so that the effect of the concluding element is cumula-
tive, while for Douglas the centre is the most significant element of the
structure. The Odyssean material is varied on just this point and can
be used to support both positions. Odyssean ring-compositions not
only reflect the balanced aesthetic that defines archaic Greek art gen-
erally, but are also distinguished by marked variation that, together
with their complexity, suggests a high degree of self-consciousness in
their production.
Whitman unquestionably played a role in the neglect of Odyssean
ring-composition. He finds that, in contrast to the Iliad, which ‘follows
a strict Geometric design . . . . [v]ery little of the sort occurs in the
Odyssey, and where it does occur, asymmetrical elements are more fre-
quent, the responsions less careful and less significant’.44 Nevertheless,
he notes that the Apologue is structured by elaborate ring-composition
serving to frame the Necyia (Table 5.3).45
Confirmation of Whitman’s analysis can be found in the organisa-
tion of the Necyia, which is likewise structured by ring-composition
(Table 5.4).
44 Whitman 1958: 287.

45 Whitman 1958: 288; cf. Woodhouse 1930: 43–4.
Table 5.4 The structure of the Necyia with frame
Apologue A Circe describes the journey to Hades to Odysseus

B Elpenor’s death
Necyia C Voyage to Hades
bʹ First-person interview with Elpenor
i Refusal to interview Anticleia
ii First-person interview with Tiresias
iʹ First-person interview with Anticleia
D Third-person interviews with mothers of pre-Iliadic heroes,
including the mother and wife of Heracles
Intermezzo E Arete praises Odysseus’ person, acknowledges him as xeinos and
requests more gifts
F Echeneus approves
G Alcinous promises gifts and return
Fʹ Odysseus approves
Eʹ Alcinous praises Odysseus’ speech and requests more stories
Necyia Dʹ First-person interviews with Iliadic heroes and Heracles
Cʹ Voyage from Hades
Apologue Bʹ Elpenor’s Burial
Aʹ Circe describes the journey home to Odysseus
The ‘resumptive’ effect after the Necyia is so stark – Circe provides

Odysseus with the roadmap of his return that she claimed he would
receive from Tiresias – that scholars have sometimes labelled the entire
episode an interpolation.46 As I have noted elsewhere, the Intermezzo,
with its acknowledgement of Odysseus as Arete’s xeinos, promise of
further xeinia and affirmation of return, occupies the structural centre
of the narrative set on Scheria.47 It thus corresponds approximately
to a mid-turn for the Phaeacian episode. Nevertheless, as we shall see,
the Necyia as a whole, in which Odysseus learns the metaphysics of
his and his family’s destiny in contrast to those of the heroes of old,
constitutes the mid-turn of the poem.
Like the Apologue, the Telemachy is a quasi-autonomous narra-
tive integrated into the main story by structure and theme, and it
has approximately the same dimensions (Telemachy: 2,222 verses;
Apologue: 2,233). It is likewise enclosed by ring-structures, which are,
however, less comprehensive than those organising the Apologue.
Neither do they frame the centre, as there is none: in its place we have
complementary scenes of sacrificial and wedding banquets at Pylus
and Sparta comprising 50 per cent of the Telemachy (Ithaca: 1,100
verses; Pylus and Sparta: 1,121), themselves organised by simple rings
46 E.g., Page 1955b: ch. 2; cf. Nagler 1980; Heubeck in Heubeck and Hoekstra 1989:
75–7.
47 Cook 1995: 74–6.
84 erwin cook
in which ritual feasting brackets stories about Odysseus.48 Nor does

the opening frame anticipate the conclusion, as the initial scenes on
Ithaca are fully developed and the closing scenes cursory. Instead,
the closing scenes are designed, in part, to bring out the contrast
with Pylus and Sparta: this is the reason for the abrupt mid-sentence
scene-change from Sparta to Ithaca (4.625). Finally, since there is no
centre there is no ‘mid-turn’ of the sort that Douglas requires of a well-
turned ring. I do not see this as supporting Richardson’s theory that
poets expend less effort on shaping the central portion of the narrative
than its beginning and end. Nor is it a sign of diminished artistry: the
Apologue demonstrates an ability to create ring-structures as elaborate
as any discovered by Douglas, when occasion calls for it. Instead,
ring-composition articulates the formal boundaries of the Telemachy,
while the enclosed narrative contextualises the situation on Ithaca by
providing complementary images of well-ordered societies to which it
can be compared.
The episode at Sparta concludes by returning to the themes of
proper feasting and marriage with which it began. The narrative then
shifts to the antithetical scene on Ithaca in which Penelope’s suitors
amuse themselves in advance of dinner. The shift echoes the gaming
and feasting of the suitors in Books 1 and 2. The resulting ring is rein-
forced by further echoes of opening books that return the narrative,
without its protagonist, incrementally to the Telemachy’s first scene
(Table 5.5).
Noemon next arrives at the palace to ask Antinous and Eurymachus
if they know when Telemachus will return from Pylus, for, he adds,
Telemachus borrowed his ship and he needs it (4.630ff.). This echoes
the earlier scene in which Athena impersonates Telemachus and
secures the ship from Noemon (2.382–7). Antinous then convenes
the suitors to complain about Telemachus’ voyage, and requests a
ship with twenty companions to lay an ambush (4.659–72). The scene
parallels the assembly Telemachus convenes in Book 2 to denounce
the suitors. Antinous censures him for the denunciation, after which
Telemachus requests a ship. Noemon only appears in these two pas-
sages, and these are the only public assemblies in the Telemachy.
The herald Medon then informs Penelope of Telemachus’ journey
and the suitors’ plot (4.675ff.). Penelope complains to her maid-
servants that she is already bereft of a ‘famous husband’, and now
the storm-winds have snatched away her son (4.716–41). The scene
48 A similar pairing at the centre of a ring occurs in Odyssey 4, where complementary

speeches by Menelaus about his travels frame contrasting speeches, by Helen and
Menelaus, about Odysseus. See Gaisser 1969: 37 n. 46.
Table 5.5 The Telemachy’s narrative Frame
A Divine assembly
B Athena impersonates a family xeinos and encourages a grieving Telemachus
C The suffering Penelope
i Phemius sings the painful return of the Greeks
ii Penelope complains
iii Telemachus instructs her to return to her quarters and weave
iv The suitors raise a din and pray to sleep with her
v Athena puts Penelope to sleep
D Telemachus assembles the Ithakans; is censured by Antinous; requests a ship
E Noemon lends a ship to ‘Telemachus’
F Pylus
i Proper sacrificial feast on Pylus
ii Stories of Odysseus, Troy, the returning Greeks, Agamemnon
iʹ Proper sacrificial feast on Pylus
Fʹ Sparta
i Proper wedding feast at Sparta
iiʹ Stories of Odysseus, Troy, the returning Greeks, Agamemnon
iʹ Proper wedding feast at Sparta
Eʹ Noemon asks about the ship he lent ‘Telemachus’
Dʹ Antinous assembles the suitors; censures Telemachus; requests ship
Cʹ The suffering Penelope
i Medon announces the plot to kill the returning Telemachus
ii Penelope complains
iii Eurycleia instructs her to go to her upper chamber and pray
iv The suitors raise a din and declare she is about to wed
v Penelope falls asleep
Bʹ Athena impersonates Penelope’s sister and encourages a grieving Penelope in
her sleep
Aʹ Divine assemblya
a
See Myres 1952: 3, 13
echoes Penelope’s only previous appearance, when she complains to

Phemius of his singing the Returns of the Greeks, since she yearns for
her ‘famous husband’ (1.337–44: 1.344~4.726 = 4.816; her mention of
Laertes at 4.738 also echoes that of Athena at 1.189). The rings created
by Noemon and his ship, the two assemblies and Penelope’s grief are
strongly marked and easily recognisable.
The rings bracketing the Telemachy serve more than one purpose.
First, as Bakker has argued in the case of small-scale compositions,
they do not simply return to the point of departure, but the interven-
ing narrative ensures that this is a return with a difference: we now
see Ithaca in explicit contrast with Pylus and Sparta. In particular,
the ἔρανος described in the closing scene at Sparta (4.621–4) contrasts
sharply with the feasting of the suitors, which Athena sarcastically
86 erwin cook
declares is no picnic (1.226).49 Moreover, Telemachus now clearly

poses a threat to the suitors, with the result that the situation on
Ithaca too has changed. Finally, the ring created by the second divine
assembly formally subordinates the Telemachy to the main narrative
so that it contextualises the story of Odysseus: this is the situation,
wife and son Odysseus will return to. We shall presently see that the
Telemachy is subordinated to the main narrative in another way as
well. The second assembly is thus ‘resumptive’, returning the listener
to the nostos of Odysseus announced in the first assembly after an
extended anecdote about Telemachus. But the sequential return to
the poem’s opening scene also serves to announce that the story is
starting over with a new cast of characters. If this analysis is correct,
then it supports Whitman and Scodel’s argument that the assemblies
of Books 1 and 5 are, in a sense, the same.50 Telemachus consequently
hears about his father’s presence in Ogygia on the same morning that
Odysseus departs for home.
Ithaca in Book 4 also helps frame the second divine assembly, where
it is balanced by Ogygia in Book 5. The scenes are of nearly equal
length (Ithaca: 233 verses; Ogygia: 215), and serve double duty struc-
turally: Ithaca frames the Telemachy and the second assembly, while
Ogygia corresponds to Ithaca in Book 4 as part of the frame, and to
Ithaca in Book 1 as the scene immediately following an assembly. The
scenes that follow both assemblies thus begin with the arrival of a god
to announce the hero’s departure, the hero’s preparations to depart by
ship, assisted by a goddess, and the departure itself. In Books 4 and 5,
on the other hand, we have contrasting images of heralds, Medon and
Hermes, arriving at the chambers of Penelope and Calypso to make
a momentous announcement, and a resulting scene of grief over loss
by Odysseus’ consort.51 Noemon and his ship also do double duty:
his loan of the ship in Book 2 is balanced by his need of it in Book
4, which in turn corresponds to Odysseus’ need of a ship in Book 5;
and it precipitates a departure of the suitors from Ithaca that parallels
Odysseus’ departure for Ithaca. Finally, the assembly in Book 5 like-
wise does double duty, both as the goal of the narrative regression that
concludes the first narrative sequence, and as the point of departure
that begins the next one.
Most important thematically is the contrast between Odysseus’ con-
49 The Spartan ἔρανος is condemned by Page 1955b: 69; defended by S. West in

Heubeck et al. 1988, on 4.621–4.
50 Whitman and Scodel 1981, with the important qualifications of Scodel 2008, esp.
116; see also S. D. Olson 1995: ch. 5; Marks 2008: 36–44.
51 For Hermes’ role as herald, which he notoriously does not perform in the Iliad,
see, e.g., Hes. Op. 80, Th. 939; A. Ag. 514–15.
sorts: in the natural order of things, Calypso is meant to be without a

mortal companion, just as Penelope is meant to have one. Odysseus’
presence on Ogygia has caused inverse disruptions in the natural order
of both islands. Circumstances have compelled Penelope to become a
Calypso or Circe, and for all her human limitations Penelope exerts
a control over the suitors comparable to the control Circe exercises
over Odysseus and the crew, Calypso over Odysseus, or Helen over
her husband and Telemachus.52 This is what gives the contrast
point.
An inference I wish to draw from the way the transition to the
Phaeacis is managed is that Book 4 does not represent a natural break
in the narrative; indeed the composer has gone to some lengths to erase
what might have been one. I see this as weighing against the possibility
of four-book performance units.53 There is no comparable balancing
of themes in the transition from the Phaeacis to the Revenge. Instead,
the transition is desultory, but the effect is again to erase narrative
boundaries (Table 5.6).
The ‘second proem’ precedes a divine assembly, as does the first, but
lacks a formal parallel in Book 5. Poseidon appears at the same struc-
tural juncture in Aʹ as he would had the ring-composition continued
with Dʹ. The preceding rings may have suggested the entry of Poseidon
into the narrative at this point, and even introduced an element of
suspense, since they imply he will destroy the ship with Odysseus still
on board. But even though ring-composition is not used to return to
the beginning, it still frames the entire narrative set on Scheria. What
remains to be explained, then, is why A–D and their corresponding
primes are narrated in the same rather than chiastic order.
It is now necessary to consider the plot of the Odyssey, which as
noted is organised by a repeated sequence of themes. Moreover, the
pattern is complex, with a number of features that do not have an
obvious morphological explanation at the level of the type-scene.
Entries in roman type occur in all three narratives, while those
italicised occur in two, indicated in Table 5.7 by their initials ‘T’
(Telemachy), ‘P’ (Phaeacis) and ‘R’ (Revenge).
The thematic sequence elucidates the end of the Phaeacis. The feast
in Alcinous’ palace in Book 13 corresponds to theme (40), so that the
sequence is now complete. As in the Telemachy, this is itself a ring-
structure, followed by a series of further themes that provide closure
to the Scherian narrative (Table 5.7, Fʹ to Dʹ). The last four themes,
however, belong to the next iteration of the sequence. The feasting of
52 Zeitlin 1995: 139; on Helen see M. L. West [1975] 2011; Clader 1976.
53 On the book divisions, see now Jensen 2011: ch. 10
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Table 5.6 The Phaeacis and transition to the Revenge
A Divine assembly: Athena complains about Odysseus’ treatmenta

B Journey of a god, Hermes, to earth
C Odysseus sets out from Ogygia to return home
D Poseidon destroys Odysseus’ ship as it reaches Scheria
E Odysseus arrives on Scheria at night
F Odysseus enters the palace at night
i Phaeacian elders pour libations to Hermes
ii Odysseus approaches Arete and supplicates her
iʹ Pontonoos prepares libations to Zeus
G Phaeacians feast all day in honour of Odysseusb
H Odysseus narrates his adventures
Gʹ Phaeacians feast all day in honour of Odysseus
Fʹ Odysseus departs from the palace at night
iʹ Pontonoos prepares libations to Zeus
iiʹ Odysseus pledges Arete and departs
Eʹ Odysseus and Phaeacians set out from Scheria at night
Second ‘proem’ (13.88–92)
e Odysseus and Phaeacians arrive at Ithaca at night; Phaeacians return home
Aʹ Divine assembly: Poseidon complains about Odysseus’ treatment
Bʹ Journey of a god, Poseidon, to earth
Cʹ Phaeacians arrive at Scheria
Dʹ Poseidon destroys ship that conveyed Odysseus as it reaches Scheria
a
Note that A–Aʹ and F–Fʹ are complementary scenes of nocturnal arrival and
departure that frame the Phaeacis and the palace sequence respectively.
b
For the significance of the ring, see Nagy 2010: 92–102.
Table 5.7 The plot of the Odyssey
1. The story begins with a proem characterising Odysseus (TR)

2. and a divine assembly in which a god complains to Zeus about Odysseus’ return
and others’ transgressions,
3. followed by a divine arming scene (TP) and journey to an island
4. where the god takes in the surroundings
and is recognised by the ruler, who offers hospitality (TP).
5. While others feast,
6. the hero is:
under the control of a powerful female,
and isolated from the community,
in his yearning for Odysseus’ return.
7. A goddess rouses and assists the hero (TP)
8. who secures a ship,
provisions it with female and even divine (TP) assistance,
and undertakes a nocturnal (TR) voyage, a
9. but Poseidon destroys the ship as it nears its destination (PR).
10. Athena facilitates the hero’s arrival, gives tharsos to a royal youth meeting an
intimidating stranger (TP), and her olive tree offers protection (PR).
11. A royal youth, the great-grandchild of Poseidon (TP), welcomes the newly
arrived and awakened (PR) hero on the beach,
12. who is offered food or hints he is hungry.

13. The hero describes himself and his quest, but withholds his name,
14. followed by stories of Troy,
15. epiphanies of the hero and goddess,
16. and the hero being advised to seek further assistance from a named individual.
17. The hero proceeds to his initial destination,
18. the home of a man noteworthy for hospitality and piety,
where he spends the night
and his appearance is transformed, rendering him godlike (TR).
19. The hero is escorted to a sacred grove and spring, b
20. where prayers are offered for Odysseus’ return (PR),
21. and then to a palace, which is his final destination.
22. A wedding is imminent,
23. the community feasts in celebration,
24. and the queen enjoys noteworthy prominence.
25. The hero marvels at the palace and guard dog(s) (PR)
26. and hospitality is initially called into question, but the person responsible is
admonished.
27. The royal household offers the hero hospitality, and he is awarded a seat of
honour next to the king (TP).
28. The hero does not disclose and actively conceals (PR) his identity,
29. but an identification is made by the queen, based on physical appearance,
30. who tests the disguised Odysseus,
31. and the king declares he would grant Odysseus part of his kingdom (TP).
32. Stories of Odysseus at Troy cause the hero and/or host to weep.
33. If the hero conceals his identity, royal youths insult his appearance and prowess,
34. he enters a contest which he wins, thereby avenging the insult,
35. and reveals his identity (PR).
36. Goods and honours are offered to placate the offended (PR) hero.
37. The hero or host narrates his adventures,
38. which include or are followed by catabasis,
and accounts of Odysseus, Agamemnon, Achilles (PR) and a grieving parent. c
39. The hero is offered, or recounts receiving, gifts,
40. followed by further feasting.
a
Odysseus sails day and night to Scheria.
b
The stay in the city of Pherae in the Telemachy occurs at this juncture.
c
On Menelaus’ Egyptian adventure, see Powell 1970; Nagler 1980; A. Lord 2000:
165–9.
the Phaeacians in Book 13 creates a ring (Gʹ) that also corresponds

to theme (5). Odysseus’ pledge of Arete before departing (Fʹ) echoes
his earlier supplication on entering the palace and reminds us of the
queen’s prominence. It thus corresponds to theme (6), as does his
isolation during the feast. His nocturnal departure from Scheria (Eʹ)
balances his nocturnal arrival and corresponds to theme (8). The
‘second proem’, divine assembly and Poseidon’s journey to earth
occur during the Phaeacians’ return voyage, and the section is framed
by scenes of Odysseus sleeping and waking on Ithaca. Nevertheless all
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of the themes in the previous iterations of the pattern are represented

except (4) and (7). The sequence is thus: 5, 6, 8, 1, 2, 3, 9 and so on.
Like the rings at the end of the Telemachy, these themes serve double
duty, simultaneously concluding the Phaeacis and launching the
Revenge. The effect is to erase the very narrative boundaries that the
story-pattern would naturally impose: it is as though we are dealing
with a poem designed to be unperformable in the sense of being
unstoppable.
Other departures from the sequence of themes can be explained by
the process of local adaptation, compression and expansion. In the
Phaeacis, for example, the initial destination is eliminated, while in
the Revenge, Eumaeus’ hut, to which Odysseus first proceeds, provides
a setting in which to develop the themes of disguise and testing, and
to reunite Odysseus with his son. These sorts of examples could be
much expanded, but the sequence still remains fairly uniform, both
in the recurrence of themes and in the order in which they appear.
Type-scenes, it should be noted, can undergo similar expansion and
compression while maintaining a fixed thematic sequence.
Structurally parallel themes can also resonate with each other
in meaningful ways.54 For example, the sequence confirms that
Odysseus’ boast about his skill as an archer in the Phaeacis foreshad-
ows the mnēsterophonia:55 the quarrel with the Phaeacian youths that
precipitates the boast is structurally parallel to the mnēsterophonia,
in which Odysseus uses his bow to kill the suitors. Moreover, in
making his boast Odysseus declares that he would not compete with
Heracles and Eurytus in archery (8.223–8), while immediately before
the mnēsterophonia we learn that Odysseus’ bow once belonged to
Eurytus and was given to him by his son, Iphitus, whom Heracles
killed and whose horses he stole even though Iphitus was his guest
(21.11–41). It is thus with the xeinion of a xeinos killed in flagrant vio-
lation of the laws of xeiniē that Odysseus kills the suitors for violating
those same laws in similar ways.
As a further example of such intratextual engagement, consider the
scenes of recognition by the queen: Helen identifies Telemachus from
his physical appearance (4.138–46); Arete in turn identifies the cloth-
ing Odysseus is wearing and through this recognises that he has had
uncertain dealings with her daughter (7.233–9). These parallel scenes
inject suspense into Odysseus’ encounter with Penelope as to whether,
54 Cook 2012 provides a preliminary survey of the parallels between the three narra-
tive threads and the plot of the Homeric Hymn to Demeter; on the arrival scenes in
Books 3, 6 and 13, see also Cook 1998; for the parallels between the Phaeacis and
Revenge see Lang 1969.
55 See Scodel, this volume, pp. 71–2.
and in what way, the queen will identify the stranger (such expecta-
tions may have been reinforced by traditions in which Penelope
does recognise him).56 The poet’s response is to incorporate and
displace both identifications: when the disguised Odysseus describes
what he wore to Troy, Penelope is able to recognise the clothing, the
person described as her husband, and the stranger as his guest-friend
(19.221–35). Yet she ‘recognises’ Odysseus in a narrative of the distant
past. Afterwards, a mother-figure, Eurycleia, recognises the stranger’s
resemblance to Odysseus, and then that he is indeed Odysseus, on the
basis of his hunting scar (19.361ff.).
Further analysis of these engagements is for another study. More
important in the present context is the typology of the sequence. It
is generally recognised that the plot of Homeric epic is structured by
the ‘withdrawal and return’ story-pattern which, Albert Lord argues,
originates in fertility myth:
The essential pattern of the Iliad is the same as that of the

Odyssey; they are both the story of an absence that causes havoc
to the beloved of the absentee and of his return to set matters
right . . . The rape of Persephone in all its forms as a fertility
myth underlies all epic tales of this sort, and until the historical is
completely triumphant over the mythic, all such tales are likely to
be drawn into the pattern of the myth.57
Six years later, Mary Louise Lord published a detailed comparison of

the Hymn to Demeter with the epics. At the outset, Lord cautions that
she is ‘not suggesting literary indebtedness, but instead similarity in
the use of old and widespread epic themes’.58 Nevertheless, she makes
the plot of the Hymn the basis of her comparison:
The narrative pattern . . . centers on the following principal ele-

ments with accompanying themes:
(1) the withdrawal of the hero (or heroine), which sometimes
takes the form of a long absence; this element is often closely
linked with a quarrel and the loss of someone beloved;
(2) disguise during the absence or upon the return of the hero,
frequently accompanied by a deceitful story;
(3) the theme of hospitality to the wandering hero;
56 Katz 1991: 93–113; Felson-Rubin 1994: 3–4, 56–60; Doherty 1995: ch. 1, 140–4;
Murnaghan [1987] 2011: 36–7, ch. 4; S. Saïd 2011: 285–9, 297–302; for sustained
analysis of the episode, see now Levaniouk 2011.
57 A. Lord 2000: 186; cf. H. Clarke 1989: 70–2.
58 M. L. Lord [1967] 1994: 182; cf. Sowa 1984; Nickel 2003; Cook 2012.
92 erwin cook
(4) the recognition of the hero, or at least a fuller revelation of his

identity;
(5) disaster during or occasioned by the absence;
(6) the reconciliation of the hero and return.59
Although Lord observes that the themes generally occur in the same
order, she argues that the sequence may be altered to suit the needs of
the narrative. This obviously obtains when, as she also notes, impor-
tant themes are repeated for emphasis.
Lord finds that themes (2)–(6) are well represented in the Odyssey,
but that the first theme is not. As a possible echo, she offers the wrath
of Poseidon, which leads to Odysseus’ absence and the death of his
companions, though she concedes that the absence is not motivated by
the hero’s loss (nor is it motivated by his wrath). As a second possibil-
ity, she offers Nestor’s account of the quarrel between the Atreidai,
who serve as narrative foils for Odysseus. Neither parallel is direct,
nor do they occur in sequence. Finally, Lord observes that Demeter’s
withdrawal differs from Achilles’ and Odysseus’ because it takes the
form of a journey in search of her daughter. Lord does, however, note
the parallel supplied by the Telemachy: ‘one of the intrusive patterns
in the Odyssey is Telemachus’ quest for news of his absent father, an
initiatory exploit for Telemachus’.60
In the same year that Lord’s study appeared, Rose published a com-
parative analysis of what he terms a ‘revenge pattern’ in the Odyssey:
1. The hero suffers outrage or disgrace;

2. initiates a plan of revenge;
3. departs from home as part of the strategy;
4. returns secretly and unexpectedly;
5. and exacts revenge, although his enemy enjoys an advantage
in strength or numbers.61
This is transparently the same story-pattern analysed by Lord. Rose’s

findings differ from hers because he only treats Odyssean instantia-
tions and includes themes shared by nearly all the narratives. In so
restricting his evidence, however, he exposes what seems to be an
epic variation on the pattern: the hero’s secret return for revenge.
Moreover, whereas the theme of return for revenge features promi-
nently in both epics, that of secret return is restricted to the Odyssey,
59 M. L. Lord [1967] 1994: 181–2 (my formatting).

60 M. L. Lord [1967] 1994: 185.
61 Abstracted from G. Rose 1967: 396.
where it can be explained by its centrality to Odysseus’ strategy for

killing the suitors.62
Rose finds the theme of angry withdrawal after suffering outrage
so pervasive that he includes it in the pattern even though he notes
that ‘Orestes and Odysseus also return unexpectedly from an absence
and successfully accomplish their revenge. Missing from the motif is,
obviously, a departure from home as part of the strategy.’63 This is a
variation on Lord’s claim that in the Odyssey the hero’s ‘withdrawal
or long absence, associated with anger and the loss of a loved one,
is not so clear-cut as in the Iliad’.64 Nickel goes so far as to say that
‘The Hymn to Demeter is the only poem from the Greek oral tradi-
tion, besides the Iliad, whose narrative is structured around the story
pattern of wrath, withdrawal, and return.’65
The Telemachy, however, exhibits all of the elements that Lord and
Rose identify as belonging to the first theme. As one might expect,
the Telemachy includes other themes as well, but what it pointedly
does not include is a secret return for revenge. Yet if we consider
events independently of character we see that the poem describes a
withdrawal by Telemachus followed by Odysseus’ return. What I am
suggesting, then, is that the Telemachy supplies the missing elements
of the pattern, and in their proper order, so that the Odyssey can be
seen as a story of withdrawal and return.66 This combined account
emerges as the ultimate example of ring-composition in the poem, one
that represents ‘a philosophy of renewal and regeneration’. Form is
content.
I thus suggest that the withdrawal of Telemachus makes Odysseus’
return possible. Indeed, the Hymn to Demeter models just such a sce-
nario, in which Demeter’s withdrawal is responsible for Persephone’s
return. The Telemachy accomplishes this in thematic terms by initiat-
ing the pattern of withdrawal and return. It thereby allows Odysseus
to return in a manner appropriate to the situation on Ithaca. Odysseus
usurps, as it were, the return for revenge that Telemachus prepares for
with his angry departure. For this reason, Odysseus must return first,
leaving Telemachus stranded in Sparta for nearly a month. Moreover,
62 The theme of disguised return is, however, clearly reproduced in Patroclus’ re-
entry into battle wearing Achilles’ armour. What makes this of special interest in
the present context is that the Return themes are thus distributed among closely
related characters (on which, see below).
63 G. Rose 1967: 396.
64 M. L. Lord [1967] 1994: 184.
65 Nickel 2003: 60.
66 This is ideologically interesting as the interchangeability of father and son affirms
the ability of the father to reproduce himself in the son. This bears directly on the
symbolism of Laertes’ garden (on which, see below).
94 erwin cook
the displacement of the son by the father in the pattern is abetted

by the rings that manage the transition between the Telemachy and
the Phaeacis: not only does the device subordinate the Telemachy
thematically to the story of Odysseus, but it also creates a bridge
that brings the narratives into structural relation with one another as
two halves of a single withdrawal and return. The Telemachy twice
contextualises the main narrative: by defining the circumstances of
Odysseus’ return and by initiating a withdrawal and return to which it
supplies the themes of a lost loved one, quarrelling, suffering outrage
and angry withdrawal. The thematic sequence that I have identified
as the Odyssey’s plot is thus a journey sequence used to describe both
withdrawal and return. The sequence starts over before the Phaeacis
concludes in order to integrate it and the Revenge into a single two-
stage narrative of return.
The withdrawal and return story that is the Odyssey meets the
formal requirements of large-scale ring-composition as outlined by
Douglas: the beginning is echoed at the end, and it has a clearly
marked mid-turn that echoes both. The prologue looks forward to
the mnēsterophonia and reunion with Penelope by speaking of how
Odysseus yearns for his wife, and the contest (1.18: ἀέθλων) that
awaits him even among his own people (19: φίλοισι).67 The divine
assembly reinforces this with the paradigmatic account of how Orestes
killed Aegisthus for courting Clytemnestra (39: μνάασθαι ἄκοιτιν) and
murdering Agamemnon. Athena then declares that she will place
‘manhood’ in Telemachus (89: μένος) so he can denounce the suitors
of Penelope (91: μνηστήρεσσιν).
More generally, the principal actors and themes from the Telemachy
converge in the mnēsterophonia and anagnōrismos. When Athena
arrives on Ithaca, Telemachus is daydreaming about his father scat-
tering the suitors and himself gaining honour (113–18). This directly
foreshadows the mnēsterophonia in which he joins his father in killing
the suitors, thanks to Athena’s gift of menos. Telemachus’ conflict
with the suitors in the assembly of Book 2 and their subsequent
ambush provide further echoes of the mnēsterophonia, itself both a
contest and an ambush. Athena is present in bird form to oversee
the slaughter (22.239–40), while in Book 1 she mentions Odysseus’
poisoned arrows (260–4), encourages Telemachus to kill the suitors
(294–6) and departs as a bird (319–20).68 Phemius and Medon, whose
complementary role at the beginning and end of the Telemachy is to
67 This is the only direct reference to Odysseus yearning for his wife by the narrator
(though see 5.209–10).
68 On the logic of her advice, see Felson-Rubin 1994: 4–9.
narrate events that cause Penelope to grieve, appear impromptu at

the close of the mnēsterophonia to be spared as a pair (22.330–80).69
After she recognises Odysseus, Penelope listens to his story of return
(23.306–43), just as she had earlier heard Phemius sing the Returns
of the Greeks, a song from which Odysseus is excluded (1.328–44).
Odysseus’ story at the end of the poem thus completes Phemius’ song
at the beginning. Another pairing of characters occurs when Athena
then escorts Odysseus and his party to Laertes’ orchard in Book 23,
followed by Hermes’ escort of the suitors to Hades in 24. This cor-
responds to the double embassy announced in Book 1. In both cases,
Athena journeys to Ithaca and provides safe escort, of Telemachus
and of Odysseus, Telemachus, Eumaeus and Philoetius, followed by
Hermes’ journeys to an island of the blessed (Ogygia) and Hades.70
Finally, note the paired warnings of Halitherses and Mentor in the
assembly of Book 2 (157–76, 224–41), and Athena’s subsequent
appearance as Mentor (398–401), followed by Halitherses’ reminder
of both warnings in Book 24 (451–62), and Athena’s subsequent
appearance as Mentor (502–3).
The prophecy of Tiresias (11.100–37) is key to understanding the
Necyia as a mid-turn. It echoes the themes of the prologue and first
divine assembly when Tiresias declares that Poseidon hates Odysseus
and is hindering his return because he blinded Polyphemus. At the
same time, the prophecy looks forward to the poem’s conclusion:
if Odysseus’ companions harm the cattle of Helius, Odysseus will
return late and alone to find suitors devouring his own biotos; he will,
however, take revenge on them.71 These parallels are reinforced when
Odysseus repeats to Penelope the further prophecy that he must under-
take another journey to propitiate Poseidon (23.268–84~11.121–37).
Ring-structures feature so prominently in the Apologue not simply to
authenticate Odysseus as story-teller, but also to mark the Necyia as
the poem’s mid-turn.
Finally, there is a narrative latch. Aristophanes and Aristarchus
69 Eurycleia’s appearances are of some interest here: she assists in the ambush
(21.380–7, 22.390–434), as she had earlier helped Telemachus depart from Ithaca
(2.345–80). When Medon arrives at Penelope’s chambers with news that the
suitors are planning to ambush Telemachus, Eurycleia tries to console the dis-
traught Penelope and instructs her to pray to Athena (4.742–57). After Odysseus
spares Medon, Eurycleia arrives at Penelope’s chamber to comfort her with the
news that Odysseus has returned (23.1–84). In the first instance, Eurycleia asks
Penelope to punish her; in the latter Penelope expresses the desire to do so. These
are the only two occasions on which Eurycleia addresses Penelope in the poem.
70 On Ogygia, see Powell 1970: 421; Crane 1988: 33–4, 142; Cook 1992.
71 On the logic of the prophecy, see Peradotto 1990: 63–75.
96 erwin cook
notoriously claimed that the Odyssey ends at 23.296.72 To be sure,

the thematic sequence I have outlined integrates Odysseus’ adventure
story to Penelope, the second Necyia and recognition of Laertes
into the narrative.73 But there is an important respect in which
the Alexandrians are right, for the Odyssey ends twice, once after
Penelope recognises Odysseus, and a second time after Laertes does
so. The events following the second Necyia thus constitute the latch
that places the story in its wider metaphysical context. This it accom-
plishes in two ways: most directly, we see Zeus enact the ‘principles of
his rule’, programmatically announced in the first divine assembly, by
putting an end to needless human suffering.74
When Eupeithes and over half the parents of the suitors set out
to take revenge on Odysseus, the scene switches to Olympus, where
Athena asks whether Zeus intends war or friendship (24.472–6). The
scene is a variant on the previous divine assemblies in which Athena
complains of the mistreatment of Odysseus. The scene thus sends a
false signal that the story is starting over again. This is reinforced by
cultural expectations, for after Odysseus kills the suitors it is to be
assumed that their relatives will attempt to retaliate. Zeus, however,
responds by suggesting that the suitors’ relatives be made to forget
their sorrows. He thereby puts an, or even the, end to the eternal
return of death by vendetta, so that an end to cyclical death is also the
end of the Odyssey.75 For the second way in which the latch provides
metaphysical context, we need to return to the origins of the Odyssey
plot.
Thus far my analysis only depends on seeing the Odyssey as a highly
sophisticated withdrawal and return. In an earlier study, however, I
argued that the Odyssey presents itself as the political equivalent of
fertility cult, promising material prosperity to a listening community
willing to submit to its ideology and holding out the possibility of
immortal fame to those who strive to emulate its heroes.76 There my
focus was on epiphany and theoxeny: in the present context I note that
the theoxeny theme can account for the themes of disguise and punish-
ment that Rose identifies as key elements of his revenge pattern. More
72 On the end of the Odyssey, relevant scholarship includes: Pfeiffer 1968: 175–7;
Thornton 1970: ch. 11; Erbse 1972: 166–244; Fenik 1974: 47–53; Moulton 1974;
Wender 1978; Goldhill 1991: 18–22; Scodel 1998a; Bierl 2004; Marks 2008: ch. 3;
Murnaghan [1987] 2011: 18–23; S. Saïd 2011: 217–22.
73 Laertes’ orchard is structurally significant: 1.193, 11.193, 24.221 etc.
74 Kullmann 1985: 5; cf. 6–7: ‘The religious system of the Odyssey . . . gives some-
thing like a metaphysical foundation of the principle of justice.’. . .
75 Wender 1978, esp. 64; Heubeck in Russo et al. 1992: on 24.482–5; Marks 2008:
67–78; Saïd 2011: 221.
76 Cook 2012.
important in the present context, the significance of the latch becomes

more fully evident when viewed in relationship with the Persephone
myth.
That myth is a double ring-pattern in which the human life-cycle
is assimilated to the cycles of nature, so that eternal return becomes
‘a philosophy of renewal and regeneration’. The withdrawal and
return of Demeter is literally accompanied by the death and rebirth
of nature; while the parallel withdrawal and return of Persephone
assimilates her death and rebirth to nature’s cycles. Vegetable life thus
provides an analogical model for the mitigated triumph over death
realised in cult with the promise of prosperity in this life and eternal
blessedness in the next: infinite linear time in the divine sphere is thus
made cyclical, resulting in partial mortality; this leads to a parallel
conversion of finite linear time in the human sphere that results in
partial immortality.
The Odyssey likewise integrates the story of Odysseus into nature’s
cycles: Odysseus reveals his identity during a New Year festival on
the new moon marking the winter solstice on the first day of the first
month of the twentieth year after he left for Troy.77 His return thus
marks the completion of a ‘Great Year’ when ‘the New Moon would
coincide with the New Sun of the winter solstice’.78 As a result the
σύνοδος Ὀδυσσέως καὶ Πηνελόπης occurs during the σύνοδος Ἡλίου καὶ
Σελήνης.79 Moreover, when Odysseus builds his marriage bed on the
stump of a living olive tree, he literally displaces the cycles of nature
with the human life-cycles of waking and sleep, conception, birth
and death, or in seasonal terms life, death and rebirth.80 This human
cycle is embodied in Odysseus, Telemachus and most completely
Penelope, who conceives and bears a son on this very bed.81 In this
sense, she is the tree and Odysseus her gardener; yet she is equally the
tree’s gardener in that she cultivates their marriage and ensures the
continued viability of the oikos by preserving the bed’s integrity. The
bed is not simply a sēma of identity; it is that identity, invested with a
numinous power such that its true nature is a carefully guarded secret.
Moreover, Penelope recognises Odysseus by returning, through the
narrative of the bed’s fabrication, to their wedding night; and they are
77 On his appearance as epiphanic, see Cook 2012. For the timelines involved see,
e.g., Auffarth 1991: 388–420; Austin 1975: ch. 5; Cook 1995: 156–7.
78 Murray 1934: 211.
79 Murray 1934: 212; cf. Auffarth 1991: 417–20.
80 Katz 1991: 177–82; Cook 1995: 154, 161–3; Zeitlin 1995; Saïd 2011: 216–17.
81 This coheres with Homeric agricultural metaphors such as τὸν . . . θρέψαν θεοὶ
ἔρνει ἶσον (Od. 14.175; cf. Il. 18.56, 437–8); for the metaphor in classical Athens,
cf. Ormand 1999, esp. 20–1, 138–41.
98 erwin cook
remarried on that same bed after Athena has rejuvenated her and her
husband (18.187–96; 23.153–63).82 Return home is equally a return
to the past and with it erasure of the physical effects of over nineteen
years spent at Troy and wandering. As important, with his successful
reintegration into the household, Odysseus wins immortal kleos as the
hero whose late return heralds the return of prosperity to the entire
kingdom.83 His remarriage to Penelope is thus a hieros gamos that
takes place on a displaced source of biotos.
This complex of themes is powerfully echoed in the recognition
scene with Laertes.84 Whereas Odysseus incorporates living nature
into the heart of his domestic space as the foundation of his marriage
bed, Laertes makes nature his domestic space, sleeping on the leaves
of his orchard in summer and at the hearth of his farmstead in winter
(11.187–96). While Penelope’s preservation of the tree-bed represents
the continued well-being of the family, Laertes’ cultivation of the
orchard sustains the household literally and symbolically through its
production of biotos.85 Whereas the foundation of the marriage (bed)
on a living tree displaces nature’s cycles with those of man, and specifi-
cally Odysseus’ family, ‘In the primary rituals of planting and tending
[Laertes] reasserts the connection between human life and the rhythms
of nature.’86 The orchard thus becomes a symbol of generational suc-
cession, from father to son.
Like the tree-bed, a living orchard representing the social reproduc-
tion of the family is both context and instrument of recognition and
legitimacy. While the scar is offered to Penelope as proof of Odysseus’
identity, only to be rejected, Odysseus now shows it to Laertes as a
proof to be superseded. In both cases, the preferred token is a shared
memory upon or within which the house of Arcesius is assimilated
to the eternal returns of nature. Odysseus thus proves his identity by
recounting the trees and vines Laertes had given him as a young boy.
Whereas ‘the gift which a father gives his son is life, and the right to
give life in turn to his son’, Odysseus affirms he is Laertes’ son by
reminding Laertes that he had once given him biotos.87 Laertes thus
recognises his son by returning through narrative to a time when he
himself was in his prime.
82 Levaniouk 2011: 66–9.

83 Cook 2012: 53–6; cf. D. Steiner 2009; Levaniouk 2011: ch. 6.
84 On the connection of bed, orchard and Laertids, see Henderson 1997, esp. 97–8,
110–12.
85 Odysseus is reunited with Telemachus on a pig farm, so that his reunion with each
member of his family is associated with productive nature. It is, conversely, for
their wasteful consumption of Odysseus’ βίοτος that the suitors are destroyed.
86 Falkner [1989] 1995: 43–4.
87 Wender 1978: 61–2; cf. Henderson 1997: 108.
In a real sense, then, the orchard is not simply a token that reveals
Odysseus’ identity, but is that identity as surely as his scar; nor, like
the tree-bed, is it merely his own identity, but equally that of Laertes,
who laboured over it, and of Telemachus, who will inherit it. And so
the scene of reunion in an orchard as a new year begins reintegrates
Laertes into the family after his withdrawal, while Demeter restores
life to the world and returns to Olympus when Persephone returns
to her. The reunion of father and son in a symbol of cyclical nature
reconstitutes the family across three generations, representing a
complete human life-cycle of youth, maturity and old age that cor-
responds to the Homeric seasons of ἔαρ, θέρος and χεῖμα in further
expression of a ‘philosophy of renewal and regeneration’. This is
followed, as it must be, with feasting, in which the reconstituted
family is ritually affirmed through commensality.88 Before they eat,
however, Athena rejuvenates Laertes, just as she had earlier rejuve-
nated Odysseus before Penelope recognises him. Afterwards, Athena
addresses Laertes as ‘o son of Arcesius’ (24.517: ὦ Ἀρκεισιάδη), the
only time he is so called in the poem.89 All three generations of the
household are now, miraculously, in the prime of life. This too is
echoed in Laertes’ orchard, where the vines are said to bear grapes
‘continuously’ (24.342: διατρύγιος) in clear evocation of the season-
less and ageless environment of Elysium.90 Laertes is even allowed to
win his own measure of kleos by making the only kill described in the
ensuing altercation with the suitors’ parents.
I conclude by elaborating on the claim that the Odyssey’s promise
of wealth and prosperity extends to the entire community. It has been
a commonplace among social anthropologists since Malinowski and
Boas that performing the old stories allows the community to re-enter
the primordial past in which the gods still walked among us. It is in
this light, I suggest, that we should understand the mimetic nature
of Homeric performance, as a religious act of eternal return that
makes the ancient heroes and the gods vividly present.91 As a story of
withdrawal and return, the Odyssey thus reproduces its own poetics.
It does so a second time by making epiphany, and in particular the
miraculous reappearance of the long-absent Odysseus, the dramatic
88 As such, it is functionally analogous to the ritual foot-washing in Book 19 affirm-

ing the beggar’s status as xeinos, and the love-making of Odysseus and Penelope
in Book 23 reaffirming their marriage. See Katz 1991: 143–7; Cook 1995: 155.
89 Anticipated by 24.270; for its immediate function see Scodel 1998a: 13.
90 Heubeck in Russo et al. 1992: on 24.342–4.
91 On Homeric mimesis, see Nagy 1996: ch. 3; Bakker 2005: chs. 4, 9; Cook [1999].
2009: 127–8; cf. Ford 1992: 6–7, 49–56, 126–30; Seaford 2012: ch. 2.
100 erwin cook
climax and central theme of the epic.92 Whereas withdrawal and

return is the ultimate ring-structure in the Odyssey, epic performance
is the ultimate return narrative in archaic Greece. More broadly, the
Odyssey expresses nostalgia for a return to the glories of a bygone age
from a degenerate present. This yearning is realised when Athena reju-
venates Penelope, Odysseus and Laertes, thereby restoring them to
their relationships before Odysseus left for Troy. The spatial pattern
of withdrawal and return is thus assimilated to a temporal pattern
in which the progress of time itself is reversed, so that linear time is
made cyclical, the same feat accomplished by inscribing the human
life-cycle into the cycles of nature. Yet the degenerate present from
which the poem longs to return also represents the contemporary
world of its audience.93 In his final speech to Athena, Zeus promises
that the returned Odysseus will rule ‘forever’ (24.483: αἰεί) and that the
people of Ithaca will enjoy ‘abundant wealth and peace’ (486: πλοῦτος
δὲ καὶ εἰρήνη ἅλις).94 Zeus’ promise has a clear echo in the prophecy
of Tiresias that Odysseus will die ‘overcome by a rich old age, and
his people will prosper about him’ (11.136–7 = 23.283–4: γήρᾳ ὕπο
λιπαρῷ ἀρημένον· ἀμφὶ δὲ λαοὶ / ὄλβιοι ἔσσονται). So too, the Hymn
to Demeter promises that whomever the goddesses love will be ‘enor-
mously prosperous’, for they send the god Wealth to take up residence
at his hearth (486: μεγ᾿ ὄλβιος; 489: Πλοῦτος). Return thus takes place
on a common spatio-temporal axis in which the return of Odysseus to
Ithaca is simultaneously a return of Ithaca to the heroic world, with
its promise of renewed prosperity and immortality, achieved through
the eternal return of Homer.
92 Cook 2012.
93 On the social setting as post-heroic, see, e.g., Redfield [1983] 2009: 266–9.
94 The word πλοῦτος recurs once in the Odyssey, in the formula ὄλβῳ τε πλούτῳ
(14.206).
PART II
THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE
GREEK TRADITION
6
EXEMPLARITY AND NARRATIVE IN

THE GREEK TRADITION
Douglas Cairns
This chapter investigates the role of what I shall call the ‘principle of
alternation’ (the idea that no human life is free of suffering, that the
best one can expect is a mixture of good and bad fortune) in (some)
ancient Greek narratives. This is not a narratological study in the tra-
ditional, formalist sense, but rather reflects my own interests in Greek
social and ethical norms and especially in the sociality of emotion
in ancient Greek societies. In its broadest terms, its affiliations are
with recent approaches, especially those influenced by the cognitive
sciences, that see the human species’ storytelling propensities, and
particularly the interest in the lives and minds of others that these
engage and manifest, as a function of our cognitive and affective
evolution. The interest in others’ minds and experiences manifested
in (cinematic, literary and other forms of) narrative is not separable
from the interest in others’ minds and experiences, and the capacities
to have such interest, that we have developed as a result of our evolu-
tion as a social species.1 Emotional responses to imagined scenarios,
for instance, are as important in life as in literature.2 On one level,
Special thanks to Dr Naoko Yamagata (and members of the Pre-Modern Japanese

Studies list) for help with this chapter. I thank also an audience at International
Christian University, Tokyo, in June 2013, and in particular Professors Shigenari
Kawashima and Tzvetana Kristeva, for their most helpful comments on an oral
version.
1 See Carroll 2004; Palmer 2004; Zunshine 2006; Boyd 2009, 141–9 and passim;
G. Currie 2010, esp. 93–106, 109–22, 199–216; Leverage et al. 2011; Oatley 2011:
19–21, 24–49 and passim, 2012: 154–62. On humans’ ‘innate primary intersubjec-
tivity’, see Trevarthen 1979, 1998; Dissanayake 2000 passim; Decety and Meltzoff
2011. On mind-reading, see, e.g., Baron-Cohen 1995, 1999; Gärdenfors 2003:
83–109; Nichols and Stich 2003. Specifically on the supposed neural underpin-
nings (‘mirror neurons’), see Iacoboni 2008, 2011; Rizzolati and Sinigaglia 2008.
For doubts about the interpretation of the data in macaques and the investiga-
tion of homologous mechanisms in humans, see Dinstein et al. 2008; Jacob 2008;
Hickok 2009.
2 G. Currie and Ravenscroft 2002: 197; cf. n. 36 below.
104 douglas cairns
at least, a written text or formalised oral performance is just one

example among many of the ways in which language communicates
both thought and emotion. And if texts, narratives and performances
are in many ways special, in other ways they bear comparison with
all the other physical objects, artefacts and external forms of expres-
sion that demonstrate the intersubjectivity and social embeddedness
of cognition and affectivity.3 There are interesting questions to be
asked about the role of narrative and the forms it takes as a vehicle of
traditional thought, as a way of encapsulating, communicating and
eliciting emotions, and as a dynamic force in the development of both
cultural and individual emotional repertoires. One of these questions
concerns the ways that more or less structured patterns of thought and
emotion may be related to certain recurrent and structured patterns of
narrative. The imaginative sense of others’ experiences, thoughts and
emotions that underpins human sociality has a particular role to play
in narrative.4 Thus narrative itself has a particular role in developing
the audience’s inventory of scripts, paradigm scenarios and the range
of affective responses that they evoke. The process can, on the one
hand, be one of extending and deepening the reader’s, auditor’s or
spectator’s powers of imagination and perspective-taking: it is less,
I think, that we run simulations or construct narratives of our own
or others’ (real or hypothetical) experiences for the specific purpose
of preparing ourselves to face similar situations in our own lives – a
very great number of the narrative scenarios that interest us most are
remote from most people’s everyday experience – than that the minds
of self and other are intricately related in the fundamental cognitive
3 See, e.g., Clark 2008; Colombetti 2009; Smith 2011.

4 For my purposes here, it is enough that this imaginative capacity exists (G. Currie
and Ravenscroft 2002). Though perhaps significant in other respects, the contro-
versy between (in particular) simulation-based and narrative-based explanations
of the capacity to understand others’ minds is not central to my argument. For the
former, see esp. A. Goldman 2006; Stueber 2006, 2012; for the latter, Hutto 2008;
Gallagher 2012. Either explanation is enough to show that, in some sense, what we
do in understanding a story is similar to what we do in understanding others’ per-
spectives in general. The implication of Hutto’s and Gallagher’s approaches – that
the narratives of everyday social interaction inform and enable the understanding
of others’ minds that we deploy and enrich in responding to fictional narratives
– is one that those of us whose primary interest is literary narrative may find
attractive; though it is simulation theory that has been most popular in cognitive
approaches to narrative (e.g., Oatley 2011: 16–18 and passim). I suspect, however,
that the three main versions of Theory of Mind – ‘theory theory’, simulation
theory and narrative theory – have more in common than their practitioners some-
times suggest (cf. G. Currie and Ravenscroft 2002: 49–70, on ‘theory theory’ and
simulation; cf. the exchange between Stueber 2012 and Hutto 2012 on simulation
versus narrative; Nichols and Stich 2003: 100–48 on the weaknesses of monolithic
theories).
exemplarity and narrative in the greek tradition 105
and emotional processes that make us what we are; engaging with

others’ minds and others’ lives in imagination, and perhaps especially
in the kinds of imagination possible when we enter into the worlds of
narrative fiction, builds capacity.5 But the same process can also, at
the same time, be a matter of codification and normalisation: stories
can also recur to typical patterns, serving to crystallise the paradig-
matic cases and the norms by which audiences respond emotionally
to those cases.
My starting point is the encounter between Achilles and Priam in
Iliad 24, and especially Achilles’ remarks on the jars of Zeus (525ff.):
“ὡς γὰρ ἐπεκλώσαντο θεοὶ δειλοῖσι βροτοῖσι 525

ζώειν ἀχνυμένοις· αὐτοὶ δέ τ’ ἀκηδέες εἰσί.
δοιοὶ γάρ τε πίθοι κατακείαται ἐν Διὸς οὔδει
δώρων οἷα δίδωσι κακῶν, ἕτερος δὲ ἑάων·
ᾧ μέν κ’ ἀμμίξας δώῃ Ζεὺς τερπικέραυνος,
ἄλλοτε μέν τε κακῷ ὅ γε κύρεται, ἄλλοτε δ’ ἐσθλῷ· 530
ᾧ δέ κε τῶν λυγρῶν δώῃ, λωβητὸν ἔθηκε,
καί ἑ κακὴ βούβρωστις ἐπὶ χθόνα δῖαν ἐλαύνει,
φοιτᾷ δ’ οὔτε θεοῖσι τετιμένος οὔτε βροτοῖσιν.
ὣς μὲν καὶ Πηλῆϊ θεοὶ δόσαν ἀγλαὰ δῶρα
ἐκ γενετῆς” (κτλ.) 535
‘For thus have the gods spun the thread for wretched mortals,
that they should live in pain; but they themselves are without
care. For there are two jars placed on the floor of Zeus of gifts
that he gives, the one of ills, the other of blessings. If Zeus who
delights in the thunderbolt gives a man a mixed lot, that man
meets now with evil, now with good; but if he gives only from the
evils, he ruins a man, and evil hunger drives him over the divine
earth, and he wanders honoured by neither gods nor mortals.
Just so the gods gave splendid gifts to Peleus from birth.’
This is a fundamental formulation of a characteristic archaic Greek

attitude towards the nature and possibility of happiness. Its broad
5 Pace Pinker 1997: 543: ‘fictional narratives supply us with a mental catalogue of
the fatal conundrums we might face someday and the outcomes of strategies we
could deploy in them’; see rather Tooby and Cosmides [2001] 2010; Carroll 2006;
Zunshine 2006; Boyd 2009, esp. 188–208; Dutton 2009: 109–26; Smith 2011, esp.
109–11; Oatley 2011: 32–3, 37–8, 45, 55–79, 100–1, 105–6, 108–32 and esp. 156–75
(with reference to empirical studies in support of the notion that fiction builds
capacity in other-understanding and empathy; cf. Oatley 2012, esp. 121–6, 159–62,
184–8).
106 douglas cairns
implications are well known: suffering is inherent in the human condi-

tion, which is defined by antithesis with the divine; good fortune is
not permanent, but inevitably alternates with its opposite.6 Achilles’
formulation is perhaps typically Greek or typically ‘archaic’, but it is
clearly not unique. The inevitability of suffering (and its often arbi-
trary character) are prominent topics in Near Eastern sources such as
the Babylonian Theodicy and Poem of the Righteous Sufferer or the
Old Testament Book of Job.7 We have a reasonably close analogue
to Achilles’ speech in the ale-wife’s speech of consolation in the Old
Babylonian Version of Gilgamesh X.iii:8
‘Gilgamesh, where do you roam?

You will not find the eternal life you seek.
When the gods created mankind
They appointed death for mankind,
Kept eternal life in their own hands.
So, Gilgamesh, let your stomach be full,
Day and night enjoy yourself in every way,
Every day arrange for pleasures.
Day and night, dance and play,
Wear fresh clothes.
Keep your head washed, bathe in water,
Appreciate the child who holds your hand,
Let your wife enjoy herself in your lap.
This is the work [ ]
[ ]
That which the living [ ].’
Death is the gods’ dispensation for human beings, and so suffering

is an inevitable element in a finite existence, an aspect of the human
condition that distinguishes men from gods.9
6 A full sample of poetic passages, from Homer to Euripides, can be found in Krause
1976; see her index, 298–304; discussion 43–289. See esp. 50–2 on Il. 24.525ff. as
the ‘Vergleichsbasis für alle späteren Entwicklungen’ (p. 50). For similar notions
in Homer, cf. e.g. Od. 6.188–9, 16.211–12.
7 Poem of the Righteous Sufferer in Lambert 1960: 21–62 (cf. ANET3 438–40, where
it is called A Dialogue about Human Misery); Babylonian Theodicy, Lambert 1960:
63–91. For the divine as the source of alternation in human fortunes and the need
for human endurance, cf. Eccl. 7: 13–14, Job 5: 17–18.
8 ANET3 p. 90; trans. by Dalley 1989: 150. Cf. the consolation offered by
Ut-napishtim in Gilgamesh SBV X.vi, ANET3 92–3, Dalley 1989: 107–8.
9 In Atrahasis I (Dalley 1989: 9–15) mankind is created to free gods from toil. Cf.,
e.g., Gen. 3: 17–19, where toil is God’s punishment of Adam. Cf. also M. L. West
1997: 120.
More specifically, the Greeks are far from alone either in their
reflections on the mutability of fortune and the transience of happi-
ness or in making art out of such reflections. Thoughts of the instabil-
ity of fortune, the shortness of life and the evanescence of happiness
are encapsulated in many cultures’ repertoires of artistic and literary
forms, not just in the Near Eastern traditions that may or may not be a
proximate source of influence on early Greek poetry, but more widely.
In Japan, for example, such thoughts play a role in the intense focus
on the passing of the seasons that finds expression in the celebration
of both spring blossoms and autumn leaves. These thoughts similarly
find expression in the visual arts. Wabi and sabi are Japanese terms for
an indefinable complex of philosophical and aesthetic ideals centred
on the acceptance of impermanence (mujō) and the beauty of imper-
fection, incompleteness and irregularity. Wabi (poverty/simplicity),
sabi (solitude) and aware (pathos/sensitivity) are (together with yūgen,
depth/mystery) the four moods associated with haiku, while mono no
aware, ‘the pathos of things’, is a sense of the exquisiteness and poign-
ancy of the changing seasons and the subtleties of human existence,
said to inform not only short poems, but also longer narratives from
the eleventh-century Tale of Genji to the films of Ozu Yasujiro.10 One
such narrative, Heike monogatari (The Tale of the Heike, dating from
the thirteenth–fourteenth centuries), begins with what the eighteenth-
century scholar and poet Motoori Norinaga identified as a classic
example of mono no aware:
The sound of the Gion Shōja bells echoes the impermanence of

all things; the color of the sāla flowers reveals the truth that the
prosperous must decline. The proud do not endure, they are like
a dream on a spring night; the mighty fall at last, they are as dust
before the wind.11
10 For the terms, see Colombetti 2009: 19. For mono no aware, in particular, see
Motoori Norinaga,‘On mono no aware’, in Marra 2007: 184–5:
Now, with regard to the difference between knowing mono no aware and not
knowing it, I would say that to know mono no aware is to be stirred by the
view of the wonderful cherry blossoms, or of the bright moon while facing it.
One’s feelings are stirred up because he understands, deep in his heart, the
moving power of the moon and the blossoms. The heart that is ignorant of
this moving power will never be stirred, no matter how wonderful the blos-
soms are and how clear the moon is in front of him. In other words, this is
what I mean by the phrase, ‘not knowing mono no aware’.
The concept of mono no aware was the focus of a splendid and extensive exhibition
at the Suntory Museum of Art, Tokyo, 17 April–16 June 2013: see Ishida et al.
2013.
11 Heike monogatari 1.1 = McCullough 1988: 23.
108 douglas cairns
According to Helen Craig McCullough, ‘it is the melancholy preoc-

cupation with transitoriness, or “awareness of mutability” (mujōkan)
that gives Heike monogatari its distinctive tone’.12
Despite what are in some ways rather striking similarities, my
claim is not that these Japanese notions, and the affective attitudes
with which they are associated, are exactly or even very like the
principle of alternation in Greek. But their labelling, their currency
and their expression in language, symbol and art (both verbal and
visual) represent a comparable phenomenon, namely the way that the
condensation of such complexes of thought and feeling in typical and
traditional forms makes a particular ethical or emotional perspective
tangible, tractable and transferable.13 These recurrent forms capture
important aspects of a culture’s emotional and normative repertoire in
a way that allows them to be reconstituted and applied in the mind of
each recipient or audience member. The encapsulation of traditional
norms, with their associated ways of feeling, in a traditional artistic
form encourages a symbiotic replication both of the form and of the
response that it evokes; it helps define the repertoire of both artists and
audience.
A particularly striking example of the systematisation of the relations
between artistic form, emotional expression and the emotional response
of the audience is apparent in the classical Indian performance tradi-
tion’s concept of rasa.14 The stylised performance of specific gestures
and movements executes the emotional scripts embodied in the work
of art and elicits the rasa (roughly ‘relish’; more literally something like
‘juice’) that is the spectator’s emotional pleasure in the performance.
The relation between performed emotion (sthayi bhava) and rasa is
highly codified. As Richard Schechner explains:
In the rasic system, there are ‘artistically performed emotions’

which comprise a distinct kind of behavior (different, perhaps
for each performance genre). These performed emotions are
separate from the ‘feelings’ – the interior, subjective experience
12 McCullough 1988: 473. On the reiteration of this central theme throughout the
narrative, the ways in which it affects the structure of the narrative itself, the norms
that it articulates and the emotions that it is designed to evoke, cf. McCullough
1988: 456–7, 463–4, 467–75; cf. Kawashima 2000: 5 (and passim on similarities and
differences between Heike and the Iliad in their attitudes to fate and death). The
similarity between the expression of mujōkan in the Heike prologue and Achilles’
parable of the jars is noted by Mori 1997: 79–80. See also Yamagata 1993: 7–9,
2011: 27 on mutability in Homer and Heike. On the paradox of a transcendent
epic that memorialises impermanence, cf. Mori 1997: 100–1; Bialock 2007: 281.
13 See further Colombetti 2009.
14 On rasa theory, see Schechner 2001; S. L. Schwartz 2004; Oatley 2011: 120–4,
2012: 34–7, 46–7, 69–72; cf. Dutton 2009: 122.
of any given performer during a particular performance. There is

no necessary and ineluctable chain linking these ‘performed emo-
tions’ with the ‘emotions of everyday life.’ In the rasic system, the
emotions in the arts, not in ordinary life are knowable, manage-
able, and transmittable in roughly the same way that the flavors
and presentation of a meal are manageable by following recipes
and the conventions of presenting the meal.15
Greek performance, poetic and narrative traditions do not have any-

thing quite like this; but the general point about the relation between
the scripts and scenarios of everyday emotion, the crystallisation of
such scripts in narrative and performance, and the eliciting of emo-
tional responses in an audience holds good. Despite all the differences
in detail, Aristotle’s Poetics (to which we shall return below) works
with a similar relation between dramatic form, the emotional scripts
implicit in that form, and the pleasurable emotional reactions of the
audience.16
I guess that if we were to look for ancient Greek analogues to the
Japanese notions of impermanence discussed above we should prob-
ably think first of gnōmai, such as these from the concluding lines of
Pindar’s eighth Pythian (lines 88–97):17
ὁ δὲ καλόν τι νέον λαχών

ἁβρότατος ἔπι μεγάλας
ἐξ ἐλπίδος πέταται 90
ὑποπτέροις ἀνορέαις, ἔχων
κρέσσονα πλούτου μέριμναν. ἐν δ’ ὀλίγῳ βροτῶν
τὸ τερπνὸν αὔξεται· οὕτω δὲ καὶ πίτνει χαμαί,
ἀποτρόπῳ γνώμᾳ σεσεισμένον.
ἐπάμεροι· τί δέ τις; τί δ’ οὔ τις; σκιᾶς ὄναρ 95
ἄνθρωπος. ἀλλ’ ὅταν αἴγλα διόσδοτος ἔλθῃ,
λαμπρὸν φέγγος ἔπεστιν ἀνδρῶν καὶ μείλιχος αἰών.
But he who has gained some fine new thing in his great luxury
flies beyond hope on the wings of his manliness, with ambition
15 Schechner 2001: 32; cf. Oatley 2012: 34–5, esp. 34: ‘Rasas are like the emotions of
everyday life, but unlike them in that they are felt in fiction in a way that can make
them more understandable.’ See also S. L. Schwartz 2004: 15–16, 19, 23.
16 For a comparison of the Greek (esp. Aristotelian) and Indian traditions in this
respect, see Munteanu 2012: 29–36.
17 On gnōmai in Greek poetry, see Ahrens 1937; on particular poets, see Bischoff
1938; Cocuzza 1975; Lardinois 1997, 2000; Stenger 2004; and cf. Huart 1973 on
Thucydides; Gould 1989: 81–2 on Herodotus.
110 douglas cairns
that is greater than wealth. But the pleasure of mortals increases

but briefly, and in the same way falls to the ground, shaken by
adverse thought. Creatures of a day. What is someone? What
is no one? Man is the dream of a shadow. But when god-given
splendour comes, a shining light is on men, and sweet is their
existence.
Here again, there are plenty of parallels in other traditions. M. L.

West cites several analogues in west Asiatic sources for Pindar’s image
of man’s ephemerality,18 as he does for Mimnermus’ description of life
as ‘as short as a dream’.19 For the impermanence of human creations
(as reflected in Simonides 581 PMG = 262 Poltera), he cites BWL
(= Lambert 1960) 109.9–11 (‘Counsels of a Pessimist’):
[Whatever] the people create does not survive for ever;

[ma]nkind and its creations alike come to an end.
[But do y]ou offer prayers to the god.20
Similarly, there are Near Eastern analogues for the famous gnōmē
on the generations of men and leaves at Il. 6.146–9.21 Here, however,
there are more remote parallels, not just in the Sanskrit sources that
perhaps might be argued to reflect indirect transmission or a common
Indo-European origin,22 but also in unrelated traditions.23 Since the
latter are clear evidence of analogy rather than homology, the pos-
18 M. L. West 1997: 541, citing Ps. 144: 3–4; Job 7: 17–8: 9 (see esp. 8: 9: ‘for we were
born only yesterday and know nothing, | and our days on earth are but a shadow’);
BWL (Lambert 1960) 282.
19 Mimnermus 5.4 West, with parallels from second-millennium Egyptian writings in
M. L. West 1997: 507.
20 M. L. West 1997: 534; cf., e.g., Ut-napistim on impermanence in Gilgamesh X.vi,
ANET3 pp. 92–3, Dalley 1989: 108–9.
21 M. L. West 1997: 365, comparing Ps. 103: 15–16, 90: 5–6; Isa. 40: 6–7; Job 14: 2.
The close parallel at Ecclus. 14: 18 (‘As of the green leaves on a thick tree, some
fall, and some grow; so is the generation of flesh and blood, one cometh to an end,
and another is born’) is, according to West, ibid. n. 37, ‘influenced by the Iliad
passage’.
22 E.g. Katha Upanishad 1 (trans. Mascaró 1965: 55): ‘Remember how the men of old
passed away, and how those days to come will also pass away: a mortal ripens like
corn, and like corn is born again.’ For the principle of alternation more generally
in Indian classical literature, cf. Rigveda 10.117.5 (trans. Doniger 1981: 69): ‘Let
the stronger man give to the man whose need is greater; let him gaze upon the
lengthening path. For riches roll like the wheels of a chariot, turning from one to
another.’ For the wheel as an image of alternation in Greek, cf. Hdt. 1.207.2, with
Krause 1976: 210 (and cf. below). For the focus on wealth, cf., e.g., Thgn. 157–8.
23 E.g. Heike monogatari 1.6 (McCullough 1988: 33), cited by Yamagata 1993: 8:
‘Since both are grasses | of the field, how may either | be spared by autumn – | the
young shoot blossoming forth | and the herb fading from view?’
sibility of analogous development is one that must always be borne in

mind, even in the case of related cultures and traditions.
But gnōmai, aphorisms, proverbs and other such speech-genres are
more than just atomistic nuggets of thought; it is typical, in ancient
Greece as elsewhere, for them to be embedded in contexts in which
their emblematic significance is more widely applied, especially by
being associated with traditional tales that exemplify their point.24
There is an intimate link (all over the world) between the proverb, the
parable and the fable.25 But these are just instances of the way that
aphoristic formulations readily transform themselves into narrative.
The general use of narrative to illustrate traditional wisdom must, I
think, be universal: constructing tales of the experiences and exploits
of individuals is one of the chief ways that we, as social creatures,
make sense of our place in a world of social relations.
Let us return to Iliad 24. Achilles’ parable of the jars illustrates a dis-
tinctive world-view, one that rests on the gulf between human and god
and emphasises the place of human beings in a universe that cannot
be bent to their will and that imposes limits on human aspiration. A
number of central features of archaic thought are implicit in or derive
from this outlook – that continuing good fortune may be ominous,
that human fortunes can change in the space of a day, that hopes for
the future are often illusionary, etc. Second, the pessimistic premises
have a clear practical point, which in this case is consolatory. Given
that this is how the world is, there is no point in incessant lamentation
(549–51).26 This persuasive, rhetorical use of the parable of the jars is
linked to its exemplary force: the image of the jars specifies conditions
that apply to all, but these general conditions are emphasised by para-
digmatic application. Priam wants to emphasise the similarity but also
the difference between himself and Peleus; Achilles uses his knowledge
of his own fate to restate the similarity and present his own father as
an exemplum; he uses the further exemplum of Niobe (599–620) to
underline the central point, that others suffer as we do, yet persevere,
as we must. What Achilles tells Priam, using the exempla of Peleus,
Niobe and Priam himself, is simultaneously what the stories of both
Priam and Achilles tell us. The exemplary force of the narrative is
24 Cf. Turner 1996: 5–7; Geary 2011: 182–8. As Gould observes (1989: 81), a gnōmē
‘is what Walter Benjamin [1973: 108] calls “an ideogram of a story” ’.
25 Geary 2011: 179–96.
26 ‘ἄνσχεο, μὴ δ’ ἀλίαστον ὀδύρεο σὸν κατὰ θυμόν· | οὐ γάρ τι πρήξεις ἀκαχήμενος υἷος
ἑῆος, | οὐδέ μιν ἀνστήσεις, πρὶν καὶ κακὸν ἄλλο πάθῃσθα’ (‘Bear up, and do not
lament incessantly in your thymos. You will not achieve anything by grieving for
your son, nor will you bring him back to life, before some other evil befalls you’).
Cf. the Niobe paradigm, 599–620.
112 douglas cairns
highlighted by the use of the exemplary mode in the narrative. The

Iliad employs this mode at some of its most crucial junctures; such
passages underline the exemplary force of the poem itself.27
At this crucial point, looking back on the two narrative strands
(‘Troy’ and ‘Achilles’) that have now converged, the Iliad is saying
something important about its own aesthetics – about its reception,
its ethos and its plot. The effect of the encounter on its participants,
and in particular the effect of Achilles’ consolation on his internal
audience, steers the response of the external audience. This in turn is
a matter of the poem’s ethos: it is a poem in which the great deeds of
heroes (among which are counted both Priam’s journey to ransom
Hector’s body and Achilles’ acceptance of his appeal) are seen against
a background of shared loss, vicissitude and fallibility. And these
are fundamental principles of the poem’s plot: the plan of Zeus is
fulfilled, but the plans of Agamemnon, Achilles, Patroclus and Hector
– to name but a few – are not. In this way, a typical Greek script for
emotion (the emotion of pity) becomes an aspect of plot construction
and audience response.28 The particular circumstances in which this
script is enacted (in which a man returns his worst enemy’s body for
burial), the narrative salience of the context, the emotional power of
the episode, and the exemplary force both of the passage itself and of
the poem that this passage brings to a close are of inestimable signifi-
cance in terms of the contribution that this model makes in developing
and extending the imaginative scope of the ancient Greek emotional
repertoire.29
The principle of alternation in general specifies no particular cause
of misfortune: Priam and Peleus serve as examples of human beings
whose good fortune is undercut by the suffering they experience at the
end of their lives. But the development of the principle in the plot of
the poem itself emphasises the influence of human fallibility (and espe-
cially of the phenomenon called atē).30 The importance of this notion
is emphasised by the fact that atē itself becomes a personified agent in
27 See above all Howie [1995] 2012. For a definition of exemplarity, as part of a
splendid account of its importance in Roman culture, see Roller 2004.
28 For shared vulnerability to misfortune as a typical condition for pity in traditional
Greek thought, cf. B. 5.155–62 (esp. 160–2 and cf. 89–92); S. Aj. 121–6, Phil.
501–6, OC 566–8; E. Hec. 282–7; Hdt. 1.86.6, 7.46.2; cf. Pelling 2005a: 289, 291–2
on Plutarch.
29 This is one reason why, for example, discussion of the issue of non-burial in
Sophocles’ Antigone cannot be restricted to consideration of the treatment of trai-
tors in fifth-century Athens. As George Steiner writes (1984: 242), ‘The more one
experiences ancient Greek literature and civilization, the more insistent the sugges-
tion that Hellas is rooted in the twenty-fourth Book of the Iliad.’
30 See Cairns 2012.
two paranarratives placed at crucial stages in the development of the

plot.31 These paranarratives present in exemplary form elements of
gnomic wisdom that illustrate a crucial aspect of the poem’s implicit
theory of action. That implicit theory of action is central both to the
development of the plot and to an audience’s affective and evaluative
responses to the plot. The pattern by which gnomic wisdom on the
principle of alternation is used to generalise a more specific action-
sequence is a common one. Solon’s Musenelegie (13 W), for example,
deals mainly with the ruin (atē) that is the consequence of the hybris
prevalent in those who pursue wealth and prosperity by improper
means; but it also features prominently (at lines 63–70) a series of
gnōmai on the apparently arbitrary alternation of good and bad
fortune. Similarly, the theme of atē, as both delusion and disaster,
runs through Sophocles’ Antigone,32 the final verdict, accepted by all,
being that Creon is very much the agent of his own misfortune; he has,
as the Chorus put it, ‘erred his own atē, no one else’s’ (1259–60).33 Yet
the Messenger who announces the deaths of Antigone and Haemon
begins his speech by presenting Creon as a paradigm of the mutability
of fortune (1155–71). In neither Solon nor Sophocles are the two per-
spectives assimilated into a single harmonious explanation. Human
error or transgression and the mutability of fortune differ, by defini-
tion, as explanations of human suffering. Yet in neither place is the
moralising on alternation merely juxtaposed with the explanation in
terms of error or transgression; we have not the ‘peaceful coexistence’
of logically incompatible notions,34 but general and specific versions
of a similar pattern, each of which presents a perspective on human
beings’ failure to secure their own happiness by their actions and
intentions. We should think less of separate and competing explana-
tions than of a dynamic model in which a general, focal conception
is capable of specification in variety of different ways.35 We can see
31 Il. 9.502–14, 19.85–136. On these and other paranarratives, see Alden 2000.
32 See Cairns 2013b.
33 Cf. Ant. 1261–2, 1265, 1269 (Creon); 1304–5, 1312–13 (Eurydice, as reported by
the Messenger).
34 Versnel 2011: 212, 231.
35 These are topics which must be pursued in detail elsewhere. In brief, however,
I should see the phenomena that Versnel 2011: 151–237 (201–6 specifically on
Sol. 13 West) presents as logically incompatible much more in terms of a general
schema with particular options, each related to but not necessarily entailing the
others (cf. Eidinow 2011: 9–10, 66–75). Thus, while I appreciate in principle the
difference between notions such as alternation, fate, divine phthonos and divine
punishment, I should not (unlike Versnel; cf. in some respects Hau 2007 passim,
e.g., 35, 89–90, 112, 115, 141, 244) wish to see a sharp disjunction between them
in practice. If, for example, the principle of alternation is a statement of ‘the way
things are’, then it is a very short (yet still not a necessary) step to explain that state
114 douglas cairns
this in terms of there being, as patterns of human action, a variety of

related scripts of more or less specific types; this variety at the level of
the script equates to a variety of interrelated narrative patterns at the
level of the plot, and to a variety of affective and evaluative responses
in an audience.36 What Iliad 24 does, then, is to set human limita-
tions and the inevitability of reversal in a universal context of shared
humanity, making the misfortunes that we bring on ourselves part
of a wider pattern in which misfortune (of whatever kind) is inevita-
ble. The poem’s effect on its audience is a function of a type of plot
whose overall narrative principles also embody the culture’s shared
assumptions about (1) the nature of human agency, (2) the norms of
human behaviour and (3) the place of humans in a world of forces
beyond their control. These assumptions are not latent, but explicitly
activated in salient passages in which gnomic wisdom is presented in
exemplary form.
Archaic poetry is also suffused with reflections of the principle of
alternation. There are too many examples to discuss.37 I make only
two general points. First, there is always an application. In epinician
poetry, for example, the purpose of what Bundy calls ‘vicissitude foil’
is typically positive – the fragility of human happiness, its inevitable
alternation with its opposite, provides an argument for appreciating
the temporary felicity of agonistic achievement all the more intensely.38
Epinician exploits what is only a logical possibility in Iliad 24,39 that
suffering might give way to bliss.40 One poem that does this extensively
of affairs in terms of something like ‘fate’. If the inevitability of suffering defines
man vis-à-vis god, then it is possible (but not obligatory) to see unmixed happiness
as something that gods jealously keep to themselves; and since gods are analyti-
cally superior to mortals, their felicity can (but need not) be seen as an entitlement
which justifies their resentment. These categories are not discrete but potentially
overlapping as the need arises; though the specific conceptions are not reducible,
without remainder, to a single general notion, there is a logic by which they may
be related.
36 On actions, scripts, plots and narratives, see Oatley 2012: 45–7, esp. 46: ‘Scripts
are not just cognitive components of understanding. They can also be sequences
that are deeply rooted in a society’s beliefs and values.’ On the emotional aspects
of this, cf. Boyd 2009: 107–8, 138–41. For another approach to the interrelation of
emotion-scripts and narratives, see Snaevarr 2010.
37 See Krause 1976: 61–151.
38 Bundy [1962] 1986, esp. 47–53, 74–5. See the passage from P. 8 quoted above and
cf., e.g., P. 7.20–1. For further discussion and examples of the theme of vicissitude
in Pindar, cf. Bischoff 1938: 125–65; Kirkwood 1975, esp. 63–74; Krause 1976:
91–138 (cf. 138–51 on Bacchylides); Maravela 2011.
39 So, rightly, Krause 1976: 51.
40 See, e.g., I. 7.37–9: ἔτλαν δὲ πένθος οὐ φατόν· ἀλλὰ νῦν μοι | Γαιάοχος εὐδίαν
ὄπασσεν | ἐκ χειμῶνος (‘I endured sorrow beyond words; but now the god that
holds the earth has granted me calm after the storm’).
is Olympian 2, in which the regular epinician sequence of hēsychia

as recompense for ponos blends with patterns of positive alternation
in the fortunes of mythological dynasties and in the fate of the soul
after death.41 The general point is substantiated by the repeated use
of exemplary mythological figures. At every stage, gnōmai about the
possibility of positive alternation are illustrated by means of concrete
examples: the daughters of Cadmus, the Labdacids and (on the island
of the blessed) Peleus, Cadmus and Achilles. In each case, only the
minimum of narrative detail is given; the rest is supplied in the minds
of the audience.
Two further examples, both in odes for Hieron of Syracuse, illus-
trate the interactive quality of the exemplary style and its explicit
debt to the Iliad. In Pythian 3, Achilles’ parable of the jars of Zeus is
reduced to a bare gnōme: ἓν παρ’ ἐσλὸν πήματα σύνδυο δαίονται βροτοῖς
ἀθάνατοι (‘for every good thing the immortals distribute two pains to
mortals’, 81–2).42 This is explicitly presented as a truth that can be
applied to Hieron’s situation (80–1, 84–6), before it is illustrated (in
86–103) by the narrative exempla of Cadmus (as in Olympian 2) and
Peleus (as in Olympian 2 and Iliad 24). But the ode as a whole is punc-
tuated by gnōmai on the instability of fortune, and humans’ inability
to cope with good fortune is exemplified by the myths of Asclepius
and Coronis earlier in the poem. Gnōmai, exempla and extended
exemplary narrative all underline the central rhetorical point – that
illness may impair Hieron’s happiness, but his prosperity nonetheless
endures, because he knows how to deal with it.
The narrative of Heracles’ encounter with Meleager in Hades in
Bacchylides’ fifth ode draws on several Homeric models, but one of
them is certainly the meeting of Achilles and Priam in Iliad 24.43 As in
the Iliad, the lesson drawn from the inevitability of suffering, even for
the greatest, is endurance rather than resignation, and the reactions
of the characters (the tears of Meleager that are answered by the tears
41 Krause 1976: 101–6 (102 on ponos and hēsychia); Lloyd-Jones [1985] 1990; Nisetich
1988 (esp. 4–5 on ponos and hēsychia); Theunissen 2002: 698–783; Adorjáni 2011:
172–96. On ponos and hēsychia in epinician more generally, see, e.g., Slater 1981;
Dickie 1984.
42 I think the scholia (Σ P. 3.141a–b, ii. 81 Drachmann; cf. Σ A Il. 24.528) are right
about the allusion to the parable of the jars, but it would not affect my general
point if we followed B. Currie in believing that there is none (2005: 390–2).
43 See B. 5.162–3: ‘ἀλλ’ οὐ γάρ τίς ἐστιν | πρᾶξις τάδε μυρομένοις . . .’ (‘But since there
is no purpose in bewailing these things . . .’) and cf. Il. 24.524 (οὐ γάρ τις πρῆξις
πέλεται κρυεροῖο γόοιο), 550 (οὐ γάρ τι πρήξεις ἀκαχήμενος υἷος ἑῆος). Cf. also B.
5.84–5 (θάμβησεν δ’ ἄναξ | Ἀμφιτρυωνιάδας) with Il. 24.483–4 (ὣς Ἀχιλεὺς θάμβησεν
ἰδὼν Πρίαμον θεοειδέα· | θάμβησαν δὲ καὶ ἄλλοι). See further Cairns 2010: 46, 88–9,
231, 241; on the theme of alternation in this ode and in B. 3 (also for Hieron), cf.
Cairns 2011.
116 douglas cairns
of Heracles) guide those of the audience, with the result that, as the
career of Meleager embodies a truth for Heracles, so the presentation
of both great heroes serves an exemplary function for the audience.
But though the narrative is extensive, it is also truncated. Heracles
proposes a marriage with Meleager’s sister, Deianira, and the audi-
ence see that the human limitations that apply to Meleager will be
exemplified by Heracles too.
The principle of alternation is not the only motif from which tragic
plots are fashioned, but it is a central aspect of several, and the norms
with which it belongs are reflected more peripherally in many more.44
This is not a point that needs to be laboured, and there is no time
either for exhaustive survey or for detailed analysis of even the best
examples. But it is worth noting that in these ‘best examples’ – for
instance, Sophocles’ Ajax or Oedipus Tyrannus – (1) the develop-
ment of the theme of alternation involves the characteristic whole-life
perspective on the career of a single heroic figure; (2) the exemplary
nature of the central character’s change of fortune as a manifestation
of the principle of alternation is explicitly highlighted; (3) the limits
on what is possible for human beings are defined, as an explicit aspect
of the plot’s exemplary force, by what is possible for gods; and (4)
the responses of internal witnesses not only point the moral in terms
of alternation but also explicitly guide the emotional responses of an
external audience.
This is by no means the only kind of tragic plot, and the plots of
even these two Sophoclean plays are in some ways very different. In
Ajax, for example, the exemplarity of Ajax’s change of fortune is out-
lined by Athena in the prologue (118–33); she and Odysseus respond
to the same phenomena, but exhibit very different evaluations and
emotions. The notion of alternation then underpins both the false
hope that Ajax can be saved if he survives the current day and the
determination of Ajax himself to abandon a world of change and
vicissitude, until (paradoxically) his fortunes take a turn for the better
when his enemy, Odysseus, behaves like a friend. In OT, on the other
hand, it is after the prodigious scale of Oedipus’ misfortunes becomes
clear that the Chorus present him as a paradigm of the vulnerability
of all mortals (1186–96).45 A central focus on a profound change of
44 See Krause 1976: 151–285; Cairns 2006, 2013b, 2013c; Easterling 2013; Lloyd
2013. Among primary sources, and apart from those discussed in the text, cf. e.g.
A. Ag. 1327–9; S. Tr. 1–3, 29–30, 129–31, 296–302, 943–6, OC 394, 607–20, fr. 871
R; E. Med. 1224–30, Hipp. 1105–10, Supp. 331, Oedipus frr. 92, 97 Austin = 549,
554 Kannicht.
45 Cf. Ant. 1155–71 (with Simonides 521 PMG = 244 Poltera; cf. Swift 2010, on alter-
nation in Simonidean laments), 1347–53, picking up a theme of the play’s central
fortune and the presentation of such a change in explicitly exemplary

terms does not dictate a single type of plot-structure. But still the
principle of alternation is a crucial factor in the presentation of the
story in each individual case. And this is a salient enough feature of
tragic plots to find its way into Aristotle’s Poetics. The details are well
known: in one of Aristotle’s two paradigms of the best type of plot
(Poetics 13),46 the audience is emotionally affected by a character’s
change from good fortune to bad; this emotional reaction relies on the
ability to refer what happens to the character to what might happen
to oneself; the character should contribute to his own misfortune
but not entirely deserve it; and while the character should therefore
be in some respects like us, the typical examples are provided by a
few familiar (heroic) figures. Aristotle’s preference for this classic
plot type in the Poetics is matched by the serious consideration that
he gives its archaic ethical underpinnings in the Ethics.47 It is true,
at least in a sense, that one should count no man happy until he is
dead;48 eudaimonia is a quality of a whole life, and lives as wholes are
vulnerable to the kinds of vicissitude that feature in the representa-
tions of the downfall of exemplary figures from the heroic past in epic
and tragedy. In conceding something to traditional wisdom, Aristotle
tellingly makes his point by means of a traditional exemplum – Priam
(EN 1100a4–9, 1101a6–13). In the Poetics Aristotle goes beyond the
archaic principle of alternation by omitting its theological dimen-
sion; he also insists on the individual’s contribution to his or her
own undeserved suffering, a prominent and recurrent, but not an
essential form of the traditional complex. Aristotle’s template fits
only a few tragedies; but this is in itself interesting. In eschewing a
purely descriptive model, Aristotle obviously has his own agenda, but
this is an agenda that in both the Ethics and the Poetics makes room
for central concepts of archaic Greek thought. The plot-type that
he finds instantiated in the OT is not typical, but it is prototypical,
at least in the respects that I have outlined and in so far as these are
and fundamentally important second stasimon (582–625). The Ant. resembles the
OT in so far as the moral of mutability is drawn summatively in the play’s closing
stages, but in other ways their plots are very different, especially in the Ant.’s dual
focus on the fates of Antigone and Creon. Though these are very closely inter-
linked, if the principle of alternation is applicable to both, its ethical and religious
implications will differ in each case. See further Cairns 2013b.
46 On the relation between Po. 13 and 14 on the best kind(s) of plot, see most recently
Heath forthcoming.
47 See esp. EN 1100a4–11, 1101a6–13.
48 As in Sim. 521 PMG = 244 Poltera; A. Ag. 928–9 (with Fraenkel 1950: ii. 420 ad
loc.); E. Andr. 100–2, Hcld. 865–6 (with Fränkel 1946: 135), Tro. 509–10; Hdt.
1.32.7.
118 douglas cairns
i mportant culturally, to the tragedians (especially to Sophocles) and to

Aristotle.49 Aristotle’s focus on plots that involve the representation
of human agency, the fallibility of human choice, a resulting change
in fortune and the arousal of sympathetic but self-referential emotions
in an audience, together with his insistence that these emotions are
best aroused by drawing on the best-known examples from a limited
corpus of traditional exemplary figures, fastens on to a prominent
cultural model, in both aesthetic and ethico-emotional terms.
We could pursue this model in other genres, for example in historiog-
raphy. The abundance of material in that area is well demonstrated by
the splendid but still unpublished dissertation of Lisa Hau, which pro-
vides an exhaustive collection of evidence and thorough analysis of the
many variations on the theme of mutability from Herodotus to Diodorus
Siculus.50 Moralising on the mutability of fortune, Hau argues, is an
important narrative theme from the beginning of historiography, but
becomes a standard feature of the genre especially in the fourth century.
She concludes: ‘All the extant historiographies discussed have as one of
their core didactic messages the fact that human life is unstable and that
one should not be overconfident about the future. They all depict such
overconfidence as leading to disaster.’51 In Herodotus, for example, the
principle of alternation operates at the individual level, but also at that
of the rise and fall of great powers. 52 Both are linked in the reflections of
1.5.4,53 where Herodotus justifies his intention of treating the affairs of
both great and small communities alike (1.5.3, ὁμοίως μικρὰ καὶ μεγάλα
ἄστεα ἀνθρώπων ἐπεξιών) by observing:
τὰ γὰρ τὸ πάλαι μεγάλα ἦν, τὰ πολλὰ αὐτῶν σμικρὰ γέγονε· τὰ

δὲ ἐπ’ ἐμέο ἦν μεγάλα, πρότερον ἦν σμικρά. τὴν ἀνθρωπηίην ὦν
ἐπιστάμενος εὐδαιμονίην οὐδαμὰ ἐν τὠυτῷ μένουσαν, ἐπιμνήσομαι
ἀμφοτέρων ὁμοίως.
For those that we great in the past have for the most part become
small; and those that were great in my time were small in the past.
Therefore, since I know that human eudaimonia never remains in
the same place, I shall make mention of both alike.
49 For prototypical thinking in Arist., see, e.g., (on the Rhetoric’s definitions of the
pathē) Harris 2001: 58–9 and Fortenbaugh 2008: 29–47.
50 Hau 2007. For aspects of the work in published form, see Hau 2009 (on Diodorus),
2011 (on Polybius).
51 Hau 2007: 242.
52 On alternation in Hdt., see (besides Hau 2007) Krause 1976: 199–223; Harrison
2000: 31–63 and passim.
53 Cf. Krause 1976: 221–2; Harrison 2000: 31–3, 62–3; Raaflaub 2002: 177; Van
Wees 2002: 328–36; Hau 2007: 84.
The historian then proceeds immediately (1.6.1) to the exemplary tale

of Croesus, the man who incurred ‘great nemesis from god’ because
he did not take to heart Solon’s warning to count no man happy until
he is dead (1.32.2–7), but thought himself the most prosperous of men
(1.34.1), and thus, as prophesied, destroyed a great empire (1.53.3).
Croesus’ experience of the mutability of fortune then qualifies him to
share his insight with his conqueror, Cyrus (1.207.2):
“εἰ μὲν ἀθάνατος δοκέεις εἶναι καὶ στρατιῆς τοιαύτης ἄρχειν, οὐδὲν
ἂν εἴη πρῆγμα γνώμας ἐμὲ σοὶ ἀποφαίνεσθαι· εἰ δ’ ἔγνωκας ὅτι
ἄνθρωπος καὶ σὺ εἶς καὶ ἑτέρων τοιῶνδε ἄρχεις, ἐκεῖνο πρῶτον μάθε
ὡς κύκλος τῶν ἀνθρωπηίων ἐστὶ πρηγμάτων, περιφερόμενος δὲ οὐκ
ἐᾷ αἰεὶ τοὺς αὐτοὺς εὐτυχέειν.”
‘If you think that you, and likewise the army you lead, are
immortal, there would be no point in my declaring my views to
you. But if you accept that you are a human being and that those
you lead are the same, then you must first of all understand that
there is a wheel of human affairs, and that wheel, as it turns, does
not permit the same people always to be fortunate.’
Throughout this important opening narrative, gnomic wisdom is

expanded using narratives of exemplary, mythologised individuals
(Croesus, Solon and the subjects of Solon’s paranarratives, especially
Cleobis and Biton, 1.31), all serving to illustrate traditional maxims
that stand in direct relation to the principle of alternation – ‘the divine
is grudging and meddlesome’ (1.32.1; cf. 1.32.9), ‘count no man happy
until he is dead’ (1.32.5, 7, 9), ‘man is nothing but chance’ (because his
fortunes can change in a single day, 1.32.4), ‘no human being is happy
in all respects’ (1.32.8) and ‘the best thing for human beings is not to
be born, or (failing that) to die as soon as possible’ (1.31.4–5).54 The
Croesus-narrative has an important structural and thematic function
in priming the audience for what is to come, and thus is exemplary of
patterns replicated throughout.55
One could follow these narrative patterns even in the comparatively
austere pages of Thucydides,56 and certainly in fourth-century and
54 On this gnōmē, see Easterling 2013; on the traditional background of Solon’s

speech, cf. Harrison 2000: 38–9.
55 See Harrison 2000: 31–63, esp. 33, 51–2, 62–3; R. Thomas 2000: 105, 123; Fisher
2002: 201–2; Gray 2002: 296–7; Raaflaub 2002: 167–74; Hau 2007: 90.
56 E.g., in the structuring of his narrative of the Sicilian expedition (Cornford 1907:
188–220), where the sequence of cause and effect, from exaggerated expectations
and ambitions (6.6.1, 6.8.2–3, 6.24.2, 6.31), despite Nicias’ warnings (6.9–14) and
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later historiography.57 For the purposes of this discussion, however, I

propose to end with just one more example, one that that both draws
on the historiographical tradition and attests the continued promi-
nence of the Iliadic prototype of the principle of alternation many
centuries after it was first promulgated – Plutarch’s Parallel Lives of
Aemilius Paullus and Timoleon.58
The pair of Lives of Aemilius and Timoleon (in which the Roman,
unusually, is the first) opens with one of Plutarch’s strongest state-
ments of the exemplary purpose of biography (Aem. 1.1, 1.5):59
ἐμοὶ τῆς τῶν βίων ἅψασθαι μὲν γραφῆς συνέβη δι’ ἑτέρους, ἐπιμένειν
δὲ καὶ φιλοχωρεῖν ἤδη καὶ δι’ ἐμαυτόν, ὥσπερ ἐν ἐσόπτρῳ τῇ ἱστορίᾳ
πειρώμενον ἁμῶς γέ πως κοσμεῖν καὶ ἀφομοιοῦν πρὸς τὰς ἐκείνων
ἀρετὰς τὸν βίον . . .
ἡμεῖς δὲ τῇ περὶ τὴν ἱστορίαν διατριβῇ καὶ τῆς γραφῆς τῇ συνηθείᾳ

παρασκευάζομεν ἑαυτούς, τὰς τῶν ἀρίστων καὶ δοκιμωτάτων μνήμας
ὑποδεχομένους ἀεὶ ταῖς ψυχαῖς, εἴ τι φαῦλον ἢ κακόηθες ἢ ἀγεννὲς
αἱ τῶν συνόντων ἐξ ἀνάγκης ὁμιλίαι προσβάλλουσιν, ἐκκρούειν καὶ
διωθεῖσθαι, πρὸς τὰ κάλλιστα τῶν παραδειγμάτων ἵλεω καὶ πρᾳεῖαν
ἀποστρέφοντες τὴν διάνοιαν.
I find that, though I commenced the writing of my Lives for the

benefit of others, I now persist and return with pleasure to the
task for my own sake too, attempting, as though in a mirror, to
the initial setback of the mutilation of the herms (6.27–9), to disastrous failure
(7.75, 7.84.2–85.1, 7.86.2, 7.87.5–6), at least makes room for the reflections on
tychē and divine phthonos attributed to Nicias (7.77.2–4), and may well prompt
similar thoughts in at least some of the historian’s readers, perhaps especially
given the historian’s own verdict on the gulf between Nicias’ dystychia and his
deserts, 7.86.5 (the negation of the eutychia with which he is credited at 5.16.1,
6.17.1), echoing Nicias’ own at 7.77.2, and the contrasts he draws between aims
and outcome at 7.75.6–7 and between the glory of the victors and the dystychia of
the defeated at 7.87.5; possibly also, as Cornford famously argued (1907: 174–87,
esp. 185), in the juxtaposition of the Melian dialogue and the Sicilian expedition as
illustrations of the inevitable results of blind over-confidence. See further Macleod
1983: 140–58; Connor 1984: 161–8, 187–8, 198–209; Stahl [1966] 2003: 180–222;
Hau 2007: 55, 66–8, 111–12, 168–75, 206–8.
57 For examples from Diodorus and esp. from Polybius, cf. below.
58 On the continuity between Plutarch’s Lives and his predecessors among the his-
torians in their use of what one might regard as ‘tragic’ themes, cf. Pelling 2002b,
esp. 97–8, 106, 111 n. 27; cf. 117–41 (esp. 120–1, 130–1); cf. Pelling 2005a: 280–3.
59 Cf. Russell 1973: 100; Desideri 1989: 199–204, 212–15, 1992: 4473–5; Duff 1999:
34–6, 50, 53–4; Lamberton 2001: 72–4; Zadorojnyi 2010: 169–73, esp. on the
mirror motif.
arrange my life and assimilate it to the virtues of my subjects by

telling their stories . . . In my own case, since my mind is always
welcoming towards the remembrance of the best and most
esteemed individuals, I am equipped by the study of history and
the familiarity therewith that my writing produces to shun and
reject anything base, malicious or ignoble that enforced associa-
tion with others may press upon me, diverting my thoughts calmly
and dispassionately towards the fairest paradeigmata there are.
The introduction similarly emphasises the role of good fortune

(agathai tychai, eupotmia) in the success of each of the pair’s subjects
(Aem. 1.6):60
ὧν ἐν τῷ παρόντι προκεχειρίσμεθά σοι τὸν Τιμολέοντος τοῦ Κορινθίου

καὶ Αἰμιλίου Παύλου βίον, ἀνδρῶν οὐ μόνον ταῖς αἱρέσεσιν, ἀλλὰ
καὶ ταῖς τύχαις ἀγαθαῖς ὁμοίως κεχρημένων ἐπὶ τὰ πράγματα, καὶ
διαμφισβήτησιν παρεξόντων, πότερον εὐποτμίᾳ μᾶλλον ἢ φρονήσει
τὰ μέγιστα τῶν πεπραγμένων κατώρθωσαν.
Among these are the Lives I have chosen for you now, of
Timoleon the Corinthian and Aemilius Paullus, men who were
alike not only in their principles, but also in the good fortune that
their careers manifested, making it a matter of debate whether
their greatest successes were due to luck or to judgement.
We shall return below to issues of parallelism and comparison, with

particular reference to the role of fortune and its mutability in the
lives of Aemilius and Timoleon and in the structure of the narratives
which recount their careers. It is clear, however, that Plutarch did not
invent the association between the subjects of this pair of biographies
and tychē – certainly not in the case of Aemilius,61 and very probably
not in that of Timoleon either. The role of tychē, for good or for ill, in
the life and career of Aemilius and Aemilius’ own circumspection with
regard to tychē’s role in human affairs are clearly present in Polybius’
fragmentary narrative of the Third Macedonian War,62 reflected in
60 On Plutarch’s views on tychē, in philosophical and non-philosophical works, see

Swain 1989b, esp. 274–5: ‘In more serious thinking Plutarch has no time for τύχη
but he does believe in δαίμονες.’ Thus the usage of the Lives simply reflects con-
temporary idiom; cf. W. J. Tatum 2010a: 449. On eupotmia in Aem. 1.6, cf. Swain
1989b: 300.
61 Cf. Swain 1989c: 323: ‘Aemilius’ association with fortune was one which Plutarch
found in his sources.’ Cf. Geiger 1981: 103 = 1995: 189.
62 See Walbank 1957–79: iii.378; Geiger 1981: 102–3 = 1995: 187–8; Swain 1989c:
317, 324–7; W. J. Tatum 2010a: 453–8.
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the adaptations of that account by Diodorus and Livy, and virtually

proverbial by the time of Plutarch.63 Similarly, Plutarch may also
have found an emphasis on tychē in Timaeus’ account of Timoleon’s
campaigns in Sicily: Timaeus is cited at Timoleon 36.2 for his use of
a quotation from Sophocles in presenting Timoleon as a recipient of
divine favour.64 But though the centrality of tychē to these two Lives is
not a Plutarchan invention, it will be instructive to explore the subtlety
and artistry with which Plutarch has taken this theme and turned it
into the Leitmotiv that structures each of the two narratives and guides
the reader’s appreciation of the relations between them.65
L. Aemilius Paullus had a long and distinguished career, but
Plutarch’s Life concentrates on a single campaign (his victory over
Perseus of Macedonia, during his second consulship, at the age of
around sixty, in 168 bc). The introduction to this episode begins
in chapter 8; the decisive battle occupies chapters 15–21; Aemilius’
triumph and the events that surround it are narrated in chapters 30–6;
the narrative of the war is concluded in chapter 37; and the work ends
in 39. Its climax is clearly the (three-day) triumph held in September
167, the height of Aemilius’ success. The triumph itself is narrated as
a climactic tricolon:66 its first day occupies chapter 32.4, the second
chapter 32.5–9 and the third chapters 33–4.
The climactic triumph, however, is postponed by a dramatic
moment of crisis – the envy of Aemilius’ inferiors, masked as
indignation,67 together with the political opportunism of his enemies,
threatens the triumph, until (in true epinician fashion) generous rec-
ognition of genuine merit and achievement prevail (30.4–32.1). In the
midst of the victory celebrations, all eyes are on Aemilius and he is
admired by all good men (34.7):
63 With Aem. 24.4–6, cf. Cic. Nat. D. 2.6; Val. Max. 1.8.1; Pliny, HN 7.86; Florus
1.28.14–15. With Aem. 27.2–5, cf. Plb. 29.20 (with Walbank 1957–79: iii.392; Hau
2007: 141); Livy 45.8.6–7; D.S. 30.23.1–2; Florus 1.28.11. With Aem. 28.4, cf. Plb.
30.10; Livy 45.27.7. With Aem. 34.8–38.1, cf. Cic. ad Fam. 4.6.1, Tusc. 3.70; Livy
45.41; D.S. 31.11; Vell. 1.10.3–5; Val. Max. 5.10.2; App. Mac. 19. Cf. also Plb.
29.21 (Perseus’ downfall prompts citation of Demetrius of Phalerum on mutabil-
ity; cf. D.S. 31.10, perhaps also Livy 45.9.2–7, with Walbank 1957–79: iii.393);
D.S. 31.9. 4 (Aemilius once more – cf. 30.23.1–2 – sees Perseus as an example of
the mutability of fortune and the need for humility in triumph); Livy 44.40.3–10
(fortuna initiates the battle of Pydna; contrast Aem. 18.1–3); Pliny, HN 34.54
(Aemilius dedicates a Phidian statue of Athena in the temple of Fortuna Huiusce
Diei).
64 See Fontana 1958, esp. 7–11; Geiger 1981: 101–3 = 1995: 186–9; Swain 1989c: 327;
cf. Swain 1989b: 284 n. 42; W. J. Tatum 2010a: 452.
65 Cf. Geiger 1981: 103–4 = 1995: 188–90; Swain 1989c: 314, 327–9; W. J. Tatum
2010a: 449–50.
66 Cf. Swain 1989c: 325.
67 For the issues here, see Cairns 2003 (with further lit.).
ἐδαφνηφόρει δὲ καὶ σύμπας ὁ στρατός, τῷ μὲν ἅρματι τοῦ στρατηγοῦ

κατὰ λόχους καὶ τάξεις ἑπόμενος, ᾄδων δὲ τὰ μὲν ᾠδάς τινας
πατρίους ἀναμεμειγμένας γέλωτι, τὰ δὲ παιᾶνας ἐπινικίους καὶ τῶν
διαπεπραγμένων ἐπαίνους εἰς τὸν Αἰμίλιον, περίβλεπτον ὄντα καὶ
ζηλωτὸν ὑπὸ πάντων, οὐδενὶ δὲ τῶν ἀγαθῶν ἐπίφθονον . . .
The whole army also carried laurel, following the chariot of

their general by companies and divisions, and singing, partly
certain traditional songs with a comic element, as the ancient
custom was, and partly victory paeans and encomia addressed
to Aemilius, the object of everyone’s attention and admiration,
begrudged by no one that was good.
But Aemilius’ success is immediately undercut by adversity: no decent

human being wishes him ill, but there is some force that sees to it that
no prosperity is unmixed with evil (34.8):68
πλὴν εἴ τι δαιμόνιον ἄρα τῶν μεγάλων καὶ ὑπερόγκων εἴληχεν

εὐτυχιῶν ἀπαρύτειν καὶ μειγνύναι τὸν ἀνθρώπινον βίον, ὅπως μηδενὶ
κακῶν ἄκρατος εἴη καὶ καθαρός . . .
Unless it is true that some divine force has been allotted the task
of detracting from exceedingly great good fortune and of making
a mixture of human existence, in order that no one’s life should
be unsullied or without admixture of trouble . . .
Two of Aemilius’ sons (aged 14 and 12) died, one five days before the
triumph and the other three days after it. The Roman people see this
as an illustration of the mutability of fortune (35.3):
ὥστε μηδένα γενέσθαι Ῥωμαίων τοῦ πάθους ἀνάλγητον, ἀλλὰ φρῖξαι

τὴν ὠμότητα τῆς Τύχης ἅπαντας, ὡς οὐκ ᾐδέσατο πένθος τοσοῦτον
68 Plutarch certainly seems to believe in the phenomenon to which this passage

refers, but his subsequent references to tychē and her nemesis present it in a tra-
ditional idiom to whose implications he presumably does not subscribe (Swain
1989b: 300). At Mar. 23.1 the force which leaves no great success akratos and
katharos is indifferently ‘tychē, nemesis or the necessary nature of affairs’ (ἡ δὲ
μηθὲν ἐῶσα τῶν μεγάλων εὐτυχημάτων ἄκρατον εἰς ἡδονὴν καὶ καθαρόν, ἀλλὰ
μείξει κακῶν καὶ ἀγαθῶν ποικίλλουσα τὸν ἀνθρώπινον βίον, ἢ τύχη τις ἢ νέμεσις ἢ
πραγμάτων ἀναγκαία φύσις . . .). Plutarch’s use of traditional forms of expression in
such passages shows how easily notions of mutability, fate and the begrudgery of
divine agents can blend into one another (cf. above, pp. 112–14). On nemesis’ shift
from ‘righteous indignation’ in Homer to something more like phthonos in later
authors, see Konstan 2003.
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εἰς οἰκίαν ζήλου καὶ χαρᾶς καὶ θυσιῶν γέμουσαν εἰσάγουσα,

καὶ καταμειγνύουσα θρήνους καὶ δάκρυα παιᾶσιν ἐπινικίοις καὶ
θριάμβοις.
The result was that there was no Roman unaffected by his suffer-
ing; rather, they all shuddered at the cruelty of Tyche, as she felt
no compunction at bringing such great grief into a house that was
full of admiration, joy and sacrifices, or at mixing up laments and
tears with paeans of victory and triumphs.69
Aemilius agrees, and gives a speech in which he reflects that, in this

case, this universal rule applies only to his own fortunes rather that
to those of the Roman state (36.3–9). This speech is the longest
of three that Aemilius makes on the same subject, and it contains
several themes that occur in earlier passages of the Life and play a
significant role in the structure of the narrative. First, Aemilius notes
that, although his campaign against Perseus had been attended by
good fortune from start to finish, he himself had never taken this for
granted, but had always been afraid of some reversal (36.3, 5–6):
ἔφη γάρ, ὅτι τῶν ἀνθρωπίνων οὐδὲν οὐδέποτε δείσας, τῶν δὲ θείων
ὡς ἀπιστότατον καὶ ποικιλώτατον πρᾶγμα τὴν Τύχην ἀεὶ φοβηθείς,
μάλιστα περὶ τοῦτον αὐτῆς τὸν πόλεμον ὥσπερ πνεύματος λαμπροῦ
ταῖς πράξεσι παρούσης, διατελοίη μεταβολήν τινα καὶ παλίρροιαν
προσδεχόμενος.
He said that he had never been afraid of any human power, but
among divine powers he had always feared Tyche, regarding her
as a most untrustworthy and variable thing; and since in this war
in particular she had been present in his actions like a favourable
wind, he had never ceased to expect some change or reversal.
“ἀπιστῶν δὲ τῇ Τύχῃ διὰ τὴν εὔροιαν τῶν πραγμάτων, ὡς ἄδεια

πολλὴ καὶ κίνδυνος οὐδεὶς ἦν ἀπὸ τῶν πολεμίων, μάλιστα κατὰ
πλοῦν ἐδεδίειν τὴν μεταβολὴν τοῦ δαίμονος ἐπ’ εὐτυχίᾳ <τοσαύτῃ>,
τοσοῦτον στρατὸν νενικηκότα καὶ λάφυρα καὶ βασιλεῖς αἰχμαλώτους
κομίζων. οὐ μὴν ἀλλὰ καὶ σωθεὶς πρὸς ὑμᾶς, καὶ τὴν πόλιν ὁρῶν
69 Cf. the reversal (within a single hour) in the fortunes of the cities and people of
Epirus, with the result that φρῖξαι δὲ πάντας ἀνθρώπους τὸ τοῦ πολέμου τέλος, εἰς
μικρὸν οὕτω τὸ καθ’ ἕκαστον λῆμμα καὶ κέρδος ἔθνους ὅλου κατακερματισθέντος (‘all
men shuddered at the outcome of the war, that a whole nation could be chopped
up and shared out with so little profit or gain for each individual’, 29.5). On this
passage, cf. Pelling 2005a: 209.
εὐφροσύνης καὶ ζήλου καὶ θυσιῶν γέμουσαν, ἔτι τὴν Τύχην δι’
ὑποψίας εἶχον, εἰδὼς οὐδὲν εἰλικρινὲς οὐδ’ ἀνεμέσητον ἀνθρώποις
τῶν μεγάλων χαριζομένην.”
‘Since I distrusted Tyche because things were going so well, now

that there was nothing to fear and no danger from the enemy,
during my voyage home, in particular, I feared the daimōn’s
change after such good fortune, since I was bringing home a vic-
torious army of such size, with spoils and royal prisoners. Indeed,
even when I had got safely back to you, and saw the city full of
festive joy and admiration and sacrifices, I was still suspicious
of Tyche, because I knew that she grants human beings no great
favour that is straightforward or free of nemesis.’
Second, he draws the conclusion that the vanquished Perseus and the
victorious Aemilius are both equally good paradeigmata of human
vulnerability (36.9):
“ἱκανῶς γὰρ ἐμοὶ καὶ τοῖς ἐμοῖς κακοῖς εἰς τὴν τῶν κατωρθωμένων
ἀποκέχρηται νέμεσιν, οὐκ ἀφανέστερον ἔχουσα παράδειγμα τῆς
ἀνθρωπίνης ἀσθενείας τοῦ θριαμβευομένου τὸν θριαμβεύοντα· πλὴν
ὅτι Περσεὺς μὲν ἔχει καὶ νενικημένος τοὺς παῖδας, Αἰμίλιος δὲ τοὺς
αὑτοῦ νικήσας ἀπέβαλεν.”
‘For she [sc. Tyche] has made sufficient use of me and my afflic-
tions to satisfy her nemesis at our successes,70 since she has as
clear an example of human frailty in the hero of the triumph as
in its victim; except that Perseus, even though defeated, keeps his
children, while Aemilius, the victor, has lost his.’
Both these points punctuate the work as it builds towards its climax:
there are repeated references to Aemilius’ exceptional good fortune
(or divine protection),71 portents presage Aemilius’ success and
Perseus’ defeat,72 and the contrast between the noble Aemilius and
the avaricious, cowardly and possibly base-born Perseus, especially in
their reactions to good or ill fortune, recurs.73 Where Perseus’ faults
70 For the thought that one’s sufferings to date should be enough to satisfy divine
resentment, cf. Nicias at Thuc. 7.77.3. Nicias speaks of phthonos, but Aemilius of
nemesis; cf. n. 68 above.
71 12.1, 19.6, 24.2–6.
72 10.6–8, 17.7–11, 24.4–6.
73 12.3–6, 12.12, 19.4–6, 23.1–24.1, 26.4–12, 27.4–5, 33.6–8, 37.2. For Perseus as a
foil, cf. Swain 1989c: 325 (cf. 321–2 on Hicetas as foil for Timoleon in Tim.). On
the presentation of Perseus, see further Scuderi 2004–5.
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and misjudgements contribute to Aemilius’ luck and Perseus’ own

downfall, Aemilius himself is careful throughout to avoid tempting
fate, remaining cautious when things go well and constantly remind-
ing others, especially the less experienced, of the dangers of becoming
carried away by success.74 These dangers are exemplified by his own
son, Scipio Aemilianus (22.2–9): Aemilius fears that the seventeen-
year-old Scipio has become elated by victory and perished, but he
lives to become the destroyer of Carthage and Numantia, while Tyche
merely defers the effects of her nemesis at Aemilius’ success until
another day (22.9):
Αἰμιλίῳ μὲν οὖν τὴν τοῦ κατορθώματος νέμεσιν εἰς ἕτερον ἡ Τύχη
καιρὸν ὑπερβαλλομένη, τότε παντελῆ τὴν ἡδονὴν ἀπεδίδου τῆς
νίκης.
So Tyche deferred her nemesis at Aemilius’ success for another

occasion, and for the moment gave him back in its entirety his
pleasure in his victory.
This is not just the general idea that good fortune is inherently unsta-
ble and that vicissitude is inevitable,75 an idea that might simply be
regarded as the common currency of Greek popular thought. Rather,
the notion is explicitly presented in thoroughly Iliadic terms.76 The
climax of the Life’s narrative, the reversal which occurs at the height
of Aemilius’ success, is introduced with a direct allusion to the parable
of the jars (34.8): ὅπως μηδενὶ κακῶν ἄκρατος εἴη καὶ καθαρός, ἀλλὰ
καθ’ Ὅμηρον ἄριστα δοκῶσι πράττειν, οἷς αἱ τύχαι ῥοπὴν ἐπ’ ἀμφότερα
τῶν πραγμάτων ἔχουσιν (‘in order that no one’s life should be unsullied
or without admixture of trouble, but that, as Homer says, those may
be regarded as best off whose fortunes shift in the balance, now this
way, now that’).77 But this is not all. We are alerted to the relevance
74 17.3–4, 17.10–13, 27.1–6.

75 On the mutability of fortune in the Lives in general, see Russell 1973: 115; Duff
1999: 41–2; Pelling 1986: 93–5 = 2002a: 356–8.
76 On Homeric (and tragic) patterns in the Lives, see Mossman [1988] 1995;
Zadorojniy 1997; D’Ippolito 2004; cf. n. 58 above.
77 Plutarch cites or alludes to the passage also at Aud. poet. 20e (Il. 24.525–6),
22b (24.525–6), 24a (24.527–8); Cons. Apoll. 105c–d (24.522–33); Is. et Os. 369c
(24.527–8); Tranq. an. 473b (24.527–8); Exil. 600c (24.527–8). Cf. the quotation
of Il. 24.560–1, 569–70 and 584–6 at Aud. poet. 31a–c. The versions of 24.527–8
used in 24b and 600d are influenced by the variant cited by Plato at Resp. 379d
(Díaz Lavado 2010: 277; Hunter and Russell 2011: 135). On Plutarch’s use of the
parable in the Moralia, see D’Ippolito 2004: 28–30; Díaz Lavado 2010: 276–80. On
his use of Homer in general in the Moralia, see Bréchet 2004/5; D’Ippolito 2004
(cf. D’Ippolito 2007); Díaz Lavado 2010.
of Achilles’ encounter with Priam in the very first chapter, when

Plutarch, presenting his research on his biographical subjects as a kind
of personal acquaintance, quotes Il. 24.630 (Priam admires Achilles’
‘stature and appearance’, ὅσσος ἔην οἷός τε). But the influence goes
further: the captured Perseus supplicates (26. 9), as does Priam, and
Aemilius accepts his supplication, and not only the acceptance but
also the language in which it is described recall the Iliadic scene:
with Aem. 27.1 (τοῦτον μὲν ἀναστήσας καὶ δεξιωσάμενος Τουβέρωνι
παρέδωκεν, ‘he raised Perseus up, gave him his hand and entrusted
him to Tubero’) compare Il. 24.515–16 (γέροντα δὲ χειρὸς ἀνίστη
οἰκτίρων πολιόν τε κάρη πολιόν τε γένειον, ‘he raised the old man by
his hand, pitying his hoary head and hoary beard’). The difference is
that, whereas Achilles pities his enemy (a feature of the Iliad passage
whose cultural significance can scarcely be overestimated),78 Aemilius
is deprived of the opportunity to pity Perseus by the latter’s ignoble
behaviour: he at first takes Perseus to be ‘a great man brought low by
the anger of the gods and the hostility of fortune’ (ὡς ἀνδρὶ μεγάλῳ
πεπτωκότι πτῶμα νεμεσητὸν καὶ δυστυχές) and comes to meet him with
tears in his eyes (ἐξαναστὰς προϋπήντα μετὰ τῶν φίλων δεδακρυμένος,
26.8), but Perseus’ abject behaviour leads him to believe that it is the
latter’s prosperity, not his misfortune, that is undeserved (26.10).
Defeat of such an unworthy opponent detracts from Aemilius’ success
(26.11), and Perseus is devoid of the aretē that attracts aidōs,79 even for
a defeated enemy (26.12):
“τί τῆς τύχης” εἶπεν “ὦ ταλαίπωρε τὸ μέγιστον ἀφαιρεῖς τῶν

ἐγκλημάτων, ταῦτα πράττων ἀφ’ ὧν δόξεις οὐ παρ’ ἀξίαν ἀτυχεῖν,
οὐδὲ τοῦ νῦν, ἀλλὰ τοῦ πάλαι δαίμονος ἀνάξιος γεγονέναι; τί
δέ μου καταβάλλεις τὴν νίκην καὶ τὸ κατόρθωμα ποιεῖς μικρόν,
ἐπιδεικνύμενος ἑαυτὸν οὐ γενναῖον οὐδὲ πρέποντα Ῥωμαίοις
ἀνταγωνιστήν; ἀρετή τοι δυστυχοῦσι μεγάλην ἔχει μοῖραν αἰδοῦς
καὶ παρὰ πολεμίοις, δειλία δὲ Ῥωμαίοις κἂν εὐποτμῇ πάντων
ἀτιμότατον.”
‘You wretch,’ he said, ‘Why do you free tychē from the strong-
est charge you could make, by behaving in ways that will make
people think that you deserve your misfortunes, and that it is not
78 Cf. esp. S. Aj. 121–6. The notion that an enemy’s defeat underlines the mutability
to which all are subject, and should therefore appeal to the humanity of the victor,
is common in the Hellenistic and later historiography on which Plutarch draws.
See esp. Plb. 29.20–1, on Aemilius and Perseus, and cf. Plb. 15.17.4, 38.21; D.S.
13.20–7, 28–32, 17.38.4–7, 27.6.1, 31.3.1–3 (with Hau 2007: 37–43, 139, 141).
79 Another feature of the source context in Homer: see Il. 24.503.
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your present lot, but your previous one that was undeserved?
And why do you undermine my victory and diminish my success,
by showing that you are not a noble or even a fitting antagonist
for Romans? Aretē in the unfortunate brings great aidōs even in
the eyes of their enemies, but, for Romans, cowardice, even if
it prospers, is the most dishonourable thing of all.’ (Plut. Aem.
26.10–12)
Clearly, then, the presentation of the theme of the mutability of

fortune in the Aemilius draws explicitly on the classic articulation and
presentation of that theme in the Iliad. As in the Iliad, the principle
of alternation not only structures the narrative but is also voiced
authoritatively at an important point in that narrative. Also as in the
Iliad, the ethical and emotional implications of the theme for the exter-
nal audience are drawn out by means of the focalisation of internal
audiences – as Achilles pities Priam, so the Romans shudder at the
misfortune that strikes Aemilius at the height of his success (35.3).80
And, again as in the Iliad, the theme is used to articulate the vulner-
ability that unites all human beings, friend and foe, winner and loser:
as the Romans shudder at the fate of Aemilius, so ‘everyone’ shudders
at the outcome of the war, that the wealth of an entire nation should
amount to so little once divided in the hands of its conquerors (29.5);
and the counterpart of Aemilius’ success is the downfall of Perseus, a
reminder of that vulnerability that is realised in the personal tragedy
that strikes at the height of Aemilius’ success.
Already in that regard, the Life of Aemilius exhibits a pronounced
comparative aspect: the careers of Aemilius and Perseus engage the
capacities of comparison and contrast that underlie the entire project of
parallel biography.81 Accordingly, to get the most out of this pair of
Lives, and their meditations on the mutability of fortune, we need
to read each in the light of the other. Tychē is not only the Leitmotiv
of the Aemilius, but also the theme that unites Aemilius–Timoleon as
a pair.82 In that regard, the two biographies present similar careers
with different emphases, but what is explicit and salient in the one is
often implicit in the other.83 First, the motif of tychē not only links
80 Cf. Pelling 2005a: 282–3.

81 For the comparison of Aemilius and Perseus as a reflection of Plutarch’s project,
see W. J. Tatum 2010b: 7–8.
82 Cf. n. 65 above.
83 For general points on the interrelations between the Lives in each pair and the
need to read each via the other, see Erbse [1956] 1979; Stadter [1975] 1995; Pelling
[1986] 2002a, 2005b; Desideri 1992; Duff 1999; cf. the contributions to Humble
2010, esp. W. J. Tatum 2010b: 1–8; cf. W. J. Tatum 2010a: 452. Specifically on
but also distinguishes the two Lives as sections of a single book, as

the first Life’s movement to a climax in which good fortune is imme-
diately mixed with bad is followed by the second’s progress from early
misfortune (Timoleon’s part in the killing of his brother, 4.4–7.1) to
prodigious success.84 The Aemilius, moreover, unfolds in a simple
diachronic sequence in which, as we saw, the triumph and the events
that surround it form a clear climax; the structure of Timoleon, on the
other hand, is more complex, beginning with a reference to its main
event (Timoleon’s expedition to Sicily, 1.1), before going back in time,
relating first the state of the island at that point (1.2–2.4), and then
Timoleon’s early career as a soldier (3.5–7.2), culminating in his part
in his brother’s murder (4.5–8), a part he played only when all alterna-
tives failed and because his patriotism, sense of honour and justice,
and hatred of tyrants and villains (3.5, 5.1) proved stronger than
familial solidarity. The opprobrium that this brought him, together
with his mother’s anger, then drives Timoleon from public life, for
a period of almost twenty years (5.2–4, 7.1);85 it is at the end of that
period that he is chosen general for the expedition to Sicily (7.2), an
enterprise that then occupies the Life in chronological sequence until
Sicily is free of tyrants and the Carthaginians banished to their own
part of the island (to 34.7). The honour and popularity that Timoleon
thereafter enjoys and the honours he receives on death then bring the
biography to a close (chapters 35–9). Thus the sequence of the main
narrative (success and its rewards) demonstrates the function of the
inset, early-years narrative (misfortune and opprobrium) as a con-
trasting mise en abyme.
Within these differences of structure, however, the two narratives
exhibit many similarities of theme. In both, the mutability of fortune
is a factor that affects all, winners and losers, hero and foil, virtuous
and vicious: not only Aemilius and Timoleon, but also their nega-
tive counterparts (Perseus in the former case, Hicetas and especially
Dionysius in the latter), serve as paradigms of vicissitude.86 The failure
Aem.-Tim., see Geiger 1981: 99–104 = 1995: 184–90; Desideri 1989; Swain 1989c,
esp. 314; W. J. Tatum 2010a.
84 For Geiger 1981: 104 = 1995: 189–90 it is this sequence that explains why Aem.
comes first; Swain 1989c: 314 rightly suspects that the importance of the theme
runs deeper than that.
85 Aemilius also has his ‘wilderness years’: Aem. 6.8–10, 10.1.
86 For Perseus in Aem. see above. In Tim., the hero’s eutychia and aretē are clearly
mirrored in the contrasting presentation of his opponents, and Hicetas is a central
aspect of this antithesis; but it is the career of Dionysius that is in particular
singled out for moralising on the mutability of fortune – his surrender represents
‘unexpected eutychia’ for Timoleon (13.3), but also occasions reflections on the
extremes of vicissitude to which a single human life can be subject (13.8–10), his
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of these negative paradigms to respond to their circumstances with

dignity thus highlights the aretē that characterises both Aemilius and
Timoleon in their attitudes to vicissitude.87 This is a theme that is
signalled in the prologue to both Lives (whether their success was due
to eupotmia or phronēsis, Aem. 1.6, quoted above) and one to which
Plutarch returns in the synkrisis (2.10–12),88 where Aemilius’ strength
of character in dealing with the loss of his sons (Aem. 26.1–27.1) is
contrasted favourably with Timoleon’s utter dejection following the
killing of his brother (Tim. 5.2–4, 7.1, with moralising commentary
in 6.1–7).89 But though the interaction of aretē and tychē is indeed a
theme of both Lives, highlighted especially in the ‘bravery and confi-
dence’, the ‘great and noble expression of a sincere and honest charac-
ter’, with which Aemilius is said to face up to tychē at 36.1 and 37.1,90
the expression of the antithesis as such is perhaps more explicit and
salient in Timoleon.91 In the end, however, Aemilius and Timoleon
are alike; the way that they themselves emphasise the role of tychē in
their success illustrates the aretē of which the narrative gives ample
testimony (Aem. 27.2–6, Tim. 36.5–6).92
fall from tyrant to wastrel a ‘work of tychē’ (14.3) that evokes mockery and rejoic-
ing among those who see him ‘overthrown by tychē’, but sympathy in those for
whom his metabolē represents the vulnerability of all human beings to ‘the power
of invisible, divine causation’ (14.2). For Dionysius’ dystychia as the explicit com-
plement of Timoleon’s eutychia, see 16.1.
87 Perseus: see esp. 26.8–12, 34.1–4 (discussed above); Dionysius, see Tim. 15, esp.
Dionysius’ remark at 15.4: ‘Don’t you think that the way I bear my change of
tychē shows how I profited from association with Plato?’
88 On the Plutarchan prologue as an introduction to both Lives in a pair, see Duff
2011.
89 On the aretē–tychē antithesis in Plutarch, see Swain 1989d on De fort. Rom.; cf.
Lamberton 2001: 98–9.
90 Cf. the combination of aretē and eutychia in the history of Aemilius’ family at
Aem. 2.3, the references to or illustrations of Aemilius’ aretai at 2.6, 4.3–5, 5.8,
10.1, 13.6, 18.1, 28.1–11, 30.1, 31.4, 39.9 and (esp.) the proleptic verdict on the
respective roles of tychē and divine favour versus virtue in the victory over Perseus
at 12.1–3. On the presence of the theme in both Lives, see Desideri 1989: 204–13;
Swain 1989c: 324, 330–1. On his response to misfortune as a mark of Aemilius’
aretē, cf. Desideri 1989: 208–9; Swain 1989b: 275; on tychē as a test of character in
general, cf. Swain 1989a: 64–5, 67–8. For the same theme in Polybius and for the
relevance of the Polybian belief in Aem., cf. W. J. Tatum 2010a: 454–8, 460. The
theme emerges programmatically at Plb. 1.1.2, and is restated with reference to
Aemilius himself at 29.20 (W. J. Tatum 2010a: 454–5; cf. Hau 2007: 141); cf., e.g.,
18.33.4–8, on Philip V.
91 Explicitly at 19.1, 21.4–5, 36.4–5, 37.5; implicit in 6.1–7.2, 15.1–4 (Dionysius),
26.3, 38.1; cf. Swain 1989c: 330–1.
92 As W. J. Tatum remarks (2010a: 452), Timoleon’s words at 36.5–6 represent ‘a
gesture Plutarch elsewhere records as an elegant example of self-praise (de laud.
ipsius 542E)’.
The way that a theme can be salient and explicit in one of the pair,
less salient but still significant in the other, is further illustrated by
the presentation of our central topic, the mutability of fortune and
the impossibility of unmixed eudaimonia. In the Aemilius, disaster
strikes at the height of Aemilius’ success, whereas Timoleon puts his
early misfortunes behind him and ends his days secure in the honour
and esteem in which he is held by the recipients of his benefactions.93
But Timoleon’s felicity is not entirely unmixed: by remaining in Sicily
rather than returning to Corinth, he avoids the malicious resentment
of one’s fellow citizens (πολιτικὸς φθόνος) that typically attends the
successful (and ambitious) general (36.8), but not even he can escape
phthonos entirely. Attacked by Syracusan demagogues, he uses their
very freedom to attack him as a token of the benefactions that are
properly appreciated by the vast majority of their fellows (37.1–3).
Even then, however, his retirement is not entirely free of setbacks:
he gradually loses his sight, eventually becoming completely blind
(37.7–10). Though Plutarch is at pains to emphasise that this is an
affliction that runs in his family rather than an arbitrary ‘insult’ on the
part of Tyche (οὔτε παροινηθεὶς ὑπὸ τῆς Tύχης, 37.7), it is nonetheless a
symphora (that brings out both his own strength of character and the
esteem in which he is held by the Syracusans, 38.1–3). In this way, in a
minor key and in the midst of a much more pronounced emphasis on
Timoleon’s felicity, the pattern that we see in the phthonos that threat-
ens Aemilius’ triumph (Aem. 30.4–32.1), the misfortune that strikes at
the height of his success (demonstrating the truth of the gnōmē, sup-
ported by the Iliadic parable of the jars, that ‘no one’s life is entirely
free of misfortune’, Aem. 34.8), and the fortitude and wisdom with
which Aemilius bears his misfortune (Aem. 36.1–37.1) is replicated in
the case of Timoleon. The principle of alternation, though explicitly
enunciated and explicitly related to its emblematic statement in the
Iliad only in the Aemilius, recurs as an organising principle, an ethical
norm, and a template that structures audience response also in the
Timoleon. 94
Both Lives, then, manifest the whole-life perspective that is char-
acteristic of traditional Greek thought on the nature of eudaimonia.
In both, the vicissitudes of fortune play a substantial role in the
subject’s career. And in both, the subject’s overall felicity, emphasised
particularly in the concluding sections with reference to the esteem
93 Tim. 36.1–39.7, the length of this section in itself attesting to the emphasis on
Timoleon’s eudaimonia; the equivalent section in Aem. is two chapters to Tim.’s
four.
94 Cf. Pelling 1986: 94 = 2002a: 357.
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in which he is held by peers and posterity, is attained not just by an

alliance of eutychia and aretē, but by the kind of aretē that proves
itself when tychē is most testing. Both Lives emphasise personal quali-
ties, personal vicissitudes. Undeniably, however, the Timoleon (as
Simon Swain has pointed out) places much greater and more explicit
emphasis on the interplay of individual tychē and divine providence.
Throughout, Timoleon’s affairs are apparently guided by an unseen
supernatural force whose aims coincide with his own – the freedom of
the Greeks in Sicily from tyrannical rule and barbarian domination.95
On the apparent contrast between the two Lives in this respect,
Swain observes:96 ‘Plutarch might have developed these ideas about
providence in Aem. too. He chose not to. He doubtless felt that the
events in which Aemilius was involved were not after all stupendous
and were for the most part explicable in human terms alone.’ A priori,
this explanation seems unlikely. But it is not just that, as Swain himself
emphasises, Plutarch elsewhere shows himself to be a believer in the
providential rise of Rome (and in the political and military decline
of Greece that is its counterpart).97 Nor is it merely that Plutarch
also identifies Aemilius Paullus as a figure whose own good fortune
contributed to that rise.98 It is not even that, as Tatum persuasively
argues, Plutarch’s emphasis on the role of tychē in Aemilius’ career
strongly suggests engagement with Polybius, whose presentation of
Aemilius exemplifies his programmatic views on the moral purpose
of historiography and for whom Aemilius’ defeat of the last king of
Macedonia is the event that decisively confirms the decline of Greece’s
fortunes and the rise of Rome’s.99 All of these things are relevant; but
95 See Tim. 3.1–3, 13.4, 8.1–8, 12.3, 12.9, 13.1, 14.2–3, 16.1, 16.10–12, 19.1, 20.1,
20.11, 21.5, 21.7, 26.1–6, 27.9, 28.2, 30.3, 30.6–7, 30.10, 36.2, 36.5, 37.5, 37.7. For
this as a project of providence, cf. Dion 4.3–4, 50.4, with Swain 1989c: 329.
96 1989c: 334; cf. 1989b: 275: ‘Aemilius’ campaign did not produce really great
changes in the world.’
97 On the rise of Rome, see Fab. 27.2, De fort. Rom. 317f–318a (Rome as Tyche’s
final destination), 342b–d, with Swain 1989b: 286–98, 1989c: 327 n. 48, 1989d;
cf. W. J. Tatum 2010a: 450 n. 4; for Greece’s destined decline Dem. 19.1, Phoc.
28.2–3, Phil. 17.2, Flam. 12.10 (with Swain 1989b: 281–5, 293). In the last two pas-
sages cited, the point is that Rome’s rise is Greece’s fall.
98 See De fort. Rom. 4, 318b–c, where Aemilius is an example of the Roman leaders
whose tychē (which must encompass his success against Perseus) has contributed
to that of Rome in general; cf. Swain 1989d: 508–9.
99 See W. J. Tatum 2010a: 454–6 on Plb. 1.4.1, 1.4.4–5, with 29.20 (where Aemilius
himself ‘reprises Polybius’ own views on the purpose of history’, W. J. Tatum
2010a: 455); cf. Plb. 29.21.1–9 – it is significant that Polybius located this digres-
sion on Demetrius of Phalerum’s views on on tychē at this point (W. J. Tatum
2010a: 456). On Plb. 1.4.1, 4–5, cf. Hau 2011: 187–9, 196. Hau 2011 in general
makes substantial progress over earlier scholarship in seeing the underlying
schema to which all senses of tychē in Polybius might be related.
the crucial point is that the providential interpretation of Aemilius’

part in the rise of Rome is not in fact absent from the pairing of
Aemilius and Timoleon.
First, the synkrisis presents the achievements of both in parallel
terms: while Timoleon ‘removed all the tyrannies from Sicily and freed
the island’, Aemilius ‘took Macedonia and ended the line of succes-
sion that began with Antigonus in the reign of its seventh king’ (Comp.
1.2; cf. 2.8). The end of the Macedonian dynasty is by no means a
negligible stage in the rise of Rome: this is emphasised by Aemilius’
observation that the fall of ‘the succession of Alexander’ suggests the
instability of all success,100 a point that recalls Polybius’ assessment
at 29.21, where the defeat of Perseus prompts the historian’s remi-
niscence of the similar conclusions drawn by Demetrius of Phalerum
regarding Alexander’s conquest of Persia and the rise and fall of
great powers. Nor is the fall of Macedon, in Aemilius, an achievement
that is won without supernatural guidance: if the omens and the like
recounted in the Timoleon (three in chapter 8 alone, at the beginning
of his enterprise, others in 12.9, 26, 31.6–7) indicate the plans of
providence, the Aemilius also has its fair share; the explicit point of
those that are related in Aem. 24.2–6 is to demonstrate that there was
something supernatural (daimonion, 24.3) or divine (θειότητι . . . καὶ
τύχῃ, 24.4) about Aemilius’ eutychia. The notion of divine favour, as
we saw above, punctuates the narrative.101 Similarly, Swain (1989c:
326–7) is surely wrong that, unlike Livy at 45.41.2, ‘Plutarch does not
choose to contrast Rome’s permanent public fortune with Aemilius’
private disaster’, but rather (in his speech to the populace following
the death of his sons) ‘has Aemilius contrast his own public fortune in
the campaign with his personal misfortune at home’: in fact Aemilius
is quite explicit both about his relief that tragedy has marred only
his own personal fortunes rather than ‘the future of the state’ (36.7)
and about his confidence that tychē will remain constant in favouring
Rome and her people (‘you’, 36.8).
These, to be sure, are slight indications, but it is much more likely
that they are to be understood in the light not only of widely shared
assumptions regarding Rome’s destiny, but also of the explicit reflec-
tions of the providential guidance of the world in Timoleon; the second
100 A point that is kept before us by the references to Alexander and the Macedonian
dynasty to which Perseus belongs at 8.1ff., 12.9–11, 23.9 and esp. 31.5 (Aemilius’
triumph entails the display of ‘the king of Macedon taken alive and the glory of
Alexander and Philip led as booty under Roman arms’).
101 See the references cited in nn. 71–2 above, and cf. W. J. Tatum 2010a: 453. I see
no basis for Swain’s assertion that ‘there is nothing comparable in Aem.’ to the
omens of Tim. 8, 12 and 26 (1989c: 332).
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Life offers a way of reading the first that makes explicit and salient
what would otherwise remain in the background.102 The two narra-
tives, as a pair, concern the mutability of fortune as it affects states
as well as individuals (a historiographical topos that goes back, as we
have seen, to Herodotus). Paradoxically, the Roman Life highlights,
in thoroughly Greek terms, the vicissitudes of a single life, a central
focus of traditional Greek thought on the nature and possibility of
happiness; while the Greek Life exemplifies the notion of historical
destiny that is so important for Rome and the Romans. Though
Plutarch’s appreciation of Timoleon’s providential mission in ridding
Sicily of tyrants and keeping the Carthaginians at bay is no doubt
genuine,103 the fact that his narrative of these events is preceded by
that of a crucial stage in Rome’s providential rise implies the temporal
limitations of Timoleon’s achievement;104 the destiny of free Greek
states, in Sicily and elsewhere, makes way for that of Rome. Yet
Timoleon’s achievements had their legitimate place in the providential
scheme of things. The Lives of Aemilius and Timoleon, taken together
as a single book, are saying something about the place of Greek and
Roman civilisation in world history.
If it is the Timoleon that emphasises the broader questions of the
rise and fall of states and cultures, it is the Aemilius that establishes,
for this pair of Lives, the relevance of the classic model of the principle
of alternation. As we see not least from their presence in Livy, these
ideas were in Plutarch’s day the common coin of Roman as well as
Greek thought.105 But Plutarch re-emphasises their Greekness. He
does so partly in his presentation of Aemilius as an untypically philo-
102 So W. J. Tatum 2010a: 460: ‘in Plutarch, the providential forces that so conspicu-
ously propel Timoleon’s liberation of the Greeks of Sicily recall, for the reader
of this pairing, the world historical impulse that brought Rome to greatness by
way of the career of Aemilius Paullus. The freedom of the Greeks and the rise of
Rome are results borne [sic] of the same providence.’
103 Swain 1989c: 329, 333–4; cf. Swain 1989b: 283–4. For W. J. Tatum 2010a:
459–60, Plutarch’s emphasis on this point constitutes a correction of Polybius’
attack on Timaeus (Plb. 12.23.4–6) for magnifying events that were of only
limited significance by comparison with the rise of Rome. On Timoleon as the
only great figure of his generation who succeeded in the Isocratean project of
making war only on barbarians and tyrants, rather than on other Greek states,
see Tim. 37.4.
104 As Swain notes (1989b: 292–3), Timoleon’s successes ‘were of limited duration
(as Plutarch must have known)’.
105 For the appeal of classic Greek formulations of the principle of alternation at
Rome, cf. Cic. Tusc. 3.24.59–25.60, quoting E. Hyps. 921–7 (in translation). At a
very general level, we may even be dealing with a narrative universal, in so far as
‘the narrative mode . . . deals in human or human-like intention and action and
the vicissitudes and consequences that mark their course’ (Bruner 1986: 13; cf.
Bruner 1986: 16–18, 88; Oatley 2012: 23, 45, 191).
sophical Roman, allegedly descended from Pythagoras, the nomen of

his gens etymologised in Greek (2.2), who practised virtue, not foren-
sic oratory (2.6), and who sees the value of Greek education (6.8–9),
so that his sons became devoted to literature (28.11).106 But above all
Plutarch re-Hellenises the theme of the mutability of fortune by situat-
ing it firmly in the Greek poetic tradition.107 Though the Timoleon also
underscores its emphasis on the theme of tychē by the deployment of
literary quotation,108 it is the relation of the Aemilius to Iliad 24 (by
means of two quotations and one clear allusion) that really sets the
tone, for that Life and for the pair. In making the life of Aemilius,
in particular, conform to a pattern established in a salient passage
of Greek civilisation’s most exemplary artistic production, and by
making Aemilius himself – the man who finally ended the Macedonian
monarchy and thus completed a crucial step in Rome’s rise to hegem-
ony – a prototype of Roman philhellenism, Plutarch underlines the
abiding claims of a Greek literary and intellectual culture that survives
Greece’s political and military subordination to Rome.109
Central to Plutarch’s narrative in Aemilius is the Iliadic and archaic
idea that good fortune is a fragile thing, because suffering is intrinsic to
the human condition, whether one is good or bad, careful or reckless,
great or insignificant. These are traditional ideas about the nature of
happiness that bring with them traditional ways of feeling, traditional
ways of responding to the texts that embody these ways of feeling,
texts that exemplify traditional values by associating them with exem-
plary narratives of the lives of exemplary figures. The Greekness of
the Life of Aemilius Paullus (and thus of the pair of Lives to which it
belongs) lies not only in the way that its narrative structure, its exem-
plary moral purpose and its intellectual and emotional content are
all inextricably linked, but also in the way that, like other texts that
106 Cf. 3.3: Aemilius’ augurship is not just a step on the cursus honorum, but mani-
fests a genuine, quasi-philosophical religiosity. As Swain notes (1989c: 316),
Aemilius’ ‘unusual and Hellenic sounding education (2.6), which Plutarch has
probably fabricated, prefigures his philhellenism (28) and moral courage (36)’;
cf. Swain 1990: 132–3 = 1995: 240–1. W. J. Tatum 2013 sees Plutarch’s project
of emphasising Aemilius’ quasi-Hellenic virtues also in the account of Aemilius’
decision to dig wells in the vicinity of Mt Olympus at Aem. 14.
107 Cf., e.g., Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ presentation (via extensive evocation of the
speech of Phoenix and the allegory of the Litai, Il. 9.496–514) of Coriolanus as
a second Achilles at Ant. Rom. 8.50.3–4 (with M. Davies 2005). Várhelyi 2012:
124–8 usefully situates this presentation in the context of the development of
synkrisis as practised by Plutarch.
108 Sophocles at 1.3; Euripides, as quoted by Euthymus at 32.3; Timaeus’ quotation
of Sophocles at 36.2.
109 For Rome’s philhellenism as a factor in her providential rise to dominance, see
Flam. 12.1–10, with Swain 1989b: 293.
136 douglas cairns
engage with the same ideas, it returns explicitly to the source of these
narrative and cultural models in the most seminal and authoritative
works of Greek literature.110 The principle of alternation is not unique
as traditional wisdom or as narrative theme, nor is the tradition that
recurs to that principle uniquely Greek in intellectual, affective or aes-
thetic terms. Yet the principle has, for the Greeks themselves, a special
place in Greek culture. It is a normative pattern to which Greek artists
and audiences repeatedly turn as a means of making sense of and
giving form to experience. This they do in forms as minimal as a single
gnōmē and as extensive as the Iliad, but at either end of the spectrum
the principle of alternation is a pattern that cries out for exemplifica-
tion in narratives of the doings and sufferings of specific individuals.
The tendency to encapsulate the pattern of vicissitude, with its atten-
dant normative and emotional associations, in traditional narratives
of an exemplary character is a salient and typical feature of the Greek
literary tradition, found in some of its most authoritative and influ-
ential manifestations. It is thus an interesting example of the ways in
which the shared and social aspects of traditional literary genres play
a constitutive role in the ways that a culture represents to itself its
models of mind, morality and emotion.
110 On the importance in Plutarch’s biographical project of the characteristic norms

and paradigms of traditional Greek thought, cf. Desideri 1992: 4481–6.
7
‘WHERE DO I BEGIN?’:
AN ODYSSEAN NARRATIVE STRATEGY
AND ITS AFTERLIFE
Richard Hunter
If modern narratology has a point of origin, or its own aetiology, then

Odysseus’ words to Alcinous at the start of Book 9 of the Odyssey
have as good a claim as any to take pride of place:
σοὶ δ’ ἐμὰ κήδεα θυμὸς ἐπετράπετο στονόεντα

εἴρεσθ’, ὄφρ’ ἔτι μᾶλλον ὀδυρόμενος στεναχίζω.
τί πρῶτόν τοι ἔπειτα, τί δ’ ὑστάτιον καταλέξω;
κήδε’ ἐπεί μοι πολλὰ δόσαν θεοὶ Οὐρανίωνες. 15
νῦν δ’ ὄνομα πρῶτον μυθήσομαι, ὄφρα καὶ ὑμεῖς
εἴδετ’, ἐγὼ δ’ ἂν ἔπειτα φυγὼν ὕπο νηλεὲς ἦμαρ
ὑμῖν ξεῖνος ἔω καὶ ἀπόπροθι δώματα ναίων.
But your spirit has determined to ask about my grievous troubles,

so that even more must I groan in lamentation. What then shall
I recount first, what last? Many are the troubles which the gods
of heaven have given me. First, I shall tell you my name, that you
may know it, and that, if I escape the day of destruction, I may
be your guest-friend, though I live far from here. (Od. 9.12–18)
Throughout ancient literature, narrators and public speakers return

time and again to Odysseus’ proem, though very few perhaps with the
pointed bitterness of one of the earliest imitators, Gorgias’ Palamedes,
who begins his apologia against Odysseus’ accusations with an echo of
Odysseus’ own apologos:
περὶ τούτων δὲ λέγων πόθεν ἄρξωμαι; τί δὲ πρῶτον εἴπω; ποῖ δὲ τῆς

ἀπολογίας τράπωμαι;
138 richard hunter
In speaking about these things, from what point shall I begin?

What am I to say first? To which part of my defence am I to turn?
(Gorgias, Palamedes 4)1
This chapter will be concerned with a few more examples drawn from
the afterlife of Odysseus’ opening words, but there is an important
point to be made at once.
Although Odysseus’ proem sees him behaving very much like a bard
or rhapsode,2 his ‘rhetorical’ question at 9.14 seems at the first level
simply to emphasise how much he has suffered, that is, how much
material exists for a narration of suffering, rather than to express
a quandary about narrative τάξις, ‘ordering’; nevertheless, the two
issues are here already mutually implicated. One of our most impor-
tant ancient narratological texts, Aelius Theon’s discussion of διήγημα,
devotes considerable space to these issues, and when he notes right at
the beginning that, under the heading of χρόνος (the fifth of the six
elements of ‘narrative’, which seems as good a translation of διήγημα
as any), falls ‘what came first, what second and so forth’ (78.32–3 Sp.),
we should, I think, hear a faded scholastic echo of Odysseus’ ques-
tion. Odysseus’ apologoi indeed set the ancient narratological agenda.
When Theon later warns against saying the same things twice (80.28
Sp.), we should recall the final words of Odysseus’ narration:
τί τοι τάδε μυθολογεύω; 450

ἤδη γάρ τοι χθιζὸς ἐμυθεόμην ἐνὶ οἴκῳ
σοί τε καὶ ἰφθίμῃ ἀλόχῳ· ἐχθρὸν δέ μοί ἐστιν
αὖτις ἀριζήλως εἰρημένα μυθολογεύειν.
Why am I telling these tales? Already yesterday I told them in

your house to you and your noble wife. It is hateful to me to
tell again tales which have already been very clearly told. (Od.
12.450–3)
These verses were in fact to embarrass the scholiasts, as ‘repetitions’

were one of the most familiar features of the Homeric texts, though
1 There is uncertainty about the text at the beginning, but it does not affect the point
being made. It is a pity that we do not know more of the context of Cephisodorus
fr. 13 K-A, cited by Athenaeus at the head of Book 11, ἄγε δή, τίς ἀρχὴ τῶν λόγων
γενήσεται;.
2 Cf., e.g., Kelly 2008a: 178. Odysseus’ ‘problem’ of narrative choice is, of course,
also Homer’s (cf. below p. 155), one implied by his request to the Muse at 1.10
(where see Di Benedetto’s note, 2010: ad loc.). For other relevant aspects of the
‘Golden Verses’ cf. Ford 1999 and Hunter forthcoming b.
‘where do i begin?’: an odyssean narrative strategy 139
explanations for Homeric practice were not hard to find (cf. the scholia
on 12. 453).3 The reason why one did not want to repeat oneself was
that such repetition was the enemy of clarity, σαφήνεια (cf. Theon loc.
cit., Anon. Seg. 82 Dilts-Kennedy), and it is probably not too rash
a speculation that not merely the injunction against repetition, but
also Odysseus’ emphasis upon not repeating things already described
‘very clearly’, the standard ancient interpretation of ἀριζήλως,4 had its
effects in the rhetorical schools. Eustathius observes that Odysseus’
final words in Book 12 were ‘useful (χρήσιμος) for everyone who
does not wish to repeat what has already been clearly stated’ (Hom.
1730.17). Odysseus’ strategies thus survived in the way that narrative
practice was taught at a very basic level.
It is not of course the opening verses of Book 9 alone which gave
the impulse to the very rich ancient discussion of narrative τάξις, of
‘natural’ and ‘anastrophic’ narrative, and so forth,5 but these verses
must be set against Odysseus’ similar address to Arete in Book 7:
ἀργαλέον, βασίλεια, διηνεκέως ἀγορεῦσαι,

κήδε’ ἐπεί μοι πολλὰ δόσαν θεοὶ Οὐρανίωνες·
τοῦτο δέ τοι ἐρέω, ὅ μ’ ἀνείρεαι ἠδὲ μεταλλᾶις.
It is difficult, Queen, to tell in full: many are the troubles which

the gods of heaven have given me. But I shall tell you this, what it
is you enquire and ask of me. (Od. 7.241–3)
Odysseus proceeds (famously) to answer the queen’s second and third

questions, leaving the issue of his name to slip from sight, but as 7.242
is identical to 9.15, it is very hard not to see 7.241 and 9.14 as address-
ing the same issue, if not in fact pointed variations of each other, and
also very hard not to think that that would have been a conclusion
drawn in antiquity. Here is not the place for yet another discussion of
διηνεκέως and related words in ancient theory and practice,6 though
these passages spoken by Odysseus clearly did play an important role
in shaping ancient ideas of narrative. Dionysius of Halicarnassus was
not alone in criticising Thucydides’ loss of τὸ διηνεκές by choosing
3 Cf. Nünlist 2009: 198 n. 15. Empedocles fr. 25 D-K, ‘it is a fair thing to say twice
what is necessary’, may have looked directly to Odysseus’ words; for those in the
audience who remembered the Homeric Odysseus’ words, Neoptolemus’ question
to him at Sophocles, Philoctetes 1238 (δὶς ταὐτὰ βούλῃ καὶ τρὶς ἀναπολεῖν μ᾽ ἔπη;)
will have carried a particular charge.
4 Cf. LfgrE s.v.
5 Cf. Hunter 2009: 52–5, citing earlier bibliography.
6 For some discussion and bibliography cf. Harder 2012: 2.20–1.
140 richard hunter
to narrate by summers and winters (Thucydides 9.4; cf. Theon

80.16–26 Sp.).7 In Theon’s classification, the Odyssey (or perhaps
rather ‘Odysseus’ story’) belongs, like Thucydides’ Histories, to those
texts which move ‘middle–beginning–end’ (86.10–19 Sp.), for the
poem opens with Odysseus on Calypso’s island, and then what we
call Books 9–12 provide the antecedent events to that, and then the
poem continues in orderly, chronological sequence to the end. Theon
does not say so, but Odysseus’ narrations to the Phaeacians thus
both parallel and differ from Homer’s own narrations. In Book 7
we get a retelling of Calypso, the storm, Nausicaa etc.,8 so that we
have had ‘the present situation’ long before the apologoi proper get
under way in Book 9. As for the apologoi themselves, they do indeed
proceed διηνεκέως, after Odysseus has implicitly answered Arete’s
first question and revealed his name and where he comes from; that
he will ‘begin at the beginning’ is clearly advertised by the repetition
of Τροίηθεν ~ Ἰλιόθεν across 9.38–9. Odysseus manages in fact both
to ‘begin at the beginning’, a practice which for example the exegeti-
cal scholia on Il. 11.671–761 deprecate as dull ‘in more extended
narrations’, and to begin ἐκ τῶν πρακτικῶν as the same scholia recom-
mend as ἡδύ. We might also note, however, that whereas it might
seem obvious to us that this beginning hooks the narration not just
to the third song of Demodocus in the previous book, the song of
‘Odysseus and the fall of Troy’, but also to what we call the Iliad,
so that this passage might have been very important in the familiar
ancient notion of the Odyssey as an ‘epilogue’ to the Iliad (‘Longinus’,
On the Sublime 9.12),9 the point does not seem to have been made in
antiquity.
The question of ‘where to begin?’ never left ancient narratives and
narrative theory. And rightly so, for very much was and is at stake;
Genette’s ‘unavoidable difficulty of beginning’, the ‘Where do I begin?’
question, is not just a (very difficult) question of narrative sequence,
7 Cf. Hunter 2009: 55. It is worth noting that this chapter of Dionysius’ Thucydides
both uses τὸ διηνεκές and describes the historian in a way which, to us, seems
very ‘Callimachean’: ‘He wished to travel a road which was new and untrod-
den (ἀτριβής) by others’ (9.4). In the extant works Dionysius never mentions
Callimachus’ poetry, only his scholarly views (cf. Hunter 2011: 233), but I wonder
whether the ‘Reply to the Telchines’ does not lurk somewhere in the background
of Dionysius’ criticisms of the difficulties which Thucydides put in the way of his
readers. It is certainly much easier to assume that Dionysius knew the prologue to
the Aitia than that he did not.
8 De Jong 2001: 184–6 offers a helpful account of Odysseus’ narration in Book 7,
though she does not comment on διηνεκέως.
9 For the ancient testimonia cf. Bühler 1964: 46–7; Mazzucchi 1992 on ‘Longinus’
ad loc.
though it is that too. Behind each ‘beginning’ always stands another

explanatory narrative with the power to seep out and complicate, if
not in fact undermine, the subsequent narrative. Ever since Homer, in
other words for the western world ‘always’, the link between questions
of ‘origins’ and issues of where literary accounts of ‘origins’, ‘histories’
in fact, begin has been almost indissoluble. Making choices about
one almost always implies a choice about the other. It was of course
Thucydides who famously thematised the issue of where something
really begins, and who nudges us towards the realisation that ‘cause’
and ‘beginning’ are not (always) synonyms; this he does by his distinc-
tion (1.23.4–6) between when and how the war ‘began’, with – on the
one hand - its aitiai and ‘differences’ between the sides which explain
(ἐξ ὅτου) the war, and – on the other - the ‘truest prophasis’, which was
growing Athenian power and the fear provoked by this in Sparta. If
we return to Book 1 of the Iliad, we will see (because Homer makes us
see) that whereas Achilles and Agamemnon quarrel over, and Achilles’
wrath can be traced to, Briseis, the truest prophasis of the quarrel and
the wrath lies far deeper, in the nature of the two men and the system
of values in which they find themselves embedded. At the beginning of
Greek literature there is a problem of beginnings and causation, or –
perhaps more important – a recognition that this is a problem.
One ancient narrator who has learned much from Homer’s Odysseus is
Simaitha in Theocritus’ Second Idyll.10 Like Odysseus, she thematises
the problem of ‘where to begin’:
νῦν δὴ μώνα ἐοῖσα πόθεν τὸν ἔρωτα δακρύσω;

ἐκ τίνος ἄρξωμαι; τίς μοι κακὸν ἄγαγε τοῦτο; 65
ἦνθ’ ἁ τωὐβούλοιο καναφόρος ἄμμιν Ἀναξώ
ἄλσος ἐς Ἀρτέμιδος, τᾳ̂ δὴ τόκα πολλὰ μὲν ἄλλα
θηρία πομπεύεσκε περισταδόν, ἐν δὲ λέαινα.
φράζεό μευ τὸν ἔρωθ’ ὅθεν ἵκετο, πότνα Σελάνα.
Now that I am alone,11 from what point shall I weep for my

love? From what am I to begin? Who brought this evil upon
me? Anaxo, Eubulus’ daughter, went as a basket-carrier to the
10 Cf. esp. Andrews 1996.

11 That the lover needs solitude in order to pour out his or her woes is a familiar
trope of ancient poetry; we think especially of Callimachus’ Acontius (fr. 72 Pf. =
171 M) and his many Roman descendants, e.g., Propertius 1.18. The bT-scholium
on Homer, Il. 1.349 (Achilles going to the seashore), notes that ‘Homer perfectly
depicts (χαρακτηρίζει) the lover, for they seek empty places so that they might
indulge their passion undisturbed by anyone.’
142 richard hunter
grove of Artemis; many wild beasts were paraded that day for the
goddess, including a lioness.
‘Observe, lady moon, from where my love came.’ (Theocritus
2.64–9)
For Simaitha, ‘where to begin (my narration)?’ and ‘where did my

love begin?’ are horribly and mutually implicated, but we have seen
that this is in fact a very old problem. It is normally assumed (I think)
that τίνος in 2.65 is neuter, and this is probably correct, but it might
(also) be masculine/feminine,12 so that the two halves of 2.65 would
then essentially be asking the same question; Simaitha is to prove
very adept at shifting the blame to others, whether that be Anaxo,
whose cultic role was the occasion of Simaitha’s fateful encounter, the
Thracian nurse who ‘begged and pleaded’ with Simaitha to go to see
the show (2.70–2),13 or, as we shall see, the servant Thestylis herself.
On the other hand, the question of ‘where it began’ is stressed through
the refrain, which again allows us to see the implication of narrative
order and ‘cause’: 2.64 ‘from where (πόθεν) shall I lament my love?’
looks like a question about narrative order (which it is), but the refrain
‘observe from where (ὅθεν) my love came’ shows that more than nar-
rative sequence is at stake here. Where it ‘began’ is in fact a complex
question, as a protracted sequence, given particular emphasis by the
refrain, is involved, and more than one answer apparently possible,
depending in part on what sense one wants to give to ἔρως.
One answer to the question is indeed offered by the pattern of the
refrain, which occurs every five verses, almost always after strong
punctuation (even while Delphis is speaking), although there is a pow-
erful exception at 2.105 where the refrain divides Delphis’ entrance
from Simaitha’s physical reaction to it, and I shall return in a moment
to this passage. This pattern of repetition leads us therefore to expect
a refrain after 2.140, but instead there is at that point a strongly
enjambed description of sexual foreplay:
καὶ ταχὺ χρὼς ἐπὶ χρωτὶ πεπαίνετο, καὶ τὰ πρόσωπα

θερμότερ’ ἦς ἢ πρόσθε, καὶ ἐψιθυρίσδομες ἁδύ.
Soon body grew warm on body,14 and our faces were hotter than
before, and we whispered sweet things. (Theocritus 2.140–1)
12 Acosta-Hughes 2010: 18 makes a similar point.

13 ὡμάρτευν (2.73) continues the suggestion that it was the nurse, not Simaitha
herself, who instigated the excursion.
14 Lentini 2012: 188–90 suggests that the verb πεπαίνετο brings with it negative asso-
ciations from related ideas in Archilochus.
ἔρως (‘making ἔρως’ in fact) has now arrived, and there is no further
need for the refrain. Whether we are to understand that Simaitha’s
memories of that afternoon are now so powerful that, all formal
restraint abandoned, she quite forgets to put in the regular refrain is
probably something upon which we can only speculate.
Other answers to Simaitha’s question are also possible. Delphis, of
course, is Simaitha’s ‘love’, and Simaitha’s first sight of him, and ours,
might be thought to mark precisely ‘the coming of love’:
ἤδη δ’ εὖσα μέσαν κατ’ ἀμαξιτόν, ᾳ῾̂ τὰ Λύκωνος,

εἶδον Δέλφιν ὁμοῦ τε καὶ Εὐδάμιππον ἰόντας·
τοῖς δ’ ἦς ξανθοτέρα μὲν ἑλιχρύσοιο γενειάς,
στήθεα δὲ στίλβοντα πολὺ πλέον ἢ τύ, Σελάνα,
ὡς ἀπὸ γυμνασίοιο καλὸν πόνον ἄρτι λιπόντων. 80
φράζεό μευ τὸν ἔρωθ’ ὅθεν ἵκετο, πότνα Σελάνα.
χὠς ἴδον, ὣς ἐμάνην, ὥς μοι πυρὶ θυμὸς ἰάφθη
δειλαίας, τὸ δὲ κάλλος ἐτάκετο.
When I was already halfway along the path, where is Lycon’s,

I saw Delphis, and with him Eudamippus, coming along. Their
beards were more golden than helichryse, and their breasts
gleamed far more brightly than you, Moon, as they had just left
the fair work of the gymnasium.
‘Observe, lady moon, from where my love came’.
I saw, I went mad, my poor heart was pierced by flame, and my

beauty wasted away. (Theocritus 2.76–83)
Both the reworking of Sappho fr. 31 V15 and the echo of Il. 14.293–4
(the effect on Zeus of the arrival of Hera, in full possession of the
powers of Aphrodite) show that the ‘burning disease’ of ἔρως has now
arrived; we even know ‘from where’ ἔρως/Delphis has come, namely
‘from the gymnasium’.
We have not yet, however, exhausted the potential answers to the
question of the origin of Simaitha’s love. The answer to the question
‘Who brought this evil upon me?’ (2.65) is, quite literally, Thestylis
(cf. 2.102 ἄγαγε τὸν λιπαρόχρων),16 and Delphis’ arrival at Simaitha’s
house (2.103–10) might well be thought to be yet another ἀρχὴ ἔρωτος.
15 I discuss the Sapphic echoes in Theocritus 2, together with relevant bibliography,

in Hunter forthcoming a.
16 Cf. Segal 1985: 105.
144 richard hunter
This second reworking of Sappho fr. 31 V puts Simaitha’s two

Sapphic moments in counterpoise and suggests that both are originary
moments of ἔρως: Simaitha knows what this Sapphic poem designates,
and uses it to punctuate her story.
It is not just τάξις, both as the order in which one tells things and
the relation between that order and the order in which events actu-
ally occurred, which Odysseus’ narration puts on the narratological
agenda. He announces the subject of the narration which he begins
in Book 9 as νόστον ἐμὸν πολυκηδέα (9.37), but it is the κήδεα and
the κακά which have already been repeatedly stressed (7.212–14,
242, 9.12–13). First-person narration is almost necessarily a tale of
woe, as Glenn Most argued in a well-known discussion of Achilles
Tatius,17 but there are (again) interesting survivals of relevant ancient
discussion. The scholia on Od. 9.12 and 14 note that this stress on his
‘troubles’ creates ‘anticipation’ in the listeners, just as the exegetical
scholia on the opening of the Iliad tell us that οἱ περὶ Ζηνόδοτον offered
as one solution to the famous ζήτημα of why Homer began from such
an ill-omened word as μῆνις that this would ‘rouse the hearers’ minds
and make them more attentive’ (bT-scholia on 1.1b);18 this explanation
also appears, though without the reference to Zenodotus, in the A and
D scholia. It is, however, on another scholium on Il. 1.1 that I wish to
dwell for a moment. Another answer to this ζήτημα which is shared
by the A and D scholia connects this opening with our psychological
well-being; I quote part of the relevant A-scholium:
διὰ δύο ταῦτα, πρῶτον μέν, ἵν’ ἐκ τοῦ πάθους ἀποκαταρρεύσῃ τὸ

τοιοῦτο μόριον τῆς ψυχῆς καὶ προσεκτικωτέρους τοὺς ἀκροατὰς ἐπὶ
τοῦ μεγέθους ποιήσῃ καὶ προεθίσῃ φέρειν γενναίως ἡμᾶς τὰ πάθη,
μέλλων πολέμους ἀπαγγέλλειν· δεύτερον δέ, ἵνα τὰ ἐγκώμια τῶν
Ἑλλήνων πιθανώτερα ποιήσῃ. . . . ἤρξατο μὲν ἀπὸ μήνιδος, ἐπείπερ
αὕτη τοῖς πρακτικοῖς ὑπόθεσις γέγονεν· ἄλλως τε καὶ τραγῳδίαις
τραγικὸν ἐξεῦρε προοίμιον· καὶ γὰρ προσεκτικοὺς ἡμᾶς ἡ τῶν
ἀτυχημάτων διήγησις ἐργάζεται, καὶ ὡς ἄριστος ἰατρὸς πρῶτον
ἀναστέλλων τὰ νοσήματα τῆς ψυχῆς ὕστερον τὴν ἴασιν ἐπάγει.
Ἑλληνικὸν δὲ τὸ πρὸς τέλει τὰς ἡδονὰς ἐπάγειν.
[Homer begins with μῆνις] for two reasons, first so that the rel-
evant part of the soul might flow clear (ἀποκαταρρεύσῃ) of this
passion and so that he could make his listeners more attentive to
17 Most 1989; for some qualifications to Most’s discussion cf. Repath 2005.
18 Cf. Nünlist 2009: 137–8.
the scale and accustom us to bear sufferings nobly. Secondly, to

make the encomia of the Greeks more persuasive . . . He began
from wrath, since this was the subject of the events to be nar-
rated. Moreover, for tragedies he found a tragic prooimion, The
narration of misfortunes makes us attentive, and like an excel-
lent doctor Homer first stirs up the diseases of the soul and then
applies the remedy;19 bringing on pleasure at the end is character-
istically Greek. (A-scholium, Il. 1.1)
There is much here which resonates with ancient rhetorical teaching

on the function of prooemia,20 but two related aspects draw attention
to themselves in the present context. The translation and interpreta-
tion of the first sentence pose difficulties, but one thing at least is
clear, and becomes even clearer when we note that the D-scholia read
ἀποκαθαρεύσῃ for ἀποκαταρρεύσῃ. We have in this scholium, as has
been recognised,21 an echo at an unknown number of removes of the
Aristotelian theory of katharsis, understood as a medical process in
which emotional disturbances are aroused in order to be cleansed
away. The Homeric scholia are very fond of asserting what is ‘Greek’
and what ‘barbarian’, words which can sometimes seem little more
than general terms of approbation and disapprobation, but the claim
that a particular structuring of narrative is ‘Greek’ is of considerable
interest. Of course, one could argue about just what kind of ‘final
pleasures’ the Iliad itself actually brings (cf. especially bT-scholia on
24.776), but the scholia on 1.1 are presumably at one level assuring
us that, however grim the consequences of Achilles’ wrath may be,
things will turn out well for the Greeks in the end;22 more generally,
however, we are not too far from ideas of ‘the happy end’, which
Aristotle famously associated with the ‘pleasure’ appropriate to
comedy (Poetics 1453a35–7). Glenn Most noted that ‘a Greek erotic
romance without a happy ending is not a Greek erotic romance’,23 and
we ought to wonder how much emphasis should be given to the word
‘Greek’ in that sentence.
A sub-Aristotelian reading of the Odyssey would certainly be pos-
19 For this image cf. Nünlist 2009: 143.

20 Cf., e.g., Anon. Seg. 5 Dilts-Kennedy: ‘A prooemion is defined as a speech which
stirs or calms (κινητικὸς ἢ θεραπευτικός) the hearer’s passions.’ Prooemia are, of
course, also crucially concerned with making the hearers attentive.
21 Cf., e.g., N. J. Richardson 1980: 274.
22 I am grateful to Ruth Scodel for focusing my attention on this explanation. We
might also consider whether the scholia imply that ‘barbarians’ are given over
entirely to pleasure, whereas the pattern of light emerging from darkness is a
‘Greek’ one.
23 Most 1989: 118.
146 richard hunter
sible (we might even wish to associate the ‘pleasures at the end’ in the
Iliad scholium cited above with the Alexandrian τέλος (or πέρας) of
the Odyssey at 23.296), but it is another text to which I would like to
draw attention in this connection. One of the most famous passages in
the Greek novels is Chariton’s declaration at the head of his last book:
νομίζω δὲ καὶ τὸ τελευταῖον τοῦτο σύγγραμμα τοῖς ἀναγινώσκουσιν

ἥδιστον γενήσεσθαι· καθάρσιον γάρ ἐστι τῶν ἐν τοῖς πρώτοις
σκυθρωπῶν. οὐκέτι λῃστεία καὶ δουλεία καὶ δίκη καὶ μάχη καὶ
ἀποκαρτέρησις καὶ πόλεμος καὶ ἅλωσις, ἀλλὰ ἔρωτες δίκαιοι ἐν
τούτῳ <καὶ> νόμιμοι γάμοι.
And I think that this book will be the sweetest for my readers, for
it cleans away the grim events of the earlier books. No longer will
there be piracy and slavery and law-cases and battles and suicide
and war and capturing, but honourable love and lawful marriage.
(Chariton, Callirhoe 8.1.4)
This passage and its relation to Aristotelian katharsis has been very
much discussed, most recently and in greatest depth by Stefan Tilg,24
though it has not, to my knowledge, been brought together with the
scholarship on the opening of the Iliad which is visible in the scholium
to 1.1 (above). It is hard to believe on general grounds, however, that
Chariton was not familiar with the kind of learning on show in these
Homeric scholia, and in any case he very obviously fashions his novel
as a new ‘Homer’ (however we wish to define the relationship) and,
moreover, he too is fond of asserting what is ‘Greek’ and what ‘bar-
barian’. I suggest, then, that, however we understand this claim at the
head of Book 8, Chariton has here adapted a scholastic observation
about the emotional and narrative structure of the Iliad, one associ-
ated with the opening of the poem, and placed it rather at the head
of his last book. It is Homeric literary virtues that he is (again) here
claiming for his work; Chariton’s creation of a ‘prose epic’ uses not
just Homer, but also the Homeric critical tradition, even if less elabo-
rately than Heliodorus was to do.
In narrative technique, as in so much else, it was of course the
ancient novel which most self-consciously presented itself as the heir
to the heritage of the Odyssey, and it is indeed Heliodorus’ Aethiopica
which takes pride of place. Heliodorus’ most famous narrator is the
wise Egyptian Calasiris, and he certainly has picked up the lesson of
24 Cf. Tilg 2010: 130–7; Whitmarsh 2011: 182–3. Heath 2011: 107 is ‘not convinced
that καθάρσιον in [Chariton] 8.1.4 is an Aristotelian allusion’.
Odysseus and his commentators that promise of a narrative of woe

will make the audience attentive and keen to listen. When Cnemon
first meets him by the banks of the Nile and asks him why, though an
Egyptian, he is wearing Greek dress, the first word of Calasiris’ reply
is enough to ensnare his listener: δυστυχήματα . . . (2.21.4); we will
not be surprised when Cnemon then immediately asks ‘to learn’ what
Calasiris’ συμφοραί have been, and Calasiris instantly launches into
full Odyssean mode, Ἰλιόθεν με φέρεις κτλ, ‘you are carrying me from
Troy’ (cf. Od. 9.39). Much has been written about Calasiris’ mode of
narration and its contrast with that of Cnemon,25 but there is perhaps
more to be teased out about Calasiris’ self-construction as a ‘Homeric’
character (in more than one sense) and narrator, and this will be my
final example of the afterlife of Odyssean narrative practice.
As is well understood, Calasiris’ first meeting with Cnemon point-
edly replays and varies Cnemon’s earlier introduction of himself to
Charicleia and Theagenes; for ease of reference I set the two passages
out:
“εἰ δέ μοι μέλει τῶν ὑμετέρων οὐκ ἄξιον ὑμῖν θαυμάζειν, τύχης
τε γάρ μοι τῆς αὐτῆς ἐοίκατε κοινωνεῖν καὶ ἅμα Ἕλληνας ὄντας
οἰκτείρω καὶ αὐτὸς Ἕλλην γεγονώς.” “Ἕλλην; ὦ θεοί” ἐπεβόησαν
ὑφ’ ἡδονῆς ἅμα οἱ ξένοι. “Ἕλλην ὡς ἀληθῶς τὸ γένος καὶ τὴν
φωνήν· τάχα τις ἔσται τῶν κακῶν ἀνάπνευσις.” “ἀλλὰ τίνα σε χρὴ
καλεῖν;” ἔφη ὁ Θεαγένης. ὁ δὲ “Κνήμωνα.” “πόθεν δὲ γνωρίζειν;”
“Ἀθηναῖον.” “τύχῃ τίνι κεχρημένον;” “Παῦε” ἔφη· “τί ταῦτα κινεῖς
κἀναμοχλεύεις; τοῦτο δὴ τὸ τῶν τραγῳδῶν. οὐκ ἐν καιρῷ γένοιτ’ ἂν
ἐπεισόδιον ὑμῖν τῶν ὑμετέρων τἀμὰ ἐπεισφέρειν κακά· καὶ ἅμα οὐδ’
ἂν ἐπαρκέσειε τὸ λειπόμενον πρὸς τὸ διήγημα τῆς νυκτὸς ὕπνου καὶ
ταῦτα δεομένοις ὑμῖν ἀπὸ πολλῶν τῶν πόνων καὶ ἀναπαύσεως.”
‘You should not be amazed at the fact that I am concerned for

you, for you seem to share the same misfortune as myself and,
since you are Greeks, I pity you as I myself was born a Greek.’
‘A Greek! O gods!’ shouted the strangers in joy. ‘Truly a Greek in
race and voice! Perhaps there will be some break from our trou-
bles.’ ‘What is your name?’ asked Theagenes. ‘Cnemon’ said the
other. ‘And where do you come from?’ ‘I am Athenian.’ ‘What is
your story?’ ‘Stop!’ he said, ‘Why do you stir up and unbolt these
things?, as the tragedians say [cf. Eur. Med. 1317]. This is not the
time to bring on my misfortunes as a new scene for your own.
Besides, what is left of the night would not be enough for this
25 Cf. esp. Winkler 1982 (a seminal article); Hunter 1998b (citing earlier bibliography).
148 richard hunter
narration, particularly when you need sleep and rest after your
many sufferings.’ (Heliodorus, Aethiopica 1.8.6–7)
ὁ Κνήμων . . . κατὰ πρόσωπον ὑπαντιάσας πρῶτα μὲν χαίρειν

ἐκέλευε. τοῦ δὲ οὐ δύνασθαι φήσαντος, ἐπειδὴ μὴ οὕτω συμβαίνειν
αὐτῳ̂ παρὰ τῆς τύχης, θαυμάσας ὁ Κνήμων “Ἕλλην δὲ” εἶπεν “ὁ
ξένος;” “οὐχ Ἕλλην” εἶπεν “ἀλλ’ ἐντεῦθεν Αἰγύπτιος.” “πόθεν
οὖν ἑλληνίζεις τὴν στολήν;” “δυστυχήματα” ἔφη “τὸ λαμπρόν με
τοῦτο σχῆμα μετημφίασε.” τοῦ δὲ Κνήμωνος εἰ φαιδρύνεταί τις
ἐπὶ συμφοραῖς θαυμάζοντος καὶ ταύτας μαθεῖν ἀξιοῦντος “Ἰλιόθεν
με φέρεις” ἀπεκρίνατο ὁ πρεσβύτης “καὶ σμῆνος κακῶν καὶ τὸν ἐκ
τούτων βόμβον ἄπειρον ἐπὶ σεαυτὸν κινεῖς. ἀλλὰ ποῖ δὴ πορεύῃ καὶ
πόθεν, ὦ νεανία; πῶς δὲ τὴν φωνὴν Ἕλλην ἐν Αἰγύπτῳ;” “γελοῖον”
ἔφη ὁ Κνήμων· “τῶν γὰρ κατὰ σεαυτὸν οὐδὲν ἐκδιδάξας, πρότερος
καὶ ταῦτα ἐρωτηθείς, τῶν ἐμῶν γνῶσιν ἐπιζητεῖς.”
Cnemon . . . stood facing [the mysterious old man] and first of all
bade him good day. When the other said that he could not have a
good day, since this was not what fate had allotted him, Cnemon
was amazed and said, ‘The stranger is a Greek!’ ‘Not a Greek,’ he
replied, ‘but an Egyptian from hereabouts.’ ‘Why then is your dress
Greek?’ ‘Misfortunes have given me this bright change of cloth-
ing’ was the reply. Cnemon was amazed that anyone would dress
brightly as a result of disasters and asked to learn about them. ‘You
are carrying me from Troy’ answered the old man [cf. Od. 9.39],
‘and you are stirring up for yourself a swarm of ills and an endless
buzzing from them. But where are you heading and where do you
come from, young man? Why is a Greek-speaker in Egypt?’ ‘This is
absurd’ replied Cnemon. ‘You have given me no information about
your own story, though I indeed asked you first, and you want
information about mine!’ (Heliodorus, Aethiopica 2.21.3–5)
Alongside the obvious similarities, the most striking difference is that

whereas Cnemon moves in the world of Attic drama (cf. also 2.23.5)
and sees his story as a ‘tragedy’ – indeed he carries suitable citations
around with him – Calasiris presents himself from the beginning as an
epic character, namely Odysseus.26 These are, of course, not by any
means absolutely exclusive positions: thus, for example, Cnemon’s
subsequent attempt (real or half-hearted?) to defer his narration
by pleading the need for sleep clearly evokes Odysseus’ words to
26 Cf., e.g., Paulsen 1992: 142–50; Elmer 2008: 414–18. Montiglio 2013: 148–52 sees
the contrast rather as one between comedy (Cnemon) and epic-tragedy (Calasiris).
Alcinous at Od. 11.377–85. Moreover, what most holds these two pas-
sages together is the power of story. Cnemon claims that Charicleia
and Theagenes need ἀπὸ πολλῶν τῶν πόνων . . . ἀνάπαυσις, whereas
what they want is the virtually synonymous τῶν κακῶν ἀνάπνευσις; it is
not sleep, but stories which hold out the hope for both kinds of relief,
as is made immediately clear when the narrator tells us that Charicleia
and Theagenes thought that ‘listening to a story like their own would
be the greatest consolation’ (1.8.9).27
As for Calasiris, his opening Odyssean move is followed by a not
untypical (as we come to learn) piece of one-upmanship: he picks up
a verb, κινεῖς, from the verse of Euripides’ Medea which Cnemon had
cited in the earlier scene (although, of course, ‘in reality’ Calasiris did
not hear Cnemon speak) and goes one better with his extended insect
metaphor, σμῆνος . . . βόμβον ἄπειρον, which seems to amplify and
‘exhaust’ a metaphor already familiar in the narrative tradition (cf.
Ach. Tat. 1.2.2). Calasiris, like Odysseus, is indeed a highly competi-
tive narrator. These scenes in Book 2 have recently been enlighteningly
discussed by Tim Whitmarsh,28 so I will focus merely on what seems
relevant to the present discussion.
With an elegant reworking of the locus amoenus of Plato’s
Phaedrus,29 Calasiris leads Cnemon off to Nausicles’ house, where
their host’s daughter plays the Nausicaa role to perfection (2.22.1–2).
When Cnemon enquires about Nausicles, Calasiris describes him as a
man resembling both himself and Odysseus:
“οὐκ εἰς Διός” ἔφη, “ἀλλ’ εἰς ἀνδρὸς Δία τὸν ξένιον καὶ ἱκέσιον
ἀκριβοῦντος. βίος γάρ, ὦ παῖ, κἀκείνῳ πλάνος καὶ ἔμπορος καὶ
πολλαὶ μὲν πόλεις πολλῶν δὲ ἀνθρώπων ἤθη τε καὶ νοῦς εἰς πεῖραν
ἥκουσιν ὅθεν, ὡς τὸ εἰκός, ἄλλους τε κἀμὲ οὐ πρὸ πολλῶν τῶνδε
ἡμερῶν ἀλύοντα καὶ πλανώμενον ὁμωρόφιον ἐποιήσατο.”
‘It is not to Zeus’ house [that we are coming],’ he said ‘but to the
house of a man who is very careful about Zeus, the protector of
guests and suppliants. His life too, my child, is one of wandering
and trade, and he has experience of many cities and the customs
and minds of many men; this is probably the reason why he
has received others also into his house and not many days ago
he took me in when I was wandering in despair.’ (Heliodorus,
Aethiopica 2.22.3)
27 The hope is not, in fact, really fulfilled; cf. 5.33.4 with Hunter 1998b: 42.
28 Whitmarsh 2011: 232–8.
29 Cf. Hunter 2012: 13–14.
150 richard hunter
A very obvious reworking of the opening of the Odyssey30 ele-

gantly projects on to Nausicles what is, more importantly, Calasiris’
self-image, but this passage may also introduce us to one of the
most striking features of Calasiris’ Odyssean persona. Not only is he
himself fashioned after the epic hero, but he has also fully internalised
Homeric lore and scholarship. Just as he is able later to expound
Homer’s Egyptian origin and the etymology of his name, along with
sundry Homeric verses, here too it is tempting to think that his rewrit-
ing of the Odyssean verses allows both famous variant readings in
Od. 1.3, νόον and the Zenodotean νόμον, to resonate alongside πόλεις,
which appears in place of the Homeric ἄστεα; both the elegance and
the scholarship were, however, probably lost on Cnemon. Something
similar happens almost immediately after at 2.22.5. Calasiris defers
his narration (again) by appealing to the needs of the stomach,
‘which Homer wonderfully (θαυμασίως) called cursed (οὐλομένη)’.
The Homeric passages in question are Od. 15.344 and 17.286–7,
but the really important ‘belly passage’ is of course 7.215–21, where
Odysseus defers telling of his κακά because he has to eat, but where
the stomach is not in fact called οὐλομένη; like the good scholar,
Calasiris groups parallel passages together and uses them to expound
each other. Moreover, the adjective of approbation that he uses for
Homer, θαυμασίως, is one very familiar from the scholia31 and from
Eustathius’ commentaries; this is Calasiris in full scholarly mode.
In the scene which follows, Calasiris resumes his Odyssean character:
weeping (2.23.1), deferring narration (2.23.6, ‘I’ll tell you, but . . . how I
wish the excellent Nausicles were here: so often he has begged me to be
initiated into my story but I have put him off with various excuses’).32
After Calasiris has explained something of Nausicles’ current preoc-
cupations, Cnemon will take no more and after another image drawn
from the theatre (2.24.4) insists that Calasiris now tell his story:33
“εὕρηκα γάρ σε κατὰ τὸν Πρωτέα τὸν Φάριον, οὐ κατ’ αὐτὸν

τρεπόμενον εἰς ψευδομένην καὶ ῥέουσαν ὄψιν ἀλλά με παραφέρειν
πειρώμενον.” “μανθάνοις ἄν” ἔφη ὁ πρεσβύτης· “διηγήσομαι δέ
σοι τἀμαυτοῦ πρότερον ἐπιτεμών, οὐ σοφιστεύων ὡς αὐτὸς οἴει τὴν
ἀφήγησιν ἀλλ’ εὔτακτόν σοι καὶ προσεχῆ τῶν ἑξῆς παρασκευάζων
τὴν ἀκρόασιν.”
30 Noted by, e.g., Elmer 2008: 414.

31 Cf. e.g., the exegetical scholia on Il. 4.302, 7.128a, 8.385, 9.134b etc.; Nünlist 2009:
145.
32 Nausicles here is cast as an Alcinous, appropriately enough for a man whose
daughter has just played the role of a ‘Nausicaa’.
33 On the theatrical language of 2.24.4 cf. Telò 1999: 82–5.
‘You [i.e. Calasiris] are like Proteus of Pharos, not that like him
you turn into a deceptive and fluid vision, but because you try to
lead me off the path.’
‘You will learn the story’, said the old man. ‘First, however,
I will give you a brief account of myself, not playing the sophist
with the story, as you believe, but offering you an account
which shows good order and is connected to what follows.’34
(Heliodorus, Aethiopica 2.24.4–5)
Cnemon’s comparison of Calasiris to Proteus is, at one level, an

acknowledgement that Cnemon is here playing the role of Menelaus in
Odyssey 4, always an Odysseus-light. His claim that Calasiris seeks ‘to
lead him off the path’ (παραφέρειν) must in fact, not merely be part of
Calasiris’ ‘wandering’ mode of speech, discussed by Tim Whitmarsh,
but specifically be an echo of Menelaus’ remonstrance to Proteus,
when the old trickster has asked him who helped him and what he
wants:
οἶσθα, γέρον· τί με ταῦτα παρατροπέων ἐρεείνεις;
You know this, old man. Why do you ask me this to turn me off
the track? (Od. 4.465)
παρατροπέων is a Homeric hapax; one of Eustathius’ glosses on

it, παραπλανῶν (Hom. 1505.31), is a clear synonym of Cnemon’s
παραφέρειν. Moreover, Cnemon’s statement also suggests the link
between the ‘turnings’ of metamorphosis and the turnings of speech
which mark Calasiris (yet again) as an Odysseus: ψευδομένην and
ῥέουσαν are of course pointed references to Calasiris’ slipperiness, and
to the fact that one of the sea-god’s transformations in the Odyssey
is into ὑγρὸν ὕδωρ (4.458), but they are also words which are readily
applied to speech.
Cnemon’s comparison of Calasiris to Proteus finds a striking paral-
lel in Socrates’ reproof to Ion at the end of Plato’s work named after
the rhapsode: there Socrates accuses Ion of ‘turning this way and that,
like the ever-changing (παντοδαπός) Proteus, until finally you escape
me’ (Plato, Ion 541e). The use of a Homeric character is very appropri-
ate for Ion the rhapsode, but the Proteus analogy may have had quite
wide currency in poetic and rhetorical discussion of the late fifth and
34 The final phrase has been variously understood, but the meaning seems to be as
translated; it is, I think, misrepresented by Whitmarsh 2011: 235.
152 richard hunter
early fourth century. In particular, it has been noted35 that Cnemon’s

comparison may be connected to Socrates’ description of the brother
sophists in the Euthydemus:
“ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἐθέλετον ἡμῖν ἐπιδείξασθαι σπουδάζοντε, ἀλλὰ τὸν

Πρωτέα μιμεῖσθον τὸν Αἰγύπτιον σοφιστὴν γοητεύοντε ἡμᾶς. ἡμεῖς
οὖν τὸν Μενέλαον μιμώμεθα, καὶ μὴ ἀφιώμεθα τοῖν ἀνδροῖν ἕως ἂν
ἡμῖν ἐκφανῆτον ἐφ’ ῳ῾̂ αὐτὼ σπουδάζετον·”
‘They do not want to give us a demonstration of their serious-

ness, but they imitate the Egyptian sophist Proteus and seek to
bamboozle us. Therefore let us imitate Menelaus and not let
these men go until they reveal to us what it is that they are serious
about.’ (Plato, Euthydemus 288b7–c2)
Some connection between the two passages is indeed likely, but it is

important to try to be as specific as possible about this: would we in
fact connect the two passages, rather than, say, Heliodorus 2.24.4–5
and Ion 541e, if it were not for Calasiris’ σοφιστεύων? Perhaps.
Cnemon means that Calasiris keeps slipping away and ‘deviating’
from the story he has been asked to tell, just as Plato’s sophists, like
Ion, will never properly confront Socrates’ questions;36 ‘Proteus of
Pharos’ in Cnemon’s accusation could be a variation of ‘the Egyptian
sophist Proteus’, but it hardly demands to be read as such. If there
is a Platonic background to Cnemon’s question, we might well have
been tempted to seek it rather in the discussion in Republic 2 of why
stories of shape-changing gods such as Proteus are not to be admitted
into the ideal city (380d–3c). Such a god, a nightmarish concept for a
Plato, would be a γόης, who deceives and falsifies (ψεύδεσθαι, 382a–c);
ὄψις in Cnemon’s question might pick up φαντάζεσθαι (380d2) and
φάντασμα (382a2) in the discussion in the Republic, and we can see from
the scholia on Od. 4.456 that the view that Proteus did not really turn
into animals, fire, water etc., but that these were φαντασίαι, became in
fact standard grammatical lore.37 It seems likely, then, that Calasiris,
ever the competitive narrator, tops Cnemon’s explicit allusion to the
Homeric Proteus with a glance at another classical text which used this
figure (the Euthydemus), but does nothing so vulgar as give the allusion
away straightforwardly; ‘as you believe’ is (again) an elegant way of
including the unknowing Cnemon in the sophistication of his banter.
35 Cf., e.g., Paulsen 1992: 149–50.

36 Cf. Hopkinson 1994: 10–11.
37 Cf. also Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Demosthenes 8.2 cited below.
There is here a further dimension also, of course. Cnemon’s lan-

guage of the ‘turning’ Proteus reminds us that the Odyssean epithet
par excellence πολύτροπος is applied to Proteus himself in the proem
of Nonnus’ Dionysiaca (1.14); the scholia on Od. 4.456 which describe
Proteus show how easy the connection is: τρέπεται εἰς πολλά . . . καὶ
δι᾽ ἄλλων ποικίλων τρόπων. Eustathius tells us that the name ‘Proteus’
is applied to πολύτροποι καὶ κακοήθεις πολυειδῶς ἄνθρωποι (Hom.
1503.36–7), and the connection between Proteus and linguistic facility
and ‘fluidity of speech’ seems clear enough.38 We would dearly like to
know more of the ‘On Proteus’ of Antisthenes, whose famous discus-
sion of πολύτροπος associates that word with the tropes of language.39
So too, the contrast which Hippias draws in the Platonic Hippias
Minor between the ἁπλοῦς Achilles and the πολύτροπος Odysseus
comes very close to the language of the discussion of shape-changing
gods in the Republic. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, moreover, compares
Demosthenes’ achievement in building his style from all the opposed
possibilities of style to the shiftings of Proteus:
. . . οὐδὲν διαλλάττουσαν τοῦ μεμυθευμένου παρὰ τοῖς ἀρχαίοις

ποιηταῖς Πρωτέως, ὃς ἅπασαν ἰδέαν μορφῆς ἀμογητὶ μετελάμβανεν,
εἴτε θεὸς ἢ δαίμων τις ἐκεῖνος ἄρα ἦν παρακρουόμενος ὄψεις τὰς
ἀνθρωπίνας εἴτε διαλέκτου ποικίλον τι χρῆμα ἐν ἀνδρὶ σοφῳ̂, πάσης
ἀπατηλὸν ἀκοῆς, ὃ μᾶλλον ἄν τις εἰκάσειεν, ἐπειδὴ ταπεινὰς καὶ
ἀσχήμονας ὄψεις οὔτε θεοῖς οὔτε δαίμοσι προσάπτειν ὅσιον.
[Demosthenes’] style is no different from Proteus in the myths of

the old poets, who easily assumed every kind of shape, whether
he was a god or a daimōn, able to deceive men’s vision, or some
shifting marvel of language in a clever man, able to deceive every
ear. This last is the most probable, as it is impious to attribute
mean and ugly appearances to gods or daimones. (Dionysius of
Halicarnassus, Demosthenes 8.2)
For much of Greek tradition διαλέκτου ποικίλον τι χρῆμα ἐν ἀνδρὶ

σοφῳ̂ would evoke Odysseus before it evoked anyone else. In calling
Calasiris a Proteus, then, Cnemon reinforces (unknowingly) the
presentation and self-presentation of the Egyptian wise man as an
Odysseus figure.40
38 Cf., e.g., Buffière 1956: 353.

39 N. J. Richardson 1975: 80 attractively suggests that Antisthenes had indeed com-
pared Odysseus and Proteus.
40 At Max. Tyr. 1.1 Proteus is described as πολύμορφός τις καὶ παντοδαπὸς τἠν φύσιν
(cf. Plato, Ion 541 e above), and Odysseus is also there not far away, cf. Montiglio
2011: 117–19.
154 richard hunter
The association between Proteus and Odysseus is one fashioned

after the Odyssey itself, for in that poem Proteus’ nearest analogue is
Teiresias, whom Odysseus consults in the underworld, with Menelaus
playing the Odysseus role in Book 4. We have, however, already seen
how Calasiris incorporates ‘the Homeric interpretative tradition’ as
well as being a ‘Homeric’ character himself, and this exchange with
Cnemon, whatever role Plato plays within it, fits this pattern. If the
comparison to Proteus plays to Calasiris as Odysseus, his paraded
concern to offer ‘an account which shows good order (εὔτακτον)
and is connected to what follows (προσεχῆ τῶν ἑξῆς)’ is indeed, as
Winkler calls it, a ‘pose’,41 but it is the pose of the scholar, passing
judgement on narrative structure. The concern of, say, Dionysius
of Halicarnassus and the scholiasts with narrative τάξις is, as I have
already noted, one of the most familiar themes of ancient criticism.
Eustathius, for whom εὔτακτον is a favourite form of approbation,
observes in his note on Od. 9.37, the start of Odysseus’ narration: κατὰ
φύσιν τάττει τὰ πράγματα· καὶ εὐτάκτως προιὼν φησὶν κτλ, ‘he arranges
the events in their natural order; proceeding in an orderly sequence, he
says . . . ’. Calasiris will, then tell his story, both as Homer’s Odysseus
and as the Odysseus of the critical tradition; or will he?
Finally, the temptation here to see the author of the Aethiopica
gently reminding us of his constant presence is, I think, hard to resist;
his character’s concern with narrative order and persistent evocation
of the Odyssey, itself the model for the ordering of the Aethiopica,
must pick up the ‘special relationship’ which antiquity saw between
Odysseus and his creator. It is not just that when, at the end of Book
12, Odysseus tells Alcinous that he does not like to repeat himself,
Eustathius observes that this is really Homer speaking to the listener
to remind him that ‘what follows the events just narrated has already
been told’ (Hom. 1730.15). Ancient readers saw a very special relation-
ship of closeness or identity between Homer and Odysseus as narra-
tors; Strabo’s account of Homer’s ‘untruths’ almost makes the point
explicitly (1.2.9) and very similar traditions lie behind Horace in the
Ars Poetica:
semper ad euentum festinat et in medias res

non secus ac notas auditorem rapit, et quae
desperat tractata nitescere posse relinquit, 150
atque ita mentitur, sic ueris falsa remiscet,
primo ne medium, medio ne discrepet imum.
41 Winkler 1982: 145.

Always he hastens to the outcome and carries his listener into

the midst of events, as though they were known to him; he leaves
aside what he thinks will not stand out when treated, and he lies
in such a way, mixing falsehood with truth, that the middle is
not discordant with the beginning, nor the end with the middle.
(Horace, Ars Poetica 148–52)
Horace is describing Homer, but he might as well be describing

Odysseus.42 Odysseus’ opening question, ‘What shall I tell first, what
last?’, was of course Homer’s question as well.
42 V.151 indeed evokes the description of Odysseus at Od. 19.203 ἴσκε ψεύδεα πολλὰ
λέγων ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα; the point is curiously absent from Brink’s commentary.
8
SOME ANCIENT VIEWS ON

NARRATIVE, ITS STRUCTURE AND
WORKING
René Nünlist
‘The second task required of a writer of an historical work (the first

task being to select a suitable subject) is to decide where to begin and
how far to go.’1 The fundamental questions of ‘where to begin’ and
‘where to end’ must be as old as literature itself. They automatically
pose themselves to any would-be poet or author. Moreover, pas-
sages such as Od. 9.14 show that, from an early stage, poets openly
addressed the questions ‘What then shall I recount first, what last?’
(albeit here in the voice of the character Odysseus at the beginning
of his long narrative to the Phaeacians). In all likelihood these ques-
tions quickly became a literary topos (possibly before Homer), which
in turn could playfully be modified by subsequent poets and authors
(cf. Hunter, this volume). They thus prepared the ground for literary
critics to treat the whole issue in their analyses. No doubt, they espe-
cially needed to address this issue because those compositions which
were the earliest extant works and also the undisputed masterpieces of
Greek literature, the Homeric epics, displayed a remarkable temporal
structure and thus intrigued readers.2 At any rate, Aristotle expressly
praises Homer for his decision not to treat the entire Trojan War in
his Iliad:
(1) That is why, as I said earlier, Homer’s inspired superiority

over the rest can be seen here too: though the war had beginning
and end, he did not try to treat its entirety, for the plot was bound
1 Dion. Hal. Pomp. 3.8 (trans. Usher). Whenever possible, published translations
have been used in this chapter (Lattimore’s for Homer). The other translations are
my own. In the case of scholia, elements that are tacitly understood have occasion-
ally been added (in angled brackets). Their sole purpose is to help understand the
quotation.
2 Contrast the (numerous) narratives which promise to tell the story ‘from the
beginning’ (ἐξ ἀρχῆς): Hes. Th. 45, 115; Pl. Phd. 59c8; Lys. 1.5, 32.3; Isoc. 17.3;
Dem. 34.5, 54.2; Men. fr. 129 K-A (ἀπ᾿ ἀρχῆς); etc.
some ancient views on narrative 157
to be too large and incoherent, or else, if kept within moder-

ate scope, too complex in its variety. Instead, he has selected
one section, but has used many others as episodes, such as the
catalogue of ships and other episodes by which he diversifies his
composition. (Poetics 1459a30–7, trans. Halliwell)
The passage comes from chapter 23, in which Aristotle argues that the
plot of epic poetry (i.e., the narrative genre) must follow essentially the
same principles as the ones that he put forward for tragedy in chapter
7. A well-constructed plot must possess organic unity with natural
beginning, middle and end; it ought to have narrative coherence, plau-
sibility and appropriate magnitude. Unlike most of his fellow poets,
Homer succeeds in constructing a narrative that is to Aristotle’s liking
because he chooses to treat only one coherent part (ἓν μέρος) of the
entire Trojan War.
As often in the Poetics, the subject is dealt with in rather general
terms without too much detail. For instance, Aristotle does not
expressly state that the section chosen by Homer is located towards
the end of the war, covers a comparatively short time span (fifty-one
days) and incorporates the antecedents and the sequel by means of
analepsis and prolepsis respectively. Nor does Aristotle explain en
détail why the specific section chosen by Homer is particularly apt to
produce the type of plot that he considers a model of its kind.
I do not mean to criticise this laconism or speculate on what it might
say implicitly.3 Instead I propose to have a look at other ancient
sources which discuss similar questions and here and there fill the gaps
left in Aristotle’s account.
Among the first passages that come to mind is Horace’s winged word
in medias res.4 Instead of ‘beginning at the beginning’ (ab ovo, 147; cf.
Sat. 1.3.6), the poet hurries straight towards the actual outcome of his
story (ad eventum festinat, 148) and thus carries the reader or listener
3 One such speculation is worth addressing. It has been argued that, in the final
sentence of text 1, Aristotle means to say ‘daß die Episodentechnik ein Kunstgriff
Homers sei, durch den trotz der Beschränkung der Handlung seines Epos auf eine
übersichtliche Zeitperiode doch der gesamte Krieg dem Hörer vor Augen trete’
(Rengakos 2004: 289, with lit. 290 n. 38). Even if one accepts this interpretation
of the difficult term ἐπεισόδιον, two problems, at least, remain. Aristotle’s focus
in this passage is more on thematic unity than on temporal structure. What is
more, the catalogue of ships (and similar passages such as the teichoskopia or
the duel between Paris and Menelaus) are very peculiar because Homer does not
mark them as instances of analepsis. The relevant scenes are presented as if they
took place in the course of the fifty-one-day-period towards the end of the war,
even though they ‘actually belong’ to its beginning. Aristotle would have chosen a
curious example to illustrate Homer’s analeptic technique.
4 Hor. Ars P. 148; cf. Brink 1971: ad loc.; Meijering 1987: 146.
158 rené nünlist
along with him (auditorem rapit, 149). Since the second of Horace’s
two negative examples, which function as rhetorical foil, mentions
the poetic treatment of the Trojan War, it seems more than likely that
Homer represents the positive model for him too. At any rate, this is
the case for Quintilian (7.10.11), who expressly speaks of the ‘Homeric
manner’ (mos Homericus) when he distinguishes between chrono-
logical and non-chronological narratives (under the standard rubric
oeconomia, on which see below). If Quintilian describes the contrast to
a beginning ab initiis by means of the alternative a mediis vel ultimis,
one might first be tempted to understand this as a subtle correction
of Horace. Held against the background of their respective story (in
the sense of Genette’s histoire), both Homeric epics, as it were, begin
ab ultimis, the Iliad in the tenth and final year of the war, the Odyssey
thirty-nine days before Odysseus’ reunion with Penelope and twenty
years after his departure.5 But Quintilian may well be thinking of a
distinction that can be found in the progymnasmata of Theon (86.9–
87.12 Spengel), who discusses five possibilities for altering a narra-
tive’s natural sequence (‘beginning–middle–end’).6 The first possibility
is ‘middle–beginning–end’, which Theon expressly illustrates with
the Odyssey (Hunter, this volume): Calypso stands for the middle,
Odysseus’ Apologue with the Phaeacians is the beginning and the
remainder of the Odyssey represents the end. More generally, four of
Theon’s five possibilities start either in the middle or at the end, which
may well be Quintilian’s point of reference, not least because Theon’s
fifth variant, ‘beginning–end–middle’, seems less cogent than the other
four and is perhaps due to his recurrent attempt to be exhaustive.7
The narrative structure of the Iliad receives detailed discussion in
the Homeric scholia, for instance, a D-scholium on the opening line:
(2) The immediate (or: first) question is: why did the poet begin
his account with the final events (ἀπὸ τῶν τελευταίων) of the war?
The answer is: because the entire period before the tenth year did
not have such continuous battles, since the Trojans themselves,
due to their fear of Achilles, were penned up within the walls.
The tenth year contained more action and, with Achilles being
5 The first day-by-day analyses of the two epics go back to antiquity (for examples
see Nünlist 2009: 69–74).
6 It goes without saying that Quintilian need not depend directly on Theon, which
also helps avoid the difficulty of the latter’s date being disputed; cf. Heath 2003.
7 Interestingly, ‘middle–beginning–end’ (for beginning in the middle see also
74.17) is the only possibility that Theon exemplifies with entire texts (Odyssey,
Thucydides). The second, ‘end–middle–beginning’, is illustrated with a paragraph
from Herodotus (3.1). No examples are given for the remaining three.
angry (i.e. not fighting), evenly balanced battles. In this <poem?>

too, the poet began in an economic way (οἰκονομικῶς) from the
final events. By means of what he interspersed here and there
(σποράδην), he also incorporated what happened before. For this
is the virtue (ἀρετή) of poetry, to start in the middle (τὸ ἀπὸ τῶν
μέσων ἄρξασθαι) and, as one moves on, also to narrate the begin-
ning in detail (κατὰ μέρος). (schol. D Il. 1.1, p. 4 van Thiel)
The scholium’s position is generally similar to the position of Horace

or Theon, but it is more specific in that it gives an actual description of
the analeptic technique which allows Homer to insert the antecedents.
Essentially the same can be said about an exegetical scholium on the
opening line, but the details display remarkable differences:
(3) The question is: why did the poet begin from the final and not
the first events? The answer is: because the former battles took
place now and then and were not fought about the biggest cities.
As long as Achilles was present, the Trojans did not exit through
the gates, and the Greeks spent the nine years almost idly, sacking
the minor cities in the neighbourhood. There was no need for him
(sc. Homer) to write about these things, there not being a subject-
matter (ὕλη) for his account. They also say (λέγουσι δὲ καί) that
it is a poetic virtue (ἀρετή) to touch upon the last events first and
to narrate the rest from the beginning (ἀνέκαθεν, lit. from above).
(schol. b Il. 1.1 ex.)
Despite differences in wording, the gist of the two scholia is more or

less the same, with the first part of the answer being partially indebted
to Thucydides’ argument that for a long time the Greeks did not focus
on sacking Troy itself (1.11). In describing Homer’s narrative tech-
nique, both scholia agree that the poem’s non-chronological structure
is a poetic ‘virtue’ (ἀρετή), which has the ring of a rhetorical handbook
(e.g., Arist. Rhet. 1404b1–2: ‘virtue of style’). But the D-scholium
(text 2) is superior both in detail and in accuracy. It mentions the
general rubric under which narrative structure is normally discussed
(οἰκονομικῶς).8 And it accurately describes Homer as inserting his
analepses ‘here and there’ (σποράδην).9 Conversely, the exegetical
scholium (text 3) hardly does justice to Homer’s technique when
it says he narrates the rest ‘from the beginning’ (ἀνέκαθεν), that is,
8 On οἰκονομία see Nünlist 2009: 23–33 (with lit. in nn. 3 and 7).
9 Cf. Eust. Il. 7.29–31 παρενσπείρας ὧδε καὶ ἐκεῖ (‘inserting here and there’); for the
agricultural metaphor see texts 7 and 9 below.
160 rené nünlist
chronologically and (presumably) in one go.10 A possible explanation

of this ‘mistake’ is to assume that the final sentence was taken over
from a different source that spoke about poetic narratives in general
and not Homer’s narratives in particular, at least not that of the Iliad.
The description works better for the Odyssey, as Theon’s rough analy-
sis as ‘middle–beginning–end’ shows.11
The narrative structure of the Homeric epics with analepses and
prolepses guarantees, among other things, that no essential part of the
story is missing, as an exegetical scholium on the catalogue of ships
underscores:
(4) The poet is admirable: he omits no part of the story, but

narrates all events at the appropriate moment in inverse order
(ἐξ ἀναστροφῆς), the strife of the goddesses (i.e. the judgment of
Paris), the rape of Helen, the death of Achilles.12 For chronologi-
cal narrative (ἡ κατὰ τάξιν διήγησις) is typical of later (i.e. post-
Homeric) epic poets and of historians and lacks poetic grandeur.
(schol. b Il. 2.494–877 ex., p. 288 Erbse)
Even though the erzählte Zeit of the Iliad is a mere fifty-one days, it
incorporates the story-elements that fall outside this time span but are
essential to the story. The second sentence of the scholium elaborates
on the point that narrative structure depends on generic factors.
Chronological narratives are typical of historiography (and mediocre
poetry13). A similar view of historiography forms the implicit back-
drop against which Dionysius of Halicarnassus criticises Thucydides.
Since he chooses to proceed by seasons and thus repeatedly jumps
from one storyline to the other, Thucydides fails to produce the lucid
10 For narrating ἀνέκαθεν/ἄνωθεν cf. e.g. Pl. Leg. 781d9; Men. Epitr. 240; Polyb.
2.35.10; Plut. Thes. 19 (= Cleidemus FGrH 323 F 17) and texts 17–18 below. Other
scholia on the opening line discuss the question as to why Homer began the Iliad
with the ill-omened word ‘wrath’ (for an example see Hunter in this volume).
11 The hypothesis of a different source for the final sentence could find support
in the opening words ‘they also say’ (λέγουσι δὲ καί). Erbse (1950: 8, based on
Knauss 1910) has shown that, in Eustathius, the word φασί (‘they say’) regularly,
if not always, indicates change of source. Cf. also Serv. Praef. (p. 4.20–5.4 Thilo-
Hagen): ‘hanc esse artem poeticam, ut a mediis incipientes per narrationem prima
reddamus . . . quod etiam Horatius sic praecepit in arte poetica [quotation of lines
43–4]. unde constat perite fecisse Vergilium.’
12 The expression ‘in inverse order’ (ἐξ ἀναστροφῆς) must include here both types of
‘disturbed chronology’ (in Genette’s term, ‘anachrony’), analepsis and prolepsis,
since the third example, Achilles’ death, obviously illustrates a prolepsis (Nünlist
2009: 89 n. 52).
13 The probable targets of this critique are the poets of the epic cycle, whom Pollianus
(AP 11.130 = Cycl. test. 21 Bernabé) ridiculed as the ones who kept saying ‘and
then’ (αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα).
chronological narrative that Dionysius apparently expects from a

historiographer (Thuc. 10–12). In a similar vein, Theon (83.15–84.5
Sp.) considers it typical of historiographers that they can generously
extend (μηκύνειν) their narratives, whereas the others concentrate
on the essentials.14 This contrast also means that historiographers
alone can have their narratives begin in the remote past (πόρρωθεν
ἄρχεσθαι). A very similar point recurs in Pseudo-Plutarch, who,
in his detailed discussion of the Homeric οἰκονομία (Hom. 2.162),
praises Homer for putting the beginning of the Iliad not ‘from afar’
(πόρρωθεν) but ‘at the time when the action had become more vibrant
and climactic’ (καθ’ ὃν χρόνον αἱ πράξεις ἐνεργότεραι καὶ ἀκμαιότεραι
κατέστησαν). The whole paragraph from De Homero aligns well with
the two scholia quoted above (texts 2 and 3; cf. Hillgruber 1994–9:
ad loc.), not least because it also mentions the incidental insertion of
concise analepses (συντόμως ἐν ἄλλοις τόποις παραδιηγήσατο). On the
other hand, Pseudo-Plutarch does not argue against the backdrop of
chronological narrative.
The one who does do so is Dio Chrysostom, who, however, gives
the argument a peculiar twist in that for him non-chronological
narrative is the hallmark of a liar:
(5) For when Homer undertook to describe the war between the
Achaeans and the Trojans, he did not start at the very beginning,
but at haphazard; and this is the regular way with practically
all who distort the truth; they entangle the story and make it
involved and refuse to tell anything in sequence (ἐφεξῆς), thus
escaping detection more readily. (Dio Chrys. Or. 11.24, trans.
Cohoon)
Scholars often assume that Dio’s critique of Homer is not meant

too seriously (e.g., Hunter 2009: 61). This assumption may be right.
It is, however, interesting to note that a similar rationale forms the
background to the section in which Dionysius of Halicarnassus
compares the orators Lysias and Isaeus. In writing his narratives,
Lysias does not resort to ‘art’ (τέχνη) or ‘dishonesty’ (πονηρία) but
writes in accordance with ‘nature’ (φύσις) and ‘truth’ (ἀλήθεια). Isaeus
does the opposite. Everything is ‘artfully designed and contrived
14 Theon’s expressions for ‘the essentials’ are τὰ καιριώτατα τῶν πραγμάτων and τὰ
εἰς τὸ πρᾶγμα συντελοῦντα μόνα, and the entire question is dealt with under the
rubric συντομία. The notion that narratives in historiography are continuous and
chronological is particularly clear in a passage that Patillon and Bolognesi were
able to retrieve from the Armenian translation of Theon (inserted at 112.5 Sp. =
p. 77 Patillon); cf. also the implication of Anon. Seg. 133 Patillon.
162 rené nünlist
to mislead (ἀπάτη), or for some other sinister purpose (κακουργία).

Thus a mendacious client of Lysias might be believed, whereas a
client of Isaeus, even if he speaks the truth, will not be heard without
suspicion.’15 As the final sentence makes clear, Dionysius primarily
speaks of the impression that the audience get, whether or not the
speaker might be telling the truth. Elsewhere (Lys. 18) he argues that
Lysias’ audience will have found it difficult to tell truth from fiction.
For Homer’s famous description of Odysseus, ‘he knew how to say
many false things that were like true sayings’ (Od. 19.203), can equally
be applied to Lysias himself. The difference between Dionysius and
Dio is that for the latter (at least when text 5 is taken at face value),
a non-chronological narrative actually exposes the liar, whereas for
Dionysius this is only a possibility.
With the exception of Dio, all the witnesses seen so far agree that
the narrative structure of the Homeric epics is a merit. Why? Several
sources above (texts 2–3, Pseudo-Plutarch) do not expressly address
this question and simply take it for granted that it is a good thing.
As to the others, for Aristotle the plot (μῦθος) and its structure are
the single most important criterion whether or not the individual
poet reaches the crucial goal of unity, for which Homer has set the
perfect model. Horace appears to imply that a beginning in medias
res is apt to catch the readers’ attention (according to ancient rhetori-
cal theory a standard function of the proem) and carry them along.
The underlying thought is spelled out in a note that comments on
the longest secondary narrative of the entire Iliad, Nestor’s report to
Patroclus about his exploit as a young man (11.671–761). The scholium
reads:
(6) The narrative is in inverse order (ἐξ ἀναστροφῆς).16 For

in longer narratives to recount the story from beginning to
end makes for rather dull reading (ἀμβλυτέραν τὴν ἀκρόασιν
καθίστησιν). But to start with the real action (ἐκ τῶν πρακτικῶν
ἄρχεσθαι) is pleasant (ἡδύ). (schol. bT Il. 11.671–761 ex.)
This scholar not only spells out the implicit risk of boredom among
readers, he also adds another factor by applying the rule primarily
15 Dion. Hal. Isae. 16 (trans. Usher); cf. Anon. Seg. 88 Patillon, where the ‘disturbed’
order is seen as a means to mislead (ἀπατᾶν) the judge.
16 This scholium confirms the view (n. 12) that ‘in inverse order’ can designate more
complex departures from strict chronology than mere analepses. Nestor’s nar-
rative displays a temporal complexity that is unparalleled in Homer’s primary
narratives. The remainder of the long scholium (not quoted here) attempts to
disentangle it by means of a chronological summary.
to narratives that are longer (διηγήματα ἐπιμηκέστερα). He does not

explain why long chronological narratives are at risk of being boring,
but it is a fair guess that the problem is a surplus of information whose
immediate relevance is not clear. It takes too long until one reaches the
‘real stuff’, so it is better to start with that. At any rate, the criterion
‘surplus of information’ occurs in other sources that are important for
the topic under consideration. One is a note on the scene from Iliad
15, when Zeus wakes up from his amorous encounter with Hera. In his
second speech to her (Il. 15.49–77) he gives a fairly detailed outline of
the future events (Patroclus’ sortie and death at the hands of Hector,
Achilles’ revenge, etc.). The Alexandrian critics did not like this acto-
rial prolepsis and suspected its authenticity. Zenodotus, for example,
excised lines 64 to 77.
(7) Zenodotus omits <the fourteen lines> from here (Il. 15.64) to
‘supplicating’ (Il. 15.77).17 For they are similar to a Euripidean
prologue. However, the poet is <not boring like Euripides, but>
exciting (or: full of suspense) and, if anything at all, puts only a
seed (σπέρμα); cf. ‘this was the beginning of his (sc. Patroclus’)
evil’ (Il. 11.604). The one who composed these lines (sc. Il.
15.64–77) is perhaps the same who composed ‘we went against
Thebe’ (Il. 1.366ff., spoken by Achilles to Thetis) and ‘he (sc.
Odysseus to Penelope) began how he first defeated the Ciconians’
(Od. 23.310ff.). (schol. T Il. 15.64c ex. (Did.?))
Leaving aside the thorny question of whose opinion is actually

expressed in this note (Nickau 1977: 246–7), it is perhaps better, for
the time being, to focus on the argument itself. The relevant lines
from Zeus’ speech are considered spurious because they anticipate
too much of what will subsequently be narrated. In this connection,
the note draws a sharp line between Homer and Euripides. The latter
frequently gives, in his prologues, a full outline of the subject-matter,
which is not to this critic’s liking. Homer, on the other hand, makes
use of the proleptic device much more sparingly. If he uses it at all, the
most the readers will receive is a small hint (or seed). This is illustrated
by means of the passage which, to this day, is a prime example of a
Homeric prolepsis in secondary literature: the line from Iliad 11 which
announces Patroclus’ doom, the famous and ominous ‘beginning of
17 In the absence of line numbers, the standard reference system for ancient scholars
was to quote the first word(s) of the relevant line. As the two final examples in
this scholium show, this could even indicate whole passages that begin with the
quotation.
164 rené nünlist
evil’ (κακοῦ . . . ἀρχή).18 The prolepsis in Il. 15.64–77 is substantially

longer and more explicit than the one in Il. 11.604 and is therefore
considered foreign to Homer’s usual narrative technique.
The argument must be read against the backdrop of the emotional
or psychological function that ancient critics repeatedly attribute to
prolepsis. Just like the proem (of a speech or poem), the rhetorical
device of prolepsis is meant to make the audience more attentive, to
rouse them, stir them, engage them emotionally, make them eager
to hear more, etc.19 A good example is an exegetical scholium on the
same line from book 11 that has been mentioned just now.
(8) The prolepsis sets the reader aflutter (ἀναπτεροῖ) and makes
him eager to learn (ἐπειγόμενον μαθεῖν) what the ‘evil’ was.
Homer achieves attention (προσοχή) by means of a small hint (διὰ
βραχείας ἐνδείξεως). If he had given more details, he would have
destroyed the sequence and made the poem blunt (ἀπήμβλυνε τὴν
ποίησιν). (schol. bT Il. 11.604c ex.)
In the first part the scholium mentions no fewer than three emotional
effects that the prolepsis has on the reader: excitement, inquisitive-
ness and attention. In the second it describes how these effects are
achieved: by giving the readers a foretaste of what is in store for them.
The amount of information should be enough to make them curious,
but not as much as to make the subsequent narration superfluous
and thus take the edge off (for the metaphor cf. text 6). If the readers
already know in detail what is coming, they might lose interest in it.
The recommendation that the poet should not lavish information on
the readers in his prolepses has a parallel in rhetorical handbooks that
describe the working of a proem:
(9) Thus the proem should be compact and contain only the seeds
of the subject-matter (σπερματικῶς). (Anon. Seg. 36 Patillon)
The argument and, perhaps more tellingly, the agricultural metaphor

sound familiar.20 Well-versed orators and poets alike know how to
18 The Homeric line resonates, e.g., in Herodotus (5.97.3) and Thucydides (2.12.3,
with Hornblower’s note, 1991: ad loc.). In rhetorical handbooks it illustrates the
device of προαναφώνησις (‘prolepsis’): Trypho fig. 203 Spengel. For modern schol-
arship see, e.g., De Jong [1987a] 2004: 87, with a telling comparison with Alfred
Hitchcock as ‘master of suspense’.
19 For examples see Nünlist 2009: 34–45, 135–49, with lit. The creation of πάθος is a
fundamental function of the proem (e.g. Anon. Seg. 5–6, 9–18 Patillon).
20 In his note on the passage, Patillon lists as parallels for ‘seed’ Quint. 4.2.54
(semina), schol. Dem. 1.1.1c (p. 14.9 Dilts) and Syrianus (in Herm. de stat. p. 91.25
whet the appetite of the audience, without, however, giving too much
away in advance.21 They have the patience to wait until the seeds have
sprouted and it is time to reap the fruit, which, needless to say, is
indicative of their capacity to construct a good plot.
Equipped with these general interpretative principles, the ancient
critics whose notes are preserved in the medieval scholia had many
opportunities to judge whether or not the poet in question had suc-
ceeded in striking a good balance between withholding and provid-
ing information. A passage that incurred criticism was Achilles’
announcement of the bow contest in the funeral games for Patroclus
(Il. 23.855–8). In the second part of this speech Achilles seemed to
know too well how the contest would develop (‘But if one [sc. of the
two contestants] should miss the bird and still hit the string, that man,
seeing that he is the loser, still shall have the half-axes’). Aristarchus
felt this to be a problem of plausibility. He therefore marked the line
with a diplē.22
(10) <The diplē,> because it would be better not to have this pre-
dicted by Achilles, as if he had prior knowledge of something that
was going to happen by chance. (schol. A Il. 23.857a Ariston.)
The note must be read against the backdrop of Aristarchus’ interest

in the causation of events in ‘reality’ and in poetry respectively. What
happens by chance in reality is in literature the working of a master
mind who designs his plot.23 In Achilles’ speech, his hand is felt to
be too noticeable. An exegetical scholium on the same passage also
criticises Achilles’ announcement, but it discusses the problem from a
slightly different angle.
Rabe); for ‘seeds’ in poetic scholia see Nünlist 2009: 39–40, with lit. Regrettably,
Dilts and Kennedy do not retain the metaphor in their translation of Anon. Seg.
(‘deal with the subject in general terms’).
21 The postulated analogy between proem and prolepsis in ancient criticism receives
further support from the fact that the term προέκθεσις, which designates a func-
tion of the proem (e.g. Anon. Seg. 10–11 Patillon), can also mean ‘prolepsis’ (e.g.,
schol. bT Il. 15.601–2 ex.). As is well known, to distinguish between literary criti-
cism and rhetorical theory is foreign to ancient practice, where the former was not
recognised as a domain of its own (e.g., Russell [1981] 1995: 1).
22 The diplē is the wedge-shaped sign (>) in the left margin by which Aristarchus
drew the reader’s attention to passages that he considered noteworthy and
therefore discussed in his commentary. It is telling that, in spite of his critique,
Aristarchus does not go as far as to doubt the authenticity of the passage (i.e.,
mark with an obelos). For Aristarchus’ reluctance to tamper with the text in such
cases see the testimonia collected by Erbse (on schol. Il. 2.665a Did.).
23 Cf. schol. A Il. 22.329 Ariston. and Nünlist 2009: 32, with more examples in n. 30.
166 rené nünlist
(11) It would have been better not to anticipate the point about
the string, but to mention it afterwards as something that has
happened in a suspenseful way (ἐναγώνιον). (schol. T Il. 23.857b
ex.)
Aristarchus takes exception to human characters who appear to know

more about the causation of future events than is plausible. For the
exegetical scholium the problem is more one of narrative technique.24
By anticipating that Teucer would in fact miss the pigeon and hit the
string, Achilles, as it were, takes the fun out of the little scene. Had
Homer paid more attention to the principle of suspense, he would
have told the story differently. Again it is a surplus of information that
is seen as creating a problem.
On the other hand, not all anticipations are a priori wrong, since
they can whet the readers’ appetite as seen. Not even the anticipa-
tion of the specific outcome need be a narrative mistake. In one of
his well-known νήπιος-comments, for example, Homer makes it clear
that the Trojan hothead Asius will eventually be killed by Idomeneus
(Il. 12.113–17, narrated in 13.384–93). An exegetical scholium on the
passage reads:
(12) It is in accordance with standard rhetorical technique to

anticipate both the killing and by whom it will be done, in order
for the reader to be curious also to read about the things before
<the killing>. (schol. bT Il. 12.116–17 ex.)
Although (or, rather, because) the readers already know that Asius is
doomed to be killed and by whom, they long to hear about the events
that lead up to it. According to the anonymous critic, this is standard
rhetorical technique (cf. text 9). One may also be reminded of the
pattern that messenger speeches in tragedy often display. A concise
summary of the outcome is followed by an extended narrative account
of what happened in detail (cf. schol. Eur. Phoen. 1339).
The final part of text 7 addresses another aspect of the surplus of
information, in that the scholium interestingly compares the incrimi-
nated prolepsis (Il. 15.64–77) with two instances of analepsis that are
equally suspect (Il. 1.366–92, Od. 23.310–43). In both cases, a character
recapitulates the earlier events on behalf of another character (Achilles
to Thetis, Odysseus to Penelope). Alexandrian critics generally kept
24 Erbse attributes both scholia to Aristonicus (and thus Aristarchus). They are
indeed similar, but it would seem to me that the exegetical scholium substantially
modifies Aristarchus’ argument and should therefore not be ascribed to him.
a close eye on repetitions and treated them with scepticism.25 The

two passages in question were considered spurious by Aristarchus
because he was of the opinion that Homer avoided repeating himself
(παλιλλογεῖν).26 Text 7 reflects this view (hence Erbse’s hesitant attribu-
tion to Didymus).27 As a further step, all three passages are tentatively
traced back to an interpolator who is held responsible for generating
an unnecessary surplus of information. This view did not remain
undisputed. Others defended the two analepses by invoking the rhe-
torical device of ἀνακεφαλαίωσις.28 In rhetorical theory (e.g. Anon. Seg.
203–21 Patillon) this term designates the recapitulating part within a
speech’s concluding peroration (ἐπίλογος), but such recapitulation can
appear also in the middle of a speech (Anon. Seg. 211). The term is
thus equally suited to both Homeric examples. In this connection it is
also worth mentioning that rhetorical handbooks discuss the question
whether or not an ἀνακεφαλαίωσις is actually called for (Theon 78.6–8
Sp., Anon. Seg. 204, 212). Important criteria are whether the audience
needs to be reminded or not (hence the alternative term ἀνάμνησις) and
whether the recapitulation suits the orator’s needs. He will recapitulate
his strong points and pass over in silence the weaker ones.
Several texts above (6–8, 11) make use of the dichotomy ‘exciting
versus dull’ (each side with multiple synonyms). The underlying nar-
rative principle is well formulated by Pseudo-Demetrius.
(13) We should not immediately say that the events happened

but reveal them only gradually, keeping the reader in suspense
(κρεμῶντα τὸν ἀκροατήν) and forcing him to share the anguish
(συναγωνιᾶν). (eloc. 216, trans. Innes, adapted)
Authors (poets and orators alike) want their audiences never to lose
interest (they might even fall asleep).29 Pseudo-Demetrius gives vivid
expression to how this is best achieved: by keeping the readers in sus-
pense and engaging them emotionally.30 In order to do so, the author
25 This scepticism, however, did not mean that they attempted to eliminate (verba-
tim) repetitions altogether. In fact more repetitions were left untouched than not
(Lührs 1992).
26 Cf. schol. A Il. 1.365a Ariston. and the Odyssean scholium mentioned in n. 28.
27 Contrast Meijering 1987: 287 n. 211, who claims that Aristarchus’ reason is ‘com-
pletely different’.
28 The disagreement with Aristarchus is explicit in schol. QV Od. 23.310–43 and
implicit in schol. bT Il. 1.366a/b ex. As to the prolepsis of Iliad 15, an exegetical
scholium (schol. bT Il. 15.64c ex.) uses the curious term προανακεφαλαίωσις.
29 On sleeping audiences see, e.g., the passages collected in Nünlist 2009: 138 n. 8.
30 Text 7 sees a similar connection between restricted distribution of information and
suspense when it contrasts Euripides with Homer and declares the latter ἐναγώνιος
168 rené nünlist
must find the right topic, one apt to keep the readers spellbound (cf.
Od. 1.351–2). In the immediate context of text 13 Pseudo-Demetrius
speaks of disasters or bad news, a subject that hardly ever fails to
have its desired effect on audiences. The scholia add more examples.
For instance, Homer has two leading heroes (ἄριστοι) fight the boxing
match in the funeral games because ‘we feel not so much agony for
a common man as we do for a great man’ (schol. T Il. 23.659b1 ex.).
Likewise, he exposes the greatest heroes to danger in order to make
the reader anxious.31 Several notes make it clear that the readers’
expectation is a crucial factor in the process of creating suspense; they
wait and see (with delight, anxiety, curiosity, etc.) where the story will
actually lead them.32 In the present context, the following scholium
is worth quoting because it deals with how the poet construes his
plot. The note is triggered by the climactic scene in which Hector and
Achilles finally meet for their long-expected showdown. Homer makes
Achilles miss his first shot, which takes the reader by surprise:
(14) He (sc. Homer) makes the state of affairs suspenseful

(ἐναγώνιον), in that he modifies what the readers expected and
tells a different story. (schol. T Il. 22.274a1 ex.)
The point appears to be that the text puts the readers in a state of
expectation that is then either fulfilled or, as in the present case,
thwarted. Such a misdirection has, among other things, a retarding
effect. The readers thus never quite know what to expect next, which
prevents them from becoming too relaxed or disengaged.33
Text 7 criticises Euripides, as seen, for the prolixity of his prologues.
Similar arguments occur elsewhere, for instance, in a scholium on the
opening scene of Sophocles’ Ajax (Meijering 1987: 191):
(15) The subject-matter (sc. of the play) is concisely (κατὰ βραχύ)

made known in dialogue form (ἐν τοῖς ἀμοιβαίοις). For it would
(‘full of suspense’; for this meaning here see Nünlist 2009: 40 n. 54, based on
Meijering 1987: 205 n. 212, but see already Roemer 1912: 297: ‘auf Spannung
bedacht’). In a 2013 paper, De Jonge and Ooms make the attractive suggestion
that the common denominator of the polysemous adjective ἐναγώνιος is the
involvement and engagement of the audience.
31 E.g., schol. bT Il. 17.240–3 ex. (on Ajax), sim. T Il. 11.401 ex. (on Odysseus), with
the telling remark that Homer puts him ‘again’ (πάλιν) in danger.
32 E.g., schol. bT Il. 8.217a ex.; for more examples see Nünlist 2009: 140–1, 149–51
and thematic index s.v. ‘reader, expectation of’.
33 The attitude that text 14 presupposes is that of pro-Greek readers. They expect
Achilles to hit his target and are taken by surprise and therefore get nervous when
he does not do so. For ancient comments on the ‘creation of false expectations’ see
Nünlist 2009: 150–1, with lit. in n. 60; add J. V. Morrison 1993.
be tedious (προσκορές) to go through the whole thing in narrative

mode (διηγηματικῷ εἴδει). (schol. S. Aj. 38a)
The note opposes two types of prologue, dialogic and concise, the other
narrative (i.e., monologic), long and therefore tedious. Even though
Euripides is not expressly mentioned in this scholium, it seems more
than likely that he is the understood target. After all, he tends to open
his plays with an extended monologue, whereas Sophocles favours
opening scenes in dialogue form (the exception being Trachiniae
among his extant plays). The contrast between ‘in dialogue form’ and
‘in narrative mode’ perhaps includes a generic argument. Sophocles
has chosen the means appropriate to the dramatic genre, whereas
it is inadvisable to inflate plays with narrative, that is, undramatic
elements.34 Be that as it may, long narrative prologues are in any case
said to be boring, not least because they include too much information,
which is the probable implication of ‘to go through the whole thing’ (τὸ
πᾶν διελθεῖν). This brings us back to the question of ‘where to begin’, as
the following quotation from a rhetorical handbook shows:
(16) As far as the content is concerned, you will make your nar-
rative concise (σύντομον), if you do not have it begin from long
ago (πόρρωθεν), as Euripides has done in numerous cases. (Anon.
Seg. 64–5 Patillon)
The quotation comes from the section on the three ‘virtues’ of narra-
tive: conciseness (συντομία), perspicuity (σαφήνεια) and plausibility
(πιθανότης). It is remarkable that a fundamental discussion on the
principles of narrative singles out no other than Euripides as the
negative example of an author who repeatedly failed the standard of
conciseness. This means that at least some ancient critics took excep-
tion to the way he selected his starting point not only in comparison
to other playwrights such as Sophocles but in a general sense.35 To
begin one’s narrative ‘from long ago’ (πόρρωθεν) was a mistake, and
Euripides was considered the one who more than once committed it.
The Anonymus Seguerianus does not substantiate his allegation. The
tragic scholia, however, level the same type of criticism specifically at
the starting point of Euripides’ genealogies.36 The first example again
opposes Sophocles and Euripides:
34 For the difference in size between drama and epic see Arist. Poet. 1459b17–31.
35 A different view is expressed by Eustathius (Meijering 1987: 147), perhaps based
on ancient sources.
36 For ancient sources that criticise Euripides, Elsperger 1907–10 remains the most
comprehensive collection.
170 rené nünlist
(17) He (sc. Sophocles in Oedipus at Colonus) has arranged it

well that Oedipus is known to the Athenians (i.e. the Chorus),
lest he become a nuisance (ἐνοχλεῖν) to the spectators by giving a
genealogy that starts at the beginning (ἄνωθεν). But Euripides is
of this kind. In Suppliant Women (104ff.) at least he has Theseus
be unfamiliar with Adrastus’ circumstances in order to expand
(μηκῦναι) the play. (schol. Soph. OC 220)
The comparison, to be sure, is somewhat strained. For it is hard to

imagine how the plot of Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus might work
if the Chorus did not know about Oedipus and his plight. One gets
the impression that to criticise Euripides for his long genealogies has
become something of a stock argument. The final clause of the scho-
lium is particularly stinging because it suggests that he merely intended
to inflate his plays.37 Other notes, however, preserve the traces of
remarkable arguments among ancient critics. A good example is a
long scholium on the opening scene of Euripides’ Phoenician Women:
(18) Furthermore, some criticise Euripides for not consistently

(ἀκολούθως) giving the genealogy (sc. of the Theban dynasty). If
he intended to report the action from the beginning (ἐξ ἀρχῆς), he
should have narrated Cadmus’ migration from Phoenicia in detail
(κατὰ λεπτόν), together with the reason. If, on the other hand, <he
intended to report the action> from the present (ἐκ τοῦ ὑπογυίου),
he should have begun from Laius’ misfortunes. In response to
them one must say that, if she (sc. Jocasta) had started from the
beginning (ἄνωθεν), the speech would have been too long, espe-
cially because it is inappropriate for a woman from Thebes to be
well-informed about Phoenicia. If, on the other hand, <she had
started> from Laius’ misfortunes, she would have left out many
of the mishaps concerning Thebes: his own dogs tore Actaeon
to pieces, Agaue her son Pentheus, Zeus struck Semele with a
lightning and Athamas, in a fit of madness, killed Learchus, one
of Ino’s sons, Melicertes jumped into the sea together with his
mother. (schol. Eur. Phoen. 4)
In the first part the scholium reports the view of other scholars who
felt that the extant text of Euripides was an unsatisfactory in-between.
To their minds, Jocasta should have either given a detailed account of
Theban history (starting with Cadmus emigrating from Phoenicia) or
37 This type of criticism is not isolated; cf. Meijering 1987: 190. For μηκύνειν in
historiography see above on Theon.
begun in the immediate past with Laius’ misfortunes. The anonymous

critic rejects both suggestions. The first is ruled out for reasons of
length (is this scholar concerned about critique of the type expressed
in texts 7, 15–17?) and plausible motivation (Jocasta cannot know all
these details). The minimalist version is rejected because it curtails
the misfortunes of Thebes. Now, Jocasta does not actually mention
Actaeon, Agaue, Semele, Athamas or Melicertes. Her invocation of
Helios, however, is ‘an implicit contrary-to-fact condition – “had you
not shed your rays on that first day of Theban misfortune, none of
this would have followed” ’ (Mastronarde 1994: ad loc.), so the ancient
critic may have felt that these unfortunate Thebans are implied in
Jocasta’s lament. At any rate, he defends Euripides against his critics
and indirectly argues that he has given the right amount of (genealogi-
cal) information.38 No less importantly, the scholium is evidence for
subtle and detailed discussions among ancient critics about ‘where to
begin’.
Text 15 praises Sophocles for the concise exposition of Ajax.
Another scholium on this play makes a similar point in different
terminology (Meijering 1987: 116).
(19) He (sc. Sophocles) discloses all the essentials (συνεκτικά)

of the subject-matter in the proem (i.e. the prologue): to whom
the speech <is addressed> and where the scene <is located> and
what Odysseus is doing. (schol. Soph. Aj. 1a).
The word rendered here with ‘essentials’ (συνεκτικά), etymologically

speaking, means ‘the things that are holding something together’. The
term appears to be, at an unknown number of removes, an echo of
Aristotle’s emphasis on narrative coherence. The essential parts of a
story are the ones that hold its plot together, that is, give it coherence.39
By way of focusing his prologue on the salient points, Sophocles sees
to it that the audience is neither groping in the dark nor led astray by
irrelevant details.
Text 15 also provides more fodder for the ‘exciting versus dull’
38 Meijering 1987: 284 n. 179. In this connection it is worth mentioning that for
ancient critics genealogical information is not a priori a bad thing. When Achilles
and Aeneas meet in Iliad 20, the latter gives a long description of his pedigree,
which is the cue for an exegetical scholium (schol. bT Il. 20.213b ex.) generally
to praise the Homeric insertion of genealogies. The difference from the criticism
expressed, for instance, in text 17 is probably due to generic considerations too
(cf. n. 34).
39 Likewise, ancient critics use the term συνεκτικὰ πρόσωπα in order to designate
central characters (Nünlist 2009: 244), although in this case Aristotle might object
that characters are unable to give a plot coherence (Poet. 1451a16–17).
172 rené nünlist
mill. In this case, the negative side is represented by the term ‘tedious’
(προσκορής), which is commonly used in ancient literary criticism
and has an interesting history. Witness the following passage from
Dionysius of Halicarnassus:
(20) Thucydides, on the other hand, hurtles breathlessly through

an extended description of a single war, stringing together battle
after battle, armament after armament and speech after speech.
The result is that the hearer’s mind is exhausted. ‘There is excess’
(κόρος), as Pindar (Nem. 7.52) says, ‘even of honey, and the
delightful flowers of love’. (Dion. Hal. Pomp. 3.12, trans. Usher)
The quotation from Pindar is part of an Abbruchsformel which cuts off

further praise for the inhabitants of the island Aegina (one of whom
is the laudandus of the ode). Text 20 is remarkable because Dionysius
appears to comment on the fact that the terminology of literary critics
is indebted to the ‘proto-critical’ vocabulary of archaic and classical
poetry. Modern scholarship has amply documented this legacy.40 It is,
however, less often reflected on by ancient critics themselves.
As a critical term, ‘tedious’ (προσκορής) can be used whenever the
issue is ‘too much of the same’. For instance, a Homeric scholium
argues that Helen knows all the Greeks whom she points out to Priam
in the teichoskopia because she entertained them as guests. This fact
is mentioned in the case of Idomeneus alone ‘due to the tedium’ (διὰ
τὸ προσκορές), that is, in order to avoid it (schol. bT Il. 3.201 ex., with
ref. to Il. 3.232).
The paragraph that immediately precedes text 20 also takes its cue
from Pindar, in that it deals with ἀνάπαυσις (‘pause, break’), which in
Nem. 7.52–3 forms a pair of opposing terms with κόρος. The former
is immediately relevant to the topic ‘plot’ because ancient critics also
discuss the question whether it is appropriate to interrupt the flow
of the narrative and insert an ‘excursus’ (παρέκβασις). By doing so,
Dionysius and others argue, the author gives the reader the chance to
take a break and thus avoids surfeit and exhaustion.41
Returning one more time to the opening lines of the Iliad, an exe-
getical scholium will furnish the final example to this little survey. The
point of reference is the proem’s well-known question ‘What god was
it then set them together in bitter collision?’ (Il. 1.8–9). The scholium
reads:
40 Cf., e.g., Ford 2002 (with lit., esp. 2 nn. 3–5).

41 For discussion and more examples see Meijering 1987: 169–71.
(21) Going over <from the proem> to the narrative part

(διηγηματικόν), he (sc. Homer) has not follow the narrative
sections (διηγήσεις) as if they were acting of their own accord
(αὐτομάτους). Instead, lest he appear tedious (προσκορής) to the
readers, he has accomplished his work through question and
answer, suspending (ἀναρτῶν) the mind of the readers and first
lifting them up (ὑψῶν) by means of the question, then giving the
answer. Having found in the proem a hook for his account he
narrates <the story of> the wrath like a champion of rhetoric
(φιλοτέχνως 42). (schol. b Il. 1.8–9 ex.)
Several of the points made in this note will need no further comment
because, in essence, they repeat what has been documented in this
chapter. Two aspects, however, are worth highlighting. First, this
critic appears to believe that a poet can be faced with tedium even
before reaching line ten of his poem. Two explanations (at least)
suggest themselves. Either the original meaning of the adjective
προσκορής is no longer felt and has been replaced by a less specific
meaning: ‘boring’, ‘dull’ or the like. Or one might posit a whole
sequence of competing oral poets who cause tedium, if they all begin
their poems the same way. Second, and more importantly, this critic
is less concerned with ‘where to begin’ than with ‘how to begin’. The
involvement of the audience which has been shown above to be crucial
for the creation of suspense is here attributed to the rhetorical device
of prominently asking a question. The audience is seen as sitting on
the edge of their seats because they are eager to learn the answer to
the question.43
It goes without saying that the preceding survey could not present
more than a small selection of ancient views on the topic under
consideration. Even such a selection, however, is indicative of a
strong interest among ancient critics in narrative, its structure and
working. Unsurprisingly, the individual readers by no means agree
on the various aspects of the larger question, and an attempt to give
a summary of ‘what ancient critics thought about narrative’ is bound
either to fail or to streamline the picture. In fact, the relevant sources
indicate a general atmosphere of lively debate or downright polemics.
Also striking is the degree to which ancient critics are prepared to
‘go deep’ and address even minute details of the larger topic ‘narra-
tive’. They thereby implicitly agree that narrative is definitely worth
42 On this term see the series of articles by Lundon (1997, 1998, 1999a, 1999b).
43 Lucian, on the other hand, makes fun of a historian who used this rhetorical
device ad nauseam in his prologue (Hist. conscr. 17).
174 rené nünlist
discussing and/or theorising about, even though they may disagree

on the specific points or examples. While the search for a general
characteristic that completely distinguishes Greek narrative from that
of all other (ancient) societies is likely to be futile, the relevant critical
literature on the subject in Greek is truly remarkable in terms of both
its quantity and quality. Of the various aspects that the present survey
has attempted to illustrate one is perhaps worth singling out by way
of conclusion. A tenet common among historians of literary criticism
has it that pre-twentieth-century scholarship largely focused on the
production side of literature and thus tended to underestimate the
other side, that is, the reader (e.g. Eagleton 1996: 64–5). Several texts
above show that this view needs to be qualified. Owing to their strong
connection with rhetoric, that is, a genre with a strong performative
and thus ‘interactive’ component, ancient critics were less likely to
‘forget’ that literature was produced for (or even: before) an audience
and had its effect on them.
9
WHO, SAPPHO?
Alex Purves
It is clear that Sappho’s poems, so far as we can reconstruct them, are

not ‘narratives’ in the ordinary sense, even if we do not wish to accept
the argument that lyric and narrative are naturally opposed.1 There is
an obvious difference between the kind of story being told in Sappho
fr. 94, where the speaker asks a girl who is leaving to remember their
gentle pleasures together, and the extended heroic narrative of the
Iliad. But how are we to frame that difference in terms of narrative?
More specifically, can a poem like fr. 94 (already compromised by its
incomplete state) count as narrative at all?
Perhaps the easiest place to start in considering the place of narra-
tive in Sappho is her use of named characters from Greek mythology.
There are several instances of mythological narrative in Sappho’s
corpus, where parts of stories might be spelled out in detail or where
the simple reference to a name will be enough to set a story in motion.
When Sappho mentions Helen, for example, in fr. 16,2 or has a mes-
senger recount Hector’s return to Troy with Andromache in fr. 44, or
evokes Tithonus in the New Sappho, we know that we are firmly in
the world of Greek storytelling. But a name alone is not enough: how
extensive must the episodes be in which these characters appear, and
For valuable suggestions and discussion, I thank the audience at the Leventis
Conference in Edinburgh, as well as audiences at the University of Toronto
and the University of Washington where subsequent versions of this chapter
were presented. I am also grateful to Douglas Cairns, Kathryn Morgan, Sheila
Murnaghan, Melissa Mueller, Craig Russell, Seth Schein, Ruth Scodel and Mario
Telò for their helpful comments on written versions of this chapter.
1 As suggested by scholars of Romantic and later poetry, who have said that lyric
opens up an entirely different space for reflection and representation – one in
which the personal and the occasional find expression, and where, most impor-
tantly, emotion and experience are no longer subordinated to the demands of nar-
rative form. For discussion and critique of this argument, see, e.g., Jeffreys 1995;
Friedman 1989, 1994; Murnaghan and Roberts 2002: 4; Hühn 2005; Dubrow
2006; McHale 2009.
2 P. A. Rosenmeyer 1997: 142.
176 alex purves
how detailed, before they can be said to open up into new narratives
of their own?3 What, also, about the difference between mythological
and quasi-autobiographical narrative, as in Sappho’s references to
her rivalry with Andromeda, or love for Anactoria, or her brother’s
relationship with Doricha?4 Do these small traces of detail about
Sappho’s life, whether real or constructed, build up to a larger over-
arching narrative that she dispenses poem by poem?5
Given the context in which Sappho was composing, and given, as
well, her long-established intertextual correspondence with Homer,
I take the Iliad as my precedent for Greek narrative in this chapter.
It has been widely recognised that Sappho artfully employs epic
vocabulary and motifs in her fragments, often in order to differentiate
her own voice and lyric style from Homer’s.6 But it has less often
been considered how Sappho engages with him as a story-teller. Her
explicit deviation from certain narrative practices found in the Iliad,
especially in fr. 1, her only known complete poem, will form the basis
of my analysis.7 By analysing just one of the specific ways in which
Sappho’s narrative practice differs from Homer’s, this chapter aims to
help us think further about what Greek narrative is, how it works, and
how it develops across genres.
In what follows I focus on Sappho’s use of the interrogative and
indefinite pronouns tis or ti (‘who’ or ‘what’) as potential signposts for
the act of storytelling in her work. In doing so, I look back to a practice
in Homer of using tis to introduce different narrative voices within the
epic frame and to draw attention to the alternative roles of the named
individual and the anonymous participant in the construction of ancient
narrative.8 As I see it, tis has at least four jobs in Homer, each of which
has a bearing on the way that the Iliad is constructed as a narrative.
3 Cf. McHale: ‘Is narrativity a matter of kind, or of degree? Are texts either narra-
tive or not-narrative, with no intermediate or partial options? Or is narrativity a
matter of degree: more or less narrative; perhaps a scale ranging from, say, non-
narrative to minimally narrative to fully narrative?’ (2001: 166, emphasis original).
4 A. D. Morrison 2007a: 36–102. Sappho names fourteen girls in her extant poetry,
which is a considerable number. She emerges, therefore, as interesting as much for
her naming as her non-naming practices. See M. Y. Mueller 2012 for the connec-
tion between memory, performance and naming in Sappho.
5 Yatromanolakis 2009.
6 See especially Rissman 1983; Winkler 1990; P. A. Rosenmeyer 1997; Blondell
2010. For a good overview and analysis of the relationship between epic and lyric,
see Graziosi and Haubold 2009.
7 My setting of lyric narrative in opposition to Homeric epic is nothing new – Lowe,
for example, has written of lyric’s ‘drastically unHomeric approach to narrative’
(2000: 84). But in pursuing this angle I hope to shed further light on Sappho’s own
concerns with the concept of plot and storyline.
8 Names play a role in establishing a storyworld’s cast of characters, enabling the
reader to answer questions such as: ‘who is there, how many are there, who is who,
who, sappho? 177
1. Tis offers alternative or anonymous viewpoints to those of the

primary narrator or named characters. I am thinking here of
the so-called tis-speeches, a topic that has been worked on by
De Jong (1987b) and Scodel (1992), among others.9
2. Tis opens up a gap between ‘Homer’ and the Muse, as when
Homer draws attention to his own role as narrator by calling
upon the Muse with the question ‘who . . . ?’10
3. Tis provides the poet with an opportunity to insert anony-
mous or archetypal characters alongside the main narrative
through the device of the simile. It is not uncommon for a
simile to begin with some variation of ὡς δ’ ὅτε τις . . . (‘as
when someone [or some animal] . . . ’).11
4. Tis creates a counterpoint to the epic art of naming, and the
considerable flourish with which this act is carried out. In the
Iliad, the tiny word tis, whether indefinite or interrogative,
stands at the opposite end of the spectrum to names that –
when fully elaborated – can take up a whole verse or more.
In fr. 1 (LP) Sappho calls Aphrodite to her, using, as has long been
noted, a series of embedded frames:
πο]ικιλόθρο[ν’ ἀθανάτ’ Ἀφρόδιτα,

παῖ] Δ[ί]ος δολ[όπλοκε, λίσσομαί σε,
μή μ’] ἄσαισι [μηδ’ ὀνίαισι δάμνα,
[πότν]ια, θῦ[μον,
ἀλλ]ὰ τυίδ’ ἔλ[θ’, αἴ ποτα κἀτέρωτα 5

τὰ]ς ἔμας αὔ[δας ἀίοισα πήλοι
ἔκ]λυες, πάτρο[ς δὲ δόμον λίποισα
[χ]ρύσιον ἦλθ[ες
ἄρ]μ’ ὐπασδε[ύξαισα· κάλοι δέ σ’ ἆγον

ὤ]κεες στροῦ[θοι περὶ γᾶς μελαίνας 10
πύ]κνα δίν[νεντες πτέρ’ ἀπ’ ὠράνωἴθε‑
[ρο]ς διὰ μέσσω·
who did or was such and such, and is it (still) the same individual?’ (Margolin
2005: 337–8).
9 See also De Jong, this volume, on the narrative device of the anonymous traveller
in Homer and beyond.
10 De Jong [1987a] 2004: 45–53.
11 Tis occurs in Homeric similes in such phrases as ὡς δ’ ὅτε τις . . . (Il. 3.33, 4.141,
6.506, 8.338, 15.263, 17.61, 20.495; Od. 5.448, 6.232, 23.159), ὥς τίς τε . . . (Il.
17.133, 542, 657) and ὡς ὅτε τις . . . (Il. 15.326, 18.600, 23.760), all meaning ‘as
when some [lion, horse, etc.] . . . ’ or ‘as when someone . . . ’.
178 alex purves
αἶ]ψα δ’ ἐξίκο[ντο· σὺ δ’, ὦ μάκαιρα,

μειδιαί[σαισ’ ἀθανάτῳ προσώπῳ
ἤ]ρε’ ὄττ[ι δηὖτε πέπονθα κὤττι 15
[δη]ὖτε κ[άλ]η[μμι
κ]ὤττι [μοι μάλιστα θέλω γένεσθαι

μ]αινόλαι [θύμῳ· τίνα δηὖτε πείθω
.].σάγην [ἐς σὰν φιλότατα; τίς σ’, ὦ
[Ψά]πφ’, [ἀδικήει; 20
κα]ὶ γ[ὰρ αἰ φεύγει, ταχέως διώξει,

<αἰ δὲ δῶρα μὴ δέκετ’, ἀλλὰ δώσει,>
<αἰ δὲ μὴ φίλει, ταχέως φιλήσει>
<κωὐκ ἐθέλοισα.>
<ἔλθε μοι καὶ νῦν, χαλέπαν δὲ λῦσον> 25

<ἐκ μερίμναν, ὄσσα δέ μοι τέλεσσαι>
<θῦμος ἰμέρρει, τέλεσον, σὺ δ’ αὔτα>
<σύμμαχος ἔσσο.>
Ornate-throned immortal Aphrodite, wile-weaving daughter of

Zeus, I entreat you: do not overpower my heart, mistress, with
ache and anguish, but come here, if ever in the past (5) you
heard my voice from afar and acquiesced and came, leaving your
father’s golden house, with chariot yoked: beautiful swift spar-
rows whirring fast-beating wings brought you above the dark
earth (10) down from heaven through the mid-air, and soon they
arrived; and you, blessed one, with a smile on your immortal face
asked what was the matter with me this time and why (15) I was
calling this time and what in my maddened heart I most wished
to happen for myself: ‘Whom am I to persuade this time to lead
you back to her love? Who wrongs you, Sappho? (20) If she runs
away, soon she shall pursue; if she does not accept gifts, why, she
shall give them instead; and if she does not love, soon she shall
love even against her will.’ Come to me now again and deliver
me from oppressive anxieties (25); fulfil all that my heart longs to
fulfil, and you yourself be my fellow-fighter.12
In the first frame (1–4), we have Sappho speaking – ‘Ornate-throned

immortal Aphrodite . . . I entreat you: do not overpower my heart,
12 All translations of Sappho are from Campbell 1982. Fragments of Sappho are
from Lobel and Page (LP) 1955.
who, sappho? 179
mistress, with ache and anguish, but come here’ – using a series of voc-
atives and imperatives. In the second frame (5–14), with ‘if ever in the
past . . . ’ we move into Sappho’s description of Aphrodite’s previous
arrival, riding down on a chariot drawn by sparrows. As the descrip-
tion of an event occurring (albeit repeatedly) in the past, this is the
most straightforward piece of narrative in the poem. Then in the third
frame (15–24) Aphrodite addresses Sappho. First with three indirect
questions: ‘you . . . asked what (ὄττι) was the matter with me this time
and why (ὄττι) I was calling this time and what (ὄττι) in my maddened
heart I most wished to happen . . . ’ Then with two direct ones: ‘Whom
(τίνα) am I to persuade this time . . . ? Who (τίς) wrongs you, Sappho?’
Finally, Aphrodite ends her speech with three conditional statements
‘If she runs away, soon she shall pursue; if she does not accept gifts,
why, she shall give them instead; and if she does not love, soon she
shall love even against her will.’ Although these conditions are simple,
thereby implying specificity, the repetition of vocabulary and lack of
direct object also generalises them, giving them a somewhat gnomic
quality.13 In the last stanza of the poem (25–8), we return to the first
frame and Sappho’s own speaking voice, where she again implores
Aphrodite with imperatives: ‘Come to me now again and deliver me
. . . ; fulfil all that my heart longs to fulfil . . . be my fellow-fighter.’
My interest for the moment lies in the questions posed by Aphrodite
in the third frame, which also doubles as the central core of the poem
(lines 15–24), and specifically in the fact that the goddess never receives
any answers to her questions. This has caused only a small amount of
puzzlement in the scholarship: West pondered why Sappho often
leaves girls unnamed (1970), and before him Wilamowitz proposed
that the anonymous girl in fr. 1 was a member of Sappho’s group, and
thereby the recipient of a secret message (1966: 48). But the major-
ity of scholars have felt that it is not really necessary to worry about
such things. Aphrodite is an all-knowing immortal, after all, and as
her smile and future predictions indicate, it does not really matter,
anyway, who this girl is – she is just one in a long line of girls who
have driven Sappho to heartbreak. Yet, by allowing these questions
to be posed but go unanswered, Sappho makes a statement about the
narratorial status of her poem.14
13 This kind of series of provisions in the form ‘if . . . then . . .’ most probably stems
from magical practice (Petropoulos 1993: 45).
14 M. L. West 1970: 309 says of Theognis: ‘It may be a habit of style that he or
she is not named, as in our own popular songs it is “my love”, “my darling”,
“you”. Such songs have a better chance of being propagated, for anyone can sing
them with his own love in mind.’ What is interesting about fr. 1, though, is that
Aphrodite so insistently poses the questions.
180 alex purves
As Krischer has shown (1968: 12–13), we need only compare fr. 1

with Thetis’ arrival before Achilles in Book 1 of the Iliad to see that
the plot device of a goddess posing these kinds of questions to the
mortal that summons her has an established epic precedent:
πολλὰ δὲ μητρὶ φίλῃ ἠρήσατο χεῖρας ὀρεγνύς·

μῆτερ ἐπεί μ’ ἔτεκές γε μινυνθάδιόν περ ἐόντα,
τιμήν πέρ μοι ὄφελλεν Ὀλύμπιος ἐγγυαλίξαι
Ζεὺς ὑψιβρεμέτης· νῦν δ’ οὐδέ με τυτθὸν ἔτισεν·
ἦ γάρ μ’ Ἀτρεΐδης εὐρὺ κρείων Ἀγαμέμνων 355
ἠτίμησεν· ἑλὼν γὰρ ἔχει γέρας αὐτὸς ἀπούρας.
Ὣς φάτο δάκρυ χέων, τοῦ δ’ ἔκλυε πότνια μήτηρ
ἡμένη ἐν βένθεσσιν ἁλὸς παρὰ πατρὶ γέροντι·
καρπαλίμως δ’ ἀνέδυ πολιῆς ἁλὸς ἠΰτ’ ὀμίχλη,
καί ῥα πάροιθ’ αὐτοῖο καθέζετο δάκρυ χέοντος, 360
χειρί τέ μιν κατέρεξεν ἔπος τ’ ἔφατ’ ἔκ τ’ ὀνόμαζε·
τέκνον τί κλαίεις; τί δέ σε φρένας ἵκετο πένθος;
Τὴν δὲ βαρὺ στενάχων προσέφη πόδας ὠκὺς Ἀχιλλεύς·
οἶσθα· τί ἤ τοι ταῦτα ἰδυίῃ πάντ’ ἀγορεύω; 365
Many times stretching forth his hands he called on his mother:

‘Since, my mother, you bore me to be a man with a short life,
therefore Zeus of the loud thunder on Olympos should grant me
honour at least. But now he has given me not even a little.
Now the son of Atreus, powerful Agamemnon, 355
has dishonoured me, since he has taken away my prize and
keeps it.’
So he spoke in tears and the lady his mother heard him
as she sat in the depths of the sea at the side of her aged father,
and lightly she emerged like a mist from the grey water.
She came and sat beside him as he wept, and stroked him 360
with her hand and called him by name and spoke to him: ‘Why
then,
child, do you lament? What sorrow has come to your heart
now?
Tell me, do not hide it in your mind, and thus we shall both
know.’
Sighing heavily Achilleus of the swift feet answered her:
‘You know; since you know why must I tell you all this?’15 365
(Il. 1.351–65)
15 All translations of Homer are from Lattimore 1951 and 1965.

who, sappho? 181
It is immediately obvious that this passage proceeds in a much more

orderly narrative fashion than fr. 1. Achilles sits down in a specific
place, speaks his prayer, and in response his mother arrives. Her
request for him to speak out his troubles, so that they might ‘both
know’, also follows an ordered narrative logic – Thetis, appearing out
of the blue, seeks to catch up on the plot that has been progressing in
her absence:16
τέκνον τί κλαίεις; τί δέ σε φρένας ἵκετο πένθος;

‘Why then,
child, do you lament? What sorrow has come to your heart
now?
Tell me, do not hide it in your mind, and thus we shall both
know.’
(Il. 1.362–3)
In comparing this passage with fr. 1, we can see that Aphrodite,

also arriving in medias res, asks the same kind of plot questions that
Thetis does. Sappho’s ‘[she] asked what was the matter with me this
time and why I was calling this time’ (ἤ]ρε’ ὄττ[ι δηὖτε πέπονθα κὤττι
/ [δη]ὖτε κ[άλ]η[μμι) elaborates on Homer’s ‘Why then, child, do you
lament? What sorrow has come to your heart now?’ (τέκνον τί κλαίεις;
τί δέ σε φρένας ἵκετο πένθος;), with a doubling of the interrogative τί in
both cases. The fact that these kinds of questions are part and parcel
of (epic) narrative convention is highlighted by the wearily ironic
response of Achilles, who points out that Thetis, as an immortal,
knows the whole story already.17 But the in-joke shared here between
the internal narrator and the god is also carefully triangulated to
ensure that the audience is in the know as well. In other words,
the ‘both’ in ‘thus we shall both know’ is really code for ‘we three’
(Achilles, Thetis and the audience). Although not strictly necessary,
Achilles’ recapitulation of the events that the audience has just heard
(what De Jong 1985 calls a mirror story) speaks to epic’s technique
of ensuring that the details of the plot are fully covered. Homer has
made it his primary objective from the start to ensure that we know all
16 See further Scodel’s discussion of these lines in this volume, especially for her iden-
tification of those places where gaps appear in Homer’s normally full narrative
explication.
17 Robbins 1990.
182 alex purves
the aspects of Achilles’ distress, taking us through it in careful steps.18

Thus the οἶσθα that Achilles directs towards his mother at line 365 is
also directed to us, as if to reinforce the importance of what has hap-
pened so far in the Iliad’s overall narrative structure.
Sappho’s choice not to respond to Aphrodite’s questions in fr. 1,
therefore, comes across as an instance of anti-narrative, or even of
the ‘disnarrated style’, as outlined by Prince.19 The five questions
that Aphrodite poses to Sappho when compared to Thetis’ two can be
construed as lyric hyperbole, but also as a deliberate overplaying of
epic’s narrative technique, only in the end to reject it. This is precisely
what McHale means when he says that there are things in lyric that
trigger our narrative-sensing apparatus only subsequently to frustrate
it (2001: 164).
In Homer, by contrast, the questions that come from gods about
the workings of the plot are certainly much simpler and shorter than
here, and they are always answered. This is made especially clear by
the parallels that emerge once Aphrodite moves on from asking ‘what’
to ‘who’ in fr. 1. (τίνα δηὖτε πείθω/ .].σάγην [ἐς σὰν φιλότατα; τίς σ’,
ὦ/ [Ψά]πφ’, [ἀδικήει; ‘Whom am I to persuade this time to lead you
back20 to her love? Who wrongs you, Sappho?’, 18–20). For the two
tis questions of this kind posed by gods in the Iliad (5.373–7; 21.509)
receive immediate and straightforward answers. Thus Dione says to
Aphrodite, when her daughter returns in distress to Olympus in Iliad
5, simply: ‘who now . . . dear child / has done such things to you?’ (τίς
νύ σε τοιάδ’ ἔρεξε, φίλον τέκος;), to which Aphrodite responds with
both a name and a reason: οὖτά με Τυδέος υἱὸς ὑπέρθυμος Διομήδης,
/ οὕνεκ’ ἐγὼ φίλον υἱὸν ὑπεξέφερον πολέμοιο (‘Tydeus’ son Diomedes,
the too high-hearted, stabbed me / as I was carrying my own beloved
son out of the fighting’).21
18 As Krischer 1968: 13 points out, such steps cannot fit into lyric’s more compressed
style.
19 Prince 1988: 2 refers to the ‘disnarrated’ as a ‘category that covers all the events
that do not happen but are nonetheless referred to (in a negative or hypothetical
mode) by the text’.
20 ‘Back’ in Campbell’s translation follows the supplement ἄψ σ’ ἄγην at the begin-
ning of the line, which Lobel and Page 1955 and Voigt 1971 are hesitant to print
in their texts, although there is no viable alternative given the length of the lacuna
(just one letter) in the papyrus (cf. Lobel and Page 1955: 3).
21 The same structure is used in Zeus’ question to Artemis, when she returns wounded
from the theomachia at Il. 21.509–13: τίς νύ σε τοιάδ’ ἔρεξε φίλον τέκος Οὐρανιώνων
/ μαψιδίως, ὡς εἴ τι κακὸν ῥέζουσαν ἐνωπῇ; / Τὸν δ’ αὖτε προσέειπεν ἐϋστέφανος
κελαδεινή· / σή μ’ ἄλοχος στυφέλιξε πάτερ λευκώλενος Ἥρη, / ἐξ ἧς ἀθανάτοισιν ἔρις
καὶ νεῖκος ἐφῆπται. (‘Who now of the Uranian gods, dear child, has done / such
things to you, rashly, as if you were caught doing something wicked?’ / Artemis
sweet-garlanded lady of clamours answered him: / ‘It was your wife, Hera of the
who, sappho? 183
The last two tis questions asked by Aphrodite in fr. 1 are especially
interesting, therefore, for the fact that they are left unaddressed.
Aphrodite knows, after all, the ‘what’ – she knows generally what
Sappho has suffered, why she has called her and what she wishes to
happen. The one thing neither Aphrodite nor we can glean from the
poem is the ‘who’. Even if Aphrodite’s questions are purely rhetorical,
as Thetis’ are in Iliad 1, Sappho’s refusal to answer them means that
the audience is kept out of the loop: just as we are over-supplied with
information in Homer, here we are deprived of it.22
In the immediate present tense of the poem, then, Sappho allows
the new girl’s identity to remain undifferentiated from the previous
girl’s whose future was spelled out in Aphrodite’s generalising series
of conditions: ‘If she runs away, soon she shall pursue; if she does not
accept gifts, why, she shall give them instead; and if she does not love,
soon she shall love even against her will.’ In doing so, Sappho short-
circuits the narrative potential that the questions had introduced, by
reminding us that we are, after all, only within a memory of an event
that happened in the past, and that the story that Sappho really cares
about – now concerning a different girl – has not even started to be
told in the poem. Nor will it be. In a very real sense, Sappho does not
want the name of that past girl remembered at all, because to have the
old girl’s name recalled would be to undermine the individuality of the
new girl, whoever she is.
The structure of fr. 1 is a kind of trap, therefore: to begin to answer
Aphrodite’s questions would lead Sappho down a path from which
there is no easy way out. Furthermore, the interrogatives and condi-
tions in Aphrodite’s speech to Sappho, which seek to pin the narrative
down to some specific starting points and draw it forwards into the
future, are at cross-purposes with the immediacy of Sappho’s impera-
tives and the complexity of her iterative strategies. For Sappho calls
on the goddess with an elaborate mix of epithets and names and spins
a memorable narrative of Aphrodite’s descent from her father’s house
that is furnished with pleasing detail.23 At the same time, though,
she refuses to engage in particulars or to allow any kind of story to
develop about herself.24 As has often been noted, this leads the poem
to circle back on itself, in the retracing of steps already taken many
times before – Sappho’s prayer; Aphrodite’s journey from Olympus;
white arms, who hit me, / father, since hatred and fighting have fastened upon the
immortals.’)
22 See n. 16.
23 Sappho names Aphrodite in six different ways in the first stanza alone: πο]
ικιλόθρο[ν’, ἀθανάτ’, Ἀφρόδιτα, παῖ] Δ[ί]ος, δολ[όπλοκε, [πότν]ια.
24 Beyond her marked act of naming herself within the poem (as discussed below).
184 alex purves
her questions to Sappho; the girl’s running. In this scenario, Sappho’s

girlfriends are reduced to no more than a cycle with no variation
worth noting. There is nothing about them, in other words, no par-
ticulars, which can provide the starting points for storytelling. Rather,
they are like characters drawn in an epic simile or on an ekphrastic
object, or like Glaucus’ comparison of the generation of men to leaves
(Il. 6.146–9). They are simply anonymous figures following an end-
lessly repetitive pattern of events. Whereas the simile of the leaves
in the Iliad offers a commentary on the inevitable epic cycle of life
and death, Sappho’s sequence of nameless girls speaks instead to the
endless iterations of lyric love.
Each time Aphrodite comes to Sappho, though, she seems to
misunderstand this, even as she bemoans the repetitiveness of events
through her use of the temporal adverb δηὖτε (‘now again’). In order
to grant Sappho’s wish and to kick-start her despair into narrative
action, Aphrodite needs more – she needs a name just as a magic spell
needs a name in order to work.25 And because of this, Aphrodite’s role
in fr. 1 extends beyond that of a double for the poem’s audience (as
Thetis was in Iliad 1) to take on the authorial capacity of fabula hunter
as well.26 For if, as Brooks has argued, ‘Narrative always makes the
implicit claim to be in a state of repetition, as a going over again of a
ground already covered; a sjužet repeating the fabula, as the detective
retraces the tracks of the criminal’ (1984: 97), then in fr. 1 Sappho has
cast Aphrodite in the role of a detective who goes over the same tracks
that lead to the same conclusions. Aphrodite attempts to separate each
incident out (‘what has happened this time, Sappho?’) but the steps she
is retracing are her own going over of what has already happened
before, in an attempt to grasp a story which, although as yet new and
untold, she has been called upon to repeat (αἴ ποτα κἀτέρωτα, 5; δηὖτε,
15, 16, 18) and complete (τελέω, 26, 27) over and over again. Like
the girl who is always chasing or being chased (21–4), the constant
postponement of the fabula in fr. 1 is the paradoxical and reversed
consequence of its deferral by an endless reiteration of its own sjužets.
In fact, pretty much everything about fr. 1 works backwards, in nar-
rative terms. It is standard narrative practice for a narrator to begin a
poem by calling on a goddess. But when this happens in the Iliad, we
see that narrator asking the Muse to give him the starting blocks of his
story with the answer to a tis question:
25 On the poem’s similarity to a magic spell or incantation, see Segal 1974; Burnett
1983: 254–8; Petropoulos 1993.
26 See further Winkler 1990: 166–76, on the multiple role-playing in fr. 1.
who, sappho? 185
Μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ Πηληϊάδεω Ἀχιλῆος

οὐλομένην, ἣ μυρί’ Ἀχαιοῖς ἄλγε’ ἔθηκε,
πολλὰς δ’ ἰφθίμους ψυχὰς Ἄϊδι προΐαψεν
ἡρώων, αὐτοὺς δὲ ἑλώρια τεῦχε κύνεσσιν
οἰωνοῖσί τε πᾶσι, Διὸς δ’ ἐτελείετο βουλή, 5
ἐξ οὗ δὴ τὰ πρῶτα διαστήτην ἐρίσαντε
Ἀτρεΐδης τε ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν καὶ δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς.
Τίς τάρ σφωε θεῶν ἔριδι ξυνέηκε μάχεσθαι;
Λητοῦς καὶ Διὸς υἱός· ὃ γὰρ βασιλῆϊ χολωθεὶς
Sing, goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son Achilleus

and its devastation, which put pains thousandfold upon the
Achaians,
hurled in their multitude to the house of Hades strong souls
of heroes, but gave their bodies to be the delicate feasting
of dogs, of all birds, and the will of Zeus was accomplished 5
since that time when first there stood in division of conflict
Atreus’ son the lord of men and brilliant Achilleus.
Who of the gods was it then set them together in bitter collision?
Zeus’ son and Leto’s, Apollo, who in anger at the king . . .
(Il. 1.1–9; Lattimore’s translation modified)
The Iliad’s opening shows how important the interrogative tis can be
for getting a story started.27 But what is still more interesting about fr.
1 is that – even though Aphrodite is clearly standing in as some kind
of double for the Muse in that poem28 – it is Sappho, not the goddess,
who is the source of information being appealed to. This is precisely
the wrong way around. In Greek narrative as Homer constructs it, it is
the Muse who is called on by the narrator at key moments in the poem
to answer the question ‘who?’, as the following well-known examples
demonstrate:29
27 See for comparison Hunter, this volume, and Acosta-Hughes’s discussion (2010:
18) of Simaitha’s phrase ἐκ τίνος ἄρξωμαι; (‘from where shall I begin?’) at Theocr.
Id. 2.65. As both observe, the τίνος here is deliberately ambiguous (it could be
neuter, denoting ‘what point’, or masculine/feminine, ‘from whom’). Their differ-
ent observations point to the rich possibilities for this word as Theocritus takes it
up from Homer and Sappho.
28 As suggested by Skinner 2002, who also notes that the Alexandrians’ placement
of fr. 1 at the beginning of Sappho’s first book would indicate that they viewed
Aphrodite as a Muse figure appearing in a prooimion (68). I thank Richard Hunter
for first drawing my attention to the suggestive parallels of Aphrodite’s role as
Muse here.
29 As discussed in De Jong 1987a: 45–53. Note also those rhetorical questions that
follow the same format but are not addressed to the Muses: Ἔνθα τίνα πρῶτον
Τρώων ἕλε Τεῦκρος ἀμύμων; (Il. 8.273); Ἔνθα τίνα πρῶτον, τίνα δ’ ὕστατον
186 alex purves
Ἔσπετε νῦν μοι Μοῦσαι Ὀλύμπια δώματ’ ἔχουσαι·

ὑμεῖς γὰρ θεαί ἐστε πάρεστέ τε ἴστέ τε πάντα,
ἡμεῖς δὲ κλέος οἶον ἀκούομεν οὐδέ τι ἴδμεν·
οἵ τινες ἡγεμόνες Δαναῶν καὶ κοίρανοι ἦσαν.
Tell me now, you Muses who have your homes on Olympos.

For you, who are goddesses, are there, and you know all things,
and we have heard only the rumour of it and know nothing.
Who then of those were the chief men and the lords of the
Danaans?
(Il. 2.484–7)
Οὗτοι ἄρ’ ἡγεμόνες Δαναῶν καὶ κοίρανοι ἦσαν·

τίς τὰρ τῶν ὄχ’ ἄριστος ἔην σύ μοι ἔννεπε Μοῦσα
αὐτῶν ἠδ’ ἵππων, οἳ ἅμ’ Ἀτρεΐδῃσιν ἕποντο.
These then were the leaders and the princes among the Danaans.
Tell me then, Muse, who of them all was the best and bravest,
of the men, and the men’s horses, who went with the sons of
Atreus.
(Il. 2.760–2)
Ἔσπετε νῦν μοι Μοῦσαι Ὀλύμπια δώματ’ ἔχουσαι

ὅς τις δὴ πρῶτος Ἀγαμέμνονος ἀντίον ἦλθεν
ἢ αὐτῶν Τρώων ἠὲ κλειτῶν ἐπικούρων.
Tell me now, you Muses who have your homes on Olympos,

who was the first to come forth and stand against Agamemnon
of the very Trojans, or their renowned companions in battle.
(Il. 11.218–20)
Ἔσπετε νῦν μοι Μοῦσαι Ὀλύμπια δώματ’ ἔχουσαι

ὅς τις δὴ πρῶτος βροτόεντ’ ἀνδράγρι’ Ἀχαιῶν
ἤρατ’, ἐπεί ῥ’ ἔκλινε μάχην κλυτὸς ἐννοσίγαιος.
Tell me now, you Muses who have your homes on Olympos,

who was the first of the Achaians to win the bloody
despoilment
ἐξενάριξεν / Ἕκτωρ Πριαμίδης, ὅτε οἱ Ζεὺς κῦδος ἔδωκεν; (Il. 11.299–300); Ἔνθα
τίνα πρῶτον τίνα δ’ ὕστατον ἐξενάριξας / Πατρόκλεις, ὅτε δή σε θεοὶ θάνατον δὲ
κάλεσσαν; (Il. 16.692–3).
who, sappho? 187
of men, when the glorious shaker of the earth bent the way of
the battle?
(Il. 14.508–10)
In fact, in only one of the six instances when Homer addresses the
Muses in the Iliad does he fail to use the interrogative pronoun tis. On
that last occasion he instead asks them ‘how’ (ὅππως, Il. 16.112–13).
These questions are often asked self-reflexively by the Homeric
narrator, and the five examples of Muse invocation involving tis listed
here have been interpreted in a number of different ways. They can be
seen as examples of the Muses giving Homer specific information, of
enhancing the rhetorical force of the information he already knows,
or of setting things in order into a catalogue that might otherwise
be difficult to memorise.30 In fr. 1, there is a similar ‘catalogue’ of
girls hiding in nuce, yet Sappho refuses to differentiate them and put
them in sequence. In comparison with Homer, this is a starkly anti-
narrative move.
In the Iliad, anonymous figures get named when they die, and
attached to those names is often a short obituary narrative detailing
their lives or accomplishments. These small acts of narration flesh
out the plot, helping to make it more precise and particular.31 By
separating out individual lives like this, often starting with a name and
elaborating through a relative clause, the narrator moves from the
model of an archetypal utterance (‘as is the generation of leaves, so is
the generation of man’; ‘If she runs away, soon she shall pursue’) to
a story that varies with each repetition through the addition of indi-
vidual, named participants. What Sappho is telling us in fr. 1 is that
something badly needs to be ‘fulfilled’ (teleō), but she goes out of her
way not to couch that something in narrative form. This is despite the
fact that teleō is associated with the workings of a Homeric plot at Il.
1.5 and, among other places, in Achilles’ speech to Thetis (1.388). We
might also compare the use of ekteleō at fr. 112, where we learn that a
bridegroom’s wish has been accomplished because he named the girl
he desired in his prayers:
ὄλβιε γάμβρε, σοὶ μὲν δὴ γάμος ὠς ἄραο

ἐκτετέλεστ’, ἔχῃς δὲ πάρθενον †ἂν† ἄραο . . .
30 De Jong 1987a has suggested that in posing these questions the primary narrator-
focaliser does not really seek out information so much as to portray himself as a
‘“self-conscious narrator” . . . who is aware of and reflects on his own role’ (46).
31 Cf. Scodel 2002: 97–9.
188 alex purves
Happy bridegroom, your marriage has been fulfilled as you

prayed, you have the girl for whom you prayed . . . (fr. 112.1–2)
But Sappho, rather than following the model of the potential groom
in a marriage plot, instead inserts her own name almost at the very end
of Aphrodite’s list of questions:
ἤ]ρε’ ὄττ[ι δηὖτε πέπονθα κὤττι 15

[δη]ὖτε κ[άλ]η[μμι
κ]ὤττι [μοι μάλιστα θέλω γένεσθαι
μ]αινόλαι [θύμῳ· τίνα δηὖτε πείθω
.].σάγην [ἐς σὰν φιλότατα; τίς σ’, ὦ
[Ψά]πφ’, [ἀδικήει; 20
you . . . asked what was the matter with me this time and why
I was calling this time and what in my maddened heart I most
wished to happen for myself: ‘Whom am I to persuade this time
to lead you back to her love? Who wrongs you, Sappho?’ (fr.
1.15–20)
In place of an anonymous (Homeric) narrator who supplies plot

information by providing the names of who-did-what-to-whom, we
now have a narrator who inserts her own name on the brink of the
moment when we were expecting another one.32 What I am attempting
to do here is not retread discussions of the breakthrough of the lyric
‘I’, but rather re-examine the place of that ‘I’ from a narratological
perspective. Prins calls Aphrodite’s naming of Sappho at this point a
reversal of Sappho’s initial invocation of her, and this reversal in turn
produces a narrative complexity that results in Sappho’s name being
written wrong:
a contraction makes the ‘o’ at the end of ‘Sappho’ disappear,

while the vocative ‘O’ makes it reappear at the beginning of
the name. Thus Sappho becomes O Sapph . . . , transposing the
letters to spell the name out of order, and reversing the alphabet
by placing the last letter first: the omega before the alpha, the end
before the beginning, an alphabetical hysteron proteron. (Prins
1999: 12)
32 Greene 1994 discusses the famous use of the vocative Ψάπφ’ in fr. 94, which, she
argues, ‘bridges the gap between the past of narration and the now of discourse’
(48).
who, sappho? 189
This reading is appealing, but the placement of Sappho’s name here is

perhaps still more complex than Prins gives credit for. What is doubly
elided by the poem is that the missing sound at the end of Ψάπφ’ would
be the vocative ending -οι rather than -ω. Yet fr. 1 also works to cover
over that fact, so that Sappho’s name can play more than one role
in the poem at once. Consider the sound patterns already at work in
Aphrodite’s speech. In addition to the two well-known examples of
repetition in her questions at lines 15–18:
ὄττ[ι δηὖτε 15
κὤττι /
[δη]ὖτε 16
κ]ὤττι 17
δηὖτε 18
there is an example of potential or slipped rhyme, initiated by the ὦ at

the end of line 19:
.].σάγην
[ἐς σὰν
τίς σ’, ὦ / 19
[Ψά]πφ’, [ἀ- 20
Given that Aphrodite’s questions have already lulled the listener, with
their sounded repetitions, into expecting melodious patterns (note the
combinations of sigma and alpha sounds in both lines), the suggestive
rhyming of τίς σ’ , ὦ with the hinted but unexpressed word Ψαπφώ at
the beginning of the next line creates another example of circularity
in the poem.33 Sappho’s phonic overlaying of her own name onto
the interrogative pronoun that takes σε (you) as its object stops
Aphrodite’s question in its tracks, confusing even further the question
of who exactly we are talking about.34 To make the circling around tis
more dizzying still, the ἄψ with which these lines must begin (ἄψ σ’
ἄγην, ‘lead you back’, 19) also reverses the first two letters of Sappho’s
name.35 Sappho, in other words, interrupts the story-unit of subject,
33 See further Petropoulos 1993: 45–6, for a discussion of the triple anaphora, double
repetition, repetitive variation, repeated sounds, near internal rhymes and asso-
nance in the stanza that follows (21–4). These repetitions and recurrent rhythms
and their connection to erotic and magical language are also discussed by Segal
1974.
34 On the uncovering of hidden words in a text through sound-play, see Shoptaw
2000; McHale 2005; Stewart 2009.
35 See n. 20.
190 alex purves
verb and object by overlaying herself, the subject, back onto the place
where the object is supposed to fall each time.36
The kind of avoidance of specificity that we find in fr. 1 is also com-
parable to Sappho’s correlative pairings of the indefinites ὄττις or ὄσσα
with the demonstrative pronoun κῆνος elsewhere in her poetry. Thus
ὄσσα . . . κῆ[να (‘as many mistakes as he made before, may he atone
for them’) is conjectured by Campbell (1982) at fr. 15.5, and ὄ]ττινα[ς
. . . / . . . κῆνοι occurs at fr. 26.2–3 (‘whomever I treat well, those ones
harm me most of all’). But the most famous examples occur at frr. 16:
κῆν’ ὄτ- / τω τις ἔραται (‘that thing, whatever someone loves’, 3–4) and
31: κῆνος . . . / . . . ὄττις (‘that man, who’, 1–2). In their simple function
as indefinites, these pronouns draw attention to the importance of the
anonymous figure or generalised thing in Sappho’s work.
First, let us consider fr. 16, which begins with the fact that men may
be divided into groups depending on whether they admire most a host
of cavalry, foot-soldiers or ships. Already at the start of the poem,
therefore, we have three quite particular sub-categories. For Sappho,
on the other hand, beauty is defined by the demonstrative keino and
two indefinite pronouns ‘whatever thing anyone loves’.
ο]ἰ μὲν ἰππήων στρότον οἰ δὲ πέσδων

οἰ δὲ νάων φαῖσ’ ἐπ[ὶ] γᾶν μέλαι[ν]αν
ἔ]μμεναι κάλλιστον, ἔγω δὲ κῆν’ ὄτ‑
τω τις ἔραται·
Some say a host of cavalry, others of infantry, and others of

ships, is the most beautiful thing on the black earth, but I say it is
whatsoever a person loves. (fr. 16.1–4)
The poem goes on to provide two names. First, Helen, who is

not offered as an example of the object of love, but as the tis – the
‘someone’ who does the loving.37 Here, Sappho offers us, as she did
36 On the frequency of Sappho’s occurrence as both subject and object in her poetry,
cf. Winkler 1990: 166–76; P. A. Rosenmeyer 1997: 146; Greene 2002.
37 As Victoria Wohl has suggested to me, Helen’s function in the poem is compara-
ble to that of a tis character in a Homeric simile, since both serve to elaborate a
primary idea through example, except that here the categories have been flipped.
In a simile, a named subject is compared to a generalised thing, often via the use
of an indefinite adjective or pronoun. In this example, the unnamed subject (tis) is
compared to the hyper-named figure of Helen. We had initially been led to expect
a comparison to the object of desire, the κῆν’ ὄττω, but the comparison diverts us
by linking to its subject: Helen instead of Paris. The naming of Helen in fr. 16, in
other words, takes us on a generic detour, pointing to a reversed correspondence
between epic and lyric practices, at the same time as it re-inscribes the anticipated
who, sappho? 191
with the chariot journey of Aphrodite, a mini-narrative that is fuelled

by several verbs of motion.38
. . . ἀ γὰρ πόλυ περσκέ̣θ̣ο̣ι̣σ̣α

κ̣άλ̣λο̣ς̣ [ἀνθ]ρ̣ώπων Ἐλένα [τὸ]ν ἄνδρα
τ̣ὸν̣ [ ].στον
κ̣αλλ[ίποι]σ̣’ ἔβα ’ς Τροΐαν πλέοι[̣σα

κωὐδ[ὲ πα]ῖδος οὐδὲ φίλων το[κ]ήων 10
π̣ά[μπαν] ἐμνάσθη, ἀλλὰ παράγ̣α̣γ̣’ α̣ὔταν
. . . for she who far surpassed mankind in beauty, Helen, left her
most noble husband and went sailing off to Troy with no thought
at all for her child or dear parents (10), but (love) lead her astray
. . . (fr. 16.6–11)
After Helen comes Anactoria, now finally providing a named example

of the object – that thing which someone (now Sappho) loves:
..]μ̣ε̣ νῦν Ἀνακτορί[ας ὀ]ν̣έ̣μναι‑ 15

σ’ οὐ ] παρεοίσας,
τᾶ]ς <κ>ε βολλοίμαν ἔρατόν τε βᾶμα

κἀμάρυχμα λάμπρον ἴδην προσώπω
ἢ τὰ Λύδων ἄρματα †κανοπλοισι
[ μ]άχεντας. 20
(and she?) has reminded me now of Anactoria who is not here; I

would rather see her lovely walk and the bright sparkle of her face
than the Lydians’ chariots and armed infantry . . . (fr. 16.15–20)
And yet even here, as Burnett (1983: 289–90) has shown, Anactoria is
already gone, and the traces of her that are left – a lovely step and the
shine of light off her face – are the most intangible of signs. We do not
see her, just as we do not follow her to any specific place (as we did
with Helen). Fr. 16 names as it also takes away, therefore, enticing us
object of desire with the desiring subject (and Paris, as has often been noted, is
not named at all). In these ways, Sappho appears to be using Helen and epic as
a bridge between naming and not-naming. On Helen’s role in this poem, see also
duBois [1978] 1996; P. A. Rosenmeyer 1997; Blondell 2010.
38 fr. 1.5–13: ἔλ[θ’, λίποισα, ἦλθ[ες, ἆγον, ἐξίκο[ντο, fr. 16. 9–11: κ̣αλλ[ίποι]σ̣’, ἔβα,
πλέοι̣[σα, παράγ̣α̣γ̣’. As others have noted, Helen and Aphrodite both ‘leave’ and
are ‘led’ in their respective mini-narratives. Cf. Blondell 2010: 381–2.
192 alex purves
to see the object of the poem as both specific and elusive – a character
around whom stories begin to cluster before we pass on to something
or someone else.
The puzzling of scholars over the identity of ‘that man’ (κῆνος) at
fr. 31.1 points again to Sappho’s deliberate use of indefinites in her
work.39 I am suggesting that it is important to her narratorial stance
to keep these indefinites in play, to not give too much information, to
keep her narratives elliptical.40 Perhaps the unnamed man and woman
in fr. 31 are, as has been suggested, a bride and groom, or perhaps
this fragment reflects some other aspect of Sappho’s experience,
whether fictive or real.41 But in both cases, what is remarkable is the
specificity of Sappho’s symptoms vis-à-vis the unspecified nature of
the characters in the scene. Ferrari labels this ‘an inner tension within
the lyric discourse’: ‘Whereas the indicative mood of φαίνεται (l. 1),
ἰσδάνει (l. 3) and ὐπακούει (l. 4) itself implies an actual dimension, the
demonstrative κῆνος and the indefinite pronoun ὄττις (“whoever that
may be”) distance the man, blurring his outlines into an evanescent
symbolic figure’ (Ferrari 2010: 183). As he goes on to show, the paral-
lel suggested by Winkler (1990: 178–80) with the passage from the
Odyssey where Odysseus praises Nausicaa’s marriageability is enlight-
ening in this respect:
κεῖνος δ’ αὖ περὶ κῆρι μακάρτατος ἔξοχον ἄλλων

ὅς κέ σ’ ἐέδνοισι βρίσας οἶκόνδ’ ἀγάγηται
but blessed at the heart, even beyond these others, is that one
who, after loading you down with gifts, leads you as his bride
home.
(Od. 6.158–9)
As I see it, the Odyssey passage sets a story in motion in Nausicaa’s

mind where it is already very clear who the κῆνος is supposed to be
(despite the fact that Odysseus has no ‘home’ on Scheria to which to
lead her). This is confirmed by her words later in the book, where τίς,
now with the addition of the deictic ὅδε, refers specifically to Odysseus:
39 See Page 1955a: 20ff. for discussion of the use of the indefinite relative ὄττις with
a definite antecedent here. He argues for the last of three alternatives: ‘That man,
whatever his name may be, who is sitting opposite you, is fortunate.’
40 Whitmarsh 2004: 204 calls Sappho’s refusal to explain the identities of the figures
or to explain cause and effect sequentially in fr. 31 part of her anti-narrative
strategy.
41 The suggestion, first made by Wilamowitz ([1913] 1966), has inspired vigorous
scholarly debate. See Furley 2000: 7–8 and n. 4 for discussion and bibliography.
On Sappho’s wedding poetry, see Stehle 1997: 278–88 (with further bibliography).
who, sappho? 193
τίς δ’ ὅδε Ναυσικάᾳ ἕπεται καλός τε μέγας τε

ξεῖνος; ποῦ δέ μιν εὗρε; πόσις νύ οἱ ἔσσεται αὐτῇ . . .
who is this large and handsome stranger whom Nausikaa

has with her, and where did she find him? Surely, he is
to be her husband . . .
(Od. 6.276–7)
The prominent placement of keinos . . . ottis at the beginning of

fr. 31, like its prominent placement at the end of the first stanza at
fr. 16, invites us to compare these poems with fr. 1, where a deliber-
ate clashing of narrative and anti-narrative impulses collects around
the use of the indefinite or interrogative pronoun. As scholars have
shown, tis plays an important supporting role in Homeric narrative,
by commenting on the action of the poem either hypothetically or
through the voice of the masses in tis-speeches, or in its function as
information-gather or reinforcer for the primary narrator. Through
the anonymous tis-speeches, Homer is able to reflect on the action
from a perspective other than that of the main narrator.42 For Sappho,
however, ti and tis indicate a tendency towards the indefinite or the
incomplete in her narrative stance.43 As with the elusive ‘someone’ at
fr. 129: ἤ τιν’ ἄλλον ἀνθρώπων ἔμεθεν φίλῃσθα (‘or you love some other
[more?] than me’), this anonymous other stands on the margins of
Sappho’s text, breaking into her world in the form of indefinites and
interrogatives, rarely staying, and usually being named, if at all, only
after she has left.44 One might also consider in this context the lack of
direct objects in Aphrodite’s conditions in fr. 1.45 The girl will soon
42 The closest parallels I can find in Sappho are in frr. 88a (13: . . . ]α̣ι̣ τις
εἴποι) ‘someone might say’ and 147: ‘Someone, I say will remember us in the
future’ (μνάσεσθαί τινά φαιμι †καὶ ἕτερον† ἀμμέων [Greek text modified following
Campbell 1982]). But in general, her use of tis is quite different from Homer’s. On
Homer’s use of tis to reflect a different perspective from that of the main narrator,
note also Jörgensen’s argument (1904) that the references to divinities by internal
narrators within the Homeric poems are non-specific (‘Zeus’, theos, theoi, daimōn,
sometimes with tis, e.g., τις δαίμων, τις θεῶν).
43 See further fr. 51.1: οὐκ οἶδ’ ὄττι θέω· δίχα μοι τὰ νοήμματα (‘I do not know what I
am to do; I am in two minds’); fr. 58 (17) . . . ἀ]λλὰ τί κεν ποείην; (‘but what could
I do?’); fr. 133: Ψάπφοι, τί τὰν πολύολβον Ἀφροδίταν . . . ; (‘Why, Sappho, [do you
summon? neglect?] Aphrodite rich in blessings?’).
44 M. L. West 1970: 318 argues that the lover is identified (frr. 16, 49, 94, 95, 96) when
‘either the affair belongs to the past, or Sappho’s attitude towards it is hostile’. See
further M. Y. Mueller 2012, on reperformance and kleos.
45 Carson [1980] 1996 argues that the direct object in lines 21–4 is left deliberately
unspecified. In other words, it is not Sappho, but some other as yet unnamed girl
that this girl will chase, although ἄψ (‘back’) would tend to suggest against this. Cf.
Skinner 2002: 89.
194 alex purves
chase whom, give presents to whom, love whom? Sappho or another,

new, tis figure standing ready in the wings?
The interchangeablility of these girls might speak to the importance
of a different kind of flexibility and openness in Sappho’s narrative
stance, one that reflects the demands of lyric reperformance, where
actors, characters and audience shift depending on the occasion. It is
noteworthy that the tis in Odysseus’ conversation with Nausicaa only
becomes someone specific when it is combined, in her speech, with
the deictic hode in a particular setting.46 The pairing of keinos with tis
in Sappho 16 and 31 registers this in a more oblique way, in so far as
it acknowledges the mutability of the deictic’s signifier from perfor-
mance to performance, thus ensuring the poem’s continued viability
and existence.47 Sappho’s narrative, in other words, sometimes needs
to leave the tis unspecified both in order to confer kleos on itself and
to part ways with the kind of kleos that comes through naming in
Homer.48
One final poem worth considering, this time in contrast to fr. 1, is fr.
44, which tells of the return of Hector to Troy with Andromache as his
new bride. This poem uses a very different method to impart its infor-
mation from the question and answer format of fr. 1. Instead, Sappho
uses the device of a messenger’s speech, spoken by the Iliadic herald
Idaeus, to transmit news of two characters who are well named in the
poetic tradition and already here stamped by the epic phrase kleos
aphthiton (4). Hector and Andromache, whose names are too power-
ful ever to be unknown or unremembered, appear – like the named
Aphrodite and the named Helen – within a short sequence of narrative
action involving movement from one place to another (5–8).49 After
the festivities have been described, the poem ends with the couple
being named one last time, as we would expect for a marriage hymn:
ὔμνην δ’ Ἔκτορα κ’Ανδρομάχαν θεοεικέλο[ις. (34).
The epic colouring of fr. 44 combines with the narrative stance of
the poem itself – that is to say, not only the resolutely named material
of epic and myth, but also its status as a marriage hymn. As a mar-
riage plot, the poem’s events are remarkably clear-cut; one particular
man will lead to his home one particular girl, and this is an event that
46 As pointed out to me by Irene de Jong. On the importance of deixis in lyric poetry,

see esp. Felson 2004; D’Alessio 2004; Athanassaki 2009c.
47 This solves the problem, to some extent, that still lies open in Pindar of the fact
that epinician odes were reperformed to new audiences with the name of the origi-
nal laudandus intact. See further B. Currie 2004; Hubbard 2004; A. D. Morrison
2007b: 11–19.
48 M. L. West 1970 (cf. n. 14); Rawles 2011.
49 Andromache comes from Thebes over the sea, by ship (5–8), thus providing the
normative model for a marriage plot.
who, sappho? 195
should happen only once.50 This marriage plot, which is reversed by

Helen in fr. 16 and perhaps parodied in Aphrodite’s chariot ride from
her father’s house in fr. 1 (as discussed earlier), fixes on one name
and stays with it, unlike the uncountable number of girls that fall
under love’s purview in fr. 1. There is something about the nature
of erōs, then, that invites a different kind of storytelling; especially
different from the storytelling of a marriage song. If fr. 31 has any
connection with a wedding song, then what we see there is Sappho
precisely undermining its narrative structure through her character’s
own markedly different ways of describing and desiring. Fr. 44, on
the other hand, presents the story of Andromache’s marriage from
an externalised perspective with a clear sequence of events.51 As far
as we know, her story is told not as an example of or comparison to
someone or something else, which is how Sappho introduces Helen in
fr. 16 and Tithonus in the New Sappho, but for its own sake.52 To put
it in the simplest terms possible: fr. 44 tells a story of two people, and
their names are Hector and Andromache.
The single, mythologically freighted event of Andromache’s mar-
riage to Hector contrasts emphatically with the iterative time scheme
of erotic love. As the repeated use of δηὖτε (‘now again’) in connec-
tion with erōs in archaic love poetry illustrates,53 the act of falling in
love requires a different structure for narrative, just as the context of
reperformance does too. This reflects in part the ‘double’ or ‘ambigu-
ous’ role of erōs in lyric poetry, as discussed by Rawles in the context
of the individual versus the communal singing voice (‘What could
be a more convincing way of creating a voice which says “I,” ἐγώ,
than to speak of erotic desire . . . Yet at the same time as possess-
ing this individual nature, erōs is for everybody’; Rawles 2011: 154).
In Sappho, rather than thinking in terms of singular versus plural
singers on a specific occasion, we can think of singular versus plural
iterations of the performance itself, as well as (because the two seem
to be inextricably linked) the various singular into plural versions of
the girl whom Sappho loves. The complications of who in fr. 1 knows
what and when, especially when layered onto the notion of different
but unspecified occasions for its performance (does the poem indicate
50 I do not mean to imply that the narrative of fr. 44 is simplistic. On Sappho’s

sophisticated lyric recasting of epic narrative here, see (among others) Kakridis
1966; Schrenk 1994.
51 As Page has put it of fr. 44: ‘It displays for the first time the talent of Sappho . . . in
the art of story-telling’ (1955a: 70, emphasis mine).
52 I am grateful to Seth Schein for this observation.
53 Alcman 59(a)1; Sappho 1.15, 16, 18; 22.11; 83.4; 99.23; 127; 130.1; Anacreon
349.1; 356(a)6; 356(b)1; 358; 371.1; 376.1; 394(b); 400.1; 401.1; 412; 413.1; 428.1.
Cf. Carson 1986: 118; Mace 1993; Skinner 2002: 67–68; Bonifazi 2008: 53.
196 alex purves
an original performance in which the audience was in the know and

in which the original girl was present?),54 serve to break narrative flow
and progression, even as – at the same time – they provide the listener
with inconclusive clues with which to trace the poem’s own back-story.
The kind of anti-narrative moves that Sappho engages in through
her use of tis and ti in the fragments we have looked at in this chapter
speak to what is always a lyric possibility, since part of what differ-
entiates lyric as a genre is its stepping aside from the thoroughness of
epic narration. Sappho’s specific framing of Aphrodite’s questions in
fr. 1 within a set of well-recognised narrative conventions, however,
suggests that narrative form is always an important underlier in her
construction of lyric, particularly at those moments when we find the
promise of a plot subverted or rejected.
54 Ruth Scodel suggests to me that fr. 1 pretends to be a prayer of a kind not normally
spoken in public, but which here relies on divine omniscience due to the presence
of an eavesdropping audience (cf. Clytemnestra’s prayer to Apollo at Soph. El.
637–59). This would explain Sappho’s vague language in asking Aphrodite to ‘do
what I want’. Through this reading, the audience is factored as a character in the
plot, who – originally – might have known who the girl was. If we then imagine
an original audience in which the girl herself is present, the speech-act shifts from
prayer to threat.
10
THE CREATIVE IMPACT OF THE

OCCASION: PINDAR’S SONGS FOR THE
EMMENIDS AND HORACE’S
ODES 1.12 AND 4.2
Lucia Athanassaki
Greek melic narratives are on the whole small-scale compositions

and as a rule illustrate some aspect of the occasion for which they
are composed, which is sometimes specified, sometimes implied and
sometimes left totally unclear. In this chapter I focus on the occasion
in order to explore the stimulus it offers for the composition of new
narratives either for the same or for a related, subsequent occasion.
Pindar’s songs for the Emmenids of Acragas will serve as my main
test-case because (1) they constitute an interesting sequence of songs
which call attention to their occasion, thus allowing assessment of the
stimulus it offers; (2) the later songs allude to, rework and creatively
integrate the occasions of the earlier songs; (3) the Third Olympian
combines two distinct occasions, Theron’s Olympic victory in 476
bc and the periodic celebration of the Theoxenia of the Dioscuri in
Acragas; and (4) the Second Olympian is the model for Horace’s Odes
1.12, which offers a precious comparandum for the catalytic role of
Greek occasions on narratives.
In the following discussion I use the term ‘occasion’ in its broad
sense, namely agonistic events, festivals, other celebrations and per-
formance contexts. Epinician songs often treat contests and epi-
nician celebrations as separate events.1 A characteristic example in
this category is the much-discussed Tenth Olympian, which opens
with a poetic apology for the long time that has lapsed between
Hagesidamus’ Olympic victory and the composition of the epinician
Warmest thanks to Ewen Bowie, Peter Agócs and the editors of this volume for
helpful suggestions on this version and to the 10th Ephorate of Prehistorical and
Classical Antiquities for allowing me to take photographs of the Siphnian treasury
on a day when the Delphi Museum was not open to visitors.
1 For epinician sacrifices, performances and banquets see now B. Currie 2011; for
accounts of contests see Athanassaki 2012b.
198 lucia athanassaki
song.2 At the other end of the spectrum, there are songs that create a
continuum between the victory and the epinician performance. The
Sixth Pythian, for instance, fashions itself as a processional song that a
group of people sing on their way to the temple of Apollo, presumably
shortly after the victory, in order to participate in the epinician sacri-
fice. Pindar’s poetry shows an impressive range of representations of
or allusions to several celebratory occasions in one and the same song,
so I mention here only one representative example, that is, the Ninth
Olympian for the periodonikēs Epharmostus, which offers glimpses of
a variety of contests which Epharmostus won. This song, probably
composed for performance at Opous, at a local festival in honour
of Ajax son of Oileus, distinguishes itself from the Archilochus song
that the honorand sang with his hetairoi on their way to the hill of
Cronus.3
From the point of view of the present discussion it does not make
a great difference whether the variety of occasions that Pindar depicts
or alludes to are real or fictive, entirely or partially. I shall not discuss,
for instance, whether the Sixth Pythian was actually performed by a
group of singers on their way to Apollo’s temple or whether the Third
Olympian was actually performed at the Theoxenia or was simply suit-
able for performance at this festival.4 Such questions are undoubt-
edly important and have rightly received and continue to attract
scholarly attention.5 For the purposes of the present discussion,
however, verisimilitude is much more important. All the occasions
that are discussed either had or could have hosted epinician events. I
shall focus, therefore, on the inscribed occasions and I shall explore
their creative impact on the songs in which they are inscribed and on
subsequent songs that respond to the same or a different, but related,
occasion.
The following discussion focuses on four of the six songs Pindar
composed for the Emmenids and explores the range of narrative
effects that Pindar achieves through the representation, evocation and
reworking of several occasions.6 In the first section, ‘Utopias’, I discuss
2 The Tenth Olympian is one of Bundy’s two test cases (Bundy [1962] 1986: 1–33).
3 For the performance context of this ode see Farnell 1930–2: ii.67. For the variety
of contests and celebratory occasions see Athanassaki 2012b: 180–6
4 See Σ Οl. 3, 10c and passim. Detailed discussions in Shelmerdine 1987 (arguing for
an epinician celebration that evokes a theoxenia); Krummen 1990: 223–36 with
references; most recently Ferrari 2012.
5 Comprehensive studies of the locus and context of performance include Gelzer
1985; Krummen 1990; Neumann-Hartmann 2009; Eckerman 2012.
6 Space considerations do not allow detailed discussion of fragments 124ab and
118–19. For the interplay of the occasions of Pythian 6, Isthmian 2 and fr. 124ab
see Athanassaki 2012a: 153–5.
creative impact of the occasion: pindar and horace 199
celebratory occasions as a source of inspiration for conjuring up bliss-

ful utopias in the two Olympian odes Pindar composed for Theron.
In the subsection on ‘The Sixth Pythian and the Second Olympian:
Cadmus, Peleus and Achilles in the Isle of the Blessed’, I argue that
Pindar cleverly evokes the performance of the Sixth Pythian on the via
sacra in order to create links between Peleus-Achilles and Xenocrates-
Thrasybulus in a song that foregrounds the achievements and merits
of Theron, who is represented as a descendant of another inhabitant
of the Isle, Cadmus. Then, in ‘The Third Olympian: Heracles, the
Dioscuri and the Hyperboreans’, I explore the poetic innovations by
means of which the ceremony at Olympia and the Theoxenia of the
Dioscuri are aetiologically linked and conjure up images of eternal
happiness in the company of gods. In the following section, ‘Eutopias’,
I discuss variant narratives that spring out of the same occasions, but
shift the focus from immortality to mortality, human achievements,
relations and emotions. In the subsection on ‘The Second Isthmian
and the Sixth Pythian: The Pleasures of Day-to-Day Life’, I argue
that, in comparison to the Second Olympian, the evocation of the
Sixth Pythian in the Second Isthmian has the opposite function, that
is, it brings to the surface Xenocrates’ and Thrasybulus’ similar piety,
personality, lifestyle and pleasant interaction with people. The Second
Isthmian also evokes the Theoxenia, but the emphasis shifts from the
Emmenids’ divine guests/hosts to their mortal xenoi. Then, in ‘The
Second Isthmian, the Second and Third Olympians and the Role of
Nicomachus in the Light of the Fourth and Fifth Pythians’, I examine
the puzzling emphasis in the new and totally different account of
Theron’s Olympic victory on the charioteer’s excellence. I suggest
that the ode probably emphasises friendship and human interac-
tion because Nicomachus, who is at the centre of the narrative, had
commissioned the song. In the third section, ‘The Occasion in two
Pindarising Odes of Horace (Odes 1.12 and 4.2)’, I take as my starting
point Horace’s Odes 1.12, which reworks the Second Olympian but
destabilises the occasion, in order to discuss Horace’s handling of the
occasion in the Pindarising Odes 4.2 and the thematically similar Odes
4.5 and 3.14. I argue that, unlike Pindar, Horace does not rework
or build on past occasions. In the final section, ‘”ὕφαινέ νυν . . . τι
καινόν”: The Demands of Greek Performance Culture’, I summarise
my conclusions, and I attribute the creative impact of the occasion
to the ritual and cultic background of melic compositions and the
demands of Greek performance culture for custom-made songs and
their innovative narratives.
UTOPIAS
The Second Olympian: Cadmus, Peleus and Achilles in the Isle of the
Blessed
The Second Olympian opens with the famous priamel (‘What god,
what hero . . .’), reworked by Horace in Odes 1.12 and with an
initial reference to the celebratory occasion, interspersed with gnomes
(1–22). The ensuing song consists of two extensive mythological
exempla (22–45 and 56–83) separated by a reference to the present and
previous celebratory occasions (46–56) and a cluster of transitional
gnomes. The ode concludes with an extensive, enigmatic self-referen-
tial poetic statement (83–90) and lavish praise of Theron.
The performance context of the ode is not specified, but the
speaker’s self-exhortation to aim his arrows at Acragas at the closure
(89–91), in combination with the opening references to Acragas (6,
9), suggests that it was composed for performance at the honorand’s
home town. The ode does not give details about the chariot race,
but brief references to the victory in the first strophe and the third
antistrophe frame the first genealogical/mythological narrative (3–7,
48–51). In the third antistrophe the speaker mentions the Olympic
victory in conjunction with the earlier chariot victories of Theron and
his brother Xenocrates at the Pythian and the Isthmian games. This is
a bridge that links the first mythological narrative with the second. As
I shall argue in a moment, the second exemplum draws its inspiration
from the inscribed celebratory occasion of the Sixth Pythian.
Before I consider this second narrative, a summary of the first, genea-
logical narrative is in order. Theron claimed descent from Thersander,
son of Polynices.7 Typically, Pindar traces Theron’s Theban ancestry
to the remotest past, to the time of Cadmus, through the gnomic
analogy of mixed blessings that is characteristic of the lives of the first
colonists of Acragas and Cadmus’ daughters. Theron’s genealogy is
introduced by a brief account of his ancestors’ arrival on Sicily. They
initially suffered much, but subsequently enjoyed wealth and prosper-
ity (7–11). The transition to the sufferings and blessings of Semele and
Ino is effected through a cluster of gnomes stating that not even Time
can undo what has been done and that sufferings are forgotten when
Moira piles up prosperity (15–22). The apotheosis of Semele and Ino
illustrates the point. Semele lives on Olympus among the immortals,
Ino among the Nereids (22–30). A new cluster of statements shifts the
7 Σ Οl. 2 81a: γίνεται γὰρ Ἀργείας τῆς Ἀδράστου θυγατρὸς καὶ Πολυνείκους, εἰς ὃν
ἀναφέρει τὸ γένος ὁ Θήρων.
focus from immortality to mortality and reiterates the alternation of

good and evil, again privileging the predominance of Emmenid hap-
piness and prosperity over suffering. The point is illustrated by the
story of the Labdacids, focusing on a series of deaths and one survival:
these are represented as yet another dispensation of Moira. Oedipus,
the fated son (μόριμος υἱός), killed Laius, thus fulfilling an ancient
oracle spoken at Pytho. Sharp-eyed Erinys saw his act and killed his
warlike children at each other’s hands. Yet Thersander survived his
father Polynices. The survival of Thersander is the first instance of
happiness in the doomed family. But it is certainly not the only one,
for the poet immediately links him with Theron, whose roots spring
from Thersander’s seed. Theron, he continues, must be celebrated
with songs and lyres, because he won at Olympia and, together with
his brother, at Pytho and Isthmus (46–51). The parallelism between
Theron and Thersander is strengthened by the assertion that the latter
was an accomplished athlete (43–5). Common theme and diction thus
knit tightly together Theron’s fortunes with the fortunes of Cadmus’
daughters, the Labdacids and the first colonists in Acragas.8
Unlike the genealogical narrative, the eschatological narrative that
follows after yet another gnome does not at first sight display the close
association of myth either with the occasion or with the honorand,
unless we view it as Pindar’s response to Theron’s belief in an after-
life, which scholars have almost unanimously assumed, rightly in my
view.9 A gnomic statement on the splendour of wealth combined with
virtue (53–6), echoing the earlier praise of Acragas’ founders (10–11),
introduces the lengthy exposition on the afterlife prospects of three
different categories of mankind. Sinners are eternally punished, but
good men enjoy a happy existence in Hades (56–60 and 61–7 respec-
tively). A third alternative is introduced in the fourth antistrophe: the
prospect of life in the Isle of the Blessed for those who had the courage
to live three times in the upper and three times in the lower world. The
narration begins with a highly visual description of the landscape and
continues with an account of the inhabitants (74–87), which includes
the following (78–82):
8 Theron’s descendants: αἰὼν μόρσιμος (11), gnome: πότμῳ σὺν εὐδαίμονι . . .ὅταν
θεοῦ Μοῖρα πέμπῃ ὄλβον (18–22) introducing the fate of the daughters of Cadmus,
οὕτω δὲ Μοῖρα (35) referring to the Emmenids, μόριμος υἱός (38) ἐν δὲ Πυθῶνι
χρησθὲν παλαίφατον τέλεσσεν (39–40) referring to Oedipus. For the significance of
Moira in this genealogical narrative see Athanassaki 2009a: 408–13.
9 See, for instance, Farnell 1930–2: i.15–16; Bowra 1964: 23; Lloyd-Jones [1985]
1990; Willcock 1995: 137–40; Torres 2007: 267–369; A. D. Morrison 2012: 126–7.
Cf. Nisetich 1988, who privileges poetic immortality; Grethlein 2010: 29–33, who
suggests that the Isle of the Blessed illustrates the temporary transcendence one
gains through the athletic victory.
Πηλεύς τε καὶ Κάδμος ἐν τοῖσιν ἀλέγονται·

Ἀχιλλέα τ’ ἔνεικ’, ἐπεὶ Ζηνὸς ἦτορ
λιταῖς ἔπεισε, μάτηρ· 80
ὃς Ἕκτορα σφᾶλε, Τροίας

ἄμαχον ἀστραβῆ κίονα, Κύκνον τε θανάτῳ πόρεν,
Ἀοῦς τε παῖδ’ Αἰθίοπα.
Peleus and Cadmus are numbered among them and Achilles too,
whom his mother brought, after she persuaded the heart of Zeus
with her entreaties. He laid low Hector, Troy’s invincible pillar of
strength, and gave to death Cycnus and Dawn’s Ethiopian son.10
It is remarkable that of the various fortunate dwellers in the Isle the

speaker mentions only three: Cadmus (who was mentioned in the first
mythological narrative in connection with his two daughters), Peleus
and Achilles. According to Hesiod, the heroes who fought at Thebes
and those who fought at Troy went to the Isle of the Blessed.11 The
choice of Cadmus makes perfect sense in this ode, and although the
tradition of his and Harmonia’s translation to the Isle of the Blessed
is first attested in Euripides’ Bacchae (1338–9), the story was probably
old and known to Pindar.12 The inclusion of Achilles and Peleus in the
Isle and its relevance to Theron’s praise has been much discussed.13 I
shall argue for its relevance to Xenocrates and Thrasybulus, but for
the moment I draw attention to the clever link Pindar has already
created between the families of Cadmus and Peleus, for Ino is said
to live in the sea with the daughters of Nereus (μετὰ κόραισι Νηρῆος
ἁλίαις, 29). That Ino became a sea-goddess was traditional; Pindar
adds a detail that makes the story better fit his immediate purposes.
Immediately after the description of Thetis’ translation of Achilles
to the Isle of the Blessed, the narrative breaks off abruptly with an
enigmatic and much-discussed poetic statement (83–8):14
10 All Pindaric quotations are taken from Snell and Maehler’s edition (1987). The
translations are those of William Race (1997a, 1997b) slightly modified.
11 Works and Days 156–73.
12 Farnell 1930–2: ii.21; B. Currie 2005: 44. See also n. 19.
13 For a thorough discussion of Pindar’s divergence from the Odyssey and the
Aethiopis and the relevance of Peleus and Achilles to Theron, see Nisetich 1988
with references to earlier literature; Torres 2007: 267–369; for mortality and
immortality in Homer and Pindar, see B. Currie 2005: 41–6.
14 This is a notoriously difficult passage. For the range of its different interpreta-
tions see Most 1986 and Willcock 1995: 161–2. Most 1986: 316 interprets it as
follows: ‘I have many swift arrows under my arm in my quiver that speak to those
with understanding and they thoroughly crave oracular announcers. Wise is that
πολλά μοι ὑπ’

ἀγκῶνος ὠκέα βέλη 83
ἔνδον ἐντὶ φαρέτρας
φωνάεντα συνετοῖσιν· ἐς δὲ τὸ πὰν ἑρμανέων 85
χατίζει. σοφὸς ὁ πολλὰ εἰδὼς φυᾷ·
μαθόντες δὲ λάβροι 86
παγγλωσσίᾳ κόρακες ὣς ἄκραντα γαρυέτων
Διὸς πρὸς ὄρνιχα θεῖον·
I have many swift arrows under my arm in their quiver that

speak to those who understand, but for the whole subject, they
need interpreters. Wise is he who knows many things by nature,
whereas learners who are boisterous and long-winded are like a
pair of crows that cry in vain against the divine bird of Zeus.
I have argued elsewhere that the description of Thetis’ entreaty of

Zeus and the mention of Achilles’ duel with Memnon alludes to
the East Frieze of the Siphnian treasury in Delphi and to the Sixth
Pythian Ode, the self-proclaimed θησαυρὸς ὕμνων that draws its
inspiration from the same monument (Fig. 10.1).15 Here I summarise
the relevant points. As has already been mentioned, the singers of
the Sixth Pythian, composed for Xenocrates’ Pythian victory in the
chariot race of 490, locate their performance on the via sacra leading
to the temple of Apollo. The central mythological narrative of their
song, the duel of Antilochus and Memnon, is a poetic variation on the
sculptural theme of the right-hand part of the Siphnian treasury, the
duel of Achilles and Memnon, which any viewer on his way to
the temple of Apollo saw. In the Second Olympian Pindar offers yet
another variation on the sculptural representation of the Siphnian
treasury alluding to both parts of the sculptural diptych, both the
duel of Achilles and Memnon and their psychostasia, featuring Thetis
and Eos imploring Zeus each for her own son. Thus the poet evokes
both the earlier song and its inscribed physical surroundings. I have
also suggested that, given the familiarity of some at least in Pindar’s
announcer who knows many things by nature; but those who have only learned
speak out futilities like many-tongued vociferous crows in comparison to the
divine bird of Zeus. Now then, spirit, come, aim your bow at the target: whom
are we shooting at, casting forth arrows that provide good repute from a well-
disposed mind?’
15 Athanassaki 2009b: 132–46, 2012a. For the identification of the sculptural themes
see Brinkmann 1985. K. Shapiro 1988 was the first to draw attention to the points
of contact between the mythological narrative of the Sixth Pythian and the East
Frieze of the Siphnian treasury.
Figure 10.1 East Frieze of the Siphnian treasury at Delphi: psychostasia of Memnon and Achilles (left); combat of Memnon and
Achilles over the dead Antilochus (right)
a udience with the Delphic sanctuary and with the Sixth Pythian, the
poet expected the sunetoi (85) to work out that he was pointing his
swift arrows, the ὠκέα βέλη, to Delphi and the earlier celebration.16
I now add that the revival of the memory of that celebratory occa-
sion in the Second Olympian through the explicit mention of the
Pythian victory in line 49, attributed to both brothers, and the allusion
to a sculptural theme that Pindar had not fully explored in the Sixth
Pythian together form the basis of a new mythological account that
broadens the scope of the earlier song. In the Sixth Pythian Pindar
monumentalised the love and respect that Thrasybulus showed for
his father Xenocrates through its parallelism both with the filial piety
of Achilles towards Peleus and Thetis and with the self-sacrifice of
Antilochus to save Nestor. In the Second Olympian Pindar places
Peleus and Achilles in the Isle of the Blessed in the company of a third
figure, Cadmus, who links together the two mythological narratives
and is represented as Theron’s great ancestor.
Before discussing the creative impact of the earlier on the present
occasion, I wish to draw attention to the change of direction of the
speaker’s arrows at the conclusion of the song (83–100). The escha-
tological narrative concludes with the mention of Memnon’s death at
the hands of Achilles and is immediately followed by the assertion that
the speaker has many swift arrows in his quiver that speak to those
who understand. In the self-exhortation that follows after stating that
wisdom is inborn and clarifying the statement by the image of the
divine eagle, the speaker returns to the present occasion (νῦν) and aims
his bow at Acragas (ἐπί τοι Ἀκράγαντι τανύσαις, 90–1).
This is certainly not the only instance when the epinician speaker
aims his arrows at different sites associated with the contests and/or
victory celebrations. The Ninth Olympian displays a similar pattern. As
has been mentioned, the song opens with reference to the Archilochus
song that Epharmostus sang with his friends straight after his victory
at Olympia. Immediately afterwards the epinician speaker sets about
his present task (ἀλλὰ νῦν, 5), namely to target Zeus and Elis with the
arrows from the far-shooting bow of the Muses.17 Simultaneously,
however, he shoots another sweet, winged arrow at Pytho (πτερόεντα
16 There is no need to say that Pindar could count on his audience’s knowledge of
the Aethiopis, which would provide the necessary background, regardless of their
familiarity or not with the Delphic monument. For the Homeric intertexts of the
Sixth Pythian, see Kelly 2006. For the first and subsequent performances of the
songs for the Emmenids and audiences’ responses, see A. D. Morrison 2007b:
41–57, 84–92. For the various responses of the various groups of sunetoi, see also
A. D. Morrison 2012: 127.
17 For the identity of the addressee here, see Farnell 1930–2: ii.68 ad 6.
δ’ ἵει γλυκὺν Πυθῶνάδ’ ὀιστόν, 11–12), thus also commemorating yet

another of Epharmostus’ victories, the one at the Pythia. The only dif-
ference between the Ninth and the Second Olympian is that the direc-
tion of the swift arrows is not specified in the latter, but is presented as
an enigma to be decoded. As I have already suggested, Pindar could
reasonably expect the sunetoi, at least Thrasybulus and Xenocrates, to
pick up the allusions to the Sixth Pythian and to the Siphnian treas-
ury, in view of the preceding mention of the Emmenid victory at Pytho
and the thematic links between the two mythological narratives and
the Siphnian monument.
Pindar’s ending caveat, ‘upon praise comes tedious excess’, masks
the fact that the two mythological narratives have offered Theron
more than he could hope for, namely a prominent position in the
illustrious, if problematic, Theban line tracing its origin to Cadmus;
through the association of Theron with Cadmus, dweller in the Isle of
the Blessed, the poet has also opened afterlife prospects for the ruler of
Acragas, which were, as already mentioned, in accord with Theron’s
belief in an afterlife.18
The association of the Second Olympian with the Sixth Pythian
sheds light on Pindar’s narrative invention in placing Achilles and
Peleus in the Isle of the Blessed along with Cadmus. In the Sixth
Pythian Pindar draws a close parallel between Chiron’s instructions to
Achilles to honour his parents for as long as they live and Antilochus’
devotion to his father. Both Pindar and his audience knew, however,
that Thetis was immortal and, according to some traditions, Peleus
too.19 The reminder of parents’ mortality is clearly more pertinent to
children of mortal parents, such as the addressee Thrasybulus, but it
also serves as a bridge to the exemplum of Antilochus’ self-sacrifice to
save Nestor’s life. We have seen that images of mortality and immor-
tality pervade the Second Olympian too, but the opening image of
the genealogical narrative – that is, the apotheosis of Ino and Semele
– and the concluding image of the eschatological narrative – Cadmus,
Peleus and Achilles at the Isle of the Blessed – clearly privilege immor-
tality over mortality. If Cadmus mirrors Theron, Peleus and Achilles
stand for Xenocrates and Thrasybulus.
The figure of Cadmus links together two thematically different nar-
ratives that reflect and integrate two different occasions. In the Sixth
Pythian Pindar likened Thrasybulus and Xenocrates to both Achilles/
Peleus and Antilochus/Nestor in order to illustrate extreme filial
18 For Pindaric utopias, see P. W. Rose 1992: 165–82.

19 In Euripides’ Andromache Thetis tells Peleus that she will make him immortal:
κἄπειτα Νηρέως ἐν δόμοις ἐμοῦ μέτα / τὸ λοιπὸν ἤδη θεὸς συνοικήσεις θεᾷ (1257–8).
devotion to mortal parents. Celebrating Theron’s Olympic victory

fourteen years later, he revisited the occasion inscribed in the earlier
song in order to create a narrative that would secure a place for the
mythical analogues of Xenocrates and Thrasybulus in the Isle of the
Blessed, without distracting attention from the praise of Theron.
The association of Cadmus with Theron is straightforward. The
association of Xenocrates and Thrasybulus with Peleus and Achilles,
however, is easier through the evocation of the Sixth Pythian.20 It is
for this reason, I suggest, that Pindar revisits the sculptural diptych
of the Siphnian treasury’s East Frieze in the Second Olympian. But
as in the Sixth Pythian, here too Pindar is not interested in replicat-
ing the sculptural representation. The images of Memnon’s death at
the hands of Achilles and of the imploring Thetis evoke the Siphnian
sculptural diptych and the Sixth Pythian, thus triggering the associa-
tion of Xenocrates and Thrasybulus with Peleus and Achilles, but the
Second Olympian clearly tells a different story. In this song Pindar
chooses to focus on the last time Thetis had to implore Zeus for
Achilles, no longer in order to save his life but in order to secure his
immortality. In this sense, the evocation of the Siphnian monument
offers a visual reminder of a similar incident from an earlier point in
Achilles’ story, thus emphasising both his own aristeia in the battle-
field and his mother’s love and care for him.
In the Sixth Pythian and the Second Olympian both brothers are
mentioned, but whereas the Pythian ode is primarily a song for
Xenocrates and Thrasybulus, the Second Olympian is a lavish song
for Theron, tracing his origin all the way back to a most celebrated
hero-founder and opening up prospects of an afterlife. In this blissful
utopia, Pindar cleverly secures a place for the mythical analogues of
Thrasybulus and Xenocrates by the evocation of the earlier song and
the monument that stimulated it, and so links them to his mythical
narrative. But this is an ἔπος φωνᾶεν only to those who know – those
familiar with the Sixth Pythian and its nexus of allusions. Regardless
of who in Pindar’s audience would understand what, however, the
earlier treatment of Xenocrates’ Pythian victory had given him the
idea for the later selection of the inhabitants of the Isle of the Blessed.
20 The association of the three inhabitants of the Isle of the Blessed with the uncle,
the father and the son would be less obvious, but still possible, for those who
knew or remembered vaguely that Pindar had praised Theron, Xenocrates and
Thrasybulus in an earlier song, and for those who had noticed the explicit mention
of Xenocrates (ὁμόκλαρον ἐς ἀδελφεόν, 49). Once they made the identification of
Xenocrates with Peleus, the identification of Thrasybulus with Achilles was the
obvious solution.
The Third Olympian: Heracles, the Dioscuri and the Hyperboreans

Except for the mention of Theron’s victory, the Second Olympian does
not offer any glimpses either of the agonistic occasion or of its perfor-
mance context. In this sense, it is different both from the Sixth Pythian
and from the Third Olympian, in which a number of textual indica-
tions suggest that the ode was probably composed for performance
at the Theoxenia of the Dioscuri in Acragas, but which foregrounds
Olympia through the narrative of Heracles’ importation of the olive
tree from the Hyperboreans.
The Third Olympian also celebrates Theron’s Olympic victory in
the chariot race of 476 bc and, as in the Second Olympian, immortal-
ity is a predominant theme in this song. The embedded mythological
narrative links the immortalised Heracles with the Dioscuri and with
the Hyperboreans. The crowning ceremony at Olympia (10–13) is the
starting point for the introduction of the mythical story: in pursuit
of the golden-antlered doe Heracles had visited the Hyperboreans,
where he saw, presumably for the first time, the olive tree. Later, when
he founded the Olympic games, he persuaded the Hyperboreans to
give him the olive tree, which he planted beside the post at the end
of the racecourse at Olympia.21 When Heracles left for Olympus, he
made the Dioscuri overseers of the games and the chariot races in
particular. The attribution of this role to the Dioscuri is yet another
innovation.22 According to the poet, Theron’s victory is a gift of the
Dioscuri, for the Emmenids honour them with feasts more than any
other mortal. The mention of the xenia of the Dioscuri at the closure
of the ode, in combination with the opening prayer to them and Helen,
has led to the view that the song was composed for performance at
this particular ritual feast. The song links Theron’s Olympic victory
tightly together with the Theoxenia in Acragas and with the epinician
performance through the innovative narrative associating Heracles,
the Hyperboreans and the Dioscuri.23
The celebratory occasion is prominent in this ode, but in compari-
son with other representations, its reference to the crowning ceremony
at Olympia is remarkably vague. Unlike the Fourteenth Olympian, for
21 Pindar is our earliest source for this story; see Farnell 1930–2: i.19–20. For the
scholarly debate on whether Heracles travelled once or twice to the Hyperboreans,
see Robbins 1982. For Pindar’s challenge to the Athenian claim concerning the
provenance of the olive, see Sfyroeras 2003. Cf. Pavlou 2010, who suggests that
through the story of the olive tree Pindar links Acragas with Istria, thus highlight-
ing the bliss of the people of Acragas.
22 Farnell 1930–2: ii.29 ad 36.
23 For Pindar’s innovations and the encomiastic effect of the narration of Heracles’
journey, see Köhnken 1983.
instance, which concludes with the image of the crowned Asopichus

at Olympia, the Second Olympian represents a timeless and unindi-
vidualised crowning ceremony of every single victor (ᾧ τινι . . . ἀμφὶ
κόμαισι βάλῃ γλαυκόχροα κόσμον ἐλαίας, 11–13), which makes the
crowning a blissful utopia analogous to the land of the Hyperboreans
of the narrative. Notably, Pindar in this ode depicts the Emmenids
as participating in no activities except the periodical feasts of the
Dioscuri and other festivals. Thus in addition to the olive crown
that links Theron with the Hyperboreans, another link emerges at
the close. Like the Hyperboreans, the favourite people of Apollo,
who hosted Heracles, the Emmenids host the Dioscuri, appointed by
Heracles to oversee the Olympic games, who in turn host the other
gods, the Emmenids and the other participants in the ritual feast at
Acragas.24
EUTOPIAS
The Second Isthmian and the Sixth Pythian: The Pleasures of

Day-to-Day Life
Some years later, after the death of Xenocrates and probably of
Theron too, Pindar comes back to the issue of mortality which he
had explored in his earliest song for the Emmenids. As in the Sixth
Pythian, the addressee of the Second Isthmian Ode is Thrasybulus.
The ode offers a catalogue of the Emmenid victories at the Isthmia,
Pythia, Panathenaea and Olympia. The song is unlikely to celebrate
an Isthmian victory, since the Isthmian success receives much less
attention than the Panathenaic and Olympic victories. Various sce-
narios have therefore been advanced concerning the occasion.25 The
Second Isthmian is a song about the past. Given that the ode records a
number of victories and an encomium of Xenocrates’ personality and
achievements, all that can be said is that it was composed for a memo-
rial event that Thrasybulus was planning in Acragas.
The list of victories concludes with a general picture of the frequent
epinician celebrations and music at the family’s houses in Acragas
(30–4). This is at once a natural conclusion to the list of victories and
24 For the theoxenic ritual see Farnell 1930–2: i.19–20.

25 Anniversary of the Isthmian revised after Xenocrates’ death: Bury 1892: 33–4;
Farnell 1930–2: ii.342–3. In favour of a memorial event see, for instance,
Woodbury 1968; Nisetich 1978; Kurke 1991: 240–56. Wilamowitz 1922: 311–12,
building on the ancient scholia (Σ I. 2, 9a, 9b and 15a), argued for a poetic epistle
expressing Pindar’s annoyance that Simonides was engaged for the ode c elebrating
Xenocrates’ Isthmian victory.
a preface to the account of Xenocrates’ lifetime that immediately

follows:
μακρὰ δισκήσαις ἀκοντίσσαιμι τοσοῦθ’, ὅσον ὀργάν 35

Ξεινοκράτης ὑπὲρ ἀνθρώπων γλυκεῖαν
ἔσχεν. αἰδοῖος μὲν ἦν ἀστοῖς ὁμιλεῖν,
ἱπποτροφίας τε νομίζων
ἐν Πανελλάνων νόμῳ· 38
καὶ θεῶν δαῖτας προσέ-
πτυκτο πάσας· οὐδέ ποτε ξενίαν 39
οὖρος ἐμπνεύσαις ὑπέστειλ’ ἱστίον ἀμφὶ τράπεζαν· 40
ἀλλ’ ἐπέρα ποτὶ μὲν Φᾶσιν θερείαις,
ἐν δὲ χειμῶνι πλέων Νείλου πρὸς ἀκτάν.
May I make a long throw with the discus and cast the javelin as
far as Xenocrates surpassed all men with his sweet disposition.
He was respectful in the company of his townsmen, he practiced
horse-breeding in the Panhellenic tradition and welcomed all
feasts of the gods. And never did an oncoming wind cause him to
furl the sails at his hospitable table, but he would travel to Phasis
in summer seasons, while in winter he would sail to the shore of
the Nile.
The emphasis of Xenocrates’ posthumous praise is on his day-to-day

life and interaction with people, both his townsmen and his xenoi. The
praise begins with a general assessment of his personality, that is, his
sweet disposition towards people in general, and continues with the
respect he enjoyed from his townsmen. The account continues with
his devotion to hippotrophia, an activity in which he obviously found
pleasure, but which also gave pleasure to others as an agonistic specta-
cle. A few lines earlier Pindar used the phrase κλειναῖς <τ’>Ἐρεχθειδᾶν
χαρίτεσσιν ἀραρώς to designate Xenocrates’ Panathenaic victory,
thus capturing the spectators’ reactions and the pleasure of the
games.26 Xenocrates’ observance of the feasts of all gods echoes
the performance context of the Third Olympian. In keeping with
this song’s focus on human interaction, however, the picture of
Xenocrates’ hospitality now privileges his entertainment of mortal
guests.
The attention to Xenocrates’ personal qualities and modus vivendi
is reminiscent of the similar emphasis on Thrasybulus’ qualities and
26 I discuss this passage in more detail in Athanassaki 2012b: 199.

style at the closure of the Sixth Pythian.27 Thrasybulus’ encomium

begins with his devotion to Xenocrates and his splendour, which
rivals Theron’s splendour. Immediately afterwards, the poet offers
a few examples of Thrasybulus’ day-to-day behaviour: he is rich,
but manages his wealth intelligently; he is young, but not overbear-
ing; he loves music and horse-races. Pindar gives here a twist to the
subject of hippotrophia: Thrasybulus’ passion for horse-races pleases
Poseidon, a statement that resonates with the much-praised piety of
the Emmenids. The last image leads the eye to the symposium, where
Thrasybulus’ sweet manner towards his fellow-drinkers is comparable
to that his father.
Like the Sixth Pythian, the Second Isthmian pays great attention to
human interaction and emotions. Unsurprisingly, it ends with allu-
sions to the earlier song:
μή νυν, ὅτι φθονεραὶ

θνατῶν φρένας ἀμφικρέμανται ἐλπίδες, 43
μήτ’ ἀρετάν ποτε σιγάτω πατρῴαν,
μηδὲ τούσδ’ ὕμνους· ἐπεί τοι 45
οὐκ ἐλινύσοντας αὐτοὺς ἐργασάμαν.
ταῦτα, Νικάσιππ’, ἀπόνειμον, ὅταν
ξεῖνον ἐμὸν ἠθαῖον ἔλθῃς.
Therefore, since envious hopes hang about the minds of mortals,

let the son never keep silent his father’s excellence nor these
hymns, for I truly did not fashion them to remain stationary.
Impart these words to him, Nicasippus, when you visit my hon-
ourable host.
Pindar claimed in the Sixth Pythian that his poetic treasure-house of

song would endure the assaults of nature much better and much longer
than a physical monument (he was, of course, correct). In his last song
for the Emmenids, however, the poet points out another difference,
that is, the mobility of song versus the immobility of monumental
sculpture, and urges Thrasybulus to keep reperforming the songs so as
to ensure that his father’s virtues will remain alive in people’s memory.
The two assessments of the difference between poetry and monumen-
tal sculpture are complementary. 28
27 The similarities between the two descriptions are noted by Bury 1892: 32; see now
Clear 2012: 190–1.
28 For Pindar’s views on the relation of poetry to the visual arts see Athanassaki
2012a: 156 with the references in n. 55.
We have seen that the Siphnian treasury also provided the inspi-
ration for the inclusion of Xenocrates’ and Thrasybulus’ mythical
analogues, Peleus and Achilles, in the Isle of the Blessed in the Second
Olympian. Yet, despite the dialogue of the two songs, the Second
Isthmian does not conjure up a utopia. It focuses exclusively on human
deeds, achievements, emotions and mortality. Like the Sixth Pythian,
the only immortality it promises is the immortality of song. Pindar’s
urge to Thrasybulus to keep the songs alive as an antidote to people’s
envy shows that his concern is the commemoration of Xenocrates’
fame among the living through the song, with its summary narrative
of Xenocrates’ way of life and catalogue of victories.
The Second Isthmian, the Second and Third Olympians and the Role of
Nicomachus in the Light of the Fourth and the Fifth Pythians
In the Second and Third Olympians Pindar looked far beyond the
competition venue. In contrast, the Second Isthmian, in keeping with
its focus on human achievements and emotions, offers a narrative of
the chariot race and the charioteer, Nicomachus:
κλειναῖς <τ’> Ἐρεχθειδᾶν χαρίτεσσιν ἀραρώς

ταῖς λιπαραῖς ἐν Ἀθάναις, οὐκ ἐμέμφθη 20
ῥυσίδιφρον χεῖρα πλαξίπποιο φωτός,
τὰν Νικόμαχος κατὰ καιρὸν
νεῖμ’ ἁπάσαις ἁνίαις· 22
ὅν τε καὶ κάρυκες ὡ-
ρᾶν ἀνέγνον, σπονδοφόροι Κρονίδα 23
Ζηνὸς Ἀλεῖοι, παθόντες πού τι φιλόξενον ἔργον·
ἁδυπνόῳ τέ νιν ἀσπάζοντο φωνᾷ 25
χρυσέας ἐν γούνασιν πίτνοντα Νίκας
γαῖαν ἀνὰ σφετέραν,
τὰν δὴ καλέοισιν Ὀλυμπίου Διός 27
ἄλσος· ἵν’ ἀθανάτοις Αἰνησιδάμου
παῖδες ἐν τιμαῖς ἔμιχθεν.
καὶ γὰρ οὐκ ἀγνῶτες ὑμῖν ἐντὶ δόμοι 30
οὔτε κώμων, ὦ Θρασύβουλ’, ἐρατῶν,
οὔτε μελικόμπων ἀοιδᾶν.
and when he gained the glorious favour of Erechtheus’ descend-

ants in shining Athens, he had no cause to blame the chariot-
preserving hand, which the horse-striking man Nicomachus
applied fittingly to all the reins and whom the heralds of the
seasons also recognised, the Eleian truce-bearers of Cronus’ son
Zeus, surely having experienced some act of hospitality, and they

welcomed him with a sweetly breathing voice, when he fell on the
knees of golden Victory in their land, the one men call Olympian
Zeus’ sanctuary. There the sons of Aenesidamus were joined to
immortal honours. And so, your family houses are not unfamiliar
with delightful victory revels, O Thrasybulus, nor with songs of
honey-sweet acclaim.
This is the first time in the Emmenid song-sequence that their victory
at the Panathenaea receives explicit mention.29 We also learn the
name of the victorious charioteer, Nicomachus, who drove the
Emmenids’ chariot in Athens and at Olympia. In this down-to-earth
song Pindar first paints a vivid agonistic image, zooming in on the
charioteer’s hands and the skill with which they handled the reins.
The diction (χαρίτεσσιν ἀραρώς) reflects the delight which the judges
and the spectators experienced at the supreme athletic performance of
Xenocrates’ chariot. Xenocrates, the proclaimed victor, is represented
as the recipient of charis, but the details of Nicomachus’ skilful driving
imply that it was the spectacle of the fast and skilfully driven horses
that elicited the delight of the watching crowd at the Panathenaea. The
theme of charis persists in the following description of Nicomachus’
reception at Olympia, which focuses on his friendship with the Elean
heralds and their emotional reaction at his victory.30 Like Xenocrates
and Thrasybulus, Nicomachus was evidently hospitable. The Eleans’
warm reception of him after his victory is therefore related both to his
personal ties and to his supreme athletic performance.
Pindar pays lip service to Theron by attributing the Olympic
victory to both brothers, but on the whole this is a song about
Xenocrates, Thrasybulus and Nicomachus, who, mutatis mutandis,
are represented as like-minded men: they are horse-lovers, they are
hospitable, they are popular with the people. We can only guess why
Pindar mentions Theron in passing, but the most convincing expla-
nation is that Theron was no longer alive, for otherwise it is hard to
explain how Pindar imagined even a sympotic performance of a song
that had so little to say about Theron, who was the Olympic victor,
Thrasybulus’ uncle and tyrant of Acragas.31 Why Pindar chose to
foreground Nicomachus’ role is not an easy question, but the two
Pythian songs for Arcesilas of Cyrene, celebrating his Pythian victory
29 The reference to Athenian cups in Thrasybulus’ symposium in fr. 124ab, 4 must be

an allusion to Xenocrates’ Panathenaic victory.
30 More detailed discussion in Athanassaki 2012b: 197–202.
31 Most scholars date the ode after Theron’s death; see for instance Wilamowitz
1922: 310–11; Bowra 1964: 124–6. Cf. Von der Mühl 1964: 170, who does not
in 462, offer a useful comparandum that can elucidate the poetic

choice.32
The Fourth and the Fifth Pythian Odes, composed for a colonial
ruler too, display praise strategies similar to the ones Pindar opted
for in the two Olympian Odes and the Second Isthmian. The Fourth
Pythian was probably commissioned by the political exile Damophilus
as a token of gratitude to Arcesilas IV for their reconciliation and his
imminent return to Cyrene.33 Its performance, initially anchored in
the nunc (σάμερον, 1), is projected into the future at the close, where
the epinician speaker envisages Damophilus telling Arcesilas about the
spring of immortal words that he found in Thebes, where he recently
spent time as a guest (298–9). Almost twelve of the ode’s thirteen triads
are devoted to the mythical foundation and the historical colonisation of
Cyrene. Pindar projects the mythical foundation in illud tempus, during
the brief stay of the Argonauts in Libya on their way back from Colchis,
and links it to the historical colonisation by means of the interlocking
oracles of Medea and the Pythia. The poet mythicises the notorious
difficulties and delays of the historical colonisation, which are reported
in Herodotus’ painstaking account in Book 4. Through the magical
voyage of a clod of earth, given by Triton to the Argonaut Euphamus,
from lake Tritonis to Thera and to Taenarum, Pindar tightly weaves
the threads that link Arcesilas IV with Battus I, the Minyans and the
Argonaut Euphamus.34 The Fourth Pythian shares with the Second
Olympian the tendency to connect Arcesilas IV and Theron closely with
mythical founders, Euphamus and Cadmus respectively, while attribut-
ing problems and misfortunes to divine plan. Pindar may have treated
the Argonautic myth as the beginning of heaven-sent honours to the
Cyreneans, but the Fourth Pythian does not contain a utopia compara-
think there is anything in this song suggesting Theron’s death and dates the ode to
the mid-470s.
32 Cf. Nicholson 2005: 64–76 for a totally different reading of the occasion and
Nicomachus’ role. According to Nicholson (1) the occasion of composition was
Xenocrates’ Isthmian victory; (2) Nicomachus was not an aristocrat, although
Pindar represents him as such through the mention of his xenia with the Eleans,
but at the closure of the ode he is ‘reduced to the status of a servant’ (2005: 75);
after driving Theron’s chariot he probably became famous ‘and he was thus
perhaps included in Isthmian 2 because Xenocrates wanted the Olympic victory
won by his brother to be mentioned but felt that the Emmenids could not be con-
vincingly praised for the victory without some credit being given to the charioteer
who secured it’ (76). See, however, n. 44. For a view of Nicomachus' role in some
ways closer to mine, see Bell 1995.
33 See Braswell 1988: 3–6.
34 Discussions of the colonial narrative include Segal 1986; Calame 1990, 2003;
Dougherty 1993; Athanassaki 2003.
ble to the Isle of the Blessed or the land of the Hyperboreans.35 In the
Fifth Pythian, however, which focuses on the historical colonisation
and Apollo as archagete, healer and god of music, Arcesilas ‘appears
with traits of a second Apollo through the intermediary of his ancestor
Battus, the founder of Cyrene’, as Claude Calame observes.36
The Fifth Pythian, composed in all likelihood for performance at
the Cyrenean Carneia, has interesting similarities both with the Third
Olympian and with the Second Isthmian.37 We have seen that in the
Third Olympian Pindar attributes the Emmenid victory at Olympia to
the Dioscuri, appointed overseers of the Olympic games by Heracles
and hosts of gods and men at the theoxenic feast, thus linking the epi-
nician celebration with the Theoxenia. In similar manner, Pindar asso-
ciates Arcesilas’ Pythian victory and the Carneia, but the association
is more straightforward in this case, because Apollo is the patron god
of the Pythian games and the honorand of the Cyrenean festival. The
difference between the Third Olympian and the Fifth Pythian is that the
Pythian song is a down-to-earth song that gives plenty of room to the
celebration of human achievements and the expression of emotions. In
this sense, it is similar to the Second Isthmian.
The two festive occasions of the Fifth Pythian are synchronised
through the reception of the kōmos and the victor (22, 29, 52–3).
A great part of the song is dedicated to the praise of the charioteer
Carrhotus, Arcesilas’ hetairos and, according to the scholiast, brother-
in-law. Carrhotus is praised for his skill and bravery and for the dedi-
cation of the victorious chariot at Delphi (27–53). His fearlessness at
the sight of forty charioteers falling off their chariots, which enabled
him to win, receives special mention. Like Nicomachus, Carrhotus has
xenia ties with the Delphians (ὕδατι Κασταλίας ξενωθεὶς, 31). But in
the case of Carrhotus Pindar chooses to mention not the response of
the Delphians to his achievement, but the warm reception he deserves
in Cyrene. Addressing the king, the epinician speaker tells him that
he should give credit to Apollo for his victory and cherish Carrhotus
above all his hetairoi (φιλεῖν δὲ Κάρρωτον ἔξοχ’ ἑταίρων), an exhor-
tation which is repeated a little later (ἑκόντι τοίνυν πρέπει/ νόῳ τὸν
εὐεργέταν ὑπαντιάσαι, 43–4).38
35 Pindar’s main interest in this ode is to tie closely together the historical with the
mythical colonisation; see Calame 1990; Athanassaki 2003 with references.
36 Calame 2003: 86; see also B. Currie 2005: 226–57.
37 The majority of scholars think that the Carneia was the performance context. See
Krummen 1990: 108–16 for a detailed discussion. This view has now been chal-
lenged by Ferrari 2012: 170–2.
38 Detailed discussion of the emotional attitude towards Carrhotus in this ode in
Athanassaki 2012b: 192–7.
There are clearly differences in the description of the reception

of the two charioteers that are due to the different occasion of each
song. The Second Isthmian is a song about the past, honouring the
victories and the ēthos of the dead Xenocrates. In this memorial
song, Pindar projects the warm reception of Nicomachus to the past
and to the competition venue. The Fifth Pythian, on the other hand,
represents a celebration as it unfolds in the here and now. The love
and the gratitude that Arcesilas and the Cyreneans owe to Carrhotus
are therefore represented as the proper response during the celebra-
tion in full swing. I have argued elsewhere that the function of such
descriptions, regardless of their representations as past, present or
future emotional responses, is to shape the proper emotional attitude
towards victors, which is reactivated at every new performance of a
song.39 If Thrasybulus were to heed Pindar’s advice to reperform the
Second Isthmian, for instance, every reperformance would both revive
the memory of the warm reception of Nicomachus at Olympia and
guide the audience’s proper emotional response to the charioteer.
The other important difference has to do with the status of the two
charioteers and their relation with the honorands. Carrhotus enjoyed
the friendship of the king and high status in Cyrenean politics.40
According to the ancient scholiast drawing on Theotimus, probably a
Hellenistic local historian, Carrhotus also had an important political
mission in Greece, namely to lure new colonists for the Euesperides.41
We have seen that Pindar designates him as Arcesilas’ hetairos who,
presumably at the king’s instructions or with his consent, dedicated
the victorious chariot to Apollo.42 He may have also been the interme-
diary in the reconciliation of the exile Damophilus with Arcesilas, who
was Pindar’s guest at Thebes. A possible scenario is that Carrhotus
suggested to Damophilus the commissioning of the Fourth Pythian
as a display of his gratitude to the king for his agreed-upon return,
and made a similar gesture himself by asking Pindar to compose
the Fifth Pythian for performance at the Carneia. An alternative
scenario is that Damophilus had the idea of commissioning the ode
and introduced Pindar to Carrhotus, who seized the opportunity and
commissioned the Fifth Pythian. These are hypotheses, of course, but
they offer an answer to the question of who the link between Pindar
and the king of Cyrene was, and they explain the prominence of the
two Cyrenean men and their interaction with the king in the two songs
39 Athanassaki 2012b.
40 For Carrhotus’ political status and role in Cyrene see B. Currie 2005: 250–2;
Nicholson 2005: 46–7 with references.
41 Σ P. 5.34 Theotimus FGrH 479 FI.
42 For the political significance of the dedication see B. Currie 2005: 252–4.
respectively.43 It is worth noting that in the Fourth Pythian there is no

mention of Carrhotus, while in the Fifth Pythian there is no mention
of Damophilus.
The prominence of Nicomachus in the Second Isthmian can be
explained by a similar hypothesis. Pindar does not mention him in any
of the other songs for the Emmenids. The most plausible scenario is,
in my view, that it was Nicomachus who asked Pindar to compose the
ode in honour of a dead friend for a memorial event in Acragas. This is
why Pindar praises Nicomachus by narrating details of his driving and
hospitality, exactly as he praised Damophilus and Carrhotus in the
Pythian odes for Arcesilas. But whatever Nicomachus’ role was, there
can be no doubt that he was a friend of Thrasybulus and Xenocrates,
for otherwise it is hard to see how Pindar could have included him in
a memorial song for Xenocrates addressed to Thrasybulus. Pindar’s
emphasis on his xenia to the Elean heralds places him in the same
aristocratic network to which his Cyrenean patrons also belonged.44
We know nothing about Nicasippus, whom Pindar asks to convey
the song to Thrasybulus. His name probably points to his being
upper-class, as the compound -hippos suggests.45 His mission indicates
that he was a common friend, perhaps one of Thrasybulus’ fellow
symposiasts, whom Pindar mentioned more than once. Pindar must
have sent a number of his songs through friends, but he rarely men-
tions them.46 Why does he mention Nicasippus, especially if it was
Nicomachus who commissioned the song? The simplest answer is that
Nicasippus’ name conveyed what Nicomachus knew how to do best.
43 We know remarkably little about the mechanisms of commission in the archaic

and early classical period. See the recent discussions in Pelliccia 2009; Bowie 2012.
44 Cf. Nicholson 2005: 65–6, who advances three arguments against the aristocratic
status of Nicomachus: (1) Pindar does not supply a patronymic; (2) the scholia
do not provide any indication of his aristocratic status; and (3) Pindar does not
mention him in the Second and Third Olympians. None of these arguments is
compelling, because (1) Pindar does not supply the patronymic of his guest-friend
Damophilus in the Fourth Pythian, but he was in all likelihood an aristocrat; (2)
the scholia to this ode show confusion, as for instance concerning the relationship
between Thrasybulus and Xenocrates: see Farnell 1930–2: ii.342; and (3) Pindar
does not mention Carrhotus in the Fourth Pythian, which celebrates the same
victory as the Fifth Pythian. All we know about Nicomachus is what Pindar tells us
about him, namely that he was a xenos of the Eleans, as Carrhotus was in Delphi
(ὕδατι Κασταλίας ξενωθεὶς) and Damophilus in Thebes (Θήβᾳ ξενωθεὶς).
45 This widely attested name from all over the Greek world, especially from the
fourth century onward, has entries in all published volumes of the Lexicon of
Greek Personal Names.
46 Some have thought that Nicasippus’ role is to supervise the performance of
the ode, like, for instance, Aeneas at Olympian 6.87. See Verdenius 1988: 146;
Thummer 1969 ad loc. Cf. Bell 1995, for Nicasippus as a simple word-play on
Nicomachus.
Addressing the postman who happened to have a convenient speaking

name is probably a clever reminder of Nicomachus’ contribution at
the closure of the ode, without distracting attention from Xenocrates’
areta, which Thrasybulus is urged to keep alive.47 The exhortation to
performance and reperformance by the patron is unique in Pindar’s
epinicians and makes more sense if it was not Thrasybulus who com-
missioned the song, but Nicomachus.48
The Second Isthmian conjures up images of symposia and festivals,
but does not anchor its performance in any particular venue. The final
exhortation suggests that Thrasybulus should seize any opportunity
to keep Xenocrates’ memory alive. Thus whether it was Nicomachus
or Pindar composing on his own initiative or even at Thrasybulus’
request, the Second Isthmian is a song about past occasions which
are now recreated in order to bring out a different aspect of these
occasions, namely the value and the range of shared experience; for
instance, erōs as a stimulus for artistic creativity, the pleasures of
watching a great sporting event, comastic celebrations, friendship,
singing and feasting.
In this memorial song the past celebratory occasions do not offer
the inspiration for yet another innovative mythical narrative echoing
the earlier ones, but provide instead colourful threads from which to
weave a new story that reinterprets the impact of great achievements
in human terms. Interestingly, however, the shift of focus from stories
about the fortunes of blessed heroes to a story of human accomplish-
ments and relations produces a comparably idealised narrative, which,
without losing sight of the human condition, negative behaviour and
emotions (in particular death, envy and fair-weather friendship), privi-
leges the positive side, as the mythical narratives of the earlier songs do.
Thus, as the narrative of Antilochus’ self-sacrifice in the Sixth Pythian
brings out his filial piety and not Nestor’s bereavement and sorrow, the
narrative of the Second Isthmian focuses on people’s happy interaction
with Xenocrates and not on Thrasybulus’ pain at his death. The Second
Olympian’s first mythical narrative illustrates how ill-fortune can lead
to prosperity and even immortality. Similarly, the Second Isthmian
acknowledges in passing the existence of fair-weather friends and the
danger of envy, but focuses on and explores the various manifestations
of charis through action and song. From a narratological point of view
it is remarkable that both utopic and eutopic narratives spring from the
47 Cf. Nisetich 1978: 147–8, who interprets Pindar’s play on Nicasippus’ name as a
good omen for Thrasybulus’ future equestrian victories.
48 The only other similar exhortation is found in Nemean 5.1–4, but it is addressed to
Pindar’s song.
same two occasions: the Emmenids’ victories at Pytho and Olympia.
THE OCCASION IN TWO PINDARISING ODES OF HORACE

(ODES 1.12 AND 4.2)
In this section I shall discuss very briefly Horace’s handling of the
occasion in Odes 1.12 and 4.2, which honour Augustus and establish
direct dialogue with Pindar. Odes 1.12 is particularly relevant to our
discussion, because it begins with a Latin translation of the opening of
the Second Olympian in reverse order (‘quem virum, aut heroa lyra vel
acri tibia sumis celebrare, Clio? quem deum?’, 1–3) and proceeds with
a long catalogue of gods, heroes and men.
The catalogue reverses this order and starts off with gods (Jupiter,
Athena, Bacchus, Artemis and Apollo, 13–24). It continues first with
Greek immortalised heroes (Hercules and the Dioscuri, 25–32) and
then with Roman heroes and men (Romulus, Numa, Tarquin, Cato
the Younger, Regulus, Marcus Aemilius Scaurus, Lucius Aemilius
Paulus, Fabricius, Curius, Camillus, Marcus Claudius Marcellus and
Julius Caesar, 33–48). At the end of the catalogue, Horace addresses
Jupiter once again and concludes the poem with a prayer to Jupiter to
help Augustus.
According to Nisbet and Hubbard, Horace accomplishes little more
than a catalogue of Greek and Roman gods, heroes and men: ‘though
Horace shows some ingenuity in linking diverse elements, he does
not succeed in fusing them; they exist in unhappy juxtaposition; the
catalogues of gods and men, though sanctioned by Greek hymns and
republican oratory, lack colour and effective unity’.49 In comparison
to the Second Olympian, which is Horace’s primary model, the lack
of unity that these two scholars notice is due, in my view, to the fact
that, unlike Pindar, Horace does not choose to forge any close links
between these heroes and Augustus beyond, of course, the general
theme of exemplary behaviour.50 The only links that are reminiscent
of Pindar’s Theban genealogy are found in the mention of the shining
Julian star (‘micat inter omnis Iulium sidus’, 46–7) and the growing
fame of Marcus Claudius Marcellus (‘crescit . . . fama Marcelli’,
45–6), great ancestor of Augustus’ son-in-law.
From the point of view of the present discussion, the important
difference is that Odes 1.12 does not establish or even point to any
specific occasion any more than it presents any real narrative. The
penultimate stanza points to a variety of victories in faraway places,
49 Nisbet and Hubbard 1970: 145.

50 For Horace’s other lyric intertexts in this ode, see Lowrie 1995.
which could be the occasions of several odes. All the speaker asks
Jupiter at the end of the ode is to grant victories to Augustus so
that he can rule a peaceful world, since he is second only to the
god.
Horace was a very sensitive and creative reader of Greek lyric.51
The absence of a specific occasion in a poem that enters into direct
dialogue with Pindar is, in my view, intentional and the ode an
experiment. I envisage Horace asking himself if he could compose
in the manner of Pindar for no special occasion. The result is a loose
catalogue. This insight is supported by Horace’s extensive reference to
Heracles and the Dioscuri in the heart of the ode. The extensive refer-
ence to the Dioscuri has puzzled David West, who posed the question
and answered it as follows:
Why do Castor and Pollux, the junior members of this cast [that
is of warlike Greek gods and heroes], receive the longest billing
[. . .]? Here this eighth stanza of fifteen is a peaceful interlude
between the Greek of the first half and the Roman of the second
and the transition is marked by a transition from the Greek Muse
Clio in line 2 in her three Greek mountains to the Italian Muse
Camena in line 39 of the Latin.52
This is a fair assessment. I only wish to add that at the moment when
Horace leaves Clio behind in order to listen to Camena, he alludes
to the other grand song that Pindar composed for Theron, the Third
Olympian, which, as we have seen, links together two festive occa-
sions through Heracles and the Dioscuri. In typical manner, Horace
does not replicate Pindar’s innovative narrative, which is thematically
irrelevant for his own purposes, but the allusion to the Third Olympian
cannot be accidental in an ode beginning with an unmistakable evoca-
tion of its sister ode. What Horace seems to say to those who knew
their Pindar is something along the lines of ‘I know what Pindar is up
to, but let me try another path.’
Interestingly, in Odes 4.2, which starts with an elaborate Pindarising
recusatio about the danger of emulating Pindar, Horace responds to
an occasion similar, mutatis mutandis, to the occasions that Pindar
had handled frequently, that is, the return of Augustus to Rome in
13 bc after several years of absence.53 Horace’s Odes 4.2 captures
51 See Fraenkel 1957: 154–214 and passim; see also the more recent contributions in
Paschalis 2002.
52 D. West 1995: 58.
53 Odes 4.2 has been much discussed; see in particular Fraenkel 1957: 432–40;
Putnam 1986: 48–62; Johnson 2004: 45–51; R. F. Thomas 2011: 101–2. I discuss
the atmosphere of preparations for the reception of the emperor. It

was evidently composed when the news of Augustus’ return reached
Rome, but the precise date of composition is unknown. It is addressed
to Iullus Antonius, praetor in 13 and member of the imperial family
through marriage, who may have encouraged Horace to write a
Pindaric ode for Augustus’ return. Horace refuses politely, and sug-
gests that Iullus should compose the grand poem for the reception
of the emperor, which Horace imagines as a triumph. The singer of
this future magnificent narrative of Augustus’ triumph, games and
celebrations in his honour will thus be Iullus (concines, 33, 41). As for
Horace’s role, he envisages himself as part of the jubilant crowd. Like
any ordinary soldier, he will sing the versus quadratus ‘o sol pulcher,
o laudande’ and, like every other citizen, he will shout ‘Io Triumphe’.
Augustus did not choose to celebrate the triumph Horace envisages
in this ode. Horace probably composed the poem in ignorance of
Augustus’ plans. But he may have decided to create a fictive occasion,
even if he knew or suspected that the emperor would not opt for a
triumph, since he must have known Augustus’ deliberate avoidance
of jubilant crowds.54 In the case of Pindar, in most instances we have
no independent evidence from which to judge whether the inscribed
celebrations are fictitious, and if so to what extent. But several of his
epinicians contain conflicting signs which suggest that, like Horace,
Pindar also opted for fictional celebrations on occasion. Fictional
or not, however, Pindaric occasions inform and shape subsequent,
related occasions to a greater or lesser degree.
Comparison of Odes 4.2 with the thematically related 4.5 does not
show the creative interaction of related celebratory occasions that
characterises Pindaric narratives. In 4.5 Horace expresses his longing
for the return of Augustus after his long absence in Gaul and Spain
in the years 16–13 bc. References to the Germanic tribes that keep
Augustus away are blended with references to other enemies, such
as the Scythians and the Parthians (25–8), thus broadening the scope
of the ‘occasion’. This is in keeping with the generalising tendency
of the poem: the constant longing of the people and the patria for
the emperor is attributed to the prosperity, safety, morality, law and
order that Augustus’ presence unexceptionally guarantees. What links
Horace’s refusal to praise Augustus in the manner of Pindar in more detail in

Athanassaki forthcoming.
54 Cassius Dio 54.25; Suetonius, Aug. 89. Horace would have known, of course,
that Augustus had refused to celebrate a triumph after his successful campaign
in Spain in 24; see Nisbet and Rudd 2004: 180. See also Wallace-Hadrill 1982: 40,
who points out that the rarity of such public celebrations made them gala occa-
sions. Detailed discussion in Athanassaki forthcoming.
this poem to 4.2, except of course the theme of absence and return, is
Horace’s voice, which becomes one with the voice of common people
wishing that the emperor grant them long holidays. Interestingly, this
is a wish that they express day and night (4.5.37–40). The conclusion
of the ode makes clear that Horace gives voice to people’s constant
wish over a long period of time, that is, from the moment Augustus
left till the moment of his return. Odes 4.5 certainly complements 4.2,
but does not interact with its occasion.
Odes 3.14 focuses on the imminent return of Caesar from Spain
in 24 bc.55 In 3.14 the speaker casts himself initially in the role of the
master of ceremonies, who instructs Livia to perform sacrifices and
then, together with Octavia, head a suppliant procession of Roman
matrons. This day will be festal for him too, because he fears no civil
strife or violent death as long as Augustus holds the earth (‘tenente
Caesare terras’, 15–16). The speaker will spend this carefree day at a
symposium, hopefully in the company of Neaera. The theme of safety
under Augustus’ rule, reiterated more elaborately in 4.5, links of course
the return of Augustus in 24 bc with his return in 13 bc. But unlike
Pindar, Horace does not draw either on the occasion or the inscribed
celebration in 3.14 in his later odes. The theme of Augustus’ return in
24 bc and the envisaged festivities in 3.14 neither inform nor shape the
representation of the celebrations for his return in 13 bc, as described
in 4.2. The peace and prosperity that Augustus’ rule guarantees is a
common, all-pervasive theme in all the poems for Augustus. In other
words, it is not the occasion but the individual who is represented as
the source of happiness and prosperity, and the disappearance of the
specific occasion also means the disappearance of narrative.
“῾ύφαινέ νυν . . . τι καινόν”: THE DEMANDS OF

GREEK PERFORMANCE CULTURE
Through detailed discussion of the representation of epinician occa-
sions in the Emmenid sequence, I have explored the range of oppor-
tunities Pindar saw in any single occasion. I have argued that Pindar
mined Xenocrates’ Pythian victory in order (1) to create in the Sixth
Pythian a narrative analogue of the monumental sculptures represent-
ing filial devotion; (2) to generate a narrative that places Peleus and
Achilles in the company of Cadmus, so as not to exclude Xenocrates
and Thrasybulus from the blissful utopia he created for Theron in
the Second Olympian; and (3) to revive the memory of these poetic
representations in the Second Isthmian, which, however, shifts the
55 For this poem see D. West 2002: 126–32; Athanassaki forthcoming.

Olympian odes’ focus from immortality to mortality and from eternal

happiness to the happiness of day-to-day life, and which gives nar-
rative attention to the charioteer. I have also argued for the creative
impact of Theron’s Olympic victory on the Third Olympian, which
integrates the epinician celebration with the ritual feast of the Dioscuri
in Acragas. Unlike the Second Olympian, which, except for the evoca-
tion of the Sixth Pythian’s celebration, refers to epinician celebrations
in general, the Third Olympian draws inspiration from the crowning
ceremony at Olympia and narrates and describes the interaction of
men with heroes and gods: Heracles and the Dioscuri, Heracles in
the land of the Hyperboreans, the Dioscuri as hosts of gods and men
in Acragas. Pindar revisits Olympia in the Second Isthmian, but this
time with a totally different agenda. In the last song of the sequence,
he alludes to the Theoxenia and other festivals, but focuses on human
interaction and brings into the story the skilful charioteer who may
have commissioned this song. The Second Isthmian is a song about
past occasions which are recreated in a new picture of human happi-
ness, which brings out the pleasures of erōs, friendship and hospitality,
focusing on sport, song, comastic celebrations, banquets and festivals.
The creative impact of the occasion is evident in the two Pythian
odes for Arcesilas IV that served as comparative evidence, namely
how the king’s Pythian victory could offer the stimulus for narrating
(1) the achievements of the victorious charioteer and trusted friend
Carrhotus in Pythian 5 and (2) the hopes and peaceful attitude of his
erstwhile enemy, Damophilus, in Pythian 4.
The occasion in Horace’s odes that served as a comparandum does
not have the same creative impact it has in Pindar. The most impor-
tant factor for the different handling of the occasion by Pindar and
Horace is, in my view, the different socio-political and cultural back-
ground to which the two poets respond. Whether Horace destabilises
the occasion, as in Odes 1.12 and 4.5, or creates a specific celebratory
occasion, as in 3.14 and 4.2, the occasion is incidental rather than
organic and productive, because it is Augustus who is represented as
the source of peace, happiness and prosperity. As Horace tells us in
1.12, the emperor is second to Jupiter, and therefore is beyond and
above competition with mortals.56 In contrast, Pindar’s songs preserve
to a greater or lesser degree their ritual and cultic links to the occa-
sions for which they were composed. This is the reason why Pindar’s
honorands, whether they are kings, tyrants or private citizens, are
always depicted interacting with gods and men through prayers,
56 As Putnam 1986: 111–12 suggests, the idea of Augustus as divus praesens is

discernible in Odes 4.2 and 4.5.
processions, sacrifices and feasts, and why the focus is always on the
god who favours different men at different times. The importance of
the celebratory occasion and the indispensability of divine favour lie
therefore at the heart of the composition of ever-innovative narra-
tives that illustrate their close connection. This is, I think, one of the
reasons why Horace finds it hard to compose a Pindaric song for the
envisaged triumph of Augustus, who was a divi filius and above com-
petition with other mortals.
As a poetic theme, Greek celebratory occasions preserved and
revived the memory of exhilarating events and were therefore a desir-
able topic, but the demands of Greek performance culture dictated
novel and custom-made compositions. A Bacchylidean dithyramb,
composed for an Athenian festival, dramatises the pressure for inno-
vation the Greek poets felt. The poet makes the choreuts apostrophise
him and ask him to weave a new story: ὕφαινέ νυν ἐν ταῖς πολυηράτοις
τι καινὸν ὀλβίαις Ἀθάναις, εὐαίνετε Κηΐα μέριμνα (19.8–11).57 Similarly,
in the Ninth Olympian Pindar urges his audience to praise old wine,
but songs that are new (αἴνει δὲ παλαιὸν μὲν οἶνον, ἄνθεα δ’ ὕμνων
νεωτέρων, 48–9).
The preceding discussion focused on Pindar’s innovative take on
mythological narratives and evocations of occasions in his songs for
the Emmenids. I have labelled the songs for Theron ‘Utopias’ and the
songs for Xenocrates and Thrasybulus ‘Eutopias’ in order to highlight
Pindar’s different perspective on the same occasions. I conclude with a
few additional remarks. Pindar also praises Theron for his hospitality,
generosity and the countless delights he had offered to others, but he
does not anchor these virtues in any particular occasion, namely the
symposium or the festival, as he does with Thrasybulus, Xenocrates
and Nicomachus. For Theron he uses the occasion as a springboard
to open up vistas of afterlife and eternal happiness, which responded
to Theron’s Orphic and Pythagorean beliefs in an afterlife. From
Diodorus Siculus we learn that Theron was popular with the people
during his lifetime and was honoured with a posthumous heroic cult
(καὶ ζῶν μεγάλης ἀποδοχῆς ἐτύγχανε παρὰ τοῖς πολίταις καὶ τελευτήσας
ἡρωικῶν ἔτυχε τιμῶν, 11.53.2). Theron’s posthumous heroisation
raises the question whether Pindar was aware of such a plan in the
making, when he composed the Olympian songs some four years
before Theron’s death. There is no need to say that it is anybody’s
guess whether Pindar knew of any such intentions. Yet the image
of the Isle of the Blessed in the Second Olympian, and the image of
eternal happiness through the association of the crowning ceremony
57 For the similar pressure on the tragedians, see Easterling, this volume.
at Olympia with the Hyperboreans and the Theoxenia, suggests that

he was probably aware not only of Theron’s beliefs, but of his hopes as
well. Some scholars have thought that Gelon’s posthumous cult could
have given Pindar the idea.58 Moreover, Pindar may have wished to
open up afterlife prospects that were similar to those he opened up for
Hieron in the First Olympian, composed in the same year.59
These are all hypotheses, of course, but they account for Pindar’s
different perspective on the odes for Xenocrates and Thrasybulus,
composed for the same audience and focusing on human interac-
tion and the power of song to grant immortality. We do not know if
Xenocrates and Thrasybulus shared Theron’s belief in an afterlife, but
they were unlikely to get a cult. It is worth noting that Pindar cleverly
secures a place for their mythical analogues in the Isle of the Blessed,
but in the songs he composed primarily for them he opts for eutopias.
If my hypothesis concerning Nicomachus’ role in commissioning the
Second Isthmian is right, we have yet another instance of a custom-
made song. The Second Isthmian shares the eutopic vision of the Sixth
Pythian and the sympotic fr. 124ab, but it secures a prominent place
for somebody who was both a victorious charioteer and an old friend
of the family.
58 Lehnus 1981: 47 ad 68–70; Torres 2007: 359–60. For Gelon’s cult in Syracuse, see
Diodorus Siculus 11.38.5.
59 In the First Olympian Pindar chose the myth of Pelops, a hērōs ktistēs, who receives
cult at Olympia; for the relevance of the mythical exemplum to Hieron’s hopes and
aspirations, see Slater 1989: 498–501; Athanassaki 2009b: 230–3; see also B. Currie
2005: 344–405, who focuses on Pythian 3. Moreover, Clay 2011a: 343 has recently
suggested that Hieron’s and Theron’s temporary reconciliation at the time of
their Olympic victories may have given Pindar the inspiration to choose common
themes for Olympians 1–3, which could have even been performed by a common
chorus. Note that Bacchylides also opened up afterlife prospects for Hieron in 476
in Ode 5.
11
NARRATIVE ON THE GREEK TRAGIC

STAGE
P. E. Easterling
This chapter sets out to look for what was distinctive about Greek
practice in the staging of tragic stories. There is no doubt that this new
art form of the late sixth and early fifth centuries was a highly original
experiment, with no obvious model in other cultures, but of course
the early dramatists did not have to start from scratch. The epic and
lyric traditions offered them a great range of serious narratives which
had already been shaped for performance, whether by rhapsodes or
by choruses, and without this precedent it would be hard to imagine
Attic tragedy having developed as quickly as it did into a genre of such
richness, sophistication and popular appeal.1
Once the early dramatists had taken the crucial step of representing
imagined characters (particularly famous figures from the mythical
past) as present here and now, enacting their stories before an audi-
ence as if for the first time, the dynamics of narrative must have needed
reshaping to suit the new medium, and this is where we should be
looking for creative experimentation.2 For example, when we consider
the forms taken by narrative in tragedy there is no need to see them
as determined by, or as hangovers from, epic practice, or to single out
‘messenger speeches’ as having a specially privileged status. The long
‘set-piece’ rhēsis is not the only place for dramatic narrative, which can
turn up in passages of dialogue (as at S. OC 385–420, Ismene’s crucial
account to Oedipus, in question-and-answer format, of the new
oracle(s) about him and their effect on Theban policy), or in lyrics (as
at A. Cho. 22–46, where the chorus of slave women describe the events
that have prompted their errand to the tomb of Agamemnon, evoking
in a single stanza (32–41) both the terrifying effects of Clytemnestra’s
1 See esp. Herington 1985; Lowe 2000: ch. 8.

2 Gould 2001 combines a thoughtful discussion of the theoretical issues with a
persuasive reading of narrative in tragedy, especially Agamemnon and OT. For a
detailed narratological study of a single tragedy see Markantonatos 2002.
narrative on the greek tragic stage 227
dream and the interpretation put on it by the ‘experts’). And there was
plenty of variety, too, in the choice of news-bringers:3 they could be
persons with official status as carriers of messages, heralds like Lichas
(S. Tr.) or Talthybius (E. Tro.), anonymous servants associated with
the central figures of the drama, or simply bystanders at some momen-
tous event, or they could be named characters intimately involved in
the action, as in Ajax, when Tecmessa tells Ajax’s crewmen in precise4
detail what has happened in his tent (284–330) and – as in a typical
messenger rhēsis – quotes direct speech (288–91, 293), or in Trachiniae,
when Hyllus describes for his mother Deianeira the terrible effect of
the poisoned robe on his father Heracles (749–812). Even participants
might be narrators: Clytemnestra as killer (A. Ag. 1372–98), and
Polymestor as victim (E. Hec. 1132–82), are shockingly memorable
examples.
Again, when we consider how the tragedians adapted the plot mate-
rial that they took over from earlier poetry, it is worth asking whether
the physical features of the ancient theatre, and the scenic conventions
that became standard for tragic plays, were a help or a hindrance to
them in presenting the stories in new ways. These conventions could
of course be regarded as constraints or limitations on the genre, but
it makes better sense – if our surviving tragedies can be taken as
representative examples – to see them as being used to intensify the
narrative focus.5 The challenge was to find ways of tailoring a chosen
sequence of events so that it could be enacted without loss of complex-
ity in a (more or less) unchanging setting and over a relatively short
period of playing time. This characteristic technique of compression is
worth examining more closely.
SPACE
If we ask ‘Where and when does the story unfold?’ the answer must
begin with the here and now, given that flesh-and-blood people are
acting the roles ‘here’, in whatever space is set apart for performance in
the particular polis where the play is presented. But the characters and
events are also located in three types of imagined space: the immediate
setting on view to the audience; the area understood to be immediately
off-stage (‘behind the scenes’: the interior of the palace/tent/grove);
and the relevant other places – local, foreign or divine – connected
3 On news-bringing in ancient society see Longo 1978; cf. Goward 1999: 15.
4 Precise, but limited by her human perspective: as Gould 2001: 327 points out, at
301–4 Tecmessa speaks of Ajax ranting at ‘some shadow’ (σκιᾳ̂ τιν), without iden-
tifying it as Athena, who has already been heard, if not seen by the audience.
5 See Lowe 2000: 164–75 for a rich discussion of these issues.
228 p. e. easterling
by arrivals along the eisodoi or on the roof.6 Crucially important for

the audience’s engagement with the dramatic narrative as a whole is
the linking of what is not here before their eyes – places and events to
be imagined outside the immediate space – with the individuals who
are at the centre of their attention in the drama and have been or will
be visible in the acting area.7 Oliver Taplin has eloquently described
Xerxes’ entrance in Persae: his steps as he enters alone, on foot, in real
or symbolic rags, are the final paces of the retreat that was begun in
the messenger’s account of Salamis and after.8 Similarly, the seashore,
scene of the fatal chariot accident (reported in detail at E. Hipp.
1173–248), when Poseidon’s bull emerged from a sudden tsunami9 and
maddened the horses of Hippolytus, becomes more vividly ‘real’ to the
audience when the dying hero is brought in bearing the wounds he was
given there (1342–69).
The presence of the chorus in the orchestra typically contributes a
great deal to this process of intensification. A regular role of the choral
group is to serve as both narratees and witnesses, sometimes guiding
audience response to the events narrated,10 but there are also ways in
which their lyrics can give imaginative colour and emotional signifi-
cance to the detail of unseen settings. At Hipp. 1126–41, for example,
dismayed at the banishment of Hippolytus, they sing of the places he
will no longer frequent in his chariot racing and hunting, starting with
the ‘sands of the city’s shore’, which they elaborate at 1131–4 with the
image of Hippolytus ‘driving a yoke-team of Enetic horses along the
track beside the Mere’ (the lagoon that was part of Artemis’ sanctu-
ary), using language which closely recalls Phaedra’s words of longing
at 228–31. These details come just before the news-bringer arrives to
describe what happened further along the shore after Hippolytus had
begun his journey into exile. The point that needs to be stressed here is
that narrative speeches do not stand alone, but draw together themes
and images from other parts of a play.
In this tradition, in which there is little scope for elaborate scenery
or changes of setting, entrances and exits are crucial: the (convincing)
deployment of people in the acting area is what matters, if ‘here’ and
the sequence of events linking it with elsewhere are to be fully imagi-
6 Rehm 2002: 22–3 labels these three categories as respectively ‘scenic’, extrascenic’
and ‘distanced’.
7 On the distinctive playing space of Greek theatre see Ley 2007.
8 Taplin 1977: 126–7.
9 See Sedley 2005: 210–11 (on Hipp. 1198–1214).
10 E.g., by raising questions about the significance of the stage action, as at Ant.
1244–5 when they ask the servant what it might mean that Eurydice has left in
silence after hearing his account of Haemon’s death, a clear warning of more dis-
aster to come.
nable. Aristotle (Poetics 17) makes much of the need for a dramatist to
visualise stage action when working out plot, and the example he cites
must have been notorious, judging by the allusive way he mentions
it (1455a26–9). This was a play by Carcinus which ‘failed’ (ἐξέπεσεν:
perhaps the actor was hissed off stage) because the spectators were so
offended when the character in question, Amphiaraus, was ‘coming
back from the temple’: presumably a simple error in relation to what
the audience had been led to expect. The tragic scholia, too, are
intensely interested in the importance of entrances and exits for the
coherence and impact of the overall narrative. There is a detailed note
on Ajax 719, for example, which approvingly points out the ‘wonder-
ful’ timing of the messenger’s arrival from the Greek camp, soon after
Ajax had left the acting area, ostensibly to purify himself and bury
his sword (654–6). The messenger, evidently a comrade sympathetic
to Ajax and his men, comes with important news: Teucer, just back
from an expedition, has been warned by the seer Calchas of impending
danger to Ajax; this prompts Tecmessa and the chorus, who otherwise
had no reason to suspect his intentions, to go off in search of him,
leaving the scene clear for Ajax to enter and make his suicide speech.11
TIME
‘Now’ is complicated by the fact that the characters and choruses
are drawn from the past world of the epic heroes and use language
that is full of echoes of epic and lyric narrative, often evoking by
way of exempla other people’s stories from still further back in that
distant past (as when at A. Cho. 599–630 the chorus find parallels for
the destructive passion of women, specifically Clytemnestra, though
without naming her, in the stories of Althaea, who destroyed her son
Meleager, Scylla, who robbed her father of his immortality, and the
Lemnian women, who murdered their husbands).12 But in any tragedy
there are also regular allusions – in more or less veiled terms – to con-
temporary events, institutions and ideas, as well as ‘self-referential’
or ‘metatheatrical’ reminders of the play as play.13 At the same time,
the tragedians habitually remodelled the characters and stories that
11 For the text of this scholium see Christodoulou 1977: 168, and for discussion
Jouanna 2001.
12 Cf. Lowe 2000: 159: ‘The most important literary fact about Greek tragedy, its
unparalleled semic density, is itself a close corollary of its espousal of myth – where
every person, place, action, and utterance is set in a limitless web of other stories,
other versions, and aetiological resonances.’
13 On the function of such references in drama, see the interesting comments
by Rehm 2002: 23, and on the problematic terminology of ‘metatheatre’ and issues
raised by the concept, see T. G. Rosenmeyer 2002; Thumiger 2009.
they drew from earlier tradition, and intertextual references to other

versions, in epic, or lyric, or other plays, add to the complexity of the
narrative. As Ruth Scodel has pointed out, ‘Tragedies contradict each
other’,14 even plays by the same author: we have only to think of the
many divergences between the surviving Theban plays, for example, in
their varying use of what we know or conjecture about the storylines
favoured by the Thebais and Stesichorus, or the contrasting ways
in which OT or Phoenissae draw on Septem, or the contradictions
between Antigone and OC.15 All this makes ‘now’ an extremely dense
and multivalent concept.
There is a similar complexity in many references to the future, some
of them narratives of experiences which prefigure events that take
place within the drama (e.g., Atossa’s account of her dream in Persae,
oracles that are reinterpreted as the action unfolds, as in Trachiniae,
or ghostly visions as in Hecuba),16 others looking ahead to later
times. Often the events foretold, such as the alliance between Argos
and Athens (Eum. 762–6) or the building of the temple to Artemis
Tauropolos at Halae (IT 1449–61), are already part of the audience’s
own world, and the placing (especially by Euripides) of ‘straight’
narrative at the beginnings and ends of plays to cover future happen-
ings can be seen as a response to the problem of staying within self-
imposed boundaries and keeping the focus on the dramatic present
while reaching out to a much wider world and larger span of time.17 In
this context, divine beings are conveniently versatile narrators. Being
gods, they may be impenetrably mysterious and distant, or uncom-
fortably close: in some plays they are easily imagined to be operating
behind the scenes, which helps to make their appearance and pro-
phetic dispensations (or those of their agents) less detached from the
imagined world of the dramatic action, though no less inscrutable.18
A crucial feature of tragic narrative in respect of the management
of time was famously noted by Aristotle (Poetics ch. 5, 1449b12–13),
namely that tragedy ‘tries as far as possible to keep to the limit of a
14 Scodel 2010: 28; cf. the long scholium on E. Hec. 3, remarking that Euripides often
‘improvises (αὐτοσχεδιάζει) in genealogies’.
15 See Mastronarde 1994: 17–30 for a fine discussion of Theban myth in this and
other plays.
16 For tragedy’s use of oracles and dreams cf. R. B. Rutherford [1982] 2001.
17 See, e.g., Roberts 1988; Dunn 1996.
18 Ion is a sophisticated example of divine presence and absence, with Hermes at the
beginning of the play, and Athena at the end, speaking for the unseen Apollo, who
is clearly identified as the shaper of the immediate and more distant future of Ion
and his family (65–75; 1569–95), while the intervention of the Pythia at 1320–68
brings out his involvement from moment to moment in their lives; cf. another hint
of his agency at 1197–8.
single revolution of the sun’, that is, it presents a more or less continu-
ous story compressed into a ‘now’ representing a single day, typically
starting at ‘zero-hour’ (as in A. Ag., Sept.; S. Aj., Tr., OT; E. Her.,
Or.). Aristotle goes on to note that tragedy was not always like this:
‘at first tragic practice was the same as epic’ (1449b14–16). And even
without Aristotle, who may or may not have had much documenta-
tion on the early stages of the genre, it is a likely guess that adaptation
from earlier modes of narrative can hardly have happened overnight,
and that the trilogy convention, in particular, may have been a useful
transitional stage in the process of development and innovation.19
What matters here is the scope that the one-day principle gives for the
greatest possible condensation of the story that is being dramatised.
Such a degree of compression cannot be effected without a very
particular kind of continuity: time has to be elastic, with choral lyrics
especially useful for covering indeterminate gaps.20 And the continuity
of the stage action is pretty distinctive, too. There are no interrup-
tions in long narrative rheseis: nothing is assumed to be happening
‘elsewhere’ while the story is told. At Medea 1122ff. when a messenger
comes in urgently telling Medea to ‘Flee! Flee!’ he is given nearly a
hundred lines of narrative, with no distracting anxiety for the audience
that at any moment Creon’s servants will rush in and attack Medea
for murdering the princess and her father; rather, here as elsewhere,
the telling and listening become the action, and there is nothing para-
doxical about the use of very long narrative speeches at certain critical
moments. One might compare the messenger in Ajax (p. 229): at this
moment of extreme urgency, with Ajax’s safety under threat, he gives
a long report (748–83) of what Calchas said to Teucer, condensing
into this part of his speech not only what needs to be known about
the immediate danger, but some highly relevant back-history about
the reasons for Athena’s anger, with direct quotation of advice given
to Ajax by his father long ago, and Ajax’s arrogant rejection of both
his father and the goddess herself. This seeming elaboration actually
intensifies the sense that the critical moment is about to arrive.
By contrast with epic, on the other hand, there is no almost verbatim
repetition of narrative information, and a variety of devices are used to
achieve more economical ends. Tragic speakers may pointedly abbre-
viate, or put off, narratives that would give news to other characters
but not to the audience, as at OC 569–70, when Oedipus, who has
19 Cf. Lowe 2000: 165–6.

20 As S. H. Butcher noted long ago, ‘The Chorus releases us from the captivity of
time. The interval covered by the choral ode is one whose value is just what the
poet chooses to make of it’ (Butcher 1907: 292–3).
shown himself capable of heroically long speeches, answers Theseus’

request for information by replying that he needs to say very little,
since Theseus already knows who he is and where he comes from (and
of course Oedipus has already explained his situation at length to the
chorus). At 1115–16 he asks his daughters, safely rescued by Theseus, to
tell him what happened ‘as briefly as possible: a short speech is enough
for young women’, to which Antigone replies, also in two verses, stress-
ing her own brevity, and the emotional focus of the scene rapidly shifts
from past to present. In this case there has been an elaborate choral
lyric (1044–95) proleptically imagining the encounter between Theseus
and his men and the Thebans, and there is no need for further nar-
rative of that episode. At S. El. 1339–45, after the joyful recognition
scene between brother and sister, in the course of which Orestes has
discouraged Electra from going into detail about her past sufferings
(1251–2, 1288–91), there is a brief exchange between Orestes and the
Paidagogos, with Orestes eager to know more about the situation in the
palace: ‘How will I find things when I go in?’ ‘Fine: no one can recog-
nise you.’ ‘Evidently you told them that I was dead?’ ‘Know that as far
as they are concerned you are in Hades.’ ‘Well, are they pleased by the
news? Or what are they saying?’ ‘I’ll tell you when the task is complete.’
The scholia on 1251 and 1344 strongly approve of this technique for
avoiding delay and consequent ‘irritation’ of the spectators.
Sometimes there is no report at all of what has happened off-stage,
because the event can be made more urgently ‘present’ with the aid
of voices off and then clinched by the showing of evidence, especially
a corpse or corpses, as in the climactic scene in this same Electra,
where the response of Electra and the chorus to Clytemnestra’s cries
from within the palace culminates in Electra’s terrifying command to
Orestes ‘Strike again, if you have the strength’ (1415); and soon after-
wards the corpse is brought into view for the deception of Aegisthus.
Here too there is a scholium (on 1404) to explain the logistics:
Messengers normally report the things that have taken place

inside to those outside, but here he (the poet) did not compose
in this way, so as not to waste time in the play, since its main
subject is the suffering of Electra. So here the spectator hears
Clytemnestra shouting as she is murdered, and the action is more
effective than if it were described through the medium of a mes-
senger. The sensationalism of display was absent, but through the
shouting he contrived a no less vivid effect.21
21 ἔθος ἔχουσι τὰ γεγονότα ἔνδον ἀπαγγέλλειν τοῖς ἔξω οἱ ἄγγελοι, νῦν δὲ διὰ τὸ μὴ
διατρίβειν ἐν τῷ δράματι οὐκ ἐποίησεν. τούτῳ γὰρ προκείμενον τὸ κατὰ τὴν Ἠλέκτραν
A similar technique is used in Medea, with the chorus responding

helplessly to the cries of the children as they are attacked by their
mother (1270a–81a); there is no time then for a detailed narrative of
the murders, but only for the confrontation of Jason by Medea in the
chariot of Helios, with the children’s corpses on view but beyond his
reach (1377).
NARRATIVE AS PERFORMANCE
Whatever the variations in technique for achieving the greatest con-
centration and intensity, there is no doubt that the narrative medium
itself was relished as having great theatrical power.22 The first point to
stress is the sheer length of narrative speeches in tragedy, particularly
the ones that relate a drama’s climactic but unseen events: eighty or
more verses for these is common, and some examples run to ninety or
a hundred. This lavishness suggests that in giving such prominence
to telling and listening the tragedians were appealing to the dramatic
potential of deeply rooted impulses in human experience. The seduc-
tive power – thelxis – of storytelling was certainly a familiar notion in
Greek tradition: we might recall Eumaeus in the Odyssey (17.518–21)
telling Penelope of his response to the disguised Odysseus’ three-day
narrative in his hut, ‘As when a man gazes at a bard, who has been
taught by the gods to sing spell-binding songs to mortals, and they
long insatiably to listen to him, for as long as he will sing’.23 And the
familiar example of rhapsodic performance, in which the rhapsodes
‘played all the speaking characters’ in their narratives,24 must have
been an influential model for tragedians and actors in their use of long
set speeches at critical points in the action.
There are other pointers, too, to the significance of the narrative
form. Almost always, the news-bringer’s account is marked off with
explicit deictic signals that crucial information is being brought,25
ἐστὶ πάθος· νῦν τοίνυν βοώσης ἐν τῇ ἀναιρέσει τῆς Κλυταιμήστρας ἀκούει ὁ θεατὴς
καὶ ἐνεργέστερον τὸ πρᾶγμα γίνεται ἢ δι᾿ἀγγέλου σημαινόμενον. καὶ τὸ μὲν φορτικὸν
τῆς ὄψεως ἀπέστη, τὸ δὲ ἐναργὲς οὐδὲν ἧσσον καὶ διὰ τῆς βοῆς ἐπραγματεύσατο
(Xenis 2010).
22 Cf. De Jong 1991: 118–20, noting the importance of parody scenes in comedy.
23 Cf. D. Steiner 2010 on 518–21; Maxwell 2012: 20–1 cites a more modern instance
of the need to tell, Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner: ‘The Mariner speaks
for the unassuageable thirst of all the storytellers, all the poets: “Since then, at an
uncertain hour | That agony returns: | And till my ghastly tale is told, | This heart
within me burns.” ’
24 Rehm 2003: 114–15, who compares the effect to that of a radio play, in which ‘the
audience become essential co-creators of the event’.
25 For fuller discussion of these formal features see De Jong 1991; Goward
1999; Barrett 2002.
usually with a ‘headline’ early in the scene to give the essence of what
has happened, and often with interpretative comment at the beginning
or end. In the earliest surviving example, the messenger’s account of
the Persian defeat at Salamis (A. Pers. 246–514), the chorus prepares
Atossa and the spectators for imminent news at 246–8, and the mes-
senger’s grandly emotional opening lines at 249–55 culminate in the
simplest of statements: ‘The whole barbarian force has perished.’
This is a particularly lavish narrative scene (at 429–30 the messenger
remarks that he could not give a full account of the disasters suf-
fered by the Persians, even if he were to take ten days going through
the details), but the same pattern recurs on a smaller scale in later
plays, with much stress on the speaker’s role as eye-witness. At S. OT
1236–40 the palace servant who reports Jocasta’s suicide remarks that
the chorus were spared the worst, not having been present at the scene,
‘but as far as my own memory allows you will learn what the poor
woman suffered’.26 Cf. the news-bringer from the Greek camp at Ajax
749: ‘So much I know, and I happened to be there.’ The reliability of
the narrative is sometimes more explicitly stressed: at S. Ant. 1192–3
the servant tells Eurydice ‘I will speak as one who was present, and I
will omit no word of the truth’, and there are many cases where narra-
tors claim to tell ‘the whole story’.27
Of course, despite all these claims to truth made by narrators, the
telling is by no means always transparent: there is always the ques-
tion of how to interpret the teller’s meaning or intentions, both for
the narratees, the built-in audiences of chorus and characters, and
for the audience in the theatre making sense of what they hear. Given
the strong bias in Greek poetic tradition towards the Hesiodic idea
that the Muses’ gift to poets was the capacity to tell both the truth
and beguiling lies that are like the truth, as in the false tales of the
Odyssey, audiences could be expected to engage very readily with
deliberately deceptive narratives. Recent work28 has examined the
extraordinary range of possibilities exploited by deceptive speeches
26 τῶν δὲ πραχθέντων τὰ μὲν | ἄλγιστ᾿ ἄπεστιν· ἡ γὰρ ὄψις οὐ πάρα. | ὅμως δ᾿, ὅσον γε
κἀν ἐμοὶ μνήμης ἔνι, | πεύσῃ τὰ κείνης ἀθλίας παθήματα. What does μνήμη mean
here? Jebb [1893] 2004: ad loc. takes it to mean ‘memory’, with the implication
‘though your own memory, had you been present, would have preserved a more
vivid impression’. For Dawe 2006, μνήμη in this context suggests ‘the power to
describe’: ‘as the messenger approaches his epic recital he depreciates his own
poetic ability to do justice to his theme’. Either way, this is a very self-conscious
indication of the dramatic importance of the narrative. Cf. Barrett 2002: 196–7 for
further discussion.
27 E.g., A. Pers. 253–4, Ag. 582 with Fraenkel’s note; S. Tr. 876, El. 680, Phil. 604
and 620; E. Hcld. 799.
28 See in particular Goward 1999: chs. 3 and 7.
in a dramatic medium, especially in the contrasting responses of dif-

ferent narratees. The Paidagogos’ virtuosic deception speech in the
Sophoclean Electra (680–763) is perhaps the most famous case; it also
has ironic implications for other narratives in the play. Chrysothemis,
for example, twice brings news, first at 378: ‘I’ll tell you everything
I know’ (ἀλλ᾿ἐξερῶ σοι πᾶν ὅσον κάτοιδ᾿ ἐγώ), about the plans of
Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, which Electra believes, then later (871ff.)
she comes to report finding the lock of hair and – faced with Electra’s
refusal to believe, now that she has heard the false tale of Orestes’
death – Chrysothemis insists on giving her (true) report at 892–919,
starting with ‘I’ll tell you everything I saw’ (καὶ δὴ λέγω σοι πᾶν ὅσον
κατειδόμην), but this time without any chance of success.
Even if there is no obvious desire to deceive on the part of given
narrators, there may be discrepancies in what is narrated, leaving the
audience guessing. Philoctetes is a striking example: the differing ver-
sions of what Helenus said in his prophecy about the taking of Troy
are further complicated by the fact that one possibly crucial piece of
information comes in the speech of the False Merchant, at 611–13,
where he stresses the need for Philoctetes to go to Troy by persuasion,
not by force. Oracles, typically ambiguous at the best of times, offer
great scope for similar uncertainties, as in OC, where different char-
acters are shown trying to make sense of the same oracular message,
never spelled out in its ‘original’ terms. So it comes pretty naturally in
this genre that deception and/or indeterminacy and elusiveness play
an important part, despite the many attempts by narrators and narra-
tees to interpret the significance of what is narrated. All our surviving
tragedies either explicitly or implicitly offer clues to broader interpre-
tation of the action (e.g., comments by news-bringers on the ‘meaning’
of what they report, and deeper or more enigmatic reflections by
choruses on the events they have witnessed). But typically there is no
clinching ‘answer’ in the comments of narrators – or participants, or
witnesses – to the problems that a play explores, and the long history
of scholarship and criticism on tragedy decisively bears this out.
WHO DOES THE TELLING?

I want to end with a particularly Greek feature of the performance of
narrative, which may well have contributed significantly to its density
and multivalence for audiences familiar with the conventions. This
was the practice of multiple role-playing by a strictly limited number
of speaking actors, especially when the part of narrator of climactic
off-stage events was taken by the actor who also played the relevant
character, giving him scope to evoke the words (and voice) of the figure
at the centre of the action. This practice was closely dependent on the
equally distinctive convention of using full-head masks for speakers
and mute supernumeraries, and since such masking limited the use of
facial cues, it was surely important for audiences to be aware that only
a limited number of the figures they were watching would actually be
speaking the relevant parts.29 There is virtually no precise external
evidence for how these parts were distributed in fifth-century plays
as originally performed, and all interpretation involves a degree of
guesswork, but the allocation of roles must have been something that
mattered a great deal to performers, particularly after the switch from
two speaking actors to three, which evidently took place sometime in
the period between the productions of Persae (472 bce) and Oresteia
(458 bce). An important change of this kind must have had an effect
on the dynamics of tragic performance, and it is tempting to see the
institution of a prize for the best actor at the City Dionysia in 449 bce
as a sign of growing interest in the ways in which individual perform-
ers could display their talents.30 The surviving plays themselves, with
their lengthy and prominent narrative speeches at high points in the
action, give encouragement to the idea that protagonists might have
been drawn to taking the parts of anonymous news-bringers as well as
playing the great hero roles, and there are some cases that point clearly
in this direction, as Maarit Kaimio31 and others have suggested.
Of course there could be no set formula for role-distribution
applicable to all plays. In some cases the plot demanded the almost
continuous visible presence of the leading figure (PV, OT, Med., Hec.,
Tro.), or the protagonist was fully occupied in playing two major roles
– for example, first Deianeira and then Heracles in Trachiniae – or
the action involved no climactic outside event to compare with what
29 A scholium on S. Aj. 815a may give a hint of the spectators’ alertness to such ques-
tions: ‘The scene changes to some lonely place, where Ajax gets ready his sword
and makes a speech before his death, for it would be absurd for a non-speaker to
come in and fall on his sword.’ (μετακινεῖται ἡ σκηνὴ ἐπὶ ἐρήμου τινὸς χωρίου, ἔνθα
ὁ Αἴας εὐτρεπίσας τὸ ξίφος ῥῆσίν τινα πρὸ τοῦ θανάτου προφέρεται· ἐπεὶ γέλοιον ἦν
κωφὸν εἰσελθόντα περιπεσεῖν τῳ̂ ξίφει.) Where would the ‘absurdity’ lie? In the fact
that there was no great final speech from the central figure Ajax, or in the fact
that, if the suicide were performed without a speech, the audience would assume it
was a non-speaking actor, not the protagonist, who was taking the part, and the
scene would lose its emotive power altogether? If audiences could be expected to
be closely familiar with the conventions of role-sharing between speakers and non-
speakers, dramatists would need to avoid letting their guard slip and revealing the
‘backstage’ realities.
30 Kaimio 1993 reviews the evidence for the organisation of tragic competi-
tions and makes some important suggestions about the distribution of roles.
31 Kaimio 1993; G. McCart in Ewans 2000: 284–6; Easterling 2004; Rehm 2002: 175;
Wiles 2007: 172–4.
was happening before the eyes of the audience and therefore justify
a lengthy narrative. In S. Phil., for example, the two actors playing
Philoctetes and Neoptolemus, one of whom was certainly the protago-
nist, are on stage almost throughout, and although both have impor-
tant narrative speeches – Philoctetes’ account of his life on Lemnos
(254–316) and Neoptolemus’ disingenuous tale of his grudge against
the Atreidae (343–90) – these do not come into the ‘climactic’ category.
In some plays, too, the need to match the roles that called for lyric
monodies to the actors with the best singing voices must have affected
the overall distribution of parts: in E. Or. the actor who played Electra
and the Phrygian, both parts which required extensive solo singing –
in the Phrygian’s case an exotic messenger narrative – cannot have
been the protagonist, and some plots were clearly designed to spread
the performance opportunities more evenly between the actors. In any
case, the original allocation of roles surely did not have to stay fixed
for revivals, when the leading actors no doubt felt free to impose their
own preferences, and the wider the spread of tragedy in later times, the
more varied the circumstances of performance must have become.32
Taking the most likely examples from the second half of the fifth
century, with Pickard-Cambridge’s cautious analyses of what can be
inferred from the texts themselves as a starting point,33 we can identify
ten or more plays in which a reasonable argument can be made for
giving the protagonist also a prominent role as news-bringer. The
clearer candidates (in roughly chronological order of production) are
E. Hipp., Ion, IT, Helen,34 Or., Ba.; S. OC; and more tentatively E.
Hcld., Andr., Her., and S. Ant., a notoriously debated case.35 Some
brief notes on a couple of examples may help to illustrate a possible
effect that this kind of narrative may have had in performance. When
the narrator of a play’s climactic event quotes the direct speech of
others involved in the action, this can perhaps be felt as a structuring
device, an economical way of linking the different agents, through the
presence and voice of the single actor, in the creation of something
essential about the play and its possible meanings. Greek tragedy, as
Donald Mastronarde has remarked, is ‘inherently a representation of
many voices offering competing viewpoints, and the competition is
32 For the fourth century, see J. R. Green 1999. Green’s study of Tarentine
vase-paintings, showing a solo (evidently star) performer in the news-bringer role,
makes a compelling case for the importance of this figure as interpreter, as well as
narrator, of the play’s events.
33 Pickard-Cambridge 1988.
34 But Allan 2008: 33, argues for giving the messenger’s role to the deuterag-
onist and Castor’s to the protagonist.
35 See, e.g., Sifakis 1995, esp. 18–21; Kaimio 1993: 28–30; Easterling 2004: 133–4.
not merely between the elite figures of heroic myth, for tragedy also
significantly plays off against the elite voices various more humble
ones, such as those of the chorus and nameless servants and messen-
gers’.36 The practice of multiple role-playing, arranged so as to display
the versatility of the leading actors, may have helped to hold this ‘com-
petition’ in an extraordinarily creative tension, and thus to contribute
to the concentrated effect of the whole enactment of the story.
Hippolytus
There is no certainty that the protagonist must have played the part of
news-bringer, but Kaimio is surely right to argue strongly for it. This
man is one of Hippolytus’ faithful servants (1151–2) who can describe
the disaster on the seashore as an involved eye-witness. He and his
companions had heard their master’s sad words as he prepared to
leave Troezen and asked for his horses to be harnessed (duly quoted at
1182–4), then his defiant appeal to Zeus for justice (1191–3) before he
drove off; they were near enough to witness the crash, but too far away
to catch up in time and help, and did not see what happened to the bull
and the horses. The final direct quotation of Hippolytus’ words as he
was entangled in the chariot and smashed against the rocks (1240–2)
condenses into three lines the main features of both the character and
the plot of the play: ‘ Hold fast, horses reared in my own stables! Don’t
destroy me! O dire curse of my father! Who will be ready to save an
innocent man?’ The speaker ends (1249–54) with a strong challenge to
Theseus to recognise Hippolytus’ innocence:
I am only a slave of your royal house, my lord, but I cannot

believe, and never shall be able to, that your son is an evil-doer.
No, not if the whole race of women should hang themselves, not
if all the pines of Ida were turned into tablets full of messages –
for I know that he is a good man.
This is the perspective of an outspoken supporter, but its incongru-

ous detail is a reminder of the tragic events involving Phaedra and
Theseus from earlier in the play. If the protagonist took this role as
well as that of Hippolytus, there was scope for his performance to give
exceptional power to this climactic narrative, in preparation for the
revelations of the final scene.
36 Mastronarde 2010: 67–8.

Ion
The protagonist would surely play Ion, and the deuteragonist Creousa.
All the other parts could in theory be played by the third actor, but
Ion is absent between 675 and 1261; during this part of the play his
actor could have played both the Old Man who persuades Creousa to
plot his death, and the servant who rushes in at 1106 at a moment of
great crisis, to report the failure of the plot and the mortal danger of
Creousa. The crisis does not prevent him from making an enormously
long speech (1122–1228, the longest in the play), reporting Ion’s prep-
aration of the huge and elaborately decorated festive tent and then his
near-poisoning, saved only by the ‘miracle’ of a dove drinking from
the cup intended for him and falling dead. The speaker quotes four
passages of direct speech: first we hear Xuthus (1128–31) instructing
Ion to supervise the erection of the tent, and explaining that he himself
may be delayed in making sacrifices;37 then the Old Man’s voice at
1178–80 giving instructions about the serving of wine, before adding
poison to the ‘specially chosen cup’ to be presented to Ion; next Ion’s
own voice at 1210–14, when he suspects that he is the intended victim
and challenges the Old Man; and finally his public announcement of
Creousa’s guilt (1220–1), which leads to a death sentence. It is hard to
imagine any self-respecting protagonist passing up the opportunity,
but there is much more to the speech than the scope it offers to a
virtuoso actor: critics have often discussed the meaning for the play
(and for the understanding of Ion’s identity) suggested by the long
ekphrasis of the tent’s decorations,38 and the hint of Apollo’s agency
in its climactic event, the uncanny scene of the dove’s death which
saves Ion’s life (1187–1208), gives special significance to the narrative
in relation to the whole plot.
The focus in these two speeches on a decisive supernatural happening

is even stronger in the news-bringer’s reports in two other plays: in
Bacchae the killing of Pentheus on Mt Cithaeron (1024–1152), and
in Oedipus at Colonus the mysterious disappearance of Oedipus, wit-
nessed only by Theseus (1586–1666). In both of these speeches there
are other highly charged passages of direct quotation, evoking persons
and themes from earlier in the play,39 but in each case the strangest and
most arresting quotation is that of a heavenly voice explicitly directing
37 A clear indication that his actor will be returning in different roles (the Priestess
and Athena); cf. Lee 1997 on 1130–2.
38 Some samples in Lee 1997: 282–3.
39 The other speakers cited are: (Ba.) Pentheus at 1059–62, 1118–21 and Agave at
1106–9, 1146–7; (OC) Oedipus at 1611–19, 1630–5, 1639–44.
the action.40 At Ba. 1078–81: ‘From the upper air some voice – it must
have been Dionysus – cried out , “Young women, I bring you the one
who makes a mockery of you and me and my rites: punish him!” ’ Then
follows a tremendous flash of fire, and an uncanny silence in the whole
of nature; the maenads are bewildered, and the divine command is
repeated, with instant violent effects. At OC 1623–8, when Oedipus
has said farewell to his daughters: ‘There was silence, and suddenly
someone’s voice cried out to him, making everyone’s hair stand on
end in fear. For the god called him often and in many ways41: “You
there, Oedipus, why are we waiting to go? You have been delaying too
long.” ’ In each case, while the whole messenger narrative is rich in
detail evoking much that has gone before,42 the actor’s control over the
different roles that he brings to life within a single speech may help the
audience to sense something of the compression and coherence of the
whole design.
40 For the similarities of detail and phrasing between the two passages see Dodds
1960 on 1078–90.
41 Or perhaps ‘often and everywhere’: πολλὰ πολλαχῃ̂ seems to imply more than just
‘many times’.
42 I have tried to explore some of this detail for OC in Easterling 2006.
12
STOCK SITUATIONS, TOPOI AND

THE GREEKNESS OF GREEK
HISTORIOGRAPHY
Lisa Irene Hau
Scholars who work on Greek historiography tend to focus on the

differences: Herodotus is the charming one who passes on local tradi-
tions; Thucydides is cynical about human nature and leaves religion
out of history; Xenophon writes autobiographical history and peppers
his work with intriguing dialogues; Polybius produced a handbook for
statesmen, but is torn between Greece and Rome; Diodorus Siculus is
only as good as his source; and so forth. But when we focus on these
differences we often forget that, in fact, the works of Greek histori-
ography, at least until the first century bc, are much more similar to
each other than to any body of historiography that came after. In this
chapter I shall try to define those characteristics of Greek historiogra-
phy from the fifth to the first century bc that made it a distinct genre.
Some of these characteristics can be hard to spot because they started
a trend which either persisted into Roman historiography or has been
reignited in modern historiography, but the sum of these various
characteristics is nevertheless what makes Greek historiography
Greek.
Before we begin, some remarks about my choice of material are in
order. This study focuses on the Greek historiographers of the fifth to
the first century bc whose works are extant in substantial form; that is
Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Polybius and Diodorus Siculus.
I stop at Diodorus because this volume concerns itself with what is
distinctive about Greek narrative, and after Diodorus Greek histori-
ography merges with Roman historiography to such a degree that it
becomes impossible to keep the two traditions apart. Herodotus, as
I want to thank Ruth Scodel and Douglas Cairns for inviting me to speak at the
Leventis Conference (which was a thoroughly enjoyable experience) and to con-
tribute to this volume, as well as for their valuable comments on earlier versions
of the chapter. Thanks are also due to everyone who asked questions and offered
comments after the delivery of the conference chapter; the comments of Nick
Lowe and Irene de Jong were particularly useful.
242 lisa irene hau
the inventor of the genre, in some ways differs from the others, and
I shall return to that below. The focus on these historiographers to
the exclusion of those that survive only in fragments means that some
branches of ancient Greek historiography are left out of the discus-
sion: local history and genealogy are particularly poorly preserved
although both were important and popular genres in the classical and
Hellenistic period. The narrow focus is justified not only by the state
of preservation of the works under scrutiny, but also by the fact that
these works are the ones that inspired the succeeding western tradition
of historiography (beginning with the Roman tradition) and deter-
mined some of its main characteristics, as we shall see below.
STOCK SITUATIONS, STOCK EVENTS AND TOPOI

We begin with three passages from three different Greek
historiographers:
Since they never encountered any set-backs, the soldiers had

got into the habit of collecting their supplies (λαμβανόντων
τὰ ἐπιτήδεια) carelessly and without taking due precautions
(καταφρονητικῶς δέ ποτε καὶ ἀφυλάκτως). And there was one
occasion when Pharnabazus, with two scythed chariots and
about four hundred cavalry, came on them when they were scat-
tered (ἐσπαρμένοις) all over the plain. When the Greeks saw him
bearing down on them, they ran to join up with each other, about
seven hundred all together; but Pharnabazus did not waste time.
Putting the chariots in front, and following behind them himself
with the cavalry, he ordered a charge. The chariots, dashing into
the Greek ranks, broke up their close formation, and the cavalry
soon cut down about a hundred men. The rest fled and took
refuge with Agesilaus, who happened to be close at hand with the
hoplites. (Xen. Hel. 4.1.17–19, trans. Warner)
The Selinuntians, who were prosperous in those days and whose

city was heavily populated, held the Aegestaeans in contempt
(κατεφρόνουν). And at first, deploying in battle order, they laid
waste the land which touched their border, since their armies were
far superior, but after this, despising their foe (καταφρονήσαντες),
they scattered everywhere over the countryside (κατὰ πᾶσαν
τὴν χώραν ἐσκεδάσθησαν). [4] The generals of the Aegestaeans,
watching their opportunity (παρατηρήσαντες), attacked them
with the aid of the Carthaginians and Campanians. Since the
attack was not expected, they easily put the Selinuntians to flight,
stock situations, topoi and greek 243
killing about a thousand of the soldiers and capturing all their

loot (λείας). (Diod. Sic, 13.44.3–4, trans. Oldfather)
Faced with the prospect of a protracted siege, the Roman sol-

diers turned to foraging (τὸ σιτολογεῖν) – the grain was ripe in
the fields – but did so rather too incautiously (ἐκθυμότερον τοῦ
δέοντος). At the sight of the enemy soldiers scattered all over the
place (ἐσκεδασμένους κατὰ τῆς χώρας), the Carthaginians made
a sortie against the foragers and easily put them to flight. One
section then set out to plunder the Roman camp, while the other
attacked the cover force. But the Romans were saved, then as
on many other occasions, by the excellence of their institutions
(ἡ τῶν ἐθισμῶν διαφορὰ): no one posted in a cover force is allowed
to abandon his position or turn to flight, on pain of death. And so
on that occasion too they bravely (γενναίως) stood their ground
against a far superior enemy force; their losses were not slight, but
their opponents suffered more. (Plb. 1.17.9–10, trans. Waterfield)
These three passages all narrate similar events: soldiers go foraging

– or looting, depending on whose point of view you take – and are
attacked. In the first two passages they are defeated and suffer heavy
losses; in the third passage they also suffer, but are ultimately success-
ful because of the ‘excellence’ of the Roman system of military punish-
ment. At first glance it is perhaps difficult to see why this particular
collection of passages has been chosen to introduce a chapter that
stresses the similarity of the classical and Hellenistic works of Greek
historiography: they are in many ways quite different from each other;
and finding three passages that all deal with an attack on foragers is
no great feat in a corpus of historiography focused on military history.
However, it is worth taking a moment to think about the implications
of this.
First of all, it is noteworthy where the focus of interest in these
passages lies: each of them places the emphasis not on the foraging or
looting, but on the attack on the looters and the fighting that follows.
The historiographers are not interested in the types of items looted,
the kinds of provisions foraged, or the way these were stored or trans-
ported or, in the case of human captives, guarded. What interests them
is the fact that the foragers were attacked and the fact that this attack
was brought on by their own carelessness. In addition, Polybius’ use
of such a situation to demonstrate the effectiveness of the Roman
system of military punishment shows that the situation was already a
topos, or a stock situation, in historiography at his time.
Second, it is worth noting the narratorial voice. The narrator in
244 lisa irene hau
each of these cases is covert, remote and omniscient.1 He has removed

himself so far from the narrative that the reader easily forgets his
presence; the events unfold as if seen from a bird’s-eye view, or as
if, in Benveniste’s famous phrase ‘events tell themselves’.2 However,
if we look closer, there are subtle uses of focalisation, which betray
the remote narrator’s interpretation of the situation and guide the
reader’s perception of it. First, the narrator’s choice of words to
express the idea of foraging/looting shows through whose eyes the
action is seen and thereby where his sympathy lies: with the Greeks
in Xenophon, with the Aegestaeans in Diodorus, with the Romans in
Polybius. Second, the words used to characterise the foraging/looting
subtly convey the narrator’s interpretation of the events: in the first
passage the Greeks forage ‘carelessly and without taking due precau-
tions’; in the second passage the looters scatter across the countryside
‘despising their foe’; and in the third passage the Romans forage
‘rather too incautiously’. These remarks guide the reader towards
the interpretation that the soldiers in each case provoke the attack by
acting carelessly and over-confidently. In addition, the passage from
Polybius contains a short digression offering a causal explanation of
why the Romans did not come to grief in this situation like so many
before them. We shall return to the interest in causation displayed by
the Greek historians below.
These observations demonstrate some general characteristics of
Greek historiography: it is predominantly concerned with military/
political matters (this is less true of Herodotus, and is the main dif-
ference between him and his successors), and it is predominantly
narrated by a remote, omniscient narrator, but this narrator often
provides more or less subtle interpretation guidance for their narratee
by means of evaluative phrases, more or less discreetly interspersed
throughout the narrative.
The common focus on military history makes it natural that the
Greek historiographers should share a number of story situations:3
battles, of course, both on land and at sea, as well as sieges, skirmishes
1 What I here call a ‘remote’ narrator could also be called an ‘external, covert’
narrator, e.g., De Jong 2004. For more detailed analyses of the narrators of
Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon and Polybius, see the relevant chapters in De
Jong et al. 2004. The Herodotean narrator has also been well discussed by Dewald
1987, 2002. The Diodoran narrator is discussed by Hau forthcoming.
2 Benveniste 1966: 241. The expression is also used by Barthes [1967] 1986: 131–2
and Genette [1969] 1976: 9.
3 Using the word ‘story’ is not meant to signal that I regard the events narrated
in ancient Greek historiography as invented or fictional. It is used in its techni-
cal narratological sense as one half of the pair ‘story–discourse’ equivalent to
‘fabula–sjužet’.
and ambushes. In addition, it is natural that they all recount the types
of events that lead up to battles and the like, such as the planning and
debates of assemblies and war councils, the outset of an expedition
and the marching army, and everything that results from battles,
such as the razing of cities, ravaging of countryside and dealing with
prisoners. And in fact all of these are stock situations in the historio-
graphical works of the period.
A stock situation is defined by showing up repeatedly in the stories
of Greek historiography, sometimes narrated extensively as a scene,
at other times briefly as a summary, but in a way that is similar in its
essentials. The similarity consists in certain stock events which tend to
take place within a stock situation and in a similar narratorial interest
in certain aspects of the situation, often manifesting itself as historio-
graphical topoi (Table 12.1).
It should be clear from the list of stock situations in Table 12.1
that some instances can be long, sometimes several pages of text, and
include a large number of stock events. For example, the stock situa-
tion ‘Battle’ can be narrated extensively over several pages of text (e.g.,
Herodotus’ account of the battle of Marathon, Thucydides’ of the
battle of Mantinea, Polybius’ of the battle of Cannae) or it can be nar-
rated briefly, in a fast-moving summary which takes up a paragraph
or two. But both of these modes of narrating a battle will contain a
certain number of stock events: both of them are likely to begin with
the deployment of troops making up the battle order on one or both
sides, and both are likely to include a charge by one side, an eventual
rout, and either a pursuit of the routed or a conscious decision not to
pursue. A large number of the battle narratives also contain the use
of some stratagem (typically troops hidden somewhere in the terrain,
who jump out and fall on the enemy’s rear), and many of them have a
passage where one or more important characters are killed, or at least
a list of important people killed. Those are the stock events listed in
Table 12.1. In addition, certain types of battle have extra stock events:
battles in front of a city typically have a rush for the gates made by
either attackers or defenders or both, while sea-battles usually have a
section on capturing enemy ships or at least an enumeration of ships
captured. A stock situation is a larger narrative unit that includes
these shorter items within it. It is also possible for an event which can
form its own stock situation, such as the ‘outset of an expedition’,
simply to be mentioned in passing as part of another stock situation,
such as ‘Build-up to battle’.
At this point it is worth asking ourselves if we need the term ‘stock
situation’ at all – is it perhaps not simply the case that if you boil it
down to its essentials, all relevant historical events can fit into a quite
246 lisa irene hau
Table 12.1 Stock situations, stock events and topoi
Stock situation Stock eventsa Topoia
Before battle:
Build-up to war Armament of opposing Discussion of causes
powers
Envoys going back and
forth
Background to grievances
explained
Inspection of troops Description of troops The magnificence or battle-
The commander’s reaction readiness of the troops
on inspecting them Realism or over-confidence
of commander
Outset of army/expedition Magnificent preparations Over-confidence
Goodbyes of those who are Foreshadowing of outcome
staying behind of expedition, especially if it
is going to fail
Army crosses river Planning how to cross Ingenuity of the commander
The crossing in coming up with stratagem
Attacked while crossing
Army crosses mountain Planning how to cross Carefulness or carelessness
pass The crossing of commander
Ambushed while crossing Harshness of mountain
conditions
Suspense
Army marches through Detailed descriptions of Suffering of the men
difficult terrain (such hardship Desperation or resoluteness
as snowy mountains or Deaths of men and animals of the commander
waterless deserts)
Commander and advisors Advice given and taken or The ability or inability of
(war-council) rejected the commander to listen to
Speeches advice
Anecdotal remarks
Pay negotiations between Reasonableness or
army and commander or unreasonableness of
(rare) commander and demands
superior
Build-up to battle Marching/sailing to the Creation of suspense,
place of battle (knowingly particularly before a battle
or unknowingly) famous in the reader’s time
Choosing a spot for battle Fear or excitement as the
Battle harangue enemy approaches
Deployment of troops
The armies/fleets drawn up
across from each other
Army in camp Training The commander’s skill or
Drinking and feasting at lack of it in keeping his
leisure troops battle-ready

Military commander Impatience of the troops Piety or impiety of the
conducts sacrifices Change of plans due to commander
outcome
Reinforcements arrive
Foraging Foragers being attacked Foolish arrogance of
Fighting careless foragers
Reinforcements from the Ordered troops versus
camp coming to help troops in disarray
Reconnoitring Discovering the enemy Daring or careless arrogance
unexpectedly
Close escape
Making improvements Building a device Intelligence of the
to equipment or fighting Training in some new skill commander
style Discipline of the men
Battle or similar:
Battle Deployment of troops Heroic fighting
(land-battle/sea-battle/ Charge Heroic deaths
cavalry battle) Use of new device or skill Skill and bravery or utter
Rout uselessness of commander
Pursuit
Stratagem
Killing of important
opponents
Night battle All of the above plus Confusion and suffering in
confusion the dark
Panic
Siege Building of siege engines Cleverness of commander or
(besiegers) engineer(s)
Building of fortifications
(besieged)
Breaking a naval Daring and skill of blockade
blockade breaker
Invasion Ravaging army Impiety of invaders
Violation of sanctuary Fear or determination of the
invaded
Betrayal of a city from Elaborate plan resulting in Despicability of the traitors
the inside the opening of the city gate or cleverness of the plan and
for the enemy stupidity of those who were
Slaughter of the political fooled
opponents of the traitors
Mutiny Outbreak of mutiny Low birth and despicability
Quelling of mutiny of the ringleaders
Skill of the commander in
dealing with the situation
Storm destroys The unpredictability of
battleships weather/fortune
248 lisa irene hau

Storm destroys The stupidity of not
battleships listening to advice
Divine vengeance
Fall of a city Killing of inhabitants, The suffering of the defeated
more or less Contrast between their
indiscriminately former power and wealth
Looting and their present misery
Sparing or looting the
temples
After battle:
The victor after the Trophy and giving back Judgement on the victor’s
victory the dead treatment of the defeated
The victor and his troops The typical inability of
(rewards and punishments) human beings to handle
The victor and prisoners good fortune properly
The victor and the booty Measures for distributing
The victor in the taken city booty
Honouring of the
victorious commander
News of the outcome Celebrations or despair and Judgement on the
reaches the city mourning excessiveness or moderation
(victorious or defeated) Measures taken to sue for of the reaction
peace or continue the fight
The defeated after the Collecting the dead Dignity or lack of it of the
defeat Despondency defeated
The defeated and the
victors
Changeover of military Difference between leaving
commanders and incoming commander
Issues of new commander
threatening to take the glory
for former commander’s
achievements
Peace negotiations Speeches Sincerity or insincerity of
Exchanging oaths negotiators
Not necessarily war-oriented:

Assembly (civic or Speeches Fickleness of the crowd
military) Reaction of the crowd/
army
Receiving envoys/ envoys Good or bad treatment of Sincerity or insincerity of
arrive the envoys speakers
Speeches Dignity or lack of it of
speakers
Defection of ally Murdering of garrison or Despicability of treachery
representatives (Greeks). The responsibility placed
Joining an enemy force with the superior city and its
(barbarians) poor treatment of the ally

Arbitration in political Indirect speech
conflict
Revolution Planning revolution The horrors of civil war
Murder of opponents
Escalation of violence
Change of regime
Return of a hero Magnificent return The justice or injustice of
Celebration by the crowd this welcome
Court trial Speeches Justice or injustice of
Reaction of the crowd proceedings
Epidemic Symptoms Divine punishment
Dying
How to get rid of the
bodies
Rise of a tyrant Rising through the ranks Stupidity of those who let
Winning popular support him take power
Taking power
Evil deeds/deterioration Murders of members of Evils of tyranny
of a tyrant the elite
Humiliation of elite women
Confiscations of property
Outlandish forms of
torture
Ruler and subject/wise Direct speech of the Ability or inability of ruler
man in conversation subject/wise man to listen to advice
Punishment of the subject/ Ability or inability of
wise man subject/wise man to tread
Ruler changes his ways the fine line of diplomacy
Death of a ruler Mourning or rejoicing of Narratorial obituary
populace
Passing on or division of
powers
Mourning of wife
Building of memorial
Court intrigue (often Forged letters Despicability of court
sexual) Public confrontations intrigue
between opposed courtiers The victim often a good,
honest military man, his
opponent effeminate and
depraved
Consulting an oracle Asking the question Narratorial interpretation of
Receiving the answer response
Interpreting the answer Blindness of original
interpreter
Omens and portents Interpretation Divine intervention or
Fear or joy of perceived popular belief in it
recipient(s)
Feast or symposium Conversation, often with Dangers of excessive
direct speech drinking
250 lisa irene hau

Feast or symposium Drinking, often excessive
Careless remarks made in
drunkenness (which lead to
violence)
Violence caused by
drunkenness
King offering spectacle Procession Magnificence of the expense
and celebration Games Tastelessness of this kind of
Public feasts display
Foundation of city Desperate circumstances or
oracle prompt the decision
Founders leave the mother
city
Rules for who can go and
what their rights should be
Arrival and initial setbacks
Founder honoured as hero
Law-giving Circumstances of the need Odd personality of law-giver
for a law-code Oddness of laws explained
Introduction of law-giver
Details of law-code
(law-giver becomes the
victim of his own laws)
Building projects of a Detailed description of Magnificence of the building
ruler monuments project
Early people living Natural progression Distinction between
through a natural cycle of good and bad types of
constitutions constitutions
Gradual civilising of Natural progression Rationalisation of myths
people/mankind Actions of culture hero
Origin story of god or Birth Rationalisation of myths
hero Wanderings
Benefactions
Deification
a
Not all stock events or topoi are necessarily present in every instance.
limited list of basic situations, and that these are the situations all
historians have to work with, ancient Greek or not? However, if we
consider this question carefully, we discover that many events are, in
fact, not turned into stock situations and are hardly mentioned by the
Greek historiographers. Some of them, such as more or less everything
done by women, are left out because they were simply not interesting
to the male authors and not deemed historically significant. For other
non-stock situations it is harder to find a reason: why is there no stock
situation covering the practicalities of foraging, but only one dealing
with foragers being attacked? Why is there no stock situation detailing

how the wounded are tended after a battle? We hear about the putting
up of trophies, the giving back or collection of the dead, the awarding
of prizes to the best fighters, but nothing about what happened to the
wounded.4 Why is there no stock situation narrating the celebration of
a religious festival, describing the procession, the athletic games, the
theatre productions? These were hugely important events, but athletic
festivals are only mentioned as chronological markers or when they
get caught up in inter-state warfare (like the Olympic games in 420
bc, Thuc. 5.49–50), and religious festivals are only described when
the narrator wants to comment on the extravagance of a particular
instance (like Polybius on Antiochus IV at 30.25–6).
The third column of Table 12.1 lists some typical narratorial
topoi often connected with the stock situation and its events, such as
‘Foolish arrogance of careless foragers’ in the case of the ‘Foragers
being attacked’ stock event. This is perhaps the most interesting part
of the stock situation model because it shows the function of each
stock situation on the level of narratorial argument, beyond the nar-
rative level of merely moving the story forwards. So, for example, the
stock situation of ‘Foraging’ invariably narrates how foragers are
attacked by the enemy, usually because of their own carelessness, and
does not include any of the practicalities of foraging. Likewise, the
stock situation ‘Commander and advisors (war-council)’, although it
could theoretically be used for all sorts of things, such as showing the
psychological relationship between the commander and his advisors
or the jostling for position of the advisors, is actually mainly used to
show the commander’s ability or inability to take good advice (e.g.,
Hdt. 8.68–9; Thuc. 3.29–32; Diod. Sic. 17.53.3–7). Again, in the stock
situation ‘Outset of army/expedition’, it would be possible to focus
on the exact numbers of various kinds of troops, the details of their
equipment and their battle-readiness; but in reality the focus is almost
always on the magnificence of the preparations (without specific
numbers) and the great expectations of the ruler or people sending out
the expedition, imparting to the narratee a sense of foreboding that
this will all go terribly wrong (e.g., Hdt. 7.20–41; Thuc. 6.30–2; Diod.
Sic. 13.80).
One important element of Greek historiography is missing from
Table 12.1: digressions. All of the ancient Greek historiographers
make use of digressions. Some are narrative digressions; these show
causal connections between events on the main storyline and earlier
4 For a discussion of the events that are and are not included in the post-victory
narratives of the Greek historiographers, see Hau 2013.
252 lisa irene hau
(analeptic digression) or later (proleptic digression) events, and they

are covered by the table. Others are non-narrative in the sense that
they do not move the story forward, but constitute pauses in it5 and
have for that reason been left out of the table. Such digressions can
contain geographical or ethnographical information, thoughts on
historical methodology or historiographical selection and arrange-
ment, polemics against predecessors, or practically or morally didactic
musings provoked by the events narrated. It is common to all of these
digressions that the narrator takes on a different presence from that
in the narrative of events: more obviously present, more involved,
more opinionated. I shall return to this narratorial dichotomy
below.
Turning from the table of stock situations to how these building-
blocks are used by the individual historiographers, we do see some
differences. The most striking is that between Herodotus and the rest.
On the one hand, many of these stock situations are vital parts of
Herodotus’ Histories – land-battle, commander and advisors, army
ravaging the countryside, the victor after the victory – and some stock
situations even find their archetypal form in Herodotus, such as the
‘Ruler and subject/wise man in conversation’. However, Herodotus
also includes situations so unusual that they do not recur elsewhere in
Greek historiography and so cannot be called ‘stock situations’ – such
as Arion being saved by the dolphin (1.23–4) and the Egyptian broth-
ers who steal from the king’s sealed treasury (2.121–2). These are great
and memorable stories, but they were not imitated by Herodotus’
historiographical successors and so did not turn into stock situations
of the genre. For that reason they retain a closer relationship with the
folktales on which they were probably based than with the genre of
historiography as we have come to know it.
Another difference in the use of stock situations shows a devel-
opment from classical to Hellenistic historiography: Thucydides is
interested in the actions and decisions that lead to war or campaigns
within a war; he spends a large part of his narrative on the prepara-
tion phase before wars, battles and expeditions and offers long scenes
detailing the planning and debating. Xenophon has slightly fewer of
these preparatory scenes; and when we get to Polybius and Diodorus,
these types of stock situations are relatively rare compared with the
enormous emphasis placed on the situations that follow battles, wars
5 The terminology used here (analeptic and proleptic digressions and pauses) was
created by the founding father of narratology, Gérard Genette [1972] (1980), and
has been used to great effect by Tim Rood (1998) in his analysis of Thucydides. It
is also championed by De Jong et al. 2004.
and sieges, with a particular focus on the behaviour of both victors

and defeated.6
Now, it is perhaps not surprising that it is possible to come up with
a list of stock situations covering the works of Thucydides, Xenophon
and Polybius: these historiographers did, after all, write the same type
of history, one which was focused on military and political matters
and which to a large extent ignores the ‘marvels’ which had fascinated
Herodotus. It is more surprising that Diodorus Siculus fits into Table
12.1. Diodorus wrote world history: a forty-volume work covering
the time from the creation of man to his own day and all known
civilisations, including the mythical period. Nevertheless, most of
his narrative is made up out of exactly the same stock situations as
the other histories examined. In fact, Diodorus’ Bibliotheke can be
incorporated into the table by adding just two extra stock situations,
which appear repeatedly in his early books: ‘Gradual civilising of
people/mankind’ and ‘Origin story of god or hero’. It is remarkable
that apart from these two extra stock situations his narratives about
mythological and supernatural figures such as Apollo, Dionysus,
Isis and Osiris are covered by the stock situations already in the
table, such as ‘Outset of army’, ‘Foundation of city’ and ‘Return of a
hero’.
It seems that the tradition of imitatio was compelling, and that
by the first century bc, if not earlier, there were very fixed percep-
tions of what events historiography should and should not address.
Historigraphy narrated many situations occurring in warfare, but not
all of them: treatment of the wounded is left out, as is interrogation of
captives, the entire practical side of guarding and transporting prison-
ers-of-war and almost all interaction with camp-followers. And even
within the stock situations there were apparently fixed parameters for
what events should be the focus of historians, and where the focus of
their narratorial argument should lie. This, then, is part of what makes
Greek historiography Greek.
OTHER CHARACTERISTICS
Let us now take a step back from stock situations in the nar-
rative of events and, turning our gaze to the entirety of the his-
torical works, go in search of what else is characteristic of classical
and Hellenistic Greek historiography. There are at least four main
characteristics:
6 For the similarity in the treatment of the victorious commander in the classical
and Hellenistic Greek historiographers, see Hau 2008.
254 lisa irene hau
First, there is a strong interest in causality, that is, in establishing

causal links between events and going to great narrative lengths to
explain them. All of our preserved Greek historiographers repeat-
edly digress at length from their chronological main frame in order
to explain the causes of important events. This is true as early as
Herodotus, who famously sets out in his preface to uncover the causes
of the Persian Wars:
Here are presented the results of the enquiry carried out by

Herodotus of Halicarnassus. The purpose is to prevent the traces
of human events from being erased by time, and to preserve the
fame of the important and remarkable achievements produced
by both Greeks and non-Greeks; among the matters covered is,
in particular, the cause of the hostilities between Greeks and non-
Greeks. (δι᾽ ἣν αἰτίην ἐπολέμησαν ἀλλήλοισι). (Hdt. 1.1, trans.
Waterfield)
Causal connections are also a major structuring element of Herodotus’

narrative and often form the link between one story and the next, as in
the following examples:
So that – as well as seeing the world – is why Solon was abroad

from Athens (αὐτῶν δὴ ὦν τούτων καὶ τῆς θεωρίης ἐκδημήσας ὁ
Σόλων εἵνεκεν). (Hdt. 1.30.1, trans. Waterfield)
After Solon’s departure, the weight of divine anger descended

on Croesus, in all likelihood for thinking that he was the happi-
est man in the world. (μετὰ δὲ Σόλωνα οἰχόμενον ἔλαβέ ἐκ θεοῦ
νέμεσις μεγάλη Κροῖσον, ὡς εἰκάσαι, ὅτι ἐνόμισε ἑωυτὸν εἶναι
ἀνθρώπων ἁπάντων ὀλβιώτατον.) (Hdt. 1.34.1, trans. Waterfield)
Thucydides was at least as interested in causality. His famous words

about the ‘truest cause’ of the Peloponnesian War have sparked much
controversy:
As to why (τὰς αἰτίας) they broke the treaty, I have written down
first the complaints and the disputes, so that no one may ever
inquire whence so great a war arose among the Greeks. Now the
most genuine cause (τὴν μὲν γὰρ ἀληθεστάτην πρόφασιν), though
least spoken of, was this: it was the Athenians, in my opinion, as
they were growing great and furnishing an occasion of fear to the
Lacedaemonians, who compelled the latter to go to war. But the
complaints of each side, spoken of openly, were the following,
complaints which led the parties to break the treaty and enter a
state of war. (Thuc. 1.23, trans. Sealey)7
Moreover, a major function of Thucydides’ speeches seems to be to

reveal the human motivation behind historical events (e.g., Pericles’
speech about going to war at 1.140–4 and Alcibiades’ speech about the
Sicilian expedition at 6.16–23). Likewise, causation is a key issue for
Polybius, who at the beginning of his narrative of the Second Punic
War spends pages discussing the difference between cause, pretext and
beginning (3.6–7; only the introduction to the discussion is quoted
here):
Anyone who claims that these incidents were the causes of the
war has not grasped the distinction, the considerable difference,
between a starting point (ἀρχή) and a cause (αἰτία) or pretext
(πρόφασις). A cause or pretext always comes first and a starting
point comes last. I take it that the starting point of anything con-
sists of the first application in the real world of a course of action
that has already been decided upon, while the cause is what first
influences one’s judgements and decisions, or, in other words,
what first influences one’s ideas, feeling, reasoning about the
matter, and all one’s decision-making and deliberative faculties.
(Plb. 3.6.6–7, trans. Waterfield)
This fascination with causality is perhaps less obvious in Xenophon,

who generally favours a more strictly chronological narrative; but in
fact he also deals in causal analeptic digressions, as in this example:
At the same time as these campaigns of Dercylidas in Asia, Sparta

was having trouble with Elis. The Spartans had been angry for a
long time with the Eleans for the following reasons (ὅτι). First
Elis had made an alliance with Athens, Argos and Mantinea,
then they had debarred the Spartans from competing in the horse
races and athletic contests at the Olympic games, the pretext
being that a judgement had been awarded against Sparta. And
they had gone further than this. Lichas, a Spartan, had made over
his chariot to the Thebans and the Thebans had been announced
as the winners; but when Lichas came in to put the garland on the
head of the charioteer, the Eleans had beaten him, though he was
an old man, and driven him out. After this, when Agis had been
7 This translation, which emphasises the superlative in ἀληθεστάτην, is championed

by Eckstein 2003.
256 lisa irene hau
sent, in obedience to an oracle, to sacrifice to Zeus, the Eleans

refused to allow him to pray for victory in war, saying that it
was an ancient and established principle that Greeks should not
consult the oracle with regard to a war waged against Greeks.
So Agis had to go away without having sacrificed. With all these
reasons for anger, the ephors and the Assembly decided to make
the Eleans see reason. (Xen. 3.2.21–2, trans. Warner)
Moreover, most of Xenophon’s often puzzling dialogues seem to be

included at least partly in order to explain the causes of events in the
main frame of military and political history (e.g., the conversation
between Lysander and Agesilaus at 3.4.7–10). The causation in the
Greek historiographers is most often psychological, that is, based on
the emotions and thought processes of individuals or groups involved
in decision-making.
The case of Diodorus is again particularly interesting. Like
Herodotus and Polybius, he uses causal expressions such as ‘such and
such happened for the following reasons (διὰ τοιαύτας τινὰς αἰτίας)’ to
introduce analeptic digressions which ostensibly explain the state of
affairs on his main chronological line. The digressions, however, are
often more a mixed bag of various things that had happened in the
past leading up to the point where the story has got to than any real
attempt at finding the causes of the story events. An example is 16.2.2–
5, which purports to give the reasons, aitiai, for Philip II’s accession
to the throne of Macedon, although the translator, Sherman, wisely
decided to translate it as ‘in the following manner’:8
During their term of office Philip, the son of Amyntas and father
of Alexander who defeated the Persians in war, succeeded to the
Macedonian throne in the following manner (διὰ τοιαύτας τινὰς
αἰτίας). After Amyntas had been defeated by the Illyrians and
forced to pay tribute to his conquerors, the Illyrians, who had
taken Philip, the youngest son of Amyntas, as a hostage, placed
him in the care of the Thebans. They in turn entrusted the lad
to the father of Epameinondas and directed him both to keep
careful watch over his ward and to superintend his upbringing
and education. Since Epameinondas had as his instructor a phi-
losopher of the Pythagorean school, Philip, who was reared along
with him, acquired a wide acquaintance with the Pythagorean
8 This passage has often been criticised for its confused chronology in presenting
Philip II and Epaminondas as being of the same age, but that does not concern us
here.
philosophy. Inasmuch as both students showed natural ability

and diligence they proved to be superior in deeds of valour. Of
the two, Epameinondas underwent the most rigorous tests and
battles, and invested his fatherland almost miraculously with the
leadership of Hellas, while Philip, availing himself of the same
initial training, achieved no less fame than Epameinondas. For
after the death of Amyntas, Alexander, the eldest of the sons
of Amyntas, succeeded to the throne. But Ptolemy of Alorus
assassinated him and succeeded to the throne and then in similar
fashion Perdiccas disposed of him and ruled as king. But when
he was defeated in a great battle by the Illyrians and fell in the
action, Philip his brother, who had escaped from his detention as
a hostage, succeeded to the kingdom, now in a bad way. (Diod.
Sic. 16.2.2–5, trans. Sherman)
This is interesting because it shows Diodorus adhering to a tradition of

historiography that is obsessed with causation: he takes over the form
of a narrative concerned to explain causes, but he does not always
provide the substance and analysis which that form usually conveys.
In the twenty-first century, after 2,000 years of this tradition and
in the shadow of positivist historiography, it is perhaps difficult to
imagine a type of historiography that is not based on causation. But
it is worth remembering that the Greek historiographers could have
instituted a very different form of the genre. A narrative of historical
events does not have to privilege causal links; it can give precedence
to strict chronology, as seems to have been the practice of the Roman
Annales, or to the importance bestowed on certain types of events by
tradition, like the Fasti. Or it could be structured along genealogical
lines and more or less ignore the causes and results of actions of the
family in question when these causes or results take place outside the
family, which may well have been the case in the now lost works of
Hecataeus of Miletus. What the surviving classical and Hellenistic
Greek historiographers have in common is a privileging of causa-
tion over these other means of structuring a historical narrative.
Moreover, their causation is of the same type, namely psychological
and mostly secular, characteristics which come into sharp relief when
one reads Eusebius and the tradition of Christian historiography he
inaugurated.
Greek historiography is also characterised by its didactic slant.
Thucydides (1.22.4), Polybius (1.2.8, 1.4.11 and repeatedly through-
out the work) and Diodorus (1.1.1, 1.1.4 and repeatedly throughout
the work) explicitly say that they intend their readers to learn from
their narratives of the past, and Herodotus (1.5.3–4) and Xenophon
258 lisa irene hau
(1.5.4) imply as much. The didacticism is both practical and moral,

and it is striking how similar the basic messages are: on the practi-
cal side, it is all about how to be a good military commander; on
the moral side, all the historians (more or less explicitly) advocate
moderation and self-control, awareness that good fortune might not
last, dignity, justice, loyalty to friends and city and courage tempered
with reason.9 In the overtly moralising Roman historiographers these
moral parameters change or take on slightly different meanings: for
instance, the instability of good fortune becomes less significant, and
patriotism and discipline take on more importance than loyalty to
friends and family. It is therefore fair to say that these moral values
are characteristic of particularly Greek historiography, as indeed they
are of Greek literature generally.
Third, the extant classical and Hellenistic Greek historiographers
share a remarkably objective even-handedness in treating the two sides
in a conflict. Herodotus gives equal weight to the great deeds done by
Greeks and barbarians and offers sympathetic treatment of many
of his Persian characters; Thucydides has Athenians and Spartans
as equally (un)sympathetic protagonists; Xenophon’s Hellenica,
although biased to a degree towards Sparta and against Thebes, gives
a multi-focalised, panhellenic account of numerous Greek poleis; and
Polybius shows the Punic Wars from the perspective of both Romans
and Carthaginians. Such general absence of partisanship is lost with
Sallust and Livy.
Finally, as mentioned above, these works of history share an
interesting dichotomy in terms of narration. All five surviving works
of classical and Hellenistic Greek historiography alternate between
a strict narrative of events narrated by a remote, omniscient narra-
tor, giving the illusion of seeing events directly without any kind of
mediation, and argumentative digressions marked by a strong narra-
torial presence where the narrator discusses the task of the historian,
interprets events for the reader or argues with his predecessors.10 This
alternating between two narratorial strategies was taken over by the
Roman historiographers and recurs in much of later historiography,
but it is not only way to write history, and it is striking that all the
Greek historiographers did it similarly.
9 I shall discuss this further in a monograph currently in preparation.

10 See Marincola 1997: 6–11. Dewald 1987, 2002, offer an insightful discussion of the
different facets of the Herodotean narrator.
CONCLUSION
We have now identified five areas of shared characteristics, which I
argue define Greek historiography: similarity in the types of situations
they describe, both larger stock situations and smaller stock events
with attending topoi; similarity in structuring the narrative along the
lines of causation and in looking for causes; similarity in having a
partly didactic purpose, practical and moral; similarity in treating the
two sides in a conflict in an even-handed manner; and finally similarity
in alternating between two narratorial modes, one of them remote and
giving an illusion of transparency, the other personal, involved and
strongly argumentative.
How did these characteristics originate? Homeric influence can
perhaps account for the apparent transparency of narration and
the even-handed treatment of opponents, probably partly due to
the fact that both Homer and the historiographers were aiming at a
panhellenic audience. There was probably also inspiration from other
early prose genres, such as those of the Hippocratic writers and the
Sophists, which may well be where the interest in causation and the
involved, argumentative narrator mode originate.11 Alternatively,
it is possible that early historiography was not consciously inspired
by either Homer or other prose writings, but rather originated from
the same aesthetic values and intellectual preoccupations that had
generated them, as an expression of the ancient Greek mind. However
it happened, it seems that this combination of characteristics was
uniquely Greek.
11 As brilliantly shown for Herodotus by R. Thomas 2000.

13
HELIODORUS THE HELLENE
J. R. Morgan
At the end of his novel, Aethiopica, Heliodorus identifies himself thus:
τοιόνδε πέρας ἔσχε τὸ σύνταγμα τῶν περὶ Θεαγένην καὶ Χαρίκλειαν

Αἰθιοπικῶν· ὃ συνέταξεν ἀνὴρ Φοῖνιξ Ἐμισηνός, τῶν ἀφ’Ἡλίου
γένος Θεοδοσίου παῖς Ἡλιόδωρος.
So concludes the Aethiopica, the story of Theagenes and

Charicleia, the work of a Phoenician from the city of Emesa,
one of the clan of Descendants of the Sun, Theodosius’ son,
Heliodorus. (10.41.4)1
There are many systems of identity at work in this single sentence, but
the crucial point is that the author appears to define himself, in terms
of race, city and religious affiliation, as something other than Greek.
His home city, Emesa (modern Homs), was the centre of a religious
cult which by the imperial period had become identified with the sun,
although its origins may be different: this was the cult that Elagabalus
brought to Rome in the third century. It is regarded with suspicion,
distaste and horror as archetypally barbarian by our sources for his
reign. It is not clear exactly what Heliodorus means by calling himself
a ‘Descendant of the Sun’: the phrase is not otherwise attested in
connection with the Emesan cult, and seems to have been coined to
achieve precise literary effects in this context, but it is inescapable
that some reference is intended to the solar cult for which Emesa was
famous. I have argued elsewhere for a specifically Emesan ideologi-
cal dimension in the novel, shared in some degree with Philostratus’
fictionalised biography of Apollonius of Tyana, written at the com-
mission of the Emesan empress Julia Domna.2
1 Translations of Heliodorus are taken from Morgan [1989b] 2008.

2 Morgan 2009.
heliodorus the hellene 261
When we turn to the plot of the novel, we find similar indications

of a conscious self-distancing from canonical Hellenism. Whereas
the other Greek novels work with a broad story-pattern of Greek
protagonists leaving a Greek centre, travelling to the margins of a
Hellenocentric world and eventually returning for a happy ending
in the centre they left at the beginning,3 Heliodorus has a heroine,
Charicleia, who is Ethiopian and whose journey takes her from
Ethiopia to Greece and back again. In this sense his map has been
re-centred on a place which is marginal from a Greek perspective and
from the perspective of which Greece is a place of distant exile and
displacement.4
The moral geography of the novel also inscribes the primacy of
Ethiopia. Athens figures only in a secondary narrative, where it is
presented as the locale of a selfish and carnal erotic intrigue.5 This
structural relegation and negative moral marking of Athens consti-
tute a deliberate alienation from the cultural centre of mainstream
Hellenism. Delphi, which is similarly segregated from the primary
narrative and is the stage for events presented only through the
secondary narrative of Calasiris, fares a little better: Charicles, the
Delphic priest of Apollo and the heroine’s adopted father, is a likeable
fellow but not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. Egypt is the home
of the charismatic but ambivalent priest Calasiris, an analogue of
Odysseus, who plans the heroine’s abduction from Delphi and tricks
her foster-father, and whose narrative to Cnemon is equally manipu-
lative. In Ethiopia, on the other hand, a just and pious king is advised
by a cabinet of Gymnosophists, naked sages who embody divinely
inspired wisdom. He is the heroine’s true father, and it is only on her
return to the land of her birth that Charicleia can regain her true self
and escape from her fictitious Greek identity The moment when she
and her beloved are invested with the priesthood of the sun and moon,
in decidedly non-Greek vestments, seems to be the moment when they
assume Ethiopian identity (10.41.2).6 Her journey from Greece to
3 In Chariton the Greek centre is Syracuse; in Xenophon of Ephesus it is Ephesus.

Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe plays with the convention: the centre is Mytilene, but
for these protagonists the margins are constituted by the Lesbian countryside a
day’s journey from the city, and even the generically compulsory pirates do not
take them further than swimming distance from the beach.
4 Charicleia’s father refers to her exile in Greece as one ‘to the uttermost ends of the
earth’ (ἐπὶ πέρατα γῆς ἔσχατα, 10.16.6).
5 Cnemon’s narrative, which is split between the first two books; see Morgan
[1989a] 1999 for discussion.
6 Charicles’ focalised realisation that this is the fulfilment of the Delphic oracle
narrated by Calasiris at 2.25.5 identifies this moment as that referred to in the
oracle’s phrase λευκὸν ἐπὶ κροτάφων στέμμα μελαινομένων (‘a crown of white on
262 j. r. morgan
Ethiopia is thus not only a return to a non-Greek centre but an ascent

to an ideal realm, to which flawed secondary characters from Athens
and Egypt are unable or unfitted to attain.
The Ethiopian royal family claim descent from the sun, their
national god and founder of the race (4.8.2–3). This constructs an
analogy with Heliodorus himself, who is also a ‘Descendant of the
Sun’, and suggests that we should read his Ethiopia as a displaced
or metaphorical version of Emesa. The Emesan reading flows back-
wards from the author’s self-identification in the final sentence of
his text. Charicleia’s truest self is thus aligned with the Emesan cult.7
On this basis, it is easy enough to construct a reading of the novel
as an ideological contestation of Hellenism by a man whose own
origins located him on the margins of the classical world, not just
geographically but culturally and in terms of perceived status. We
need not doubt that Heliodorus, as a historical individual, had a non-
Greek, possibly Semitic, name of which ‘Heliodorus’ is the nearest
familiar Greek equivalent: exactly parallel cases are epigraphically
attested.8
However, this is only half the story, though half the story it is.
A powerful current runs in the opposite direction, collapsing the
antithesis between Greece and Ethiopia, and conflating rather than
opposing them. The love of the protagonists begins at a religious
ceremony in the Pythian games, and climaxes in another religious
occasion at Meroe: Delphi and Meroe thus stand in structural sym-
metry, and at the very climax of the story an explicit identification is
made between Delphic Apollo and Ethiopian Helios, who stands for
the Emesan sun-god (10.36.3: τὸν πάτριον ὑμῶν θεὸν Ἀπόλλωνα, τὸν
αὐτὸν ὄντα καὶ Ἥλιον). In the last book, when the plot finally reaches
Ethiopia, it turns out sure enough to be an idealised solar kingdom,
but one where human sacrifice is practised. Book 10 is in fact an
aetiology of the abolition of this rite, which is a stereotypical marker
of primitive barbarism. Both the king and his chief Gymnosophist
disapprove of the practice of human sacrifice, but have acquiesced
in its perpetuation because its abolition would be unpopular. The
final perfection of Ethiopia is achieved by its Hellenisation, which
coincides with the moment when the Hellenised heroine and the truly
Hellenic hero become fully Ethiopian. As part of the process leading
to this resolution, Theagenes is made to wrestle, as the champion of
blackening brows’): the protagonists’ metaphorical ‘blackening’ indicates their
new Ethiopian-ness.
7 The argument is developed in detail in Morgan 2009: 265–8.
8 Whitmarsh 2011: 110.
the Meroitic populace, with an Ethiopian giant, whom he defeats

by the exercise of archetypal Greek skill and guile against barbaric
brute force, a victory promptly welcomed by the Ethiopian populace
(10.31–2). Greek is spoken in Ethiopia, partly of course as a narrative
convenience, but also partly as a gesture of ideology, a marker that
distinguishes the civilised king and his advisors from the primitive
and monoglot Ethiopian crowd that bays for blood. On the other
hand, it is that same crowd that ultimately forces Hydaspes’ hand and
demands Charicleia’s reprieve from human sacrifice (10.17.1), and the
revelation that Greek is spoken and valued by the Ethiopian court is
made in a morally ambivalent context early in the novel when a Greek
merchant thinks of transporting the most venal and venereal of the
Athenian cast list, the courtesan Thisbe, to Meroe to be the queen’s
playmate and intimate companion (2.24.3).
To pull all this together, it seems that Heliodorus is playing a double
game. On the one hand he seems to be staking a claim for the primacy
of Ethiopia (which appears to stand for his native city) by decentring
and re-centring his imaginative world away from Greece, and on
the other simultaneously accommodating Ethiopia (or we might say
his native city) to classical Hellenism. The two forces, which we can
call Helleno-centrifugal and Helleno-centripetal, are poised in exact
balance.
So far I have been recapping positions which have been explored at

greater length elsewhere by myself and, with greater eloquence and
sophistication than I could ever muster, by Tim Whitmarsh in his bril-
liant book on the Greek novels.9 In what follows I want to try to come
at the issue from a different and argumentative angle.
The discipline of Classics has always been an ideological one, often
conscripted or volunteering to support prevailing cultural hierarchies.
In the nineteenth century, its perceived Eurocentricity was employed
to validate myths of European superiority and so authorise European
colonialism, cultural and political as well as military. Its high cultural
status made it an element of the ‘white man’s burden’ to bring civili-
sation to the ‘inferior’ races. Classics was central to the educational
curricula imposed across the British Empire: my earliest Oxford
Classical Texts, bought in the 1960s, bear imprints from Calcutta
and Ibadan. For Heliodorus specifically, Wilhelm Capelle, in a now
notorious article, published just eight years after the final destruc-
tion of National Socialism, constructed a vicious circle by which
9 Whitmarsh 2011; on Heliodorus specifically see 108–35, but the second half of the
book is also studded with Heliodoran jewels.
264 j. r. morgan
racial inferiority explained (supposed) literary weakness and literary

weakness valorised notions of racial inferiority:
Als echter Sophist schmückt sich H. überall mit fremden Federn,

besonders aus Homer und Euripides. Seine Versuche zu tiefsin-
nigen Aphorismen verraten sich dem Kenner ohne Weiteres
als verwässerter Abklatsch von früheren griechischen Autoren.
Obgleich er alle Augenblicke die Gottheit eingreifen läßt, hat er
doch gar kein inneres Verhältnis zur griechischen Religiosität, zu
den griechischen Göttern . . . Was aber den von der klassischen
Antike Herkommenden noch schwerer anstößt: er wirkt oder will
hier und da wirken durch krasseste Wundererzählungen, die ein
echter Grieche niemals geglaubt . . . Aber H. ist eben überhaupt
kein Grieche, sondern ein hellenisierter Syrer aus dem semi-
tischen Emesa. Daraus erklärt sich vieles, auch in seinem Wesen
als Schriftsteller.10
As the ideologies which Classics was once conscripted to authorise

have become less attractive, we deconstruct and reconstruct the
discipline to accommodate it to current orthodoxies, as a necessary
survival strategy, and discover the ancient were liberals, feminists and
pacifists before us. As for Heliodorus, the postcolonial imagination
finds something sympathetic and alluring in the idea of the outsider,
the representative of a subaltern culture coerced into seeing the world
through the eyes of an alien power, reclaiming a distinct identity in
contestation with the dominant cultural power, or at least problema-
tising the conception of a dominant culture in a multicultural world.
If that is what we want to find, we can find it if we look, and not
altogether wrongly. Politically and personally, I am very much on
board with the ideological agendas that drive such a reading, but I
am not convinced that we understand Heliodorus best by making him
one of us, or that, in the last resort, we are helping ourselves by not
making the effort to think outside our own preferences. In the rest of
this chapter, I want to suggest ways in which the Aethiopica might be
better read as an endorsement, assertion and extension of Hellenism.
First, I want to question the assumption that there is a polarity or
tension, real or perceived, between being Greek and being Emesan.
The cities of the eastern empire were deeply Hellenised, and existed
within the envelope of a more or less homogeneous Greek culture.
Local cultural identities and differences certainly existed and were
important, as they always were everywhere, but it may be better to
10 Capelle 1953: 166–7.

think of them as individuated subsets of an overarching, ecumeni-

cal Greekness rather than as in fundamental opposition to it. The
Hellenism of these cities, that is to say, was fully internalised. To stay
within the Greek novels, Achilles Tatius’ hero-narrator Clitophon is
a native of Phoenician Tyre, and there is some play in that novel with
the idea of φοῖνιξ in all its senses,11 but Clitophon shows no sign of
considering himself not-Greek, and every sign of viewing himself as a
product of Greek paideia. He is not ‘othered’ in any way relative to his
Byzantine (and thus echt-Greek) beloved. The novel even constructs
a Hellenocentric narrative structure centred on the coastal cities of
Phoenicia. Lucian is a well-known example of an individual who
acquired Greek paideia personally and consciously; but his Greekness
is nonetheless internalised for being acquired rather than inherited,
and his world-view is entirely Greek.
The novelist Iamblichus, whose Babyloniaca survives only in
Photius’ epitome, supplemented by a couple of fragments and dozens
of citations in the Suda, is a more complicated case. According
to Photius’ summary he presented himself as a Babylonian with a
Greek education,12 but a marginal note in one of the manuscripts of
Photius, apparently written by someone who still had access to the
un-epitomised text of the novel, says that Iamblichus was (as his name
suggests) an autochthonous Syrian, who was taught the Babylonian
language and Babylonian stories by a tutor, and subsequently prac-
tised Greek so as to become a good rhetor.13 The most plausible way
to square these two pieces of evidence is to imagine a text in which an
‘authorial’ Iamblichus, representing himself as by this time imbued
with Greek culture, ‘reported’ a story told to him in his youth by a
fictitious Babylonian. The story is clearly ‘othered’, but it is ‘other’
from a Greek perspective which the ‘author’, ethnically Syrian but
culturally Greek, proclaims himself as sharing without question. The
precise origins of the novelist Iamblichus are not known, but his name
11 It cannot be a coincidence that Achilles’ novel includes extended passages on the

date palm (1.17.2–5), purple dye (2.11.4–8) and the phoenix bird (3.25.1–7), repre-
senting every possible sense of the word.
12 §10, p. 32 Habrich: λέγει δὲ καὶ ἑαυτὸν Βαβυλώνιον εἶναι ὁ συγγραφεύς . . . μαθεῖν δὲ
καὶ τὴν Ἑλληνικὴν παιδείαν.
13 p. 2 Habrich: οὗτος ὁ Ἰάμβλιχος Σύρος ἦν γένος πατρόθεν καὶ μητρόθεν, Σύρος
δὲ οὐχὶ τῶν ἐπῳκηκότων τὴν Συρίαν Ἑλλήνων, ἀλλὰ τῶν αὐτοχθόνων, γλῶσσαν δὲ
Σύραν εἰδὼς καὶ <ἐν> τοῖς ἐκείνων ἔθεσι ζῶν, ἕως αὐτὸν τροφεύς . . . Βαβυλωνίαν τε
γλῶσσαν καὶ ἤθη καὶ λόγους μεταδιδάσκει . . . Ὁ μὲν οὖν Ἰάμβλιχος οὗτος Σύραν τὴν
[καὶ] πάτριον γλῶσσαν εἰδώς, ἐπιμαθῶν [καὶ] τὴν Βαβυλωνίαν, μετὰ ταῦτα καὶ τὴν
Ἕλληνά φησιν ἀσκῆσαι καὶ χρῆσι<ν> λαβεῖν, ὡς ἀγαθὸς ῥήτωρ γένοιτο.
266 j. r. morgan
is attested among the princelings of Emesa.14 There is a good chance

that what he meant by calling himself ‘Syrian’ and what Heliodorus
meant by calling himself ‘Phoenician’ are exactly the same thing.
There is one passage of Heliodorus where there is a separation of
Greek and Phoenician. This is where Calasiris encounters a group of
Phoenician merchants, one of whom has just won the wrestling com-
petition at the Pythian games. They are celebrating a feast in honour
of their local god, Heracles, and some play is made of the fact that
Tyre has been victorious among the Greeks.15 The Phoenicians are
further characterised as ‘outsiders’ by their immediate assumption
that the Egyptian Calasiris is a Greek. This, however, is not an ideo-
logical assertion of Phoenician difference, but merely an element of the
dramatic setting of the story in the sixth–fifth century bce: this group
of Phoenicans represent Phoenicia before the conquests of Alexander,
and thus must be presented as mildly ‘other’ even by an author who
calls himself Phoenician but whose perspective is culturally Greek and
implies a culturally Greek readership.
At the end of his novel Heliodorus defines himself as Emesan by
relation to the cult of the sun. Although the orgiastic version of the
religion introduced to Rome by Elagabalus was easily represented as
barbaric and oriental, both Philostratus and Heliodorus are concerned
to purge the religion of its negative connotations.16 If Heliodorus is
correctly dated in the mid-fourth century,17 he was roughly contem-
porary with the Emperor Julian, who exploits the Emesan religion
as part of his construction of philosophical paganism. Julian’s Hymn
to the King Sun is a difficult and abstruse work of Neo-Platonist
philosophy, whose thought is based on Iamblichus’ conception of a
tripartite kosmos: intelligible, intellectual and visible. Julian refers to
the Emesan cult specifically and to ‘the wise men of the Phoenicians’
(150b, Φοινίκων . . . οἱ λόγιοι) more generally as the source of at least
part of his doctrine. He calls Emesa ‘a place from time immemo-
rial sacred to Helios’ (150c, ἱερὸν ἐξ αἰῶνος Ἡλίου χώριον), citing
Iamblichus ‘from whom I have taken this and all besides’ as his source
for Emesan doctrine. Julian’s complex and abstract version of solar
theology is not reflected in any profound sense in the Aethiopica, so
far as I can see. However, the imagery of light and darkness, white and
black, clings to solar cult, and thus pervades both novel and hymn,
though in different ways. Without arguing for any direct relationship
14 PIR I.7 refers to attestations in Strab. 16.753; Dio 50.13.7; Jos. Ant. Jud.
19.338, 20.139.
15 4.16.6: νικῶσαν τὴν Τύρον ἐν Ἕλλησιν ἀναγορεύσαντος.
16 As argued in Morgan 2009.
17 The arguments are summarised in Morgan [1996] 2003: 417–21.
between the two texts, one can nevertheless find significant conver-
gences of thought and imagery, and occasionally of diction, which
suggest that they were operating within the same cultural matrix. The
crucial point, however, is that Emesan theology, refracted through
Neo-Platonism, was an important element in Julian’s theorising of
classical paganism. Conveniently, Julian’s citation of the philosopher
Iamblichus demonstrates that the integration of Emesan theology
into Hellenism was already taking place in the third century, a period
to which some scholars date the composition of the Aethiopica, and
that the cult had already been successfully purged of the undesirable
elements which had been so prominent in the reign of Elagabalus.
Heliodorus’ distinguishing religion was so profoundly assimilated into
Hellenism that it could become a defining element of a classical pagan-
ism in a binary opposition to a new ‘other’ constituted by the threat
posed by Christianity. Far from connoting marginality and alterity,
Emesa and its cult were firmly at the centre of Hellenism.
The Aethiopica is written in Greek. Heliodorus is a master – an eccen-

tric one, perhaps – of Greek prose style. His discourse is full of rhe-
torical tropes, the language as such broadly Atticist, but deployed with
an exuberant virtuosity that we would associate more intuitively with
Asianist schools. The Greek of the text presupposes a fluently Greek-
speaking readership. We know little about the circulation of the novel
in late antiquity: there is one small papyrus fragment from the sixth
century, but no other evidence for its presence in Egypt.18 It enjoyed
a secure afterlife in Byzantium, however, where its striking opening
phrase was adopted as a cliché for daybreak by imitators of classical
historians, notably Anna Comnena.19 So far as we can descry anything
of the early Nachleben of the Aethiopica, no one seems to have con-
sidered it as anything other than a mainstream classical text, not quite
part of the educational canon, but nonetheless acceptable reading for
those who wished to polish and maintain their classical Greek.
More important is the novel’s rampant intertextuality. Much of
this is well-trodden ground, and can be summarily stated here, though
much remains to be investigated and interpreted. The point is that
Heliodorus touches pretty well all the intertextual bases with classical
literature. The novel’s macro-structure mimics that of the Odyssey,
beginning in mediis rebus, and filling in the earlier parts of the story
18 Gronewald 1979.
19 Alexiad 1.9.2, 8.5.4. The TLG turns up ten other occurrences of the phrase ἡμέρας
ἄρτι διαγελώσης from Byzantine writers, not counting those who are quoting
Heliodorus. For the reception of the Aethiopica in Byzantium, see Gärtner 1969.
268 j. r. morgan
through embedded secondary narratives by characters. Calasiris’ nar-

rative occupies much the same position in the structure of the whole
as does that of Odysseus, concluding at almost exactly the half-way
point of the text. Calasiris, moreover, is a narrator of Odyssean guile,
who introduces his narration with a quotation from the beginning
of Odysseus’ narration in Scheria (2.21.5, Ἰλιόθεν με φέρεις) and, lest
we miss the point, is visited by a dream of Odysseus while staying
in Zakynthos (5.22.1–3). Specific Odyssean episodes are also clearly
evoked: a scene of necromancy is introduced, for example, by close
verbal reference to the rites performed by Odysseus in Book 11, pro-
ducing a correspondence to the epic Nekyia (6.14.3–4, evoking Od.
11.24 ff.). Charicleia’s ten-year sojourn at and escape from Delphi cor-
respond to Odysseus’ detention by Calypso, and his release; in both
cases shipwreck ensues. The imprisonment of the two lovers in the
palace of the nymphomaniac wife of the Persian satrap suggests the
Circe episode, but the fact that one of the main threats has problems
with his eyesight also indicates that this sequence is playing the struc-
tural role of the Cyclops and his cave, with Arsace’s voracious sexual
appetite substituting for Polyphemus’ taste for human flesh, and even
running to an episode where Theagenes plies their captor with wine at
a feast, leading to her erotic intoxication (7.27). The Cyclops is also
figured in the two pirate figures Trachinus and Pelorus (whose names
mean ‘Cruel’ and ‘Monster’); the latter’s name is also a direct allusion
to Homer’s use of πέλωρ and πελώριος to describe the Cyclops.20 The
whole of Charicleia’s story is shaped like an Odyssean nostos, and cul-
minates with a recognition scene with her father. Theagenes, the hero,
combines the two Homeric heroes. He is introduced with a compari-
son to Achilles, from whom he claims descent (2.35.1), and like whom
he is a swift runner; he also bears a scar acquired while hunting boar,
which is posited, though never used, as a means of recognition (5.5.2).
Tragedy is equally a presence. Thomas Paulsen has traced how
characters can be affiliated with tragic and epic generic markers as
part of their characterisation.21 The confrontation between Calasiris’
two sons outside the walls of Memphis (7.4–7) is equated both to
the combat between Achilles and Hector in the Iliad (they run three
times around the circuit of the city wall) and to that of Oedipus’ sons
Eteocles and Polynices at Thebes. The very ending of the novel com-
bines motifs from Euripides’ two Iphigenia plays: first as the heroine
faces human sacrifice at her father’s hands, and second where she
is recognised at the ends of the earth, and threatens for a moment,
20 Hom. Od. 9.428; 9.187, 190.

21 Paulsen 1992.
as priestess, to carry out the sacrifice of her beloved (whom she has
repeatedly pretended is her brother). The action is underpinned by
recurring metatheatrical imagery, comparing the action to the tragic
stage, both as an act of literary self-positioning, and as self-reflexive
commentary on the quality of the invention.22 The numerous laments
of the two protagonists are repeatedly characterised explicitly as tragic
utterances, through the use of verbs like ἐπιτραγῳδέω (1.3.2, 2.29.4,
7.6.4, 7.14.7).
Aristophanic Old Comedy understandably has less of a place in this
galaxy, but Menandrian New Comedy is represented in the story of
Cnemon, himself the bearer of an archetypally New Comic name.23
The comic intrigue with the slave girl Thisbe plays with a Hippolytan
characterisation for Cnemon, but in the end categorises him where his
name has already positioned him, as a lower-level comic character.
I like to toy with the idea that Heliodorus intends us to identify his
Cnemon as the younger self of the grumpy old man of the Dyscolus.
The picture of Athens thus constructed is admittedly not a favourable
one, but it is constructed entirely from within the classical tradition.
Classical prose genres are equally present in the mix. Historiography
provides much of the furniture of the setting. We may even be encour-
aged to see in the just Ethiopian king Hydaspes the very Ethiopian
king who saw through the spies sent by Cambyses in Herodotus.24
Certainly, the construction of Ethiopia presented in the novel is
heavily reliant on classical traditions, from Herodotus onwards,
and has little or nothing to do with the actual Meroitic civilisation,
except as filtered to Heliodorus through earlier Greek writing.25 The
Platonism of the novel has not been fully explored but the whole
story has a pattern based on the myth of the soul in the Phaedrus. The
soul’s fall into the material world and its return to the gods through
the power of spiritual, non-carnal love is rewritten in Charicleia’s
exile from Ethiopia in infancy and her return thither in the company
of her preternaturally self-restrained beloved. The final ceremony
that closes the novel is graced with Phaedran white horses and oxen
pulling chaste chariots towards a summation too holy for the text to
speak of openly. The scene of the protagonists’ inamoration (3.5.5) is
shot through with the Platonic idea that love is a memory of the soul’s
pre-natal existence. Meriel Jones has demonstrated that the antithesis
22 First noted by Walden 1894; more recently see Marino 1990; Montes Cala
1992.
23 Bowie 1995 explores the connotations.
24 Suggested by Elmer 2008.
25 Morgan 1982; for a more positivist view of Heliodorus’ knowledge of
Meroitic Ethiopia, see Hägg [2000] 2004.
270 j. r. morgan
of heavenly and pandemic love from the Symposium is fundamental

to Heliodorus’ thought-world, and specifically and programmatically
echoed in Calasiris’ distinction between the two kinds of Egyptian
wisdom (3.16).26 Let us add that the scene in the Egyptian cave, where
Charicleia’s identity is confused with that of Thisbe, obviously plays
with the myth of the cave from the Republic, where appearance and
reality are equally at issue. And lest we miss this, Heliodorus plays
around with the word φαιδρός in the context.27
One could go on, but it should be abundantly clear that the novel is
obsessively and deliberately self-positioned within the classical literary
tradition. We can phrase this in two ways. First and positively, it is an
assertion of the text’s Hellenism, an appropriation and revalidation
of virtually the whole of the classical literary tradition, a last gesture
of pride and defiance and education as the forces of darkness and
fanaticism come knocking at the fourth-century door. Second and
negatively, I can find nothing in this text which cannot be explained in
terms precisely of the literary tradition. I phrase this observation care-
fully. Scholarship on the novels was long obsessed with the question of
origins. A recurrent move in this game has been to look to other cul-
tures, particularly Egypt, either for the germs of the genre as a whole,
or for the ‘original’ of a particular novel.28 This is an ideologically
attractive position from two perspectives. First, from a Eurocentric,
‘right-wing’ view, it preserved the classical purity of Hellenism by
allowing ‘inferior’ literature to be unloaded on to ‘inferior’ cultures
and races: the Capelle gambit. Alternatively, from a liberal, postco-
lonial position, and with a more positive prejudice about the literary
quality of the novels, it allows the achievements of Hellenism to be
reapportioned to non-European sources: the Black Athena move.
It is no doubt true that in the Roman Empire there were continu-
ing and subtle exchanges between local and central cultures. We have
fragments of Egyptian narratives translated into Greek, and some of
the papyrus fragments of what we call Greek novels appear to have
a particularly local (i.e., Egyptian) centre of interest.29 The problem
26 Jones 2006.
27 Morgan 2012: 573–6.
28 Modern scholarship on the Greek novel begins with Rohde [1876] 1914,
still immensely authoritative. Barns 1956 is often cited in connection with the
supposed Egyptian origins of the novel, but is disappointingly thin when actually
read. The apogee of this tendency came with Anderson 1984.
29 In the first category come the Dream of Nektanebos (P.d’Anastasy [Leiden] 67 =
Pack²2476), and the Legend of Tefnut (P.Lit.Lond.274 = Pack²2618). In the second
are the Sesonchosis Romance (P.Oxy.1826, 2466, 3319 = Stephens and Winkler
1995: 246–66); P.Mich.inv. 3378 (= Stephens and Winkler 1995: 422–9), which S.
comes if we try to push the idea to specific cases, as for example Ian
Rutherford has tried, unconvincingly, to do with Heliodorus.30 It is
not difficult to find similarities, but that is not enough: we need to dis-
criminate methodologically between significant and insignificant simi-
larities, between resemblance and connection, and between remote
connection and immediate connection; by which I mean to reserve
the possibility of oriental influence at some earlier stage of the Greek
cultural tradition being transmitted within the Greek tradition itself.
We must also be alive to the possibility in the case of the Greek novels
at least of influence running in the other direction, so that similarities
might be explained by the migration of Greek novels into other narra-
tive traditions. We know this happened in the case of the fragmentary
romance of Metiochus and Parthenope, which has turned up in a
Persian version; and I suspect it happened with several of the stories in
the Arabian Nights.31 All that said, I repeat that I have not yet encoun-
tered any single piece of evidence or any argument that convinces me
either that the Greek novel is a basically oriental form that has been
brought over into Greek, or that any particular novelist had direct
access to and input from non-Greek narrative traditions. This line of
enquiry seems to me to be a dead end, and I want to conclude with yet
another approach to Heliodorus and Hellenism.
Is there a sense in which we can read this novel not as the product
of an outsider contesting Hellenism, but as that of a fully Hellenised
but not racially Greek person articulating an alternative, Helleno-
centrifugal perspective from inside the Greek literary tradition, one
that requires or enables his Greek readers to look at the world from a
different vantage point? To begin with, we should question the notion
of race in a question formulated like this. To be Greek was essentially
to speak Greek, and to think like a Greek. Heliodorus the Arab, whom
I do not believe to be the same person as our novelist (though there
are those who do), is listed by Philostratus among the leading sophists
of his time, with no issue about his race arising.32 We must not allow
ourselves to be misled by, for instance, analogy with the position of an
educated Indian under the British Raj, conscripted into the dominant
culture but simultaneously irrevocably ‘othered’ within it.
Heliodorus is certainly interested in what it means to be truly Greek.
When Calasiris introduces the hero Theagenes into his narrative for
the first time, it is as the leader of the sacred mission of the Aenianes:
West 1971: 95–6 connects with Demotic Egyptian analogues; Tinouphis (P.Turner
8 = (Stephens and Winkler 1995: 400–8); Amenophis (P.Oxy.3011).
30 I. Rutherford 1997.
31 On Metiochus and Parthenope, Hägg and Utas 2003 is definitive.
32 Philostr. Vit. Soph. 2.32.625–7.
272 j. r. morgan
οἱ μὲν Αἰνιᾶνες . . . Θετταλικῆς ἐστι μοίρας τὸ εὐγενέστατον καὶ

ἀκριβῶς Ἑλληνικὸν ἀφ’ Ἕλληνος τοῦ Δευκαλίωνος . . .
In the whole of the province of Thessaly, there are none of more

noble ancestry than they. They are Hellenes in the truest sense
of the word, for they trace their descent from Hellen, the son of
Deucalion . . . (2.24.2)
The discussion goes on to question Theagenes’ claim to be descended

from Achilles, who is said by Homer to originate from Phthia, but the
Aenianes claim to inhabit the real Phthia, other areas having usurped
the name in order to make a false claim on Achilles. Details are further
compounded: so Theagenes also traces his descent back to Aeacus,
Achilles’ grandfather,
by citing as an ancestor Menesthius, Spercheius’ son by Polydora,

the daughter of Peleus – the same Menesthius who was one of the
foremost of Achilles’ companions in the expedition against Troy
and commanded the first brigade of the Myrmidons by virtue of
his kinship with Achilles. (2.34.6)
When Theagenes is shown in, we are given a portrait of him full

of physiognomical details which are taken to confirm the verac-
ity of his claim to be descended from Achilles. The novel’s hero
is thus set up to be as Greek as it is possible to be, and a sort of
canon by which other Hellenisms may be measured. Cnemon the
Athenian, for example, is equally a Greek, but his city and the
values which it is made to represent are presented as inferior. We
might read Theagenes’ story as an assertion and reinforcement of
his Greekness in alien places, just as Herodotus’ enterprise is really
about taking his Greekness abroad in order to understand it better.
So in the Persian court in occupied Egypt, the Persians are pre-
sented as archetypally decadent, voluptuous, luxurious, all of which
negativities Theagenes surmounts. In an iconic scene he is presented
to the sister of the Great King, the satrap’s wife Arsace by her
eunuchs:
They explained how he should behave on being presented to

Arsace and how he should address her, adding that it was cus-
tomary to abase oneself (προσκυνεῖν) on entering her presence.
Theagenes said not a word, but when he entered and found her
enthroned on high, resplendent in a gown of purple shot with
gold, flaunting the conspicuous value of her jewellery and the
majesty of her crown, her bodily charms accentuated by all the

means at the disposal of cosmetic art, with her bodyguard flank-
ing the throne and her noble counsellors sitting in state on either
side of her, he was nothing daunted. . . . the hollow pomp and
show of Persia (τὸ ἀλαζονικὸν τῆς Περσικῆς θέας) served merely
to strengthen his indomitable spirit. He neither knelt nor abased
himself, but with his head held high, he said, ‘Greetings to you,
Arsace, lady of the blood royal.’
The court was outraged and muttered menaces against
Theagenes for his failure to prostrate himself, calling him an
insolent upstart, but Arsace said, ‘You must forgive him. He is a
stranger and does not know our ways. He is every inch a Greek
(τὸ ὅλον Ἕλληνι) and is afflicted with the scorn that all Greeks feel
for us.’ (7.19.1–2)
It is hard to imagine a more explicit assertion of Greek moral and

cultural superiority. This behaviour marks all of Theagenes’ time in
the palace: he resists Arsace’s attempts to seduce him; when forced to
wait on her table he does so without servility but with more panache
than the Persians bred to the task can manage; and when taken to
her dungeons to be tortured into submission, he resists all physical
pain, and prefers death to the loss of his sōphrosynē. Throughout this
episode the Persians are very obviously constructed as ‘other’ along
lines which we can trace back to Herodotus. The focalisation of the
passage is significant. The ‘other’ is focalised through the Greek eyes
of Theagenes, with morally loaded descriptions of Persian wealth and
ostentation, but equally the Greek is focalised through the eyes of the
‘other’. However, this does not mean that the reader is forced to look
at Greekness through genuinely alien eyes, or to adopt imaginatively
the perspective of the ‘other’. Rather the focalisation by the ‘other’
conforms exactly to Greek expectations of what it should be, and
reinforces the ‘otherness’ of the Persians and the Greekness of the
Greek.
The way that the Persians are handled is reasonably straightfor-
ward, but the presentation of the other main ethnicities in the novel,
Egyptian and Ethiopian, is more elusive and complex. Calasiris,
rightly, has occupied centre stage in scholarship. He is markedly
Egyptian, and viewed as such by Greek characters in the novel, who
turn to him for non-Greek sources of assistance, such as Egyptian
magic: Charicles to overcome his daughter’s commitment to virginity,
and Theagenes for help in winning Charicleia’s love. To non-Greeks,
however, he appears as a Greek: we have seen the reception given to
him by the Tyrians at Delphi; and even Cnemon at first sight takes him
274 j. r. morgan
for a Greek by reason of his dress.33 His so-called Egyptian wisdom

turns out to be nothing of the kind: he can discourse on the causes of
the Nile flood (2.28.2–5, referring to what is recorded in sacred texts),
about the evil eye and the species of plover that can cure jaundice
(3.7–8, again sourced to sacred texts); but all he does is restate familiar
Greek material, in the latter case with marked verbal similarity to
Plutarch’s account of the same phenomena.34 And although he can
comment ironically on the Greek fascination with all things Egyptian
(2.27.3), and act up to Greek perceptions of the Egyptian magician,
his heavily focalised descriptions of Greek ceremonial at Delphi do
not offer an outsider’s view. In fact, they are greeted rapturously as
wholly authentic by his narrowly Greek narratee Cnemon. At the
heart of his deepest doctrine, as we have seen, lies an archetypal and
familiar Platonic idea. Despite some cosmetic alterity, Calasiris is in
essence a Greek in fancy dress, and the Odyssean aspect of his charac-
terisation is more importantly equivocal than the alien.
The Ethiopian finale of the novel and the Ethiopian origins of
its heroine are central to the argument for the novel’s Helleno-
centrifugality. Whitmarsh covers this in some detail, and draws
attention to ‘what Spivak calls an abyssal specular alterity, the
self othering the other indefinitely. A Greek text reads Ethiopians
reading themselves as Greeks would: Ethiopia is not so much an
absolute other as a space where mimicry and inversion tradition-
ally ingrained in Greek representations of the other are played out
to lurid effect.’35 Heliodorus’ representation of Ethiopia is certainly
constructed entirely out of the kit of parts provided by the classical
tradition; there is nothing authentic about it, except in so far as the
tradition inherited by Heliodorus contained authentic elements. But
despite the markers of cultural primitivism attached to it, I am not
convinced that it represents an alterity, specular or otherwise. The
presence in Ethiopia of Gymnosophists or naked sages is telling:
although the Ethiopian Gymnosophists came to Heliodorus from
Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius, the long tradition of encounters of
Indian Gymnosophists with Alexander the Great is also operative
in Heliodorus’ representation. Invariably they defeat the tyrant with
their wisdom. This is an example of a recurrent cultural trope in
Greek ethical anthropology, whereby allegedly ‘primitive’ peoples at
33 2.21.2: στολὴ καὶ ἐσθὴς ἡ ἄλλη πρὸς τὸ ἑλληνικώτερον βλέπουσα (‘his cloak and
the rest of his clothes were of a Greekish appearance’). This description is clearly
focalised through Cnemon, but the exact force of the comparative ἑλληνικώτερον
is not clear.
34 Capelle 1953; Dickie 1991.
35 Whitmarsh 2011: 124.
geographical extremities turn out to be more truly Greek – in the sense

of articulating irrefutable Greek cultural values – than the corrupt or
deviant Greek who confronts them. This is a variant of utopian think-
ing that projects ideals on to an imaginary realm beyond the Ocean.
It is a device to give one’s own cultural values the authority of uni-
versality by de-culturing them, so that they can be re-imported with
that added authority. Geographical sub-Saharan Ethiopia existed
in real space, but the role of mythical Ethiopia, occupying a shifting
and indeterminate location to the east and south, as a repository of
unquestionably correct values runs throughout its representation in
classical literature from Herodotus, arguably from Homer, onwards.
Some markers of ‘otherness’, such as the bamboo architecture of
the novel’s closing sequence (10.6.2), are no more than superficially
exotic decor, while elements of negative primitiveness, such as the
practice of human sacrifice or the barbaric Ethiopian wrestler, enable
narrativity towards the resolution: if perfection always already exists,
there can be no story of how it comes to be. Nowhere in the final book
are we offered a critique of Hellenism through ‘other’ eyes, and the
final gestures are of assimilation and congruence rather than opposi-
tion and alterity. As with the Persians, the focalisation confirms rather
than challenges the norms of Greek culture, and arises entirely from
within it. The flight from the centre, which we took to be a sign of an
alternative cultural cartography, turns out to be a flight to the centre,
or rather to a centre now more truly the centre than the centre itself, a
true Greece beyond the south, to be governed in future by the super-
Greek Theagenes within a fully Hellenic framework of values and
culture.
Let us finally return to the end of the novel itself. Heliodorus identi-
fies himself as a Phoenician from Emesa, and we have seen that there
are good reasons to think of the fictional representation of Ethiopia
as a displaced cipher for Emesa. We have also seen that Emesa and
its solar religion had by the fourth century come to constitute a philo-
sophical centre for classical paganism in opposition to Christianity. If
there is any force in the argument I have advanced, then the cultural
folding together at the end of the novel must include Emesa also, and
affirm its place as the centre of true Greekness, defined not racially but
culturally, linguistically and ethically, not as a centre of opposition to
a narrow geographically and ethnically defined Hellenism.
Heliodorus here calls himself a Phoenician: phoinix. Ewen Bowie
has traced this word through the novel in all its senses: as Phoenician,
phoenix sun-bird and palm tree.36 But is it perverse to see, in a novel
36 Bowie 1998.
276 j. r. morgan
whose hero is so clearly configured as Achilles redivivus, an intertex-

tual nod towards the figure of Phoenix in the Iliad, tutor and father-
figure to Achilles, as Heliodorus is the creator and director of Achilles’
descendant. After all, it is Theagenes’ name, not Charicleia’s, that
is punningly alluded to in the novel’s colophon and identified with
Heliodorus himself: τῶν ἀφ’ Ἡλίου γένος Θεοδοσίου παῖς Ἡλιόδωρος
. . .
My argument has been that Heliodorus’ origins in Emesa are no

impediment to his Hellenism, and indeed in a fourth-century context
can be read as an assertion of it; that the novel itself is configured
entirely within the classical tradition, and indeed presents itself as
the final flowering of that tradition; and that the novel’s ideology is
not one of contestation of Hellenism, or seeing it from non-Hellenic
perspectives, but one of a reaffirmation of the truest Hellenism, rep-
resented by its super-Greek hero and validated by its relocation to the
‘natural’ values of a fictional Ethiopia, assimilated to Emesa.
PART III
BEYOND GREECE
14
LIVY READING POLYBIUS: ADAPTING

GREEK NARRATIVE TO ROMAN
HISTORY
Dennis Pausch
HISTORICAL NARRATIVE AND THE TASK OF THE READER

For as long as I have studied ancient historiography, one aspect in
particular has been especially fascinating to me: the continual concern
of many authors about their readers and the potential effect their nar-
ratives have on them. Or, to be more precise: what am I to do, how
am I to write, in order to prevent the reader from becoming bored
and – horribile dictu – from putting down the scroll and quitting com-
munication with the author altogether.
Dealing with the reader in antiquity is, needless to say, always
tricky, because our knowledge is far from sufficient to take an empiri-
cal approach towards these phenomena.1 One way out consists in
the statements ancient historians make about this topic, since we
can suppose with some confidence that they have been readers them-
selves too, at least from time to time. Some of them even try to take
the perspective of their own readers, thus creating a kind of implied
counterpart, as for instance Livy does in his tenth book:
supersunt etiam nunc Samnitium bella, quae continua per

quartum iam volumen annumque sextum et quadragesimum
a M. Valerio A. Cornelio consulibus, qui primi Samnio arma
intulerunt, agimus; et ne tot annorum clades utriusque gentis
laboresque actos nunc referam, quibus nequiuerint tamen dura
illa pectora vinci, . . . [14] tamen bello non abstinebat. adeo ne
I wish to thank the audience at the Leventis conference for a helpful discussion
and especially Calum Maciver for doing his very best to rescue my English from as
many mistakes as possible.
1 For the ancient scholia as an important source of information about the reactions
of readers to poetic texts see Nünlist 2009, esp. 135–6, and his contribution in the
present volume.
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infeliciter quidem defensae libertatis taedebat et vinci quam

non temptare victoriam malebant. quinam sit ille, quem pigeat
longinquitatis bellorum scribendo legendoque, quae gerentes non
fatigaverunt?
There are more Samnite wars still to come, though we have dealt
with them continuously throughout four books, covering a period
of forty-six years, from the consulship of Marcus Valerius and
Aulus Cornelius, who were the first that made war on Samnium;
and – not to go over now the disasters sustained in so many years
on either side and the toils endured, by which nevertheless those
sturdy hearts could not be daunted, . . . [14] yet would they not
abstain from war; so far were they from wearying of a liberty
which they had unsuccessfully defended, preferring rather to be
conquered than not to try for victory. Who, pray, could grudge
the time for writing or reading of these wars, when they could not
exhaust the men who fought them?2
I shall come back later to this attempt at transforming the very act
of reading into a heroic effort as perhaps something very Roman,
but shall start by taking a step back to Polybius, another author
who reflects quite a lot about his recipients. In fact, we should go
even further, back to the fragmentarily preserved writers of the early
Hellenistic period, since there began at that time the emergence of the
reader as an important benchmark of historiographical writing and
the idea that he should in some way actively engage with the text.3
But this would be another chapter in itself. Instead, I shall focus
on how this ‘historiography 2.0’ was adopted by Roman writers.
And I shall further confine myself to the two most obvious examples:
Polybius on the one hand, who actually brought Hellenistic histo-
riography to Rome in the flesh, so to speak, even if not completely
by his own choice, and on the other hand Livy, although I am aware
of the significant chronological difference between the two authors.
Admittedly, this creates a problem in terms of influence, which
is unsolvable in the end, as the histories of, for instance, Coelius
Antipater or Claudius Quadrigarius are regrettably lost to us today.
This may be part of the reason, too, why Polybius’ methodological
impact on Roman historiography has never been studied in detail,
though it must have been significant.4
2 Livy 10.31.10–15 (trans. Foster).

3 For a short discussion see Pausch 2011: 55–7 (with further references).
4 But see the useful remarks made by Davidson 2009.
livy reading polybius: adapting greek narrative 281
Another objection one may perhaps want to raise is that Polybius is

not exactly known for his readability, even in antiquity, as Dionysius’
famous verdict, that no one was able to get to the end of his
work, shows.5 Yet we have to take into account the usual polemic
between two classical historians here.6 And then there is sometimes
a certain discrepancy between intention and outcome, especially
when it comes to readability (as this chapter, I hope, will fail to
demonstrate).
It is, nevertheless, possible to take Polybius as a starting point and
as an example of how the task of the reader had been constructed in
Hellenistic historiography. In a second stage, I shall try to sketch what
Livy may have learnt from reading Polybius. In doing so, part of my
assumption will be that Livy indeed studied Polybius in a methodo-
logical way – as one who took the writing of history at Rome to a new
level – and did not content himself with copying his text as a source
for any particular section of his work.7 The other part of my argument
will be to attempt to understand the differences that emerge by com-
paring the solutions both writers preferred as adaptations of a Greek
way of narrating history to the contemporary Roman context Livy is
writing in, and by so doing I thus hope to contribute something to the
main topic of this collection.
5 See Dion. Hal. de comp. Verb. 4.30:

τοιγάρτοι τοιαύτας συντάξεις κατέλιπον οἵας οὐδεὶς ὑπομένει μέχρι κορωνίδος
διελθεῖν, Φύλαρχον λέγω καὶ Δοῦριν καὶ Πολύβιον καὶ Ψάωνα καὶ τὸν
Καλλατιανὸν Δημήτριον Ἱερώνυμόν τε καὶ Ἀντίγονον καὶ Ἡρακλείδην καὶ
Ἡγησιάνακτα καὶ ἄλλους μυρίους· ὧν ἁπάντων εἰ τὰ ὀνόματα βουλοίμην λέγειν,
‘ἐπιλείψει με’ ὁ τῆς ἡμέρας χρόνος.
Consequently they have left behind them compilations such as no one can bear
to read to the final flourish of the pen: I refer to such men as Phylarchus, Duris,
Polybius, Psaon, Demetrius of Callatis, Hieronymus, Antigonus, Heraclides,
Hegesianax and countless others. The space of a whole day ‘will not be suffi-
cient for me’ to recite the names of all of them, if I should wish to do so. (trans.
Usher)
6 For the important part played by the polemic against predecessors in ancient
historians’ construction of their own authority see Marincola 1997: 217–36.
7 To describe the relation between Livy and Polybius in terms of source criticism
had been an important field of study in the last decades (see, e.g., Tränkle 1977;
Burck 1992: 35–49; Briscoe 1993); more recently it has been argued that Livy
is consciously drawing the attention of his readers to the variations between
his account and those of his predecessors (see above all Levene 2010: 126–63;
Polleichtner 2010).
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LIVY READING POLYBIUS REFLECTING ABOUT HIS

READERS
Polybius’ concern for his reader8 becomes most obvious in the proem
to Book 9, where he makes out different types of possible recipients of
his work along with their actual interests:
οὐκ ἀγνοῶ δὲ διότι συμβαίνει τὴν πραγματείαν ἡμῶν ἔχειν αὐστηρόν

τι καὶ πρὸς ἓν γένος ἀκροατῶν οἰκειοῦσθαι καὶ κρίνεσθαι διὰ τὸ
μονοειδὲς τῆς συντάξεως. οἱ μὲν γὰρ ἄλλοι συγγραφεῖς σχεδὸν
ἅπαντες, εἰ δὲ μή γ’, οἱ πλείους, πᾶσι τοῖς τῆς ἱστορίας μέρεσι
χρώμενοι πολλοὺς ἐφέλκονται πρὸς ἔντευξιν τῶν ὑπομνημάτων.
τὸν μὲν γὰρ φιλήκοον ὁ γενεαλογικὸς τρόπος ἐπισπᾶται, τὸν δὲ
πολυπράγμονα καὶ περιττὸν ὁ περὶ τὰς ἀποικίας καὶ κτίσεις καὶ
συγγενείας, καθά που καὶ παρ’ Ἐφόρῳ λέγεται, τὸν δὲ πολιτικὸν
ὁ περὶ τὰς πράξεις τῶν ἐθνῶν καὶ πόλεων καὶ δυναστῶν. ἐφ’ ὃν
ἡμεῖς ψιλῶς κατηντηκότες καὶ περὶ τοῦτον πεποιημένοι τὴν ὅλην
τάξιν, πρὸς ἓν μέν τι γένος, ὡς προεῖπον, οἰκείως ἡρμόσμεθα, τῷ δὲ
πλείονι μέρει τῶν ἀκροατῶν ἀψυχαγώγητον παρεσκευάκαμεν τὴν
ἀνάγνωσιν.
I am not unaware that my work owing to the uniformity of its

composition has a certain severity, and will suit the taste and
gain the approval of only one class of reader. For nearly all
other writers, or at least most of them, by dealing with every
branch of history, attract many kinds of people to the perusal
of their works. The genealogical side appeals to those who are
fond of a story, and the account of colonies, the foundation of
cities, and their ties of kindred, such as we find, for instance, in
Ephorus, attracts the curious and lovers of recondite lore, while
the student of politics is interested in the doings of nations, cities,
and monarchs. As I have confined my attention strictly to these
last matters and as my whole work treats of nothing else, it is, as
I say, adapted only to one sort of reader, and its perusal will have
no attractions for the larger number.9
Admittedly, this looks not only like a justification for his idea of
πραγματικὴ ἱστορία together with its focus on the political and military
8 See, e.g., Sacks 1981, esp. 7–8: ‘Even within the historical narrative proper, it is
clear that he has one eye turned toward his readers’; Marincola 2001: 133–4; Rood
2004b: 157–60; Näf 2010: 185–7.
9 Plb. 9.1.2–5 (trans. Paton, as in the following).
aspects of the contemporary history,10 but also like an attempt to

anticipate the criticism offered by Dionysius some years later.
But when we leave the matters of content aside and look for pas-
sages dealing with readability in more linguistic terms, what comes
into one’s mind first of all is Polybius’ quarrels with his predecessors
about how much stylistic embellishment a historical account should
have. His views on this topic are not too consistent and always become
especially harsh when it comes to Phylarchus or any other exponent
of what has been labelled as tragic historiography.11 We find a good
example, nevertheless, for the more liberal opinion put forward by
him in several passages in the critical review of Zenon of Rhodes in
Book 16 (I quote just the first sentence):
ἐγὼ δὲ φημὶ μὲν δεῖν πρόνοιαν ποιεῖσθαι καὶ σπουδάζειν ὑπὲρ τοῦ
δεόντως ἐξαγγέλλειν τὰς πράξεις – δῆλον γὰρ ὡς οὐ μικρά, μεγάλα
δὲ συμβάλλεται τοῦτο πρὸς τὴν ἱστορίαν – οὐ μὴν ἡγεμονικώτατόν
γε καὶ πρῶτον αὐτὸ παρὰ τοῖς μετρίοις ἀνδράσι τίθεσθαι· πολλοῦ γε
δεῖν· ἄλλα γὰρ ἂν εἴη καλλίω μέρη τῆς ἱστορίας, ἐφ’ οἷς ἂν μᾶλλον
σεμνυνθείη πολιτικὸς ἀνήρ.
My own opinion is that we should indeed bestow care and

concern on the proper manner of reporting events – for it is
evident that this is no small thing but greatly contributes to the
value of history – but we should not regard this as the first and
leading object to be aimed at by sober-minded men.12
We cannot deal with Polybius’ general opinions in greater depth here

– even the often-noted discrepancy between his outright condemna-
tion of dramatic elements in theory and their frequent employment
in practice would effectively rule out any possibility of reaching
Livy before the end of this chapter.13 Instead, I shall focus on three
elements of perhaps minor and rather mixed range: starting with
something that looks like a very specific problem for Polybius at the
start, the use of the first person in the historical narrative, I shall then
proceed to summaries prefixed to the individual books and how they
10 See, e.g., Walbank 1993; Marincola 1997: 24–5, 2001: 121–2.

11 See esp. Plb. 2.56.1–13 (Phylarchus); Plb. 3.47.6–48.12 (previous historians on
Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps); cf. further Meister 1975: 93–126; Marincola
2001: 135.
12 Plb. 16.17.9–11.
13 See, e.g., d’Huys 1987: 224–31; Walbank 1990: 260–3; Marincola 2003: 293–302,
who is able to show that Polybius is not averse to raising emotions in general, but
argues against the deployment of this device in the wrong places and at the cost of
historical accuracy.
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can be employed to make the reader more attentive; and eventually I

shall reach the arrangement of the historical events according to time
and space and the question of how the reader should orientate himself
within this macro-structure of the text.
Talking about Oneself

Narratology has proved to be one of the most useful tools for the
study of ancient historiography within the last few decades. Yet
certain problems remain, as some of the clear-cut distinctions devel-
oped to analyse fictional literature of our time turned out to be much
more difficult to make in this particularly historiographical context.
One of these remaining problems is the idea that the narrator becomes
involved as a historical figure in the very story which he himself nar-
rates, and thus draws attention to the identity of this historical person,
the author and the narrator within the same story – entities who, for
good reason, usually dwell in separate worlds.14 That all participants
in this collision – or metalepsis, to use the more technical term – can
feel somewhat uneasy is the impression one receives from a passage
surviving among the fragments of Book 36, containing the period of
the Third Punic War and thus the events not only witnessed by the
historian, but also – to some extent – actively shaped by him:
οὐ χρὴ δὲ θαυμάζειν ἐὰν ποτὲ μὲν τῷ κυρίῳ σημαίνωμεν αὑτοὺς

ὀνόματι, ποτὲ δὲ ταῖς κοιναῖς ἐμφάσεσιν, οἷον οὕτως “ἐμοῦ δὲ ταῦτ’
εἰπόντος” καὶ πάλιν “ἡμῶν δὲ συγκαταθεμένων.” ἐπὶ πολὺ γὰρ
ἐμπεπλεγμένων ἡμῶν εἰς τὰς μετὰ ταῦτα μελλούσας ἱστορεῖσθαι
πράξεις, ἀναγκαῖόν ἐστι μεταλαμβάνειν τὰς περὶ αὑτῶν σημασίας, ἵνα
μήτε τοὔνομα συνεχῶς προφερόμενοι προσκόπτωμεν ταυτολογοῦντες
μήτε πάλιν “ἐμοῦ” καὶ ‘”δι’ ἐμέ” παρ’ ἕκαστον λέγοντες λάθωμεν εἰς
φορτικὴν διάθεσιν ἐμπίπτοντες, ἀλλὰ συγχρώμενοι πᾶσι τούτοις
καὶ μεταλαμβάνοντες ἀεὶ τὸ τῷ καιρῷ πρέπον ἐφ’ ὅσον οἷόν τε
διαφεύγωμεν τὸ λίαν ἐπαχθὲς τῆς περὶ αὑτῶν λαλιᾶς, ἐπειδὴ φύσει
μὲν ἀπρόσδεκτός ἐστιν ὁ τοιοῦτος λόγος, ἀναγκαῖος δ’ὑπάρχει
πολλάκις, ὅταν μὴ δυνατὸν ἄλλως ᾖ δηλῶσαι τὸ προκείμενον. γέγονε
δέ τι πρὸς τοῦτο τὸ μέρος ἡμῖν οἷον ἐκ ταὐτομάτου συνέργημα
τὸ μηδένα μέχρι γε τῶν καθ’ ἡμᾶς καιρῶν ταὐτὸν ἡμῖν ὄνομα
κεκληρονομηκέναι κυρίως, ὅσον γε καὶ ἡμᾶς εἰδέναι.
It should cause no surprise if at times I use my proper name in

speaking of myself, and elsewhere use general expressions such
14 For modern factual texts see above all Genette 1990; Cohn 1999: 109–31; for an
outline of the problems attached to ancient historiography see De Jong 2004.
‘after I had said this’ or again, ‘and when I agreed to this.’ For as
I was personally much involved in the events I am now about to
chronicle, I am compelled to change the phrases when alluding
to myself, so that I may neither offend by the frequent repetition
of my name, nor again by constantly saying ‘when I’ or ‘for me’
fall unintentionally into an ill-mannered habit of speech. What
I wish is by using these modes of expression alternately and in
their proper place to avoid as far as possible the offence that
lies in speaking constantly about oneself, as such personal refer-
ences are naturally unwelcome, but are often necessary when the
matter cannot be stated clearly without them. Luckily I have been
assisted in this matter by the fortuitous fact that no one as far as I
know, up to the time in which I live at least, has received from his
parents the same proper name as my own.15
Of course, you can say that this passage is about nothing more than
Plutarch’s ‘How to praise oneself inoffensively’.16 I think, however,
there is a more general point to it, even more general than the question
of how a historian should present himself as part of the action, in the
context of which the passage is usually compared to the locus classicus
in Thucydides’ fourth book.17 Seen in a broader context, though, it is
a remarkable example of Polybius’ concern not to alienate his readers
by pushing himself to the fore, whereas this is necessary at the same
time to offer them a convincing narrative by a trustworthy narrator.
This is very important for Livy, too, although he is – at least as far as
his text is preserved – a completely external narrator, and first-person
narrative is thus restricted more or less to prefaces and methodologi-
cal statements.18
Yet the question of how present and how perceptible a narrator
should be, or – to put it the other way round – the extent to which the
reliability of the historical account should rest on the authority of the
15 Plb. 36.12.1–5; cf. Marincola 1997: 189–92; Rood 2004b: 153–5.

16 Cf. Plb. 39.5.4–6, the narrator ‘Polybius’ mentioning several Greek cities confer-
ing the highest honours on the historical person ‘Polybius’; see further Rood
2004b for the possibility that this passage is a later insertion.
17 Thuc. 4.104.4–105.1; cf. Hornblower 1996: 333: ‘Was he to use the first person or
the third? When speaking of himself as an agent in the present section he invari-
ably uses the third person, thus conferring detachment on the narrative . . . When
speaking of himself as an author he fluctuates’; Rood 2004a: 115–21; for a general
discussion of this problem in ancient historiography see Marincola 1997: 182–205.
18 Cf. Jaeger 1997: 26: ‘The Ab Urbe Condita unites two extended narratives: a
story of Rome’s history told by an omniscient narrator and an account of writing
Rome’s history told from a first-person point of view that appears intermittently
in asides, discussions of sources, and references to the present’; Kraus 1997: 72–3.
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person speaking, was vital to him as it was also to his contemporar-

ies. This topic was intensely discussed at Rome in the first century
bc, because there had been a remarkable shift in the general ‘memory
culture’ especially with regard to the social background of those who
played an active role in keeping the past present. Whereas historians
in former times had been members of the aristocratic families and
more often than not successful politicians and generals – people who,
like Polybius, could use the first person in a historical narrative with
some reason – Livy belongs to a new pattern of writers who based
their authority not on their own ‘life and deeds’, but on their expertise
as historians and on their skill as authors.19 In this context, the obtru-
sive narrator used by Polybius, making his presence felt at almost
every passage in the Histories, would draw too much attention to the
real author outside of the text.
At the same time, it is not possible to make people believe in any
historical account without telling them who the author is. This would
not work even in our present era, where historians usually suppress
any indications of the first person in their works (or at least that has
been the practice for some time).20 Livy’s solution to this problem
is to do what many authors writing non-contemporary history since
Herodotus had done, namely to portray ‘himself within the nar-
rative as organiser and sifter, if not solver, of the tradition’, to use
John Marincola’s words.21 And though very careful not to be too
obtrusive,22 Livy manages to remind the readers of the presence of a
real person behind the text nevertheless.
One of these instances is part of a hotly debated passage in Book
4 dealing in general with the spolia opima dedicated in the temple
of Jupiter Feretrius, and in particular with the question of whether
A. Cornelius Cossus had been consul or not when he won his spolia in
420 bc.23 This passage, given its significant political implications, has
been taken several times as a test-case for Livy’s attitude towards the
19 For the use of one’s own persona as a way of authenticating historiography see
Marincola 1997: 128–74.
20 For this tendency in the historiography of the twentieth century see esp.
Barthes [1967] 1986.
21 See Marincola 1997: 262–3: ‘As opposed to the assured narrative of the contem-
porary historian, the non-contemporary historian, following in the tradition of
Herodotus, portrays himself within the narrative as organiser and sifter, if not
solver, of the tradition. He is far more likely to intrude into the narrative, and to
place before his audience the difficulties of his own knowledge and character.’
22 Cf. Feldherr 1998: 31–2: ‘The preface begins with a flurry of self-reference. But as
the text proceeds, the author himself progressively retreats from it, rarely intrud-
ing his own persona into the narrative.’
23 See Liv. 40.20.1–11.
princeps, and with the most diverse results.24 I shall not go into this
in any detail, but shall instead focus only on the way Livy presents
himself in this context:
hoc ego cum Augustum Caesarem, templorum omnium con-

ditorem aut restitutorem, ingressum aedem Feretri Iouis quam
vetustate dilapsam refecit, se ipsum in thorace linteo scriptum
legisse audissem, prope sacrilegium ratus sum Cosso spoliorum
suorum Caesarem, ipsius templi auctorem, subtrahere testem.
Having heard from the lips of Augustus Caesar, the founder

or renewer of all the temples, that he had entered the shrine of
Jupiter Feretrius, which he repaired when it had crumbled with
age, and had himself read the inscription on the linen breast-
plate, I have thought it would be almost a sacrilege to rob Cossus
of such a witness to his spoils as Caesar, the restorer of that very
temple.25
When one looks at the Latin, it becomes even more obvious how pro-
nounced the use of ego (already not unprovocative in itself) really is:
it is not only placed nearly at the start, but very close to and definitely
before the princeps himself. The self-assured appearance is further
enhanced by the emphasis on an almost physical encounter (nicely
stressed by B. O. Foster’s translation of audissem as ‘heard from his
lips’) which in fact takes place between the author and one of the
figures in his historical account, thus producing yet another form of
metalepsis. The particular reason to highlight his own part here may
be the fact that this second version contradicts the first one given by
him earlier (Cossus not being consul, but only military tribune). But
apart from this special case, it is very much the way in which Livy
speaks about himself within his narrative.26 It is different from the
manner he found in Polybius’ Histories in more ways than one, but
these changes can be understood as a reaction to the modified situa-
tion in which this communication between historian and readers takes
place in the first century bc, and thus as Livy’s way of adapting Greek
narrative to Roman needs.
24 See, e.g., Miles 1995: 40–54; Rich 1996; Krafft 1998; Flower 2000; Sailor 2006.
25 Liv. 4.20.7 (trans. Foster).
26 For this observation see esp. Krafft 1998.
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Knowing the End

Coming now to another feature of Polybius’ work that must have
been of interest to any later historian, we have to deal with two rather
thorny questions: how much did ancient readers know about the
historical events beforehand and how far was this relevant to their
reading? Polybius – hardly surprisingly – has a clear opinion about
both: as early as the general proem he stresses the unexpectedness
of the events depicted by him,27 and he becomes more precise in the
preface to Book 14 when he talks about readers who do not know the
outcome even of the Second Punic War:
ἴσως μὲν οὖν ἐπὶ πάσαις ταῖς ὀλυμπιάσιν αἱ προεκθέσεις τῶν πράξεων
εἰς ἐπίστασιν ἄγουσι τοὺς ἐντυγχάνοντας καὶ διὰ τὸ πλῆθος καὶ διὰ
τὸ μέγεθος τῶν γεγονότων, ὡς ἂν ὑπὸ μίαν σύνοψιν ἀγομένων τῶν ἐξ
ὅλης τῆς οἰκουμένης ἔργων· οὐ μὴν τὰ κατὰ ταύτην τὴν ὀλυμπιάδα
μάλιστα νομίζω συνεπιστήσειν τοὺς ἀναγινώσκοντας διὰ τὸ πρῶτον
μὲν τοὺς κατὰ τὴν ᾿Ιταλίαν καὶ Λιβύην πολέμους ἐν τούτοις τοῖς
χρόνοις εἰληφέναι τὴν συντέλειαν· ὑπὲρ ὧν τίς οὐκ ἂν ἱστορῆσαι
βουληθείη ποία τις ἡ καταστροφὴ καὶ τί τὸ τέλος αὐτῶν ἐγένετο;
φύσει γὰρ πάντες ἄνθρωποι, κἂν ὁλοσχερῶς <παρα>δέχωνται τὰ
κατὰ μέρος ἔργα καὶ λόγους, ὅμως ἑκάστων τὸ τέλος ἱμείρουσι
μαθεῖν·
Perhaps it is true that in all Olympiads the syllabus of events

arrests the attention of the reader, owing to their number and
importance, the actions of the whole world being brought under
one point of view. But I think the events of this Olympiad [i.e.,
27 Plb. 1.1.4–1.6:
αὐτὸ γὰρ τὸ παράδοξον τῶν πράξεων, ὑπὲρ ὧν προῃρήμεθα γράφειν, ἱκανόν
ἐστι προκαλέσασθαι καὶ παρορμῆσαι πάντα καὶ νέον καὶ πρεσβύτερον πρὸς τὴν
ἔντευξιν τῆς πραγματείας. τίς γὰρ οὕτως ὑπάρχει φαῦλος ἢ ῥᾴθυμος ἀνθρώπων
ὃς οὐκ ἂν βούλοιτο γνῶναι πῶς καὶ τίνι γένει πολιτείας ἐπικρατηθέντα σχεδὸν
ἅπαντα τὰ κατὰ τὴν οἰκουμένην οὐχ ὅλοις πεντήκοντα καὶ τρισὶν ἔτεσιν ὑπὸ
μίαν ἀρχὴν ἔπεσε τὴν Ῥωμαίων, ὃ πρότερον οὐχ εὑρίσκεται γεγονός, τίς δὲ πάλιν
οὕτως ἐκπαθὴς πρός τι τῶν ἄλλων θεαμάτων ἢ μαθημάτων ὃς προυργιαίτερον ἄν
τι ποιήσαιτο τῆσδε τῆς ἐμπειρίας;
For the very element of unexpectedness in the events I have chosen as my
theme will be sufficient to challenge and incite everyone, young and old alike,
to peruse my systematic history. For who is so worthless or indolent as not
to wish to know by what means and under what system of polity the Romans
in less than fifty-three years have succeeded in subjecting nearly the whole
inhabited world to their sole government – a thing unique in history? Or who
again is there so passionately devoted to other spectacles or studies as to
regard anything as of greater moment than the acquisition of this knowledge?
204–201 bc] will have a peculiar power of doing this. For in the
first place it was during this Olympiad that the wars in Italy
and Africa were brought to an end, wars the final outcome of
which who will not be curious to learn? For everyone naturally,
although he may accept our account of particular action and
speeches in essence, still always longs to know the end.28
In one sense, this lack of knowledge might have been quite welcome
to him, as it allows him to create suspense, in order to keep his audi-
ence in line. But at the same time, he employs a range of techniques
to give his readers an orientation to what will happen in advance and
thus to create a kind of suspense that has been labelled as paradoxical
or anomalous in the twentieth century.29 The most obvious strategy is
to give a preview of the future events in the text itself, and the natural
place for this would be the start. This is, therefore, what Polybius does
in the third chapter of the first book.30 But more remarkable is that he
does not confine himself to this one preview at the start of the work.
Instead he uses the book division introduced into historiography at
some date during the Hellenistic period31 to give summaries at the
outset of every single book (we have seen an example in the passage
quoted above). In doing so, he draws a distinction between previews
in the form of prologues (his method favoured in Books 1–6) and
previews in the form of prefixed summaries (προεκθέσεις, to use his
own word).32 But one of the most astonishing aspects of Polybius’
28 Plb. 14.1a (trans. Paton, adapted).

29 For further references see Pausch 2011: 195–9.
30 Plb. 1.3.2–6.
31 See Mutschmann 1911, esp. 93–5; Irigoin 1997, esp. 129.
32 See Plb. 11.1a:
῎Ισως δέ τινες ἐπιζητοῦσι πῶς ἡμεῖς οὐ προγραφὰς ἐν ταύτῃ τῇ βίβλῳ, καθάπερ
οἱ πρὸ ἡμῶν, ἀλλὰ καὶ προεκθέσεις καθ’ ἑκάστην ὀλυμπιάδα πεποιήκαμεν τῶν
πράξεων. ἐγὼ δὲ κρίνω χρήσιμον μὲν εἶναι καὶ τὸ τῶν προγραφῶν γένος· καὶ γὰρ
εἰς ἐπίστασιν ἄγει τοὺς ἀναγινώσκειν θέλοντας καὶ συνεκκαλεῖται καὶ παρορμᾷ
πρὸς τὴν ἀνάγνωσιν τοὺς ἐντυγχάνοντας, πρὸς δὲ τούτοις πᾶν τὸ ζητούμενον
ἑτοίμως ἔνεστιν εὑρεῖν διὰ τούτου· θεωρῶν δὲ διὰ πολλὰς αἰτίας καὶ τὰς τυχούσας
ὀλιγωρούμενον καὶ φθειρόμενον τὸ τῶν προγραφῶν γένος, οὕτως καὶ διὰ ταῦτα
πρὸς τοῦτο τὸ μέρος κατηνέχθην· τῆς γὰρ προεκθέσεως οὐ μόνον ἰσοδυναμούσης
(πρὸσ) τὴν προγραφήν, ἀλλὰ καὶ πλεῖόν τι δυναμένης, ἅμα δὲ καὶ χώραν ἐχούσης
ἀσφαλεστέραν διὰ τὸ συμπεπλέχθαι τῇ πραγματείᾳ, τούτῳ μᾶλλον ἐδοκιμάσαμεν
χρῆσθαι τῷ μέρει παρ’ ὅλην τὴν σύνταξιν πλὴν ἓξ τῶν πρώτων βυβλίων· ἐν
ἐκείνοις (δὲ) προγραφὰς ἐποιησάμεθα διὰ τὸ μὴ λίαν ἐναρμόζειν ἐν αὐτοῖς τὸ τῶν
προεκθέσεων γένος.
Some will perhaps inquire why in this work I do not, like former authors,
write prologues but give a summary of the events in each Olympiad. I indeed
regard a prologue as a useful kind of thing, since it fixes the attention of those
who wish to read the work and stimulates and encourages readers in their
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Histories is that they ended with something like what we know as an

index: the entire fortieth book, or, to be exact, scroll (regrettably lost
to us), was occupied by a register or table of contents or whatever we
might understand by his expression ἀριθμός.33
We shall find nothing of this kind when we now turn to Livy – at
least, if we do not take the so-called periochae to be his own device
(which is not impossible outright, but in the absence of any evidence
must remain purely hypothetical).34 What we do find, however, are
a number of previews given in a more narrative manner. There are
prefaces in the strict sense, though not too many, namely to Books 1,
6, 21 and 31. But the reader gets informed about the upcoming events
nevertheless, especially at the start of each new year.35 I shall say a bit
more about the annalistic layout of ab urbe condita in the next section,
so that we can focus here on what may be called the proleptic quality
of this pattern. It is above all the recurring section ‘events in Rome at
the turn of the year’36 that lends itself to this purpose: it can be further
divided into subsections which include, first, the induction of the
newly elected magistrates into their tasks for the early part of the year,
offering a good opportunity to set the stage, so to speak, and to make
the reader familiar with the subsequent theatres of war; and second,
the expiation of the prodigies that occurred, offering an even better
opportunity to give a strongly focalised preview from the perspective of
contemporaries and thus to create a sort of suspense on the part of the
reader.
task, besides which by this means any matter that we are in search of can be
easily found. But as I saw that for various fortuitous reasons prologues were
now neglected and had degenerated in style, I was led to adopt the other
alternative. For an introductory summary is not only of equal value to a
prologue but even of somewhat greater, while at the same time it occupies a
surer position, as it forms an integral part of the work. I, therefore, decided to
employ this method throughout except in the first six books to which I wrote
prologues, because in their case previous summaries are not very suitable.
33 See Plb. 39.8.8: τούτων δὴ πάντων ἡμῖν ἐπιτετελεσμένων λείπεται διασαφῆσαι τοὺς
χρόνους τοὺς περιειλημμένους ὑπὸ τῆς ἱστορίας καὶ τὸ πλῆθος τῶν βύβλων καὶ <τὸν>
ἀριθμὸν τῆς ὅλης πραγματείας. (‘Now that I have actually accomplished all this,
nothing remains for me but to indicate the dates included in the history, to give
a list of the number of books and an index of the whole work.’); cf. Rood 2004b:
152: ‘Polybius offers at the start of his work a “table of contents” for the work as a
whole (3.2–6); . . . and then, after reiterating the utility of his work and the unique-
ness of his theme, he announces that he is appending the periods embraced by the
history, the number of books and what he calls the arithmos of the whole work,
whatever that was . . . All that was missing was a bibliography.’
34 See Pausch 2011: 113.
35 This is the case at least in Books 21–45, displaying the fully developed annalistic
layout: Rich 2009: 126–32.
36 During this time, the turn of the year usually takes place on 15 March.
Our next sample passage is the end of the section ‘events in Rome
at the turn of the year 208 bc’, which is a very notable year as both
consuls, one of whom was M. Claudius Marcellus, the conqueror of
Syracuse and one of the best-known figures of his time, will be dead
before its end.37 This may be part of the reason, too, why the narrator
becomes unusually explicit in this case:
inter ipsos consules [sc. M. Claudius Marcellus et T. Quinctius

Crispinus] permutatio provinciarum rapiente fato Marcellum
ad Hannibalem facta est, ut ex quo primus post <adversissimas
haud> aduersae pugnae gloriam ceperat, in eius laudem postre-
mus Romanorum imperatorum prosperis tum maxime bellicis
rebus caderet.
Between themselves the consuls [sc. M. Claudius Marcellus and

T. Quinctius Crispinus] made an exchange of provinces, for Fate
was sweeping Marcellus in the direction of Hannibal. The result
was that he who, after the greatest reverses, had been the first to
win from Hannibal the glory of a battle that was not a reverse,
added to his opponent’s fame, being the last of the Romans com-
manders to fall, at the very moment of success in war.38
The same applies to the prodigies, which are not only very numerous
but fail to be expiated in this year.39 Such bluntness, however, is rare.
In most cases, what the reader receives are hints rather than announce-
ments. Furthermore, these hints are usually embedded in the narrative
and not marked as statements given ex officio by the narrator, thus
producing the benefit described by Polybius, ‘to arrest the attention
of the reader’, without at the same time interrupting the narrative. By
this means, the involvement of the reader in the story is enhanced. On
the other hand, it is much more difficult to find a particular historical
event in the pages (let alone the original scrolls) of ab urbe condita than
it must have been in Polybius’ Histories.
Livy’s solution, then, favours a continuous and more literary way
of reading, whereas Polybius – in accordance with his own statements
– envisaged a more selective and utility-driven model. This may look
at first sight like role reversal, given our usual views on Roman and
Greek perceptions of literature, but it is in large part explicable by the
37 Liv. 27.26.7–27.14 (death of M. Claudius Marcellus), 27.33.6–7 (death of

T. Quinctius Crispinus).
38 Liv. 26.29.9.
39 See Liv. 27.23.1–23.4; cf. Levene 1993: 63–4; for Livy’s approach to prodigies see
furthermore J. P. Davies 2004, esp. 21–85; Engels 2007: 204–19.
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changes in the tastes and expectations of the reading audience over the
previous decades.
Getting Lost in Narration

Measured by the number of lines spent on this topic, Polybius was
especially proud of what could be called the macro-structure of his
work, that is, the distribution of the historical events within his narra-
tive. As other historians did before him, he adopted a two-fold model,
starting with some more thematically structured books containing
– among other things – the prehistory and his famous discussion on
the Roman constitution, but strictly following a highly elaborated
system from Book 7 onwards. This scheme takes the Olympiads as
basic units and treats the individual events within them according to
a fixed geographical pattern, beginning in Italy, moving to Spain and
other countries in the west first, finally to Greece and other countries
in the east.40 He justifies his decision with some effort, claiming that
after Rome’s victory in the second war against Carthage the events of
the whole oikoumenē are now inextricably interwoven and thus must
be described in this particular manner.41
At the same time, he was very much aware of the problems caused
by this method of presentation to the reader. One of his strategies to
deal with the resulting inconvenience is to talk about it in advance.42 In
40 For an introduction see esp. Walbank 1985: 197–212, 298–312; Marincola 2001:
116–24; for the cultural and literary context of these decisions in hellenistic times
see K. Clarke 1999: 114–28, 2008: 109–21.
41 See Plb. 1.3.3–6, esp. §§ 3–4:
ἐν μὲν οὖν τοῖς πρὸ τούτων χρόνοις ὡσανεὶ σποράδας εἶναι συνέβαινε τὰς τῆς
οἰκουμένης πράξεις (διὰ) τὸ καὶ (κατὰ) τὰς ἐπιβολάς, (ἔτι) δὲ (καὶ τὰς) συντελείας
αὐτ(ῶν ὁμοίως δὲ) καὶ κατὰ το(ὺς τόπους διαφέρ)ειν ἕκαστα (τῶν πεπραγμ)ένων.
ἀπὸ δὲ τούτων τῶν καιρῶν οἱονεὶ σωματοειδῆ συμβαίνει γίνεσθαι τὴν ἱστορίαν,
συμπλέκεσθαί τε τὰς Ἰταλικὰς καὶ Λιβυκὰς πράξεις ταῖς τε κατὰ τὴν Ἀσίαν καὶ
ταῖς Ἑλληνικαῖς καὶ πρὸς ἓν γίνεσθαι τέλος τὴν ἀναφορὰν ἁπάντων.
Previously the doings of the world had been, so to say, dispersed, as they were
held together by no unity of initiative, results, or locality; but ever since this
date history has been an organic whole, and the affairs of Italy and Libya
have been interlinked with those of Greece and Asia, all leading up to one
end.
Cf. further Plb. 4.28.1–6.
42 See esp. Plb. 15.24a:
ὅτι ἐπεὶ πάσας καθ’ ἕκαστον ἔτος τὰς κατάλληλα πράξεις γενομένας κατὰ τὴν
οἰκουμένην ἐξηγούμεθα, δῆλον ὡς ἀναγκαῖόν ἐστι τὸ τέλος ἐπ’ ἐνίων πρότερον
ἐκφέρειν τῆς ἀρχῆς, ἐπειδὰν πρότερος ὁ τόπος ὑποπέσῃ κατὰ τὸν τῆς ὅλης
ὑποθέσεως μερισμὸν καὶ κατὰ τὴν τῆς διηγήσεως ἔφοδον ὁ τὴν συντέλειαν τῆς
πράξεως ἔχων τοῦ τὴν ἀρχὴν καὶ τὴν ἐπιβολὴν περιέχοντος.
doing this, he comes rather close to what was observed by Dionyisus

of Halicarnassus, in criticising Thucydides for structuring his history
in a very similar way:
πλανώμεθα δή, καθάπερ εἰκός, καὶ δυσκόλως τοῖς δηλουμένοις

παρακολουθοῦμεν, ταραττομένης ἐν τῷ διασπᾶσθαι τὰ πράγματα τῆς
διανοίας καὶ τὰς ἡμιτελεῖς τῶν ἀκουσθέντων μνήμας οὐ ῥᾳδίως οὐδ’
ἀκριβῶς ἀναφερούσης.
We lose our way, as is natural, and it is hard for us to follow the

narrative, our mind being confused by the tearing asunder of the
events, and being unable easily and exactly to remember the half-
finished reports it has heard.43
Perhaps against the backdrop of such reproaches by earlier readers,44

Polybius in addition takes special care to explain the virtues of his
strategy. The most detailed statement along these lines comes in a
fragment from Book 38:
οὐ γὰρ ἀγνοῶ διότι τινὲς ἐπιλήψονται τῆς πραγματείας, φάσκοντες

ἀτελῆ καὶ διερριμμένην ἡμᾶς πεποιῆσθαι τὴν ἐξήγησιν τῶν
πραγμάτων, <εἴγ’> ἐπιβαλλόμενοι λόγου χάριν διεξιέναι τὴν
Καρχηδόνος πολιορκίαν, κἄπειτα μεταξὺ ταύτην ἀπολιπόντες καὶ
μεσολαβήσαντες σφᾶς αὐτοὺς μεταβαίνομεν ἐπὶ τὰς Ἑλληνικὰς
κἀντεῦθεν ἐπὶ τὰς Μακεδονικὰς ἢ Συριακὰς ἤ τινας ἑτέρας πράξεις·
ζητεῖν δὲ τοὺς φιλομαθοῦντας τὸ συνεχὲς καὶ τὸ τέλος ἱμείρειν
ἀκοῦσαι τῆς προθέσεως· καὶ γὰρ τὴν ψυχαγωγίαν καὶ τὴν ὠφέλειαν
οὕτω μᾶλλον συνεκτρέχειν τοῖς προσέχουσιν. ἐμοὶ δ’ οὐχ οὕτως
δοκεῖ, τὸ δ’ ἐναντίον. μάρτυρα δὲ τούτων ἐπικαλεσαίμην ἂν αὐτὴν
τὴν φύσιν, ἥτις κατ’ οὐδ’ ὁποίαν τῶν αἰσθήσεων εὐδοκεῖ τοῖς αὐτοῖς
As I give a narrative of the successive events that happened in each part of the
world in each year, it is evident that in some cases the end must be told before
the beginning, in those cases I mean where according to the general scheme
of my work and the order imposed on my narrative the locality which was
the scene of the final catastrophe occupies an earlier place than that which
witnessed the initial stages.
Cf. Marincola 2001: 120–1: ‘The historian does not propose a solution to such
a problem, which seems to have occurred fairly often, other than to inform his
reader that he is aware of it. He clearly thought this method had more benefits
than drawbacks.’
43 Dion. Hal. de Thuc. 9.8; cf. Dion. Hal. Pomp. 3.13–14; for the cultural context of
Dionysius and his critique of Thucydides see now Wiater 2011: 130–64.
44 See Walbank 1957–79: iii. 690: ‘those who criticize P.’s narrative as being incom-
plete and fragmented . . . will be followers of Ephorus, whose method is described
in Diod. v. 1. 4 (FGH, 70 T 11)’
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ἐπιμένειν κατὰ τὸ συνεχές, ἀλλ’ ἀεὶ μεταβολῆς ἐστιν οἰκεία, τοῖς

δ’ αὐτοῖς ἐγκυρεῖν ἐκ διαστήματος βούλεται καὶ διαφορᾶς. εἴη
δ’ ἂν τὸ λεγόμενον ἐναργὲς πρῶτον μὲν ἐκ τῆς ἀκοῆς, ἥτις οὔτε
κατὰ τὰς μελῳδίας οὔτε κατὰ τὰς λεκτικὰς ὑποκρίσεις εὐδοκεῖ
συνεχῶς ταῖς αὐταῖς ἐπιμένειν στάσεσιν, ὁ δὲ μεταβολικὸς τρόπος
καὶ καθόλου πᾶν τὸ διερριμμένον καὶ μεγίστας ἔχον ἀλλαγὰς καὶ
πυκνοτάτας αὐτὴν κινεῖ. παραπλησίως καὶ τὴν γεῦσιν εὕροι τις ἂν
οὐδὲ τοῖς πολυτελεστάτοις βρώμασιν ἐπιμένειν δυναμένην, ἀλλὰ
σικχαίνουσαν καὶ χαίρουσαν ταῖς μεταβολαῖς καὶ προσηνεστέρως
ἀποδεχομένην πολλάκις καὶ τὰ λιτὰ τῶν ἐδεσμάτων ἢ τὰ πολυτελῆ
διὰ τὸν ξενισμόν. τὸ δ’ αὐτὸ καὶ περὶ τὴν ὅρασιν ἴδοι τις ἂν
γινόμενον· ἥκιστα γὰρ δύναται πρὸς ἓν μένειν ἀτενίζουσα, κινεῖ
δ’ αὐτὴν ἡ ποικιλία καὶ μεταβολὴ τῶν ὁρωμένων. μάλιστα δὲ
περὶ τὴν ψυχὴν τοῦτό τις ἂν ἴδοι συμβαῖνον· αἱ γὰρ μεταλήψεις
τῶν ἀτενισμῶν καὶ τῶν ἐπιστάσεων οἷον ἀναπαύσεις εἰσὶ τοῖς
φιλοπόνοις τῶν ἀνδρῶν. διὸ καὶ τῶν ἀρχαίων συγγραφέων οἱ
λογιώτατοι δοκοῦσί μοι προσαναπεπαῦσθαι τῷ τρόπῳ τούτῳ, τινὲς
μὲν μυθικαῖς καὶ διηγηματικαῖς κεχρημένοι παρεκβάσεσι, τινὲς δὲ
καὶ πραγματικαῖς, ὥστε μὴ μόνον ἐν αὐτοῖς τοῖς κατὰ τὴν Ἑλλάδα
τόποις ποιεῖσθαι τὰς μεταβάσεις, ἀλλὰ καὶ τῶν ἐκτὸς περιλαμβάνειν.
. . . ἡμεῖς δὲ πάντας διῃρημένοι τοὺς ἐπιφανεστάτους τόπους τῆς
οἰκουμένης καὶ τὰς ἐν τούτοις πράξεις καὶ μίαν καὶ τὴν αὐτὴν ἔφοδον
ἀεὶ ποιούμενοι κατὰ τὴν τάξιν τῆς διαλήψεως, ἔτι δὲ καθ’ ἕκαστον
ἔτος ὡρισμένως ἐξηγούμενοι τὰς καταλλήλους πράξεις ἐνεστηκυίας,
ἀπολείπομεν πρόδηλον τοῖς φιλομαθοῦσι τὴν ἐπα<να>γωγὴν ἐπὶ τὸν
συνεχῆ λόγον καὶ τὰς μεσολαβηθείσας ἀεὶ τῶν πράξεων, ὥστε μηδὲν
ἀτελὲς μηδ’ ἐλλιπὲς γίνεσθαι τοῖς φιληκόοις τῶν προειρημένων. καὶ
περὶ μὲν τούτων ἐπὶ τοσοῦτον.
I am not unaware that some people will find fault with this work
on the ground that my narrative of events is imperfect and discon-
nected. For example, after undertaking to give an account of the
siege of Carthage I leave that in suspense and interrupting myself
pass to the affairs of Greece, and next to those of Macedonia,
Syria and other countries, while students desire continuous
narrative and long to learn the issue of the matter I first set my
hand to; for thus, they say, those who desire to follow me with
attention are both more deeply interested in the story and derive
greater benefit from it. My opinion is just the reverse of this
. . . And this, I think, is why the most thoughtful of the ancient
writers were in the habit of giving their readers a rest in the way
I say, some of them employing digressions dealing with myth or
story and others digressions on matters of fact; so that not only
do they shift the scene from one part of Greece to another, but
include doings abroad.45 . . . But I myself, keeping distinct all the
most important parts of the world and the events that took place
in each, and adhering always to a uniform conception of how
each matter should be treated, and again definitely relating under
each year the contemporary events that then took place, leave
obviously full liberty to students to carry back their minds to the
continuous narrative and the several points at which I interrupted
it, so that those who wish to learn may find none of the matters I
have mentioned imperfect and deficient. This is all I have to say
on the subject.46
Moving on to Livy, we shall have to face the fact once more that
these two historians had not been the only ones in the ancient world
up to this point. What is more, the development of the annalistic
pattern is one of the most controversial aspects of Roman historiog-
raphy, and the issue becomes even more difficult when we take into
account Greek historians too. To use this pattern for a history ab
urbe condita in the second half of the first century ad, however, will
not have been an outright revolution in any case.47 Nevertheless, I
maintain my assumption that Livy at the point of structuring his own
history will have looked not least at Polybius’ text to see what could
be adapted and what could perhaps be improved.
And one decisive point is already obvious from the fact that now
a Roman narrator presents the history from a Roman point of view:
every old year ends with the elections held in Rome, every new one
begins with the Roman magistrates taking their office and leaving the
city to start their campaign in another part of the world, the reader fol-
lowing their journey there and back again (even if sometimes without
them).48 By consequently taking Rome as the centre of events and
45 See Walbank 1957–79: iii. 692: ‘Here P. refers chiefly to Theopompus.’

46 Plb. 38.5.1–6.7; cf. Walbank 1957–79: iii. 690: ‘P. defends his practice of switch-
ing from one theatre to another inside each olympiad year as providing variety,
in contrast to Ephorus’ method of treating the events of each area throughout a
longer period separately.’
47 For an outline of this discussion see Pausch 2011: 47–53 (with further references).
48 See, e.g., Oakley 1997: 122; Rich 2009: 120–1. For the idea of the narrator accom-
panying the journeys of the historical persons ‘like a wanderer’ see App. hist. Rom.
12:
ἀλλ’ ἐντυγχάνοντά με καὶ τὴν ἀρετὴν αὐτῶν ἐντελῆ καθ’ ἕκαστον ἔθνος ἰδεῖν
ἐθέλοντα ἀπέφερεν ἡ γραφὴ πολλάκις ἀπὸ Καρχηδόνος ἐπὶ Ἴβηρας καὶ ἐξ
Ἰβήρων ἐπὶ Σικελίαν ἢ Μακεδονίαν ἢ ἐπὶ πρεσβείας ἢ συμμαχίας ἐς ἄλλα ἔθνη
γενομένας, εἶτ’ αὖθις ἐς Καρχηδόνα ἀνῆγεν ἢ Σικελίαν ὥσπερ ἀλώμενον καὶ
πάλιν ἐκ τούτων ἀτελῶν ἔτι ὄντων μετέφερεν.
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thus giving a strongly focalised version of the history of the whole

oikoumenē, Livy evidently tells us something about Rome’s place in
the world in his view. At the same time the reader receives a very useful
aid to orientation within the narrative, preventing him from getting
lost and confused and even from interrupting his reading.
But Livy does even more: he abandons the strict order Polybius had
used and prefers a more flexible structure. This allows him – among
other things – to leave one setting just before the action comes to the
crucial point and create suspense by narrating some other event first.
The capture of Saguntium, three times interrupted by a change of
scene in Book 21, offers a good example of this technique.49 Livy’s
decision thus aims at involving his readers in the story, whereas
Polybius, according to his pragmatic concept of historiography, can
allow them to pause and to ‘carry back their minds’ – a risk Livy obvi-
ously did not want to follow him in taking.
CONCLUSION: GREEK VERSUS ROMAN NARRATIVE?

Having compared two ancient historians who spent quite a lot of time
reflecting upon their readers, we have seen common features as well as
differences in dealing with some narrative problems which they both
obviously shared. I hope that these observations may improve our
understanding of Greek narrative, in accordance with the topic of this
volume. They helped me, however, to make sense of some peculiari-
ties of Livy’s manner of presenting his story, namely the restricted yet
emphatic use of the first-person narrative, his preference for embed-
ded and rather implicit previews instead of straightforward sum-
maries, and the close relationship between the focalisation of events
and the orientation of the reader in the annalistic layout. Trying to
put these things together at the end, the main difference is that Livy’s
reader is to a greater degree intended to become involved in the nar-
rative, to the point where the very act of his reading is identified with
the joys and sorrows of the historical figures, as we have seen in our
first passage regarding Rome’s seemingly endless series of wars against
the Samnites. To end up with the Roman writer standing for a more
Being interested in it, and desiring to compare the Roman prowess carefully
with that of every other nation, my history has often led me from Carthage
to Spain, from Spain to Sicily or to Macedonia, or to join some embassy
to foreign countries, or some alliance formed with them; thence back to
Carthage or Sicily, like a wanderer, and again elsewhere, while the work was
still unfinished. (trans. White)
49 See Liv. 21.7.1–15.2; cf. Pausch 2011: 202–5.
literary way of reading history and the Greek one standing for a model
driven by utility looks like role reversal indeed, and is perhaps a con-
sequence of Polybius’ being too anomalous and idiosyncratic a figure
after all. Yet a vivid, even emphatic interest in narrative is something
highly characteristic of Rome and its culture in the first century bc – in
a way being more Greek than the Greeks.
15
PAMELA AND PLATO: ANCIENT AND

MODERN EPISTOLARY NARRATIVES
A. D. Morrison
For those working on ancient texts in a modern world which puts

a high value (in different ways) on the ‘relevance’ and ‘impact’ of
scholarly research, it is beguiling and seductive to discern ancient
analogues or equivalents even for such seemingly modern forms as
the novel,1 as well as for genres whose antiquity is more transparent,
such as the epic poem. A very understandable critical excitement has
also been in evidence with regard to a special category of the novel,
the novel in letters or epistolary novel (Briefroman), since there are
several collections of Greek letters surviving from antiquity which
tell a story of some kind, and which have accordingly sometimes been
analysed as analogues of the modern epistolary novel. But there are
some dangers in assuming too readily that these ancient collections of
letters are straightforwardly equivalent to modern epistolary novels,
not the least of which is failing to examine properly what is distinctive,
and distinctively Greek, about these ancient letters and the narratives
they tell.
In this chapter, therefore, I examine some prominent examples of
these ancient and modern epistolary narratives alongside one another
to illustrate some of the differences as well as some of the similari-
ties between them, in order to achieve a more systematic and thor-
ough understanding of the connections (and disconnections) between
ancient and modern examples of stories told in letters. I concentrate
on what one might term epistolary narratives ‘proper’, that is, on nar-
ratives mostly or entirely told by means of a series of letters, rather
than narratives containing embedded letters or narratives consisting
of a letter relating a narrative. The narratives in which I am interested
are ones in which a number of letters are the principal means used to
tell a story.
1 On the relationship of the ancient and the modern novel see, e.g., Sandy and
Harrison 2008.
ancient and modern epistolary narratives 299
The narrative-in-letters has gone in and out of fashion, as we can

see from the perspective of Anthony Trollope in one of the Barsetshire
novels from the middle of the nineteenth century:
There is a mode of novel-writing which used to be much in vogue,

but which has now gone out of fashion. It is, nevertheless, one
which is very expressive when in good hands, and which enables
the author to tell his story, or some portion of his story, with
more natural trust than any other, I mean that of familiar letters.
(Dr Thorne, 1858)
Its appeal to earlier novelists such as Samuel Richardson was perhaps

in part that it could be ‘very expressive’, as Trollope suggests it can be
in good hands, and also that it provides a novelist with a means for
creating ‘natural trust’: the letters of characters come with a strong
impression that readers are able to access their private mental states,
without the obvious questions about a narrator’s authority or sources
of knowledge which the use of a technique like free indirect discourse
prompts. There is a notable concern with ‘truth and nature’, for
example, on the original title-page of Richardson’s Pamela,2 alongside
a declaration that the story is in the form of ‘a series of familiar letters’.
There is something of a resurgence of epistolary narrative at
present: Lionel Shriver’s 2003 novel We Need to Talk About Kevin
(made into a film in 2011) is in the form of letters,3 and there are
several examples of novels taking the form of email exchanges (for
example, Matt Beaumont’s e from 2000, and more recently Gut gegen
Nordwind by Daniel Glattauer). Doubtless the growth in email and
text messages (and other related types of electronic communication)
since the late 1990s is part of the explanation for the popularity of the
form. Such a wealth of modern examples makes selecting from them
difficult, but I have chosen three which are particularly well known
and influential, and date from relatively early in the history of the
modern form, written in three different languages, and another more
recent example in English. These four modern novels are Richardson’s
Pamela, Goethe’s Die Leiden des jungen Werthers, Laclos’ Les Liaisons
dangereuses and Dorothy L. Sayers’ The Documents in the Case.
2 The title-page describes the novel as (I reproduce the original spelling and typog-
raphy): ‘A Narrative which has its Foundation in TRUTH and NATURE; and
at the same time that it agreeably entertains, by a Variety of curious and affecting
incidents, is intirely divested of all those Images, which, in too many Pieces calcu-
lated for Amusement only, tend to inflame the Minds they should instruct.’
3 Although the precise circumstances of the addressee are carefully obscured as part
of the development of the plot.
300 a. d. morrison
I will refer to these respectively as Pamela, Werther, Liaisons and

Documents.4 With these I will compare the collections of letters attrib-
uted to Plato, Themistocles, Chion and Euripides (using these names,
in italics, as the ‘titles’ of the respective collections).5 These ancient
examples are those usually thought either the most influential on later
ancient letter collections (e.g., Plato) and/or closest to modern episto-
lary narrative (e.g., Themistocles, Chion). But, as we shall see, we shall
have to make reference to a wider range of ancient letter collections
than simply these four.
A brief description and survey of each text is appropriate, before we
begin our detailed investigation into their similarities and differences.
The earliest of our modern examples is Pamela (1740–1), which is also
the longest of the narratives we are examining. It runs to some 200,000
words, and concerns the relationship between one Pamela Andrews,
a servant-girl of fifteen (at the beginning of the novel), and her new
master, Mr B., who is attracted to her. She resists his advances,
including attempts at rape, but he imprisons her in a remote house
in Lincolnshire, where she comes under further attack. Eventually
she persuades him to make her his wife rather than his mistress, and
they are married, and Pamela then overcomes the further problem of
snobbery at her origins. The story is told mainly through the letters of
Pamela to her parents,6 but the greater part of the novel is in the form
of a journal kept by Pamela which she hopes one day to send to her
parents. This is because Pamela is prevented from sending letters when
imprisoned in Lincolnshire.
Die Leiden des jungen Werthers (‘The Sorrows of Young Werther’,
1774) tells of the progress of Werther towards suicide: after arriv-
ing in a German village he falls in love with one Lotte, though she is
engaged to Albert, to whom Werther also becomes close. But eventu-
ally he cannot stand to be near them and leaves. Later he hears of
their marriage and later still returns to their village. But his love for
Lotte, which cannot progress into a relationship, leads him to despair
and he kills himself with Albert’s gun. The majority of the novel takes
the form of Werther’s letters to his friend Wilhelm,7 but the closing
section describing his despair and suicide is in the form of an editorial
4 Translations of Werther are by R. D. Boylan (1902), of Liaisons by Parmée (1995).

All other translations are my own, except where noted.
5 I also abbreviate them as follows: Plato (Pl.), Themistocles (Th.), Chion (Ch.),
Euripides (E.).
6 The collection also contains letters to Pamela from her parents (e.g., 2, 8, 13, 17).
There are thirty-one letters in addition to Pamela’s journal, with several further
embedded letters.
7 The novel also contains one letter each by Werther to Lotte and Albert. There are
eighty-five letters in total, and three further letters in the editorial close.
address to the reader. Werther is quite short: only about 40,000 words,
which makes it the briefest of our four modern examples.
Les Liaisons dangereuses (1782) is substantially longer, at about
140,000 words, and has a more complex web of correspondence (in
this respect more like Clarissa than Pamela).8 Though there is some
editorial material at the beginning and in the form of notes to the
letters, the epistolary form is maintained throughout the main narra-
tive, which tells of the competition between the former lovers Valmont
and Merteuil, which leads the latter to challenge the former to seduce
the naive Cécile Volanges, while Valmont sets himself the task of
overcoming the devout Madame de Tourvel. The execution of these
plans and their consequences (which include the deaths of Tourvel and
Valmont, and the ruin of Merteuil) are told through letters by and to
various of the protagonists.
The latest of the modern examples is The Documents in the Case
(from 1930), in which the build-up to and investigation of the murder
of one George Harrison (not the as yet unborn Beatle but a middle-
aged mushroom enthusiast), apparently by means of poisonous mush-
rooms, is told mostly through a series of letters by and to a number of
the main players in the narrative, collected together by George’s son,
Paul, and sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions.9 This too is
relatively short, at about 90,000 words.
All of our ancient examples, however, are much shorter still: the
longest is Plato at 17,000 words, of which about half is from the
enormous Seventh Letter. The letters, all thirteen of which are from
Plato, tell the story of Plato’s association with the court of Dionysius
II of Syracuse, including the banishment of Plato’s friend Dion,
Plato’s detention on Syracuse and his eventual release, the overthrow
of Dionysius II and the death of Dion. The structure is notably more
complex in terms of order, at least, than the modern examples.10 In
Themistocles we find a collection of twenty-one letters, all written
by Themistocles to a variety of addressees, which tell of the exile
of Themistocles (the famous fifth-century Athenian statesman and
8 The correspondents include, but are not limited to, the protagonists, such as the
Marquise de Merteuil, the Vicomte de Valmont, Cécile Volanges, Madame de
Tourvel and the Chevalier Danceny. There are 175 letters in total.
9 There are forty-four letters (including covering letter and one telegram). The novel
also contains three notes by Paul Harrison on the evidence gathered, the statement
of John Munting (in three parts), two extracts from a newspaper and the statement
by Paul Harrison (in two parts).
10 Letters 1–4 and 7–8 form a chronological sequence, but are interrupted by 5
and 6, which are earlier and later respectively in dramatic date; 9–13 are not in
chronological sequence and 9 and 13 seem to have the earliest dramatic dates in
the c ollection. See further A. D. Morrison 2013: 109–14.
302 a. d. morrison
general) from Athens and his eventual arrival at the court of the Persian
Great King.11 The structure is not straightforward: Penwill’s sugges-
tion that the letters have a ‘diptych’ structure has won wide (though
not universal) approval.12 On this model there are two sequences (1–12
and 13–21), each of which is chronologically arranged, though the
two sequences overlap and give different versions of the same events.
Penwill also suggests that the two sequences give us different versions
of Themistocles: the scheming politician and the Athenian patriot.
The structure of Chion is simpler: seventeen letters written by Chion,
the majority to his father, ordered chronologically and telling the
story of Chion’s philosophical development and his determination to
end the tyranny of Clearchus at Heraclea by killing the tyrant. The
final letter (to Plato) tells of Chion’s determination to kill the tyrant
and his certainty that he too will die. The shortest epistolary narrative
we are examining in this chapter (both in number of letters and in
number of words) is Euripides, in which Euripides writes five letters
to three different correspondents (arranged in chronological order),
and between them the collection tells of the developing relationship
between Euripides and Archelaus, king of Macedon (as well as giving
us an insight into the friendship between Euripides and Sophocles): the
final, fifth letter has Euripides writing from Macedon to Cephisophon
in Athens reporting his safe arrival, whereas in the first he had been in
Athens writing to Archelaus in Macedon.13
The cast of characters in these ancient collections is striking:
Plato, Dionysius II, Themistocles, Pausanias, the Persian Great King,
Xenophon, Clearchus, the tyrant of Heraclea, Euripides, Sophocles,
Archelaus. These figures are historical individuals (or perhaps better:
their literary namesakes in the ancient letter collections have historical
counterparts). This is a marked difference from the modern examples,
all of which concern fictional characters, none of whom is to be ranked
alongside Plato, Themistocles or the king of Persia in prominence or
importance (even those who are upper-middle-class or aristocratic).
They are, rather, as the preface to Liaisons has it, ‘quelques particuli-
ers’, that is, ‘some (private) individuals’, ‘ordinary people’. This is
a first clue to some differences in the antecedents or connections of
ancient and modern epistolary narratives: the former are closely con-
nected to the biographical tradition (which itself, of course, made use
of (real and fictitious) letters). But the modern examples owe more,
11 On the career of the historical Themistocles see Hdt. 7.143–4, 8.57–63, 75–80,
108–12; Thuc. 1.74, 93, 135–8; Plut. Vit. Them.
12 See Penwill 1978.
13 For a more detailed overview of the narrative structure of Euripides see Hanink
2010: 544–7.
in their interest in the psychology and actions of ‘ordinary people’,

to the genre of the novel (of which they are a special type), and in
form to the publication of collections of letters apparently (at least)
by private individuals, such as the Lettres portugaises of 1669 (even if
their authenticity has been doubted more recently),14 and collections
of model letters for a number of social and ethical situations, such as
Richardson’s own Familiar Letters on Important Occasions (1741).
It is true, of course, that some Greek epistolary collections did
concern ‘ordinary people’, such as the letters of Alciphron and Aelian
purporting to be by (amongst others) fishermen and farmers. But
those collections are not focused on the telling of a story across the
letters as a whole and so are different from the collections we are
examining. Indeed the difference in their correspondents alongside
the lack of a continuous story suggests we should categorise them as a
very different kind of letter collection.15
The closest correspondents in our four ancient collections to the
‘ordinary people’ of our four modern examples are probably Chion
and his father Matris, though these two do seem to have been his-
torical individuals (according to a fragment of the historian Memnon
of Heraclea preserved in Photius).16 But they are not the famous
historical personages to whom most Greek fictional letters are attrib-
uted, of whom Plato, Themistocles and Euripides are good examples.
Nevertheless, much of the interest in Chion centres on the significant,
historical figures of Xenophon and especially Plato, of whose circle
Chion becomes a member (letters 5, 10, 11, 17), and the influence
philosophy has on Chion and his desire to put an end to the tyranny at
Heraclea. Chion also gives us a participant’s perspective on a historical
event, the assassination of the tyrant Clearchus, rather as Themistocles
allows us Themistocles’ perspective(s) on his exile from Athens.
Another aspect of our ancient examples which is not shared with
their modern counterparts is a prominent apologetic element. This is
clearest in Plato and Euripides of our four ancient texts, though it is
also possible to discern an apologetic purpose in the presentation of
Themistocles as a patriot in Themistocles 13–21 and an oblique attempt
to control the reception of Plato (letters 5, 10, 17) and Xenophon (e.g.,
14 Since F. C. Green’s discovery of the original privilège permitting publication

of the Lettres portugaises as part of a collection of the works of Guilleragues (F. C.
Green 1926) it has been widely (though not universally) believed that Guilleragues
was the author.
15 Alciphron’s fourth book, the letters of courtesans, is closest to the ancient exam-
ples studied in this chapter, both in terms of the historicity of some of the protago-
nists and in the use of a degree of chronological ordering and narrative coherence.
See P. A. Rosenmeyer 2001: 272–4.
16 See Düring 1951: 11–13.
304 a. d. morrison
αὕτη δὲ ἡ ὄψις ἐπίδειξις ἦν τῆς Ξενοφῶντος ψυχῆς, ὅπως καὶ φρονεῖν

καὶ λέγειν ἐδύνατο, ‘what I saw was a demonstration of Xenophon’s
personality, his intelligence and eloquence’, Chion 3.4) in Chion. In
Plato the apologetic element is clearest (and most notorious) in the
famous Seventh Letter, which contains a species of epistolary auto-
biography: we hear of the origins of Plato’s involvement with Sicily
and its tyrants, his early ambitions of providing Dionsyius II with a
philosophical education, the disappointing failure of this enterprise
(because of the failings of Plato’s inadequate tyrannical pupil).17 It is
in part the seductive impression we are given of a glimpse into the phi-
losopher’s private motivations and emotions which has made so many
readers wish it were genuine.18 The apologetic element is also apparent
in the third letter, where we get another version of how Plato came to
be involved with Sicily (316c–317a), in a letter in which Plato explicitly
defends himself against the accusations of others (both Dionysius II,
who is the addressee, and Philistides, 315d–316b).
In Euripides we find a response to some aspects of the biographical
tradition about the poet, as Johanna Hanink has recently argued,19
for example with regard to his relationship with another of the great
Athenian tragedians, Sophocles. This relationship was sometimes
presented as a difficult one (cf. TrGF V.1 T 71b, 74c, 76): we find in
Athenaeus a defamatory epigram which purports to be written by
Sophocles about Euripides after they had shared a lover.20 But in
the Euripides collection we find a different picture. The second letter
is written to Sophocles himself, and the two playwrights are clearly
supposed to be good friends: Euripides is writing to console Sophocles
over the loss of some of his plays during a trip to Chios, which he
is confident Sophocles will be able to remedy, having escaped death
himself (E. 2.1). We get another perspective on this friendship in the
final letter to Cephisophon, where we hear Euripides describe the
relationship and its development:
17 See, e.g., 326b–327b (Plato’s first visit to Sicily, meeting of Dion), 327b–329b
(hopes for Dionysius II, Plato’s decision to go to Sicily), 337e–350b (Plato’s
second visit to Dionysius II, in which he is detained by Dionysius II, though even-
tually released).
18 The authenticity of Plato’s Epistles, especially the Seventh Letter, has long been a
controversial topic: see Wohl 1998: 87 n. 1; Isnardi Parente and Ciani 2002: xi–xv
(with further bibliography); and the survey in Huffmann 2005: 42–3 on the debate
about the Seventh Letter in particular.
19 Hanink 2010.
20 See Athen. 604D (TrGF IV T 75, V.1 T 75) with Hanink 2010: 550–1. Hanink
2010: 544 also discusses how the friendship apparent in the letter to Cephisophon,
the addressee of letter 5, itself responds to the story in the Euripidean Vita that
Cephisophon was a slave and had had an affair with Euripides’ wife (Vit. Eur.
IV.1).
ὃν ἐγὼ ἐμίσησα μὲν οὐδέποτε, ἐθαύμασα δὲ ἀεί, ἔστερξα δ’ οὐχ

ὁμοίως ἀεί, ἀλλὰ φιλοτιμότερον μέν τινα εἶναί ποτε δόξας ὑπεῖδον,
βουληθέντα δὲ διαλύσασθαι τὰ νείκη προθυμότατα ὑπεδεξάμην. καὶ
ἀλλήλους μέν, ἐξ ὅτου συνέβη, στέργομέν τε καὶ στέρξομεν . . . (E.
5.6)
I have never hated him, but have always been in awe of him,
though I haven’t always loved him as I do now. Thinking him
excessively competitive, I have been suspicious of him, but when
he wanted to end our quarrel I welcomed him most eagerly. Since
that happened we have loved one another, and will continue to
love one another . . .
Though the apologetic character of the ancient collections is in one

sense a difference from our modern examples (although Documents,
at least, styles itself as an attempt by George Harrison’s son, Paul, to
bring his killer to justice and rescue his father’s reputation as a mush-
room expert), it also points us to a connection between the ancient and
modern texts, namely a shared interest in the exposition and explora-
tion of the correspondents’ motivations, emotions and relationships
through their letters. One thinks, for example, of the scene (deeply
ironic, when we reach it at the end of the collection) recalled by Plato
at the beginning of the final letter of Plato (13):
τοὺς Λοκρούς ποθ’ ἑστιῶν νεανίσκους, πόρρω κατακείμενος ἀπ’

ἐμοῦ, ἀνέστης παρ’ ἐμὲ καὶ φιλοφρονούμενος εἶπες εὖ τι ῥῆμα ἔχον,
ὡς ἔμοιγε ἐδόκεις καὶ τῷ παρακατακειμένῳ – ἦν δ’ οὗτος τῶν καλῶν
τις – ὃς τότε εἶπεν· “ἦ που πολλά, ὦ Διονύσιε, εἰς σοφίαν ὠφελῇ ὑπὸ
Πλάτωνος·” σὺ δ’ εἶπες· “καὶ εἰς ἄλλα πολλά, ἐπεὶ καὶ ἀπ’ αὐτῆς
τῆς μεταπέμψεως, ὅτι μετεπεμψάμην αὐτόν, δι’ αὐτὸ τοῦτο εὐθὺς
ὠφελήθην.” τοῦτ’ οὖν διασωστέον, ὅπως ἂν αὐξάνηται ἀεὶ ἡμῶν ἡ
ἀπ’ ἀλλήλων ὠφελία.
On one occasion when you were giving a banquet to the young

Locrians you got up and came over to me (you were reclining
some distance away from me) and greeted me with a phrase that
was both affectionate and well put, as it seemed to me and to the
man reclining beside me (and this man was handsome), who said:
‘No doubt, Dionysius, you have benefited much in wisdom from
Plato.’ And you said, ‘And in much else besides, for from the
moment I sent for him, by the very fact that I had sent for him,
I benefited.’ So let us preserve this feeling so that our benefits to
one another always increase. (360a4–b6)
306 a. d. morrison
Perhaps we should go so far as to say that the ancient collections

are more interested in this kind of access to and examination of the
private character of famous historical individuals than they are in the
telling of a particular narrative (think again, perhaps, of the diptych
structure of Themistocles). This serves further to confirm the sugges-
tions of Penwill and Rosenmeyer that we should be more receptive
than scholars (e.g., Sykutris) have typically been to the possibility of
psychological interest in ancient (including epistolary) novels,21 an
interest now more widely acknowledged for ancient literature in gen-
eral.22 The epistolary collections, at least, are profoundly interested in
character and its development, perhaps in part because of their apolo-
getic aspect, responding to other parts of the biographical tradition
about their famous purported authors.
When we turn to the structure or arrangement of the different col-
lections we can see some clear patterns. Our modern examples are
largely chronological in arrangement: there is some variation from
exact chronological sequence in Liaisons, where on occasion a letter
is promoted out of order to form a pair with a letter it answers and/
or to allow the reader to read some letters in full knowledge of events
which are still to transpire from the writer’s perspective. But the basic
arrangement remains chronological. In Documents too there is some
disruption to chronological ordering from the point of view of when
some of the non-epistolary documents were written (e.g., the witness-
statements of some of the protagonists), but these are put in the right
place in the chronological sequence from the point of view of the
events they narrate. There is also a covering letter prefacing the col-
lection, which was written after the bulk of the correspondence which
follows.
But our ancient examples show much more variety in structure (and
it is worth bearing in mind that I have included here precisely those
generally regarded as closest to the modern arrangements): Chion and
Euripides are chronological in arrangement, but Themistocles is not
chronologically arranged, though the two sequences 1–12 and 13–21
may form a kind of diptych, as we have seen. Plato is also complex:
1–4 and 7–8 form a chronological sequence, but are themselves inter-
rupted by letters 5 and 6, while 9–13 are not in chronological sequence
either in themselves or with respect to the rest of the collection. It
seems to me methodologically problematic to abstract out of Plato a
chronologically arranged Briefroman of the chronologically ordered
letters, and I’ve suggested elsewhere that we need to take the order
21 See Sykutris 1931: 213–14; Penwill 1978: 92–3; P. A. Rosenmeyer 2001: 232.
22 See on this also Hodkinson 2007: 272.
of the letters as transmitted seriously, in particular the often ignored

9–13,23 which allow us to reflect on the causes of the failure of Plato’s
philosophical education of Dionysius II by rewinding back to the
earliest stages of their relationship (as in the example from Plato 13
quoted above). Here I follow Mary Beard’s seminal piece on Cicero’s
correspondence and the ways in which the MS arrangement of the
letters have been obscured (or obliterated) by the re-orderings of later
editors.24
Indeed, I think it is very important to realise the variety in arrange-
ment to be found in the MSS across ancient letter collections both
Latin and Greek: in a 2012 paper, Roy Gibson points out that
‘Greco-Roman letter collections (as transmitted in the MSS) were
arranged predominantly by addressee or by theme (often without
the preservation of chronology within addressee or thematic group-
ings), or arranged on the principle of artful variety and significant
juxtaposition’.25 This lack of chronological order is obscured by
the re-ordering of such letter collections by modern editors (a good
example, again, is Cicero’s correspondence). The major exceptions
to this lack of chronological arrangement are precisely those fictional
letter collections such as Themistocles, Chion and Euripides which we
have been looking at.26 But we should also note that there are several
such fictional letter collections in Greek which do not show consistent
chronological arrangement, not just Plato, but also Phalaris (which
seems in fact to be radically disordered),27 Anacharsis (in which col-
lection the letters are largely paraenetic)28 and so on, though it is
probably true to say that chronological ordering does seem to be more
common in fictional as opposed to non-fictional letter collections.
Before we move onto the subject of differences between ancient and
modern uses of the epistolary form itself, it is perhaps worth men-
tioning again the most obvious difference of all between our ancient
and modern examples: length. The ancient examples are clearly
much shorter than the modern ones, although there is considerable
variety in the length of modern epistolary novels (compare Werther,
for example, with Clarissa).29 This is, of course, not because ancient
narratives cannot be of extended length (Greek literature begins,
23 See A. D. Morrison 2013; also Holzberg 1994: 8–13, 1996: 645–6.

24 Beard 2002.
25 Gibson 2012: 56.
26 Cf. Gibson 2012: 58 n. 9.
27 See P. A. Rosenmeyer 2001: 225.
28 On this collection in general see P. A. Rosenmeyer 2001: 209–17.
29 Clarissa weighs in at about a million words, and is widely reputed to be the
longest single novel in English. It is some five times longer than Pamela, and more
than twenty times the length of Werther.
308 a. d. morrison
after all, with the monumental Iliad and Odyssey), nor is it because
ancient prose narratives are always brief (think of the Cyropaedia or
Heliodorus), but perhaps it does point us once more to the different
affinities of our ancient and modern examples. The brevity of the
ancient examples fits in well with the usual explanation of the origins
of Greek fictional letters by famous men as rhetorical exercises,30 but
perhaps it also points to a closer association with biographical and
apologetic literature focused on the exploration and defence of char-
acter and motivations than with extended novelistic narrative.
A characteristic related, perhaps, to the much greater brevity of the
ancient examples is their greater tolerance for narrative gaps across
a given collection as a whole.31 There are several examples of events
not narrated, motivations not explained, consequences not explored,
answers not provided: in Euripides, for example, there is much we do
not learn, such as the names of the young men from Pella (E. 1.2),
how they came to be imprisoned by Archelaus (E. 1.2) or why they
were in fact released,32 while in Chion neither the killing of the tyrant
Clearchus is narrated, nor the consequences of that killing either for
Chion himself or for Heraclea, nor whether his characterisation of his
future homicide as an act of heroic liberation (Ch. 17.2–3)33 is accu-
rate, nor whether he attains his hope of a ‘good death’ (καλὸς θάνατος,
Ch. 17.2). Such narrative omissions may be in part a result of the ways
in which such collections came into being: if disparate, already exist-
ing letters were combined by editors into a narrative then perhaps it is
to be expected that not all the events in a story and the reasons behind
those events should be covered by the letters. The greater length of
modern examples lends itself to a greater degree of explanation and
exploration of what happened in the narrative (and why), a very nov-
30 See, e.g., P. A. Rosenmeyer 2001: 259–60.

31 I thank Ruth Scodel for pointing out to me the significance of the narrative
gaps in the ancient collections.
32 At E. 3.1 Euripides describes their father as ‘praising and doing me honour,
because I saved his sons’ (ἐμέ τε ὑμνῶν καὶ περιέπων, ὅτι σώσαιμι αὐτῷ τοὺς υἱέας),
but since we do not hear from Archelaus himself it is not possible to determine
Euripides’ precise role in their liberation, nor can we be sure that either the father
or Euripides have accurate knowledge about this matter: the reference which
Euripides makes to Archelaus’ praiseworthy action with regard to the men of Pella
at E. 4.1 is also very general and unspecific (καὶ τὰ περὶ τοὺς Πελλαίους, ὦ βέλτιστε
Ἀρχέλαε, καὶ πολλὰ ἄλλα πεπολίτευταί σοι καλῶς καὶ πρὸς ἐμὲ καὶ πρὸς ἑτέρους
ἐπιεικεῖς τε καὶ σπουδῆς ἀξίους πολλούς, ‘Both with regard to the Pellaeans and in
many other matters you have conducted things well both towards me and to many
other honourable men deserving of your zeal’).
33 Note, for example, the rather hyperbolic μετὰ παιᾶνος γὰρ ἂν καὶ νικητηρίων
ἀπολίποιμι τὸν βίον, εἰ καταλύσας τὴν τυραννίδα ἐξ ἀνθρώπων ἀπελεύσομαι (‘I shall
leave life accompanied by a paean and the prizes of victory, if I depart from men
having destroyed the tyranny’, Ch. 17.2).
elistic impulse (at least in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries), but
this drive to explain and inform the reader in turn has a peculiar con-
sequence for some of the modern examples, which is not immediately
clear from the summaries above. Several modern epistolary narratives
in fact abandon the epistolary form for some portion of the narrative
quite often: we see this in Pamela, in Werther and in Documents. We
have the employment of a section of narrative in the editor’s voice in
Pamela between the first straightforwardly epistolary section and the
greater second part which takes the form of a journal by Pamela,34 the
handing over to an editor who also narrates the final part of Werther
(with a lament that such a narratorial intrusion is necessary: ‘It is a
matter of extreme regret that we want original evidence of the last
remarkable days of our friend; and we are, therefore, obliged to inter-
rupt the progress of his correspondence, and to supply the deficiency
by a connected narration’;35 Werther, Editor to the Reader) and
the use of extensive witness-statements in Documents.36 Liaisons, on
the other hand, is strikingly more consistent in its employment of the
epistolary form. In this respect it (Liaisons) is more akin to the ancient
collections, which contain only letters.37 But Liaisons also has the
advantages of a complex network of correspondence (contrast Pamela
or Werther, which are largely written in the guise of their eponymous
34 ‘Here it is necessary to observe, that the fair Pamela’s Tryals were not yet
over; but the worst of all were to come, at a Time when she thought them all at
an End, and that she was returning to her Father: for when her Master found her
Virtue was not to be subdu’d, and he had in vain try’d to conquer his Passion for
her, being a gentleman of Pleasure and Intrigue, he had ordered his Lincolnshire
coachman to bring his Travelling Chariot from thence, not caring to trust his
Body Coachman, who, with the rest of the Servants, so greatly loved and honour’d
the fair Damsel; and having given him Instructions accordingly, and prohibited
his other Servants, on Pretence of resenting Pamela’s Behaviour, from accompa-
nying her any Part of the Way, he drove her five Miles on the Way to her Father’s;
and then turning off, cross’d the Country, and carried her onward towards his
Lincolnshire estate’ (Pamela, editorial narrative between letters 31 and 32).
35 ‘Wie sehr wünscht’ ich, daß uns von den letzten merkwürdigen Tagen
unsers Freundes so viel eigenhändige Zeugnisse übrig geblieben wären, daß
ich nicht nötig hätte, die Folge seiner hinterlaßnen Briefe durch Erzählung zu
unterbrechen.’
36 The documents numbered 45 (John Munting’s statement, second part, over
16 pp.) and 49 (Paul Harrison’s statement, 41 pp.) narrate the discovery of the
body, the investigations into the crime, etc.
37 See P. A. Rosenmeyer 2001: 209, who notes the ‘lack of connective material’ and
the absence of ‘a separate narrating voice’ across pseudonymous Greek letter
collections in general (not just those we are examining here). The length of the
Seventh Letter in Plato brings it furthest away from the epistolary form and nearer
to a species of autobiography (cf. Hodkinson 2007: 274–5, who suggests some-
thing similar for Th. 20). Nevertheless, it is still formally a letter within a letter
collection.
310 a. d. morrison
characters) in which we are able to hear from a large number of dif-

ferent characters, allowing the reader to hear about events from a
number of different perspectives, and accordingly to understand the
different characters’ motivations.38 The lack of more than one episto-
lary perspective in the ancient examples we are examining is another
reason for their greater degree of narrative gappiness: omissions and
lack of knowledge on the part of one character are not compensated
for by the knowledge of other characters. It is instructive here to
bear in mind the ‘diptych’ structure of Themistocles, which might
suggest itself as a parallel for the multiple perspectives of different
correspondents in Liaisons (or Clarissa). Letters which concern the
same narrative events, such as Th. 5 and 20 on Themistocles’ recep-
tion by Admetus, are part of the way in which different versions of the
character of Themistocles are developed in each of the halves of the
collection, to the extent that letters such as Th. 5 and 20 can contain
contradictory accounts of what happened,39 which are not straight-
forwardly contradictory because of the different perspectives of dif-
ferent characters (since Themistocles is the writer of all the letters in
Themistocles). The overlapping letters are focused principally not on
filling in narrative gaps, but on developing different portrayals of the
character of Themistocles.40
It may also be that we should see in the consistent use of the epis-
tolary form in the ancient examples another indication of their origin
as experiments in what particular historical individuals would have
written in certain circumstances (that is to say, the form is motivated
in part by a desire to investigate what, e.g., Themistocles or Plato
might have thought or written at a particular moment, rather than
being driven by a desire to tell a story in all its details). But I think we
can also discern here another difference in the purpose or character
of the ancient and modern collections. It is remarkable that in our
38 An example is the different views of the actions and intentions of Valmont

with regard to Mme de Tourvel presented in letters 4 and 6 (Valmont to Merteuil,
where he is explicit about his behaviour and proximity to Tourvel being designed
to lead to seducing her), letters 8 and 11 (Tourvel to Mme de Volanges, where she
thinks his actions innocent and a sign that his dissolute reputation is not fair) and
letter 9 (Volanges to Tourvel, where the former warns of his wickedness).
39 E.g., in Th. 5 Admetus is absent for some eight or nine days after the arrival of
Themistocles at his court, of which there is no mention in Th. 20, which strongly
implies that the Athenians and Spartans arrive shortly after Themistocles and
immediately appeal to Admetus to surrender Themistocles to them (Th. 20.8–10).
The attitude, motivation and behaviour of Admetus are also very different in the
two letters. Doenges 1981: 32–4, however, is of the opinion that the narratives of
the two letters can be reconciled, though this is not a widespread view (see Penwill
1978: 85; P. A. Rosenmeyer 2001: 231–2).
40 See Penwill 1978: 100–3.
modern examples the parts where the epistolary form is abandoned

are precisely those of greatest narrative import: the death of Werther
in Werther, the circumstances of the murder of Harrison and discov-
ery of his body in Documents, the abduction and transfer of Pamela
from Bedfordshire to Lincolnshire in Pamela. These non-epistolary
sections, some of which are a large proportion of the text (see, e.g.,
the length of the witness-statements in Documents), carry a dispropor-
tionate amount of the narrative burden in these works, which points
to the fact that the telling of the story is a more prominent purpose of
modern than of ancient collections, and that for some authors, at least,
the letter-form was not as ‘expressive’ a narrative tool as Anthony
Trollope suggested it could be: it is telling perhaps that Trollope refers
to the usefulness of familiar letters to the telling of the author’s ‘story,
or some portion of his story’. Letters are a good way of providing
readers with access to the perspective of a given character on a series
of events, but if narrative completeness is a goal they become difficult
to work with, precisely because of the restricted, partial view of events
which they necessitate.
Another important aspect of the structure of our texts is the
explicitness of the editor as a distinct figure. All the modern examples
are (more or less) presented as edited by an editor whose presence
is clear to readers, whether in the form of an editorial preface (as in
Pamela, Liaisons41 and Werther) or other forms of explicit editorial
intervention (for example, the narrative by the editor in Pamela42 or
Werther).43 Documents is slightly different, since the editor there is
one of the characters who features in the letters and documents which
follow (Paul Harrison), but his covering letter explains how the subse-
quent letters came to form a coherent narrative. There are also signs of
another figure (an outer narrator) who completes the story, since there
is a short, italicised description of the reaction of the Director of Public
Prosecutions, Sir Gilbert Pugh, on receiving Paul Harrison’s dossier,
and who provides the detail that a newspaper extract confirming the
41 ‘ne contient pourtant que le plus petit nombre des lettres qui composaient
la totalité de la correspondance dont il est extrait. Chargé de la mettre en ordre
par les personnes à qui elle était parvenue, et que je savais dans l’intention de la
publier, je n’ai demandé, pour prix de mes soins, que la permission d’élaguer tout
ce qui me paraîtrait inutile’ (‘it nevertheless represents a very small proportion of
those included in the total correspondence from which they have been extracted.
When I was commissioned to collate these letters by the persons into whose pos-
session they had come and who, as I was aware, were intending to have them pub-
lished, my only request in return for my effort was to be allowed to prune anything
which I considered superfluous’; Liaisons, Editor’s Preface).
42 See n. 34.
43 See pp. 000–000.
312 a. d. morrison
execution of the murderer was pinned to the dossier ‘at some subse-
quent date’. The editor (as we have seen) does much of the narrative
work in Pamela and Werther and in a different way in Documents,
since the statement of Paul Harrison is important in establishing how
the narrative came to be assembled (since it includes letters incriminat-
ing the murderer). The editor is less obviously present in the bulk of
Liaisons, although there are several editorial notes commenting on
aspects of the action which are clearly in the voice of the editor. Across
our modern examples the editor is characterised as having discovered
or acquired the letters and to have arranged the material, in some
cases suppressing details or changing names, as the following indicate:
• ‘a very small proportion of those included in the total cor-

respondence from which they have been extracted’ (Liaisons,
Editor’s Preface);44
• ‘[The remainder of this letter, being of a very intimate nature, is
not available]’ (Documents, editorial comment on 31, Munting
to his fiancée);
• ‘I must also inform the reader that I have deleted or changed
the names of all concerned and should any name happen to
belong to any living person or persons, this is sheer coinci-
dence from which no conclusion can be drawn’45 (Liaisons,
editorial note to Editor’s Preface).
But this explicit pose of discovery, at least, is not present in the ancient
examples, even if it is implied by the collection and arrangement
of the letters (and certain editorial interventions such as prefacing
the majority of the letters of Chion to his father Matris as ‘to the
same’, which suggests the editor’s or reader’s perspective, not that
of the correspondents).46 But we do not meet the editor as a separate
speaking voice in the ancient examples. This is perhaps all the more
surprising because there are ancient examples of texts posing as ‘dis-
covered’ texts apparently found by an editor: Patricia Rosenmeyer
has reminded me of the Trojan War narratives of Dictys and Dares,
as well as the example of Antonius Diogenes.47 But those texts are not
44 See n. 41 for the French text.

45 ‘Je dois prévenir aussi que j’ai supprimé ou changé tous les noms des person-
nes dont il est question dans ces lettres et que si, dans le nombre de ceux que je leur
ai substitués, il s’en trouvait qui appartiennent à quelqu’un, ce serait seulement
une erreur de ma part, et dont il nefaudrait tirer aucune conséquence.’
46 See P. A. Rosenmeyer 2001: 238.
47 On these texts (and their authentication strategies) see Hansen 2003; Merkle
1996.
epistolary narratives (although they do employ letters as part of their
authentication strategies) in the same sense as the examples we have
been examining. Perhaps the absence of editorial presence from Greek
fictional letters purporting to be by famous historical individuals,
such as our four examples, is also connected to that earlier differ-
ence we discerned between our ancient and modern narratives: since
the ancient letter collections are of famous, historical individuals,
perhaps the problem of how the letters were acquired was less likely
to arise, if the assumption was that such letters (were they authentic)
would be published, whereas in the modern examples there is felt to
be some need to explain the origins of the correspondence of private,
otherwise unknown individuals. Perhaps the absence of the pose of the
discovered text is in part an attempt at verisimilitude, if the pose of the
discovered text is itself a marker of fictionality (as it seems to be for
the modern examples).
We have seen, I hope, some striking differences between ancient
Greek and modern European epistolary narratives, not least in scope,
the use of means of conveying the story other than letters, the presence
of an explicit editor and the tolerance for narrative gaps. But there are
also some clear affinities, such as a deep interest in the psychology of
characters and their motivation, a profound interest in the power but
also the dangers of communication in letters, and the nature of epis-
tolarity itself. These are important family resemblances between the
ancient and the modern examples, and they justify using the modern
examples as tools to think with about their ancient counterparts. The
terms ‘epistolary novel’ and Briefroman are somewhat misleading, I
believe, when applied to the ancient narratives we have been examin-
ing, but chiefly because they overlook their restricted length and their
focus on the lives and characters of famous historical individuals (as
opposed to a focus on telling a story in detail, which is much more
prominent in the modern examples), rather than because the ancient
texts are doing something completely different from the modern ones.
But I suggest we need to look beyond the modern epistolary novel
to understand in a fuller sense the ancient narratives we have been
examining, in particular to ancient biography and apologetic litera-
ture such as the Socratic works of Plato and Xenophon, but also to
other ancient letter collections and their various principles of order
and arrangement.
16
THE ANONYMOUS TRAVELLER IN

EUROPEAN LITERATURE: A GREEK
MEME?
Irene J. F. de Jong
INTRODUCTION: DEFINITION
Italo Calvino’s novel If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller of 1979
famously revolves around a reader in search of a book that he has
started to read but that turns out to be incomplete. The book’s
opening sentences tell of a traveller arriving on a winter’s night at the
small station of a provincial town. In the final chapter the reader ends
up in a library where one of the other readers warns him that finding
the book will be very difficult since ‘once upon a time they all began
like that, all novels. There was somebody who went along a lonely
street and saw something that attracted his attention, something that
seemed to conceal a mystery, or a premonition; then he asked for
explanations and they told him a long story’; ‘the traveller always
appeared only in the first pages and then was never mentioned again –
he had fulfilled his function, the novel wasn’t his story’.
In this chapter I shall take a closer look at this device of ‘the anony-
mous traveller’ in European literature. Calvino suggests that it is an
old device (‘once upon a time they all began like that’), and my first
question is ‘how old?’ Thus, I shall go back in time step by step and
trace its origins. My quest will, not surprisingly in view of the topic of
this volume, lead me to ancient Greece. The second question which
I shall discuss is whether we can indeed draw up such a European
history of a narrative device and speak of its Greek origins, or
whether, perhaps, we should rather consider the anonymous traveller
a narrative universal.
In short, I shall use the dossier of this device, fascinating in itself, as
one possible test-case in defining Greek narrative.
I wish to thank audiences in Edinburgh, Amsterdam and Leiden and the editors
for their useful comments and suggestions.
the anonymous traveller in european literature 315
Before embarking on my voyage through time I shall define

more clearly what I mean by the anonymous traveller device. A simple
and clear example is George Eliot, Scenes of Clerical Life, chapter 2
(1858):
More than a quarter of a century has slipped by since then, and

in the interval Milby has advanced at as rapid a pace as other
market-towns in her Majesty’s dominions. By this time it has a
handsome railway station, where the drowsy London traveller
may look out by the brilliant gas-light and see perfectly sober
papas and husbands alighting with their leather bags after trans-
acting their day’s business at the county town.
The narrator introduces an anonymous London traveller and

borrows his eyes to enliven the description of a little provincial town.
Descriptions of scenery will turn out to be the natural habitat of the
anonymous traveller,1 though not the only one.
The device of the anonymous traveller is a subtype of the much
larger category of the anonymous focaliser. A narrator may at all
times choose to present his story not via his own eyes or those of one
of his named characters, but via those of an anonymous onlooker,
as for example in Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘Manuscript found in a bottle’
(1833):
I have seen the captain face to face, and in his own cabin – but,
as I expected, he paid me no attention. Although in his appear-
ance there is, to a casual observer, nothing which might bespeak
him more or less than man – still a feeling of irrepressible rever-
ence and awe mingled with the sensation of wonder with which I
regarded him.
Often anonymous focalisation is only hypothetical, that is to say, it

presents ‘what might be or have been seen or perceived – if only there
were someone who could have adopted the requisite perspective on
the situations and events at issue’. Hypothetical focalisation has been
studied by the narratologist David Herman,2 who gives as an example
A. S. Byatt, Possession, chapter 15 (1990):
1 Cf. Friedemann 1910: 188 (‘der Erzähler [braucht] die Fiktion eines Reisenden von
heute, um die Landschaftsbilder vor ihm emporsteigen zu lassen, ehe er erzählt’);
Hamon [1981] 1993: 175–6.
2 Herman 1994, quotation from 231.
316 irene j. f. de jong
An observer might have speculated for some time as to whether

they [the two protagonists] were travelling together or separately,
for their eyes only rarely met, and when they did, remained
guarded and expressionless.
Many of my anonymous travellers will likewise be of a hypothetical

status, but the two categories do not completely overlap. Thus Herman
also includes second-person forms, such as William Thackeray, Vanity
Fair, chapter 48 (1848):
her dress [Becky Sharp’s], though if you were to see it now, any
present lady of Vanity Fair would pronounce it to be the most
foolish and preposterous attire ever worn, was as handsome in
her eyes and those of the public, some five-and-twenty years
since, as the most brilliant costume of the most famous beauty of
the present season.
Such second-person forms are well known from ancient texts too, for
example, Homer, Il. 17.366–8:
Ὣς οἱ μὲν μάρναντο δέμας πυρός, οὐδέ κε φαίης

οὔτέ ποτ’ ἠέλιον σῶν ἔμμεναι οὔτε σελήνην·
ἠέρι γὰρ κατέχοντο μάχης ἐπί θ’ ὅσσον ἄριστοι . . .
Thus they fought on like fire, and you would not have thought
that sun or moon were still secure in their place;
for they were enclosed in mist in the battle, all the bravest . . . 3
Compare Sallust, Bellum Catilinae 61.1:
Sed confecto proelio tum vero cerneres quanta audacia quan-

taque animi vis fuisset in exercitu Catilinae.
But when the battle had finished then you might truly have noted
how much daring and mental power there had been in Catiline’s
army.4
I would prefer, however, to connect this hypothetical ‘you’ with

the narratee. For this analysis, which I have already proposed in
3 Texts are mostly the current OCT ones; translations are my own.
4 For discussions in classical literature, see, for example, (on Homeric epic) De Jong
[1987a] 2004: 54–7; S. D. Richardson 1990: 174–8; (on Pausanias) Akujärvi 2005:
160–2; (on Latin historiography) Gilmartin 1975.
Narrators and Focalizers, I can enlist the support of Longinus, On the

Sublime 26, who notes that ‘Change of person [from third to second
person] gives an equally vivid effect, and often makes the hearer feel as
if he were moving about in the thick of danger.’
Of course, the two devices (‘an observer might have seen’ or ‘you
might have seen’) are closely related. Thus often ‘you’ means ‘one’
and is translated accordingly, expressions have both a ‘someone’ and
a ‘you’ variant (ἔγνω τις ἄν at Xen. Cyr. 3.3.70 next to ἐπέγνως . . . ἄν
at 8.1.33), and the devices are combined in one passage (e.g., πλὴν εἰ
μή τις . . . ἀναφέροι . . . οὐκ ἂν οὐδὲ τοῦτο ἴδοις ῥᾳδίως at Pausanias,
Periegesis 2.11.6). Also, grammarians such as Kühner and Gerth
discuss the two devices under the same heading.5 Above all, in their
effect the devices are closely comparable: both aim at drawing the nar-
ratee into the story and increasing his engagement. From a narrato-
logical point of view it is, however, more accurate to distinguish them:
in ‘you might have seen’ the narratee himself becomes a witness of
events, while in ‘someone might have seen’ the narratee gets a stand-in
in the text who looks for him.
All in all, the relationships between the various devices and cat-
egories just discussed can be visually represented as in Figure 16.1.
The anonymous traveller is a subtype of the anonymous focaliser; the
anonymous focaliser can take the form of a hypothetical focaliser, but
a hypothetical focaliser may also be a ‘you’ and then is to be identified
with the narratee.
Anonymous focaliser Hypothetical focaliser

Anonymous traveller
Narratee – ‘you’
Figure 16.1 Devices and categories
THE ANONYMOUS TRAVELLER IN EUROPEAN

LITERATURE
Having cleared the question of definition and demarcation, I shall
now discuss a number of examples, each of which will take us further
5 Kühner and Gerth [1898] 1976: 213–14. Gilmartin 1975 and Akujärvi 2005:
145–66 also take the second- and third-person devices together.
back in time until, in true Greek spirit, we reach the prōtos heuretēs of
the device. Over the past years I have assembled some forty examples
and I am sure there are many more. Of course I can only present a
selection, which must suffice, however, to show its long history and
many forms and functions.
My first example, from Marcel Proust, Swann’s Way (1913), imme-
diately shows an interesting variant:
So will a traveller, who has come down, on a day of glorious

weather, to the Mediterranean shore, and is doubtful whether
they still exist, those lands which he has left, let his eyes be
dazzled, rather than cast a backward glance, by the radiance
streaming towards him from the luminous and unfading azure at
his feet.
Proust uses the anonymous traveller device in the form of a compari-

son, which must make clear the joy of Swann who unexpectedly meets
his beloved Odette.6
A brilliant exploitation of the anonymous traveller is made by
Flaubert at the opening of the second book of Madame Bovary, II.1
(1856):
Yonville-l’Abbaye (so called from an old Capuchin abbey of

which not even the ruins remain) is a market-town twenty-four
miles from Rouen . . . One leaves the highroad at La Boissiere
and keeps straight on to the top of the Leux hill, whence the
valley is seen. Before one, on the verge of the horizon, lie the
oaks of the forest of Argueil, . . . At the foot of the hill beyond
the bridge begins a roadway, planted with young aspens, that
leads in a straight line to the first houses in the place. These,
fenced in by hedges, are in the middle of courtyards full of strag-
gling buildings, wine-presses, cart-sheds, and distilleries scattered
under thick trees, with ladders, poles, or scythes hung on to the
branches . . . But the courtyards grow narrower, the houses closer
together, and the fences disappear; a bundle of ferns swings under
a window from the end of a broomstick; there is a blacksmith’s
forge and then a wheelwright’s, with two or three new carts
outside that partly block up the way. Then across an open space
appears a white house beyond a grass mound ornamented by a
Cupid, his finger on his lips; two brass vases are at each end of a
flight of steps; scutcheons blaze upon the door. It is the notary’s
6 Proust is very fond of the anonymous traveller, who often figures in a comparison.
house, and the finest in the place. The church is on the other side
of the street, twenty paces farther down, at the entrance of the
square. The little cemetery that surrounds it, closed in by a wall
breast-high, is so full of graves that the old stones, level with
the ground, form a continuous pavement, on which the grass of
itself has marked out regular green squares . . . The market, that
is to say, a tiled roof supported by some twenty posts, occupies
of itself about half the public square of Yonville. The town hall,
constructed ‘from the designs of a Paris architect’, is a sort of
Greek temple that forms the corner next to the chemist’s shop . . .
But that which most attracts the eye is, opposite the Lion d’Or
inn, the chemist’s shop of Monsieur Homais . . . Beyond this
there is nothing to see at Yonville.
Yonville is the (fictional) place where Emma Bovary is moving to

and where she is to spend the rest of her (unhappy) life. We hear that
she and her husband are on their way in a stage-coach, but instead of
making her have a first look at the town Flaubert makes them halt
and spend the night at a nearby inn and describes the place through
the eyes of an anonymous tourist. One by one the ‘highlights’ of the
town are described in a mock tourist-guide format, which actually
only points up how little the small provincial town has to offer. The
concluding sentence, ‘Beyond this there is nothing to see at Yonville’,
thus is both ironic and ominous. The provincialism and dullness of the
place will be the undoing of the novel’s heroine.
One of the most elaborate examples is Stendhal’s The Red and the
Black, 1, 1 (1830):
The small town of Verrières may be regarded as one of the most

attractive in the Franche-Comté. [A description of its natural
surroundings follows.] No sooner has one entered the town
than one is startled by the din of a noisy machine of terrifying
aspect. [Description of the machine] This work, so rough to the
outward eye, is one of the industries that most astonish the trav-
eller who ventures for the first time among the mountains that
divide France from Switzerland. If, on entering Verrières, the
traveller inquires to whom belongs that fine nail factory which
deafens everybody who passes up the main street, he will be told
in a drawling accent: ‘Eh! It belongs to the Mayor.’ Provided the
traveller halts for a few moments in this main street of Verrières,
which runs from the bank of the Doubs nearly to the summit of
the hill, it is a hundred to one that he will see a tall man appear,
with a busy, important air. [Description of outward appearance
of the tall man] But soon the visitor from Paris is annoyed by a
certain air of self-satisfaction and self-sufficiency mingled with a
suggestion of limitations and want of originality.
In this example (which is even longer than my quotation) a traveller

is introduced, who walks through a small French provincial town and
looks at its buildings and inhabitants and who is even talked to by
one of the villagers. He is endowed with the identity of a man from
Paris who visits this region for the first time. This obviously makes
him someone who looks around with interest but also someone who
views the village with the eyes of a man from the city. We observe the
same effect as in my earlier example from George Eliot, where we had
an inhabitant from London looking at a small country village.7 There
are many variations on this theme, for instance Walter Scott in his
novel Waverley introducing a French tourist who looks at a scene in
a Scottish town.8
I take a large step and arrive in the Byzantine period – Procopius,
De aedificiis 1.11 (c. 550 ad):
Ἐκ δὲ τῆς Προποντίδος ἐσπλέοντι ἐς τὰ πρὸς ἕω τῆς πόλεως,

βαλανεῖον ἐν ἀριστερᾷ ἐν δημοσίῳ ἐστίν.
For someone sailing from the Propontis towards the east side of
the city, there is to the left a public bath.
This is the anonymous traveller in his least concrete or bodily shape:

he is no more than a dative participle.9 This idiom is found throughout
antiquity in historians and periegetic writers like Pausanias, Herodian,
Appian, back via Thucydides and Herodotus to Hecataeus.10 It prob-
ably owes its origin to the format of the periplus or ‘circumnaviga-
tion’, the description of coastlines as seen by someone sailing past
7 There may be an additional effect intended by Stendhal in that his novel will tell
the story of an inhabitant of the small provincial town (Julien Sorel), who goes up
to Paris to try his luck. I owe this observation to Joern Soerink.
8 Cf. Hamon [1981] 1993: 175: ‘s’introduisant successivement dans des milieux ou
des espaces qu’il ne connaît pas (et qu’il explore) il va décrire ces milieux par ses
regards . . . : voir les Persans, Hurons, etc., des textes du XVIIIe siècle, les provin-
ciaux arrivant à Paris des textes du XIXe siècle, les badauds surréalistes, etc.’.
9 Cf. Kühner and Gerth [1898] 1976: 423–4.
10 For examples, see Akujärvi 2005: 164–6, and the index of De Jong 2012, s.v.
anonymous focaliser. There are also variants featuring a tis or a ‘man’ (anēr) (e.g.,
Paus. Periegesis 9.39.10–11, and see Akujärvi 2005: 161, n. 85) or ‘it was possible
to see’ (e.g., Josephus, Jewish War 3.529 or Xen. Hell. 3.4.16).
them on a ship,11 but it came to be adopted in geographical or spatial

descriptions in general. We meet an anonymous traveller who ‘comes
to’, ‘sails’, ‘passes’, ‘crosses’ and the like and thereby describes coun-
tries, cities or buildings. The abstract nature of the dative participle
offers great advantages, in that the ‘someone’ is timeless, bodiless
and hence inexhaustible; no geographical barrier can stop him and he
effortlessly moves across the earth or sea. As such he is an appealing
figure for the reader (and perhaps prospective traveller) to identify
with.12
In this context it is interesting to note that ancient rhetoric defines
the description or ekphrasis as a λόγος περιηγηματικός (e.g., Theon
118.7–8, ed. Spengel), a term which, according to Dubel, always
retains a concrete, spatial nuance: ‘discours’ and ‘parcours’. Likewise
Habicht characterises periegetic literature as texts that ‘conduct . . .
readers around a certain area . . . in just the same way that local guides
show tourists around a spot’.13 The anonymous traveller will remain
at home in modern tourist guides. Thus, in a Green Guide of Italy it
says under the heading of ‘Portofino peninsula’: ‘This rocky, rugged
promontory offers one of the most attractive landscapes on the Italian
Riviera . . . By taking the corniche roads and the numerous foothpaths
the visitor can discover the secret charms of this region.’14
I turn to a different genre, which also brings us from the Byzantine
era to the imperial period of Greek literature – Achilles Tatius’
Leucippe and Clitophon 1.1–2 (second century ad):
Σιδὼν ἐπὶ θαλάσσῃ πόλις· Συρίων ἡ θάλασσα. [. . . ] Ἐνταῦθα ἥκων

ἐκ πολλοῦ χειμῶνος σῶστρα ἔθυον ἐμαυτοῦ τῇ τῶν Φοινίκων θεᾷ·
Ἀστάρτην αὐτὴν οἱ Σιδώνιοι καλοῦσιν. περιϊὼν οὖν καὶ τὴν ἄλλην
πόλιν καὶ περισκοπῶν τὰ ἀναθήματα ὁρῶ γραφὴν ἀνακειμένην γῆς
11 See Güngerich 1950, esp. 9: ‘Es ist eine lockere, parataktische Aufzählung
der Őrtlichkeiten in der Reihenfolge, wie man an ihnen vorbeikam.’ Habicht 1985:
3 notes the relationship between periegetic literature and the periplus.
12 Akujärvi 2005: 146–58. Of course, as Purves 2010: 144–6 notes, the hodologi-
cal way of describing space, that is, following a trajectory from A to B from the
perspective of a traveller (to which the anonymous traveller in the shape of a
dative participle obviously belongs) is more experiential than cartographic space
(e.g., Hecataeus, Periegesis F 163: ‘the Cherronesians border, ὁμορέουσι, the
Apsinthians to the south’; Hdt. Hist. 5.49: ‘the Phrygians are next to, ἔχονται, the
Lydians to the east’). But we never hear of the anonymous traveller being tired (or
losing his way).
13 Dubel 1997: 252; Habicht 1985: 3.
14 Modern Rough Guides all employ the more direct ‘you’ form (which as a matter
of fact also has ancient roots; cf., e.g., Hdt. 2.29.2: ‘Having crossed this, you will
come, ἥξεις, to the stream of the Nile’; or Paus. Perieg.: ‘Here, first, the Alpheus
will receive you, σε ἐκδέξεται’).
ἅμα καὶ θαλάττης. Εὐρώπης ἡ γραφή. [. . . ] Ἐγὼ δὲ καὶ τὰ ἄλλα μὲν
ἐπῄνουν τῆς γραφῆς, ἅτε δὲ ὢν ἐρωτικὸς περιεργότερον ἔβλεπον
τὸν ἄγοντα τὸν βοῦν Ἔρωτα, καί, “Οἷον,” εἶπον, “ἄρχει βρέφος
οὐρανοῦ καὶ γῆς καὶ θαλάσσης.” ταῦτά μου λέγοντος νεανίσκος καὶ
αὐτὸς παρεστώς, “Ἐγὼ ταῦτ’ἂν ἐδείκνυν,” ἔφη, “τοσαύτας ὕβρεις ἐξ
ἔρωτος παθών.”
Sidon is a city by the sea. The Sea is the Assyrian . . . Having
arrived there after a severe storm, I went to make offerings for
my safe arrival to the goddess of the Phoenicians. The Sidonians
call her Astarte. As I was therefore walking about the city and in
particular looking at its memorial offerings, I see a votive paint-
ing of land and sea. The painting was of Europa . . . I looked in
admiration at the entire painting, but being a lover of erōs myself
looked with special attention at the figure of Eros leading the bull
and said aloud: ‘To think that such a child can reign supreme
on earth and at sea.’ At my saying this a young man who stood
nearby said: ‘I might be called a living example, for I have suf-
fered great indignities as a result of love.’ 15
This novel, famously, opens with an anonymous traveller who looks

at (and describes) a large painting, gets into conversation with another
young man (Clitophon), who, prodded by his interlocutor, takes the
floor and in the ensuing eight books tells the (love-)story of his many
adventures. Neither in the course of Clitophon’s narration nor at the
end of it does the camera for one second change back to the anony-
mous young man of the opening scene, and his role quintessentially
is that defined by Calvino: ‘the traveller always appeared only in the
first pages and then was never mentioned again – he had fulfilled his
function, the novel wasn’t his story’.
While the anonymous traveller in the examples so far was a con-
venient peg to hang spatial descriptions on, here he is the convenient
recipient of an entire story. Indeed, as has been argued by Most, he
is the necessary recipient: a first-person narrative such as will be told
by Clitophon can only be forced on strangers in Greek literature,
who moreover need to be coaxed into listening. The anonymous
traveller (who is, of course, a stand-in for the reader) is a pure
cipher, a figure devoid of any characteristics whatsoever – with one
15 It was Ewen Bowie who reminded me of this passage. I quote the text of Gaselee
(Loeb). This is a rather special variant of the anonymous traveller since he is an
(internal) narrator and thereby – slightly – more individualised and personalised
than most travellers, but I see no difference in principle from the Parisian traveller
of Stendhal.
fateful exception. The only thing we ever learn about him is that
he, like the reader (who otherwise would not be reading this kind
of text), is ἐρωτικός (i 2.1): and this is the strait gate though which
Cleitophon will be able to drive the whole σμῆνος λόγων of his own
erotic adventures.16 We may add that, being a victim of storms at
sea himself, the anonymous stranger will be all the more apt to
listen sympathetically to Clitophon’s story, which includes many
storms.
The device of the anonymous traveller is not confined to narrative
genres, as the following example shows, which also brings us to the
classical era (Isocrates, Panegyricus 133, 380 bc):
Ἡγοῦμαι δ’, εἴ τινες ἄλλοθεν ἐπελθόντες θεαταὶ γένοιντο τῶν

παρόντων πραγμάτων, πολλὴν ἂν αὐτοὺς καταγνῶναι μανίαν
ἀμφοτέρων ἡμῶν, οἵτινες οὕτω περὶ μικρῶν κινδυνεύομεν, ἐξὸν ἀδεῶς
πολλὰ κεκτῆσθαι, καὶ τὴν ἡμετέραν αὐτῶν χώραν διαφθείρομεν,
ἀμελήσαντες τὴν Ἀσίαν καρποῦσθαι.
I think that if some persons should come here from another part
of the world and would become viewers of the present state of
affairs, they would charge us both [i.e., the Athenians and the
Spartans] with utter madness, because we risk our lives in this
way, fighting over trifles, though it is possible in security to enjoy
a wealth of possessions, and impoverish our own territory while
neglecting to exploit that of Asia.17
The anonymous traveller, here in the shape of a tis, is a non-Greek,

who sees himself suddenly confronted with the political behaviour of
the Greeks. The idea is of course that as an outsider he will look at this
16 Most 1989: 133. His claim that first-person narratives need a stranger as narratee
seems to me more plausible than that they always have to be tales of woe. See also
Morales 2004: 146–7.
17 Cf. Isocrates, On the peace 41 (‘For suppose that someone [tis] from another part
of the world were to come to Athens, having had no time to be tainted with our
depravity, but brought suddenly face to face with what goes on here, would he not
think that we are mad and bereft of our senses, seeing that we plume ourselves
upon the deeds of our ancestors and think fit to eulogize our city by dwelling
upon the achievements of their time and yet act in no respect like them but do the
very opposite?’); Plato, Laws 637 c (‘For to a stranger [ξένῳ] expressing surprise
at the singularity of what he sees in comparison to his own customs, anyone will
answer: “Do not be surprised, stranger; this is our custom, and you may very
likely have some other custom about the same things” ’); Cicero, Pro Caelio 1.1
(‘If, gentlemen, anyone (quis) should happen to be present who is ignorant of our
laws or tribunals and customs, he would, in my opinion, immediately wonder
what . . . ’).
behaviour with fresh eyes and thereby note its madness, something of
which the Greeks themselves have become unaware.18 He is introduced
by Isocrates to bring home the central point of his whole speech (or
rather political pamphlet, since he never delivered this text on which
he worked for many years), that the Greeks should unite to fight their
eternal Angstgegner Persia.
This passage is a specimen of what ancient rhetoric called ēthopoeia
(sermocinatio): the fabrication of statements, soliloquies or unex-
pressed mental reflections of a (historical or invented) person.19
Rhetorical handbooks describe the function of this device as a means
for a speaker to express advice, reproach, complaint, praise or blame
via another than himself.20 This accords well with my thesis that the
anonymous traveller quintessentially is an outsider who looks at
scenery or a situation with fresh eyes.
A very different task is to be performed by the anonymous travel-
ler in the hands of a philosopher like Plato. In his tireless attempts at
making clear the difference between the sensible world and the world
of Forms, he once introduces an anonymous person who can actually
watch that world of Forms (Plato, Phaedo 109c–e, 370 bc):
ἡμᾶς οὖν οἰκοῦντας ἐν τοῖς κοίλοις αὐτῆς λεληθέναι καὶ οἴεσθαι ἄνω
ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς οἰκεῖν, ὥσπερ ἂν εἴ τις ἐν μέσῳ τῷ πυθμένι τοῦ πελάγους
οἰκῶν οἴοιτό τε ἐπὶ τῆς θαλάττης οἰκεῖν καὶ διὰ τοῦ ὕδατος ὁρῶν τὸν
ἥλιον καὶ τὰ ἄλλα ἄστρα τὴν θάλατταν ἡγοῖτο οὐρανὸν εἶναι, διὰ δὲ
βραδυτῆτά τε καὶ ἀσθένειαν μηδεπώποτε ἐπὶ τὰ ἄκρα τῆς θαλάττης
ἀφιγμένος μηδὲ ἑωρακὼς εἴη, ἐκδὺς καὶ ἀνακύψας ἐκ τῆς θαλάττης
εἰς τὸν ἐνθάδε τόπον, ὅσῳ καθαρώτερος καὶ καλλίων τυγχάνει ὢν
τοῦ παρὰ σφίσι, μηδὲ ἄλλου ἀκηκοὼς εἴη τοῦ ἑωρακότος. ταὐτὸν
δὴ τοῦτο καὶ ἡμᾶς πεπονθέναι· οἰκοῦντας γὰρ ἔν τινι κοίλῳ τῆς
γῆς οἴεσθαι ἐπάνω αὐτῆς οἰκεῖν, καὶ τὸν ἀέρα οὐρανὸν καλεῖν, ὡς
διὰ τούτου οὐρανοῦ ὄντος τὰ ἄστρα χωροῦντα· τὸ δὲ εἶναι ταὐτόν,
ὑπ’ ἀσθενείας καὶ βραδυτῆτος οὐχ οἵους τε εἶναι ἡμᾶς διεξελθεῖν
ἐπ’ ἔσχατον τὸν ἀέρα· ἐπεί, εἴ τις αὐτοῦ ἐπ’ ἄκρα ἔλθοι ἢ πτηνὸς
γενόμενος ἀνάπτοιτο, κατιδεῖν <ἂν> ἀνακύψαντα, ὥσπερ ἐνθάδε
οἱ ἐκ τῆς θαλάττης ἰχθύες ἀνακύπτοντες ὁρῶσι τὰ ἐνθάδε, οὕτως
ἄν τινα καὶ τὰ ἐκεῖ κατιδεῖν, καὶ εἰ ἡ φύσις ἱκανὴ εἴη ἀνασχέσθαι
18 Cf. Setti [1886] 1960: ad loc.: ‘cioè degli stranieri, il cui giudizio appunto
come tali, potera essere più imparziale’.
19 Lausberg [1963] 1997: §§ 820, 824, 826.
20 Cf., for example, Quint. Inst. 9.2.30–7 (‘His [sc. fictiones personarum] suadendo,
obiurgando, querendo, laudando, miserando, personas idoneas damus’, ‘We use
these . . . to provide appropriate characters with words of advice, reproach, com-
plaint, praise, or pity’). See also Hagen 1966: 70–4.
θεωροῦσα, γνῶναι ἂν ὅτι ἐκεῖνός ἐστιν ὁ ἀληθῶς οὐρανὸς καὶ τὸ

ἀληθινὸν φῶς καὶ ἡ ὡς ἀληθῶς γῆ.
But we, who dwell in the hollows of the earth, have forgotten
this and we think that we dwell on top of the earth; as when
someone lives on the bottom of the sea but thinks that he lives
on top of the sea and looking at the sun and the stars through
the water and the air would think that the sea is the heaven,
because by reason of his sluggishness and feebleness he is
unable to attain to the upper surface of the air and emerging
and poking up his head see himself how much purer and more
beautiful it is than their region, or hear about it from someone
who has seen it. Our experience is the same. For living in a
hollow of the earth we think that we live on top of it and we
call the air heaven, as if this [the air] were the heaven, and the
stars moved through it. And the reason is the same, namely that
by reason of our feebleness and sluggishness we are not able to
go up to the outermost part of the air. For if anyone should
come up to the top of the air or should get wings and fly up, he
could lift his head above it and see, as fishes lift their heads out
of the water and see the things here, so he would see the things
there; and, if his nature were suited to bear the sight, he would
recognise that that is the real heaven and the real light and the
real earth.
This Jules Verne-like anonymous traveller who can fly is of course

hypothetical, but he is endowed by Plato with enough substance to
have physical sensations: one needs a suitable physis to look at the
world of Forms. What Plato means here becomes clear from a related
image that he employs to make clear the nature of the world of Forms,
that is, the famous allegory of the cave (Republic 7.514–18): there it is
said that to look at world of Forms with its glitter and dazzle is painful
to the eyes (515e).21
I go back in time once more and arrive in the time of archaic poetry.
In the Homeric Hymn to Apollo the hymnic narrator famously inserts
an evocation of the Ionian festival on Delos in honour of Apollo. The
festival is first focalised by the god himself, who is said to come to
Delos and take delight in the Ionians with their trailing robes, who
21 For the idea of flying, Rowe 1993 on 109e3 points to Phaedrus 246a–248a, where
Plato speaks of the soul in terms of a charioteer and a pair of winged horses and
where of the best souls the charioteer may stick his head through the outermost
rim of the universe and glimpse the reality beyond.
hold boxing, dancing and singing contests in his honour (143–50). But
then the narrator introduces an anonymous ‘man’, to take over the
focalisation (Homeric Hymn to Apollo 151–5, seventh or sixth century
bc):
φαίη κ’ ἀθανάτους καὶ ἀγήρως ἔμμεναι ἀνήρ,

ὃς τότ’ ἐπαντιάσει’ ὅτ’ Ἰάονες ἀθρόοι εἶεν·
πάντων γάρ κεν ἴδοιτο χάριν, τέρψαιτο δὲ θυμὸν
ἄνδρας τ’ εἰσορόων καλλιζώνους τε γυναῖκας
νῆάς τ’ ὠκείας ἠδ’ αὐτῶν κτήματα πολλά.22 155
A man might think they were immortal and ageless,

who would then come along, when the Ionians are gathered.
He would take in the beauty of the whole scene, and be
delighted
at the spectacle of the men and the fair-girt women,
the swift ships and the people’s piles of belongings.
The function of this anonymous traveller has been well described by

Miller: the narrator introduces a ‘hypothetical observer from outside
the pan-Ionian community . . . whose testimony carries conviction
because it is independent of ethnic or cultic allegiances’.23 As in the
example from Isocrates, it is his status as outsider that makes him the
right person to evaluate what is going on, this time not in a critical but
in a praising mood.
From the Homeric hymns it is only a small step back in time to
reach Homer, who provides us with more than one example of the
anonymous traveller. A first one is Il. 7.87–91, where Hector, defin-
ing the conditions of a duel, tells what he will do when he defeats his
opponent:
22 ἀνήρ is the reading of one group of manuscripts, while another has αἰεί. For my
interpretation this makes no difference since even with the reading αἰεί the anony-
mous traveller is contained in the autonomous relative clause ὃς τότ’ ἐπαντιάσει’.
This is a conjecture of Ilgen for οἳ τότ’ ἐπ’ ἀντιᾶσι τ’/ἐπαντία σεῖο τ’. These manu-
script readings can only be right if we would change φαίη κ’ into φαίης κ’: ‘you
would think them immortal who then step before you when . . . ’, vel sim., but this
results in a very abrupt change from second- person to third-person potential in
the next line (ἴδοιτο).
23 Miller 1986: 58. N. J. Richardson 2010: ad 151–2 is less convincing: ‘The
poet cannot see all this himself, and uses another’s eyes to do so’; if the poet
really needed a panoramic view, he could not have done better than continue
Apollo’s focalisation. The hymnic narrator again introduces an anonymous trav-
eller (perhaps the same person) at 167–73 (ξεῖνος ταλαπείριος ἐλθών), this time to
arrange praise of himself.
“καί ποτέ τις εἴπῃσι καὶ ὀψιγόνων ἀνθρώπων

νηῒ πολυκλήϊδι πλέων ἐπὶ οἴνοπα πόντον·
‘ἀνδρὸς μὲν τόδε σῆμα πάλαι κατατεθνηῶτος,
ὅν ποτ’ ἀριστεύοντα κατέκτανε φαίδιμος Ἕκτωρ’. 90
ὥς ποτέ τις ἐρέει· τὸ δ’ ἐμὸν κλέος οὔ ποτ’ ὀλεῖται.”
‘(I will heap a mound by the broad Hellespont)

And once even someone of men later born will say
sailing in his many-benched ship over the wine-coloured sea:
“This is the mound of a man who died long ago.
whom glorious Hector once killed while he was excelling in
battle.”
That is what he will say; and my kleos will never die.’
This anonymous tis is a voyager not merely in space but also in time:
he belongs to the future. His function is to voice an oral (or quasi-)
epitaph and thereby confirm Hector’s eternal kleos.24
A shrewd use is made of the format of the anonymous traveller by
Athena, visiting Telemachus and trying to rouse him into action (Od.
1.224–9):
“ἀλλ’ ἄγε μοι τόδε εἰπὲ καὶ ἀτρεκέως κατάλεξον·

τίς δαίς, τίς δὲ ὅμιλος ὅδ’ ἔπλετο; τίπτε δέ σε χρεώ; 225
εἰλαπίνη ἦε γάμος; ἐπεὶ οὐκ ἔρανος τάδε γ’ ἐστίν,
ὥς τέ μοι ὑβρίζοντες ὑπερφιάλως δοκέουσι
δαίνυσθαι κατὰ δῶμα. νεμεσσήσαιτό κεν ἀνὴρ
αἴσχεα πόλλ’ ὁρόων, ὅς τις πινυτός γε μετέλθοι.”
‘But come tell me this and explain it in truth:

what feast, what gathering is this? How does it concern you?
Is it a banquet or a wedding? For this is no communal dinner,
considering how they seem to dine hybristically and insolently
in your house. Any sensible man who would arrive on the scene
would react with criticism at the sight of their many shameful
deeds.’
Throughout her conversation with Telemachus Athena has been

suppressing her divine omniscience and played the role of igno-
rant outsider, in order to make Telemachus talk about his situ-
ation and thereby prepare him for action. In this passage she
‘intensifies her own role as “outsider” by conjuring up a h
ypothetical
24 The passage has been discussed by De Jong 1987b: 77–8; Scodel 1992.
“prudent” onlooker, who is scandalised by the shameful

things’.25
The Homeric narrator himself also, once, effectively introduces an
anonymous traveller (Il. 4.539–44):
Ἔνθά κεν οὐκέτι ἔργον ἀνὴρ ὀνόσαιτο μετελθών,

ὅς τις ἔτ’ ἄβλητος καὶ ἀνούτατος ὀξέϊ χαλκῷ 540
δινεύοι κατὰ μέσσον, ἄγοι δέ ἑ Παλλὰς Ἀθήνη
χειρὸς ἑλοῦσ’, αὐτὰρ βελέων ἀπερύκοι ἐρωήν·
πολλοὶ γὰρ Τρώων καὶ Ἀχαιῶν ἤματι κείνῳ
πρηνέες ἐν κονίῃσι παρ’ἀλλήλοισι τέταντο.
Then no longer would a man having arrived on the scene make

light of the action,
who still unscathed by throw or stab of the sharp bronze
would roam at the battle’s centre, and Pallas Athena would lead
him
having taken his hand, and drive back the volley of spears.
For on that day many Trojans and Greeks
lay stretched side by side, face down in the dust.26
We here have the anonymous traveller taking the shape of an embed-

ded war-reporter, who visits the Iliadic theatre of war. He is given such
a tangible existence that the narrator has to assure us that Athena pro-
tects him. Indeed, the passage is a variant of Il.13.127–8 = 17.398–9,
where we hear of the gods of war Athena and Ares not making light of
the battle. For once, the Homeric narrator opts for a mortal viewer,
presumably to make him a more likely person for his (mortal) nar-
ratees to identify with.
Is Homer the prōtos heuretēs of the anonymous traveller device,
or can we go back in time even further and, following the example of
Martin West, look east of the Helicon? There is perhaps one precedent
in Gilgamesh Tablet II, lines 218–29 (Enkidu is speaking and trying to
hold Gilgamesh back from going to the Forest of Cedar, where the
monster Humbaba dwells):
‘That is a journey [which must not be made,]

[that is a man who must not be looked on.]
He who guards the [Forest of Cedar, his reach is wide,]
25 De Jong 2001 on 1.224–9.

26 There are more anonymous focalisers of the war in the Iliad (4.421; 13.343–4;
16.638–40), but they are not travellers; see De Jong [1987a] 2004: 57–9.
Humbaba, his voice is the Deluge.

[ . . . ]
Who is there would oppose him among the Igigi?
So to keep safe the cedars,
Enlil made it his lot to terrify men;
And he who ventures into the forest, feebleness will seize him.’27
The role of the anonymous traveller here is somewhat different from

that in the other examples (he is to act rather than merely to watch),
and one may hesitate whether to include it. If one does see it as a prec-
edent, the passage should warn us that what we take to be typically
Greek may in fact have eastern roots (unless we assume that eastern
literature took the device over from Greek literature in the course of a
long process of mutual influencing in an early Mediterranean literary
koinē).28 For my argument this caveat is no real problem, since except
(perhaps) for Homer, none of the Greek (or later European) authors
who use the device will have had the Epic of Gilgamesh as their model.
The question, to be discussed in the next section, is whether they had
a model at all.
EVALUATION: NARRATIVE UNIVERSAL OR GREEK MEME?

My tour d’horizon of European literature has more than confirmed
Italo Calvino’s claim that the figure of the anonymous traveller is an
ancient novelistic device, indeed has shown it to be more ancient than
he had perhaps realised. The anonymous traveller is present in many
genres, takes many forms, and fulfils many functions: restricting myself
to the Greek examples, he (it is always a he) occurs in historiography
and periegetic literature, epic, hymn, novel, oratory and philosophy;
he may be virtually bodiless and hence inexhaustible, or he may have
such a concrete shape as to need the protection of a goddess; he looks
at natural scenery, buildings, people, events and human behaviour,
or even the world of Forms, or he listens to stories; and his looking is
usually accompanied by emotions, such as admiration, astonishment,
curiosity or disapproval.
27 I owe this reference to Johannes Haubold. I quote the translation of Andrew

George (1999) except for the last line, which he interestingly enough translates as
‘if you penetrate his forest you are seized by the tremors’, thus illustrating once
again the point discussed in my introductory section about the closeness of ‘one’
and ‘you’. The text has, however, a third-person participle, as JH wrote to me and
other translations make clear. JH also pointed out to me that Mesopotamian geo-
graphical texts have the ‘you form’ (‘to the third region, where you travel seven
leagues’) which we know from Herodotus and other authors (see n. 14).
28 See the discussion in Henkelman 2006: 807–15.
What does it mean when we find a certain narrative device through-

out the ages and throughout the different literatures of Europe? Can
we say that, since ancient Greek literature provided us with the first
widely known specimens of the anonymous traveller, this is a device
that Greece has bequeathed to European literature, just as it has given
it so many other devices? In other words, are we to think in terms
of diffusionism, of one culture once inventing something which is
then taken over by other cultures? Or are we dealing with a narrative
universal, an independent discovery in a wide range of places and at
different moments in history, just as there are linguistic universals or
cultural universals? Is it a genetic or a typological comparison that we
are making?29
Most literary scholars traditionally like to think in terms of diffu-
sionism or genetic comparison. Thus, a towering figure of comparative
literature, Ernst Robert Curtius, passionately argues for the concept
of a unified European literature, in which ‘literary constants’, as he
calls them, are discernible: once invented, a literary device becomes
a heritage which is taken over ‘in a hundred forms’ by later genera-
tions.30 One of his examples is the figure of the Muse.
Recently, the case for narrative universals has been defended with
fervour, for instance by Patrick Hogan:
literature – or, more properly, verbal art – is not produced by

nations, periods, and so on. It is produced by people. And these
people are incomparably more alike than not. They share ideas,
perceptions, desires, aspirations, and . . . emotions. Verbal art
certainly has national, historical, and other inflections. The study
of such particularity is tremendously important. However, litera-
ture is, first of all and most significantly, human . . . The follow-
ing chapters address literature, then, not as the expression of an
ethnic Weltanschauung, nor as evidence of an historical episteme,
but rather as a human activity – something people do, and always
have done, in all parts of the world, and at all times.31
Thus when we find the same theme in different literatures we should

see it as a universal. His example is human emotion: once people
develop literature, this literature will always deal with love, fear or
jealousy.
29 For this distinction, see Nagy 2005: 71–2 and compare the contribution by Kelly
in this volume.
30 See Curtius [1953] 1973: 3–16 (on European literature as a whole) and 391–7 on
literary constants.
31 Hogan 2003: 3.
Is the anonymous traveller a narrative universal or a literary con-

stant with a Greek pedigree? Let us start with thinking through the
second position. There are some arguments which could be adduced
in favour of seeing the device as a Greek one. In a paper on the ‘imagi-
nary second person singular’ in Latin historiography, the type videres,
cerneres about which I spoke in my introduction, Gilmartin observes
that while in Latin we often find this imaginary second person, Greek
prefers the third person tis. She suggests:
The Latin preference for the second person singular and the
Greek preference for tis may reveal less about the grammatical
rules than about the approach of the people who used them.
Although the choice of the more personal second person singular
. . . rather than the impersonal third person, may have been deter-
mined largely by grammatical requirement or convention, we
can expect great writers to make a virtue of such necessity. The
preference for the concrete over the abstract, the subjective over
the objective has been seen as characteristic of Latin literature.32
Although this quotation says more about Latin mentality than Greek,
we may still distil from it the idea that the impersonal, abstract and
objective imaginary third person would be (more) typically Greek.
A second argument in favour of the anonymous traveller as a Greek
phenomenon is the remark of the Latin grammarians Kühner and
Stegmann that the dative participle variant (type: ἐσπλέοντι) was an
originally Greek idiom, taken over by Roman historians.33
Finally, I have taken an – admittedly highly superficial – dip into
Chinese poetry, where we find many references to travelling but
always in the first person, for example Wang Wei, ‘An autumn night in
the mountains’ (ad 701–61):
In a quiet mountain after a sudden shower,

Autumn fills the air in late evening hours.
In between the pines, moonlight shows,
Over the rocks, clear spring-water flows.
32 Gilmartin 1975: 120. In itself the formulation ‘impersonal and objective’ is

apt to cause confusion: what Gilmartin refers to is the circumstance that a speaker
makes another than himself voice an opinion. But that opinion itself is of course
far from objective or impersonal.
33 For example, Caesar, B.C. 3.80.1: ‘Caesar Gomphos pervenit, quod est
oppidum primum Thessaliae venientibus ab Epiro.’ Kühner and Stegmann [1914]
1976: 321: ‘Diese Konstruktion ist durch das Griechisch beeinflusst, wenn sie auch
an sich durchaus nicht dem Geiste der lateinischen Sprache widerspricht.’
Finished washing, women-folk come chattering

Homebound through a bamboo path.
Lily foliage are back and forth bending,
As fishing boats slide past.
Though spring is spent,
Following my heart, I still may
Let this lone traveller continue to stay.
So, perhaps there is reason to think that the idea of introducing an

anonymous outsider and borrowing his eyes to describe things (rather
than describing them oneself) may be typically Greek.
But even if we would accept the anonymous traveller as an origi-
nally Greek narrative device, we would still have to explain its dis-
semination and development into a literary constant in European
literature. Returning briefly to Curtius’ example of the Muses, it is not
difficult to imagine Milton consciously taking over this device from
Homer and Virgil. But how about a less well-known or clearly identi-
fied minor device like the anonymous traveller? Was Flaubert inspired
by Stendhal (quite likely), was George Eliot inspired by Stendhal (less
certain), did Stendhal pick up the idea from Isocrates (hardly), and so
on? Is it not more likely that the motif was (re-)invented several times
in the course of European literary history and that we are dealing with
a – kind of – narrative universal after all, one spread not over the globe
but over the ages?34
Here it is perhaps helpful to think of the anonymous traveller device
in terms of what Richard Dawkins has baptised memes: units of
cultural transmission that are reproduced by imitation. As examples,
he mentions tunes, catch-phrases, clothes fashions, technologies, cer-
emonies and so on.35 Thinking in terms of memes has the advantage
that we can imagine the process of dissemination in terms of one
person not so much consciously taking over something from another
but rather simply using a device because he has come across it in
another text, which copied it from another text and so on. Narrative
34 Cf. Leeman 1985: 214: ‘Some of the topoi were archetypal rather than liter-
ary: in that case they may pop up spontaneously and independently and be recog-
nized as forming part of universal human experience. The two categories cannot
always be distinguished.’
35 See Dawkins 1976 and the helpful explanation (and radicalisation) in
Blackmore 1999: 7, for example: ‘Everything that is passed from person to person
in this way is a meme. This includes all the words in your vocabulary, the stories
you know, the skills and habits you have picked up from others and the games you
like to play. It includes the songs you sing and the rules you obey . . . Each of these
memes has evolved in its own unique way with its own history, but each of them is
using your behaviour to get itself copied’ (my italics).
devices would spread in the manner of the Chinese whispers game,

one participant copying the words of another without knowing what
the original message was.36 Hard-core ‘memeticists’ even speak of
the meme itself ‘choosing’ its carrier, whereby it may go underground
for some time and pop up again when the time is ripe, as when in the
nineteenth century the recent invention of the train inspires novelists
to introduce anonymous train-travellers. Looked at from this perspec-
tive the anonymous traveller might be considered an originally Greek
meme that has proved to be an extremely fit survivalist. It has been
reproduced in texts time and again from Homer to Calvino, and is
sure to surface again.
36 The meme model may also be useful to explain what I have been doing in the
Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative (De Jong et al. 2004; De Jong and Nünlist
2007; De Jong 2012), which sets out to trace the development of narrative tech-
niques as such, yet also at times suggests that one author may have consciously
taken over a certain device from another.
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INDEX
INDEX
Page numbers with ‘t’ are tables; with ‘n’ are notes. Page numbers in italics are figures.
Abraham, 16, 17 ambassadors, 65

Achilles, 204 ‘An autumn night in the mountains’
in Heliodorus, 272, 276 (Wang Wei), 331–2
in the Iliad, 22, 26–7, 80, 141; and anagnōrismos, 94
Aeneas, 81; and Agamemnon, 81, analepses, 4, 157, 159–63, 166–7, 252
81t; and the ambassadors, 65–8; analogy, battle narrative, 30, 40–54, 42t,
anger, 141, 145, 158; and battle, 43t
22t, 41, 50n63, 51; bow contest, Andromache (Euripides), 237
165–6, 168; and Hector, 81; and the ANE (ancient Near East), 29–31, 40–54,
heralds, 57–9, 62; and Odysseus, 74; 110
parable of the jars, 111, 115; and Anna Comnena, 267
Patroclus, 62–3, 65–8, 70–1, 93n62, Annals of Sennacherib (Sennacherib), 49,
165; and Phoenix, 75; and Priam, 50t, 51, 52
26–7, 81t, 105, 111–12, 127–8; anonymous focalisation, 315–16, 317
revenge, 163; and Thetis, 63, 180, ‘anonymous travellers’, 7, 314–17
181–2, 187 in European Literature, 317–33
in the Odyssey, 72, 89t Anonymus Seguerianus, 169
in Pindar, 8, 202–7, 204, 212, 222 anticipation see prolepses
Achilles Tatius, 144, 265, 321–2 Antigone (Sophocles), 61, 112n29, 113,
actors and roles, 235–40 234, 237
addition, 77–8, 77 Antilochus, 8, 203, 204, 205–7, 218
Aelian, 303 Antisthenes, 153
Aemilius Paullus, L. see Parallel Lives of Anzu, 47
Aemilius Paullus and Timoleon Aphrodite, 8–9, 177–9, 181, 193–4
Aeschylus (Libation Bearers), 61 Apollonius, 55
aestheticisation, 53 Apologue, 82, 82t, 83–4, 95, 140, 158
Aethiopica (Heliodorus), 2, 146–51, 154, and Gorgias’ Palamedes, 127–8
260, 264–76 apology, and epistolary narratives, 303–
Aethiopis, 205n16 6, 308, 313
Agamemnon, 22, 32, 35–9 Arabian Nights, 271
Ajax Arcesilas of Cyrene, 214–17, 223
and Achilles, 66–8, 70 archery
and Hector, 42t, 60, 81 in the Iliad, 165–6
Ajax (Sophocles), 116, 168–9, 171, 227, in the Odyssey, 71–2, 90
229, 231, 234, 236n29 in Pindar, 205
Alcinous, 71–3, 83t, 137 Arete, 72, 83t, 88t, 90
Alciphron, 303 aretē (virtue), 128, 130, 132, 159
Allan, W., 237n34 Aristarchus, 165–7
372 index
aristeia, 49–50, 51, 52, 81 Bowie, Ewan, 275

Aristotle Briefroman see epistolary novels
Ethics, 117 Briseis, 58–60, 141
Poetics, 109, 117–18, 145, 156–7, 162; Brooks, P., 184
and time, 229, 230–1 Bundy, E.L., 114
Ars Poetica (Horace), 154–5 Burkert, Walter, 29, 50n63
atē (ruin), 112–13 Burnett, A.P., 191
Athanassaki, Lucia, 8 Butcher, S.H., 231n20
Athena Byatt, A.S., 315–16
in Ajax (Sophocles), 116, 231
Iliad, 42t, 43t, 85t, 88t; Zeus, 38, Cadmus, 115
63–4 in Euripides, 170
Ion (Euripides), 230n18 in Pindar, 199, 200–2, 205, 206–7, 214,
Odyssey, 96, 98–100; and Odysseus, 222
95; and Telemachus, 84, 94, 327–8 Cairns, Douglas, 8
Atrahasis, 106n9 Calasiris, 146–54, 261, 266, 268, 270,
Auerbach, E., 7, 13, 14, 27–8 271, 273, 274
Mimesis, 13–18, 23–4, 57 Calvino, Italo, 314, 322
Augustus, 219–22, 223–4, 287 Cameos, 61
awareness Campbell, D.A., 190
of mutability of fortune, 108 Carcinus, 229
self-, 7 Carrhotus, 215–17, 223
Carson, A., 193n45
Babyloniaca (Iamblichus), 265 causality, 9, 165–6, 254–7, 259
Bacchae (Euripides), 202, 237, 239, 240 character-speech, 54
Bacchylides, 115–16 Charicleia, 147, 149, 260–3, 268–70, 273,
Baines, J., 52n70 276
Bakker, E., 5, 24, 77, 81–2, 85 Chariton, 146, 261n3
Bal, M., 4, 55n5, 58 Chatman, S.B., 55
Barthes, R., 55 Chion, letters, 300, 302, 303–4, 306, 308,
battle narrative, 29–30 312
analogy, 40–54, 42t, 43t Chorus, 226, 228, 231n20
genealogy, 30, 32–40 chronology, 139
Battus, 214, 215 epistolary narratives, 306–7
Beard, Mary, 307 and middle-beginning-end, 158–63
Beck, Deborah, 6 Cicero, 31n11
beginning Classics, 263–4
choice of, 137–55 Claudius Marcellus, M., 291
Horace on, 157–8 Clay, J.S., 225n59
Bellum Catilinae (Sallust), 316 cognitive turn, 5
Benveniste, E., 244 comedy, 233n22, 269
Beye, C.R., 51 comparative narratology, 5
Bible (Hebrew), 7, 13, 27–8, 31 conciseness, 169
battle narrative, 42–4, 47 Contest of Homer and Hesiod, 31
Book of Job, 106 Cook, Erwin, 3, 39, 90n54
Book of Judges, 32–40, 54 Cornelius Cossus, A., 286–7
Deuteronomy, 33, 34 Cornford, F.M., 120n56
and Homeric narrative, 13–19, 57 Craft of Fiction, The (Lubbock), 4
Second Book of Kings, 33 Currie, B., 30n9
shifts of focus, 60–1 Curtius, Ernst Robert, 330
Bibliotheke (Diodorus Siculus), 253 Cyrene, 214
Blackmore, S., 332n35
Blindness, 25, 95, 131 Damophilus, 214, 216–17, 223
Booth, W., 4 Dawe, R.D., 234n26
bow contests see archery Dawkins, Richard, 332
index 373
De aedificiis (Procopius), 320 Enuma Elis, 47

De Jong, Irene J.F., 4, 7, 63n22, 72n30, Epharmostus, 198, 205, 206
168n31, 177, 187n30, 233n22 Ephorus, 295n46
deceptive speeches, 234–5 epic, 3
Demodocus, 25 performance, 99–100
Demosthenes, 153 prose, 146
Deuteronomy, 33, 34 Epic of Aqhat, 47
deviant focalisation, 6 Epic of Baal, 47
Diapeira, 32–40, 54 Epic of Gilgamesh, 7, 19–24, 27–8, 106,
didacticism, 257–8 328–9
digressions, 251–2, 258 epinician poetry, 114–16, 197–225
Diodorus Siculus, 118, 224, 241, 242–3 epistolary novels, 7–8, 298–313
Bibliotheke, 253 Erbse, H., 160n11, 166n, 167
and causality, 256–7 erōs, 142–4, 145, 195
didacticism, 257 ‘essentials’, 161, 171
and stock situations, 252–3 Ethics (Aristotle), 117
Diomedes, 49–50 Ethiopia see Aethiopica
Dionysiaca (Nonnus), 153 ēthopoeia (sermocinatio), 324
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 139–40, eudaimonia, 117, 118, 131
153, 154 Euripides, 61, 168–9
on Polybius, 281 and Aethiopica (Heliodorus), 268–9
on Thucydides, 172, 293 Andromache, 237
direct/indirect speech, 9, 55, 70, 227, 237, Bacchae, 202, 237, 239, 240
239, 249t Helen, 237
discouragement test before battle, 34–5 Heracleidae, 237
disguise, 90, 93n62, 96 Heracles, 237
Documents in the Case, The (Sayers), Hippolytus, 228, 237, 238
299–300, 301, 305, 306, 309, Ion, 237, 239
311–12 Iphigenia in Tauris, 237
Doenges, N., 310n39 Medea, 231, 233
Douglas, M., 79–82, 84 Orestes, 237
dreams Phoenician Women, 170
in Gilgamesh, 21–2 spurious letters of, 6, 300–5, 308
in Heike monogatari, 107 Suppliant Women, 170
in Heliodorus, 268 European literature, and the anonymous
in the Iliad, 22, 39 traveller, 317–33
in Pindar, 110 Eurycleia, 13–14, 85t, 91, 95n69
Eustathius, 139, 150, 151, 153, 154,
Easterling, P.E., 9 160n11, 169n35
editors, in epistolary narratives, 311–12 Euthydemus (Plato), 152
Edwards, M., 77 ‘Eutopias’, 209–18, 224
Electra (Sophocles), 232, 235 even-handedness, and historiography,
Eliot, George, 315 258–9
embedded focalisation, 4 external narrators, 74, 285; see also
Emesan cult, 260, 262, 266–7 remote narrators
Emmenids of Acragas, 197, 198, 208–9
emotional response fables see gnōmai
and literature, 330 failure to flee, 39
and the ‘principle of alternation’, Ferrari, F., 192
103–5, 108–9, 112, 114n35, 116–18, fertility myth, 91
135–6 First Olympian (Pindar), 225
Empedocles, 139n3 first-person narration, 144
Enargeia, 23–4, 26 and Polybius, 283, 284–7
Enkidu (Epic of Gilgamesh), 20, 21, 47, Flaubert, Gustave, 318–19
328 flying, 325
374 index
focalisation/focus, 55–7 hapax, 151

in Aethiopica (Heliodorus), 273 happiness, 105, 114
and the anonymous traveller, 315–16, eudaimonia, 117, 118, 131
317 happy endings, 145–6
focalisation/focus (cont.) Hau, Lisa, 9, 118, 132n99
deviant, 6 Haubold, Johannes, 7
embedded, 4 Heath, M.F., 146n
and historiography, 244 Hector
mind-reading, 62–5 in the Iliad, 22, 36–7, 42t, 43t, 81, 81t,
shifts of, 57–62 168, 268, 326–7
Ford, Andrew, 25 in Sappho, 175, 194–5
Forms, world of, 324–5 Heike monogatari (The Tale of the
fortune, mutability of see mutability of Heike), 107–8, 110n23
fortune Helen (Euripides), 237
Foster, B.O., 287 Heliodorus, 2, 146–51, 260–76
Fowler, Don, 6 Hellenica (Xenophon), 242
Framing, 77–8, 77 Hellenism and Heliodorus, 260–74
Aphrodite by Sappho, 177–9 Henry V (Shakespeare), 34n21
Necyia, 82t, 83t Hera, 38, 43t, 63–4, 80, 143, 163
Telemachy, 85t Heracleidae (Euripides), 237
free indirect discourse, 6 Heracles
Frolov, Serge, 35 in Bacchylides’ fifth ode, 115–16
Future, 230 in Horace, 220
in the Odyssey, 83t, 90
Gaisser, J. H., 78 Olympian 3 (Pindar), 208–9, 215,
Gallagher, S., 104n4 223
gap management, 65–74 in Trachiniae (Sophocles), 227, 236
Geiger, J., 129n84 Heracles (Euripides), 237
genealogy Heralds, 57–62, 194, 227, 233–5
of parallel texts, 30, 31, 32–40 Herman, David, 315–16
use in structure, 170, 200 Herodotus, 118–19, 158n7, 241–2
Genette, G., 4, 140–1, 252n and causality, 254
Germany didacticism, 257
Nazism, 14–15 even-handedness of, 258
Philhellenism, 15–16, 17 founding of Cyrene, 214
Gibson, Roy, 307 and stock situations, 252
Gideon (in Book of Judges), 32, 35, 40 Hesiod, 3
Gilgamesh see Epic of Gilgamesh Hieron, 115, 225
Gilmartin, K., 331 Higbie, C., 68
gnōmai, 109–16, 119n54, 136, 201 Hippolytus (Euripides), 228, 237, 238
Goethe, Johan Wolfgang von, 299, hippotrophia, 210–11
300–1 historiography, 9
Goldman, R., 53n72 and Aethiopica (Heliodorus),
Gorgias, 137–8 269–70
Gould, J., 111n24, 227n4 Latin, 331
Graziosi, B., 18 and the principle of alternation,
Greek (language), of Aethiopica, 267 118–36
Greenwood, E., 18 and the reader, 279–82
Güngerich, R., 321n11 and topoi, 241–59
Gymnosophists, 261, 262, 274 tragic, 283
see also Livy; Polybius
Hainsworth, B., 68 Hogan, Patrick, 330
Hamblin, W.J., 44n43 Homer, 3
Hamon, P., 320n8 and the anonymous traveller, 326–7
Hanink, Johanna, 304 and the Bible, 7
index 375
blindness, 25 Sappho, 176

free indirect discourse, 6 tragedy, 230
and Gilgamesh, 7 invincibility of rulers, 49
on his poetry, 25–6 Ion (Euripides), 237, 239
self-awareness, 7 Iphigenia in Tauris (Euripides), 237
see also Iliad; Odyssey Isle of the Blessed, 201–2, 205, 206–7,
Homeric Hymn to Apollo, 325–6 224
‘homing’, 79 Isocrates, 323
Horace, 154–5, 162 Iullus Antonius, 221
Odes, 197, 199, 200, 219–22
Hornblower, S., 285n17 Jahn, M., 58
hospitality to guests theme (theoxeny), Jakobson, Roman, 79
90, 91, 96 Janzen, W., 42n40
Hubbard, M.A., 219 Japan, 107–8
Hunter, Richard, 9 jars of Zeus, 105, 111–12, 126–7, 131
Hutto, D., 104n4 Job, Book of, 106
Hymn to Demeter, 90n54, 91, 93, 100 Jones, Meriel, 269–70
Hymn to Tiglath-Pileser, 45–6 Jörgensen, O., 193n42
hypothetical focalisation, 315–16, 317 Judges, Book of, 32–40, 54
Julia Domna, 260
‘I’, lyric, 188 Julian, Emperor, 266–7
Iamblichus, 266
Babyloniaca, 265 Kaimio, Maarit, 236, 238
If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller Katha Upanishad, 110n22
(Calvino), 314 Katharsis, 145–6
Iliad (Homer) Kelly, Adrian, 7
and the anonymous traveller, 329 Knox, Ronald, 33, 38n29
battle narrative, 30–1, 41, 49–50, 53; Krischer, T., 180, 182n18
Diapeira, 32–40, 54 Kühner, R., 331
beginning, 144
and Epic of Gilgamesh, 19–24 Labdacids, 201
focus, 57–60, 62–4 Laclos, Pierre Choderlos de, Liaisons
gap management, 65–71 dangereuses, Les, 299–300, 301, 306,
jars of Zeus, 105 309, 310
and the principle of alternation, Laertes, 38, 67, 85, 95–6, 98–100
105–6, 111–16, 128 Latin, in historiography, 331
ring-composition, 76–82, 78t, 81t Leeman, A.D., 332n34
second-person forms, 316 Leiden des jungen Werthers, Die
structure, 156, 158–9, 163–6, 172–3 (Goethe), 299, 300–1, 309, 311–12
Thetis’ arrival, 180–1 Lettres portugaises, 303
use of tis, 176–7, 184–8 Leucippe and Clitophon (Achilles Tatius),
immortality/mortality 321–2
in Homer, 97 Liaisons dangereuses, Les (Laclos),
in Pindar, 199, 201, 206–9, 212, 218, 299–300, 301, 306, 309, 310
222, 225 Libation Bearers (Aeschylus), 61
impartiality of historiographers, 258 Life of Apollonius (Philostratus), 274
impermanence, 110 Livy, 6–7, 279–81, 285–7, 291, 295–6
indefinite articles, 192 Longinus, 317
indexes, 290 Longus, 261n3
indirect targets, 68, 70 Lord, Albert, 91
‘interest-focus’ 55–6, 66 Lord, Mary Louise, 91–3
interiority, 56–7 Lowe, N.J., 56, 176n7, 229n12
Intermezzo (in Odyssey), 83, 83t Lubbock, P., 4
intertextuality Lucian, 173n43
Aethiopica (Heliodorus), 267, 276 lyric, 175–6, 182, 188, 190n37, 192, 196
376 index
McCullough, Helen Craig, 108 nature’s cycles, in the Odyssey, 97–9

McHale, B., 176n3, 182 Nazism, 14–15
Mackay, E.A., 76n7 Nebuchadnezzar in Elam, 52
Madame Bovary (Flaubert), 318–19 Necyia, 82–3, 82t, 83t, 95
‘Manuscript found in a bottle’ (Poe), nemesis, 123n, 125
315 Nestor
Marcus Aemilius Marcellus, 219, 291 in the Iliad, 36–7, 39n40, 63–4, 70–1,
Marincola, John, 283n13, 286 162
Masks, 236 in the Odyssey, 92
Mastronarde, Donald, 237–8 news-bringers see heralds
Maxwell, G., 233n23 Nicasippus, 211, 217–18
Medea (Euripides), 231, 233 Nicholson, N.J., 214n32, 217n44
memes, 332–3 Nicias, 120n56, 125n70
Memnon, 8, 203, 204 Nickel, R., 93
Menelaus Nicomachus, 199, 212–18, 225
duels, 37, 42t, 81, 157n3 Niditch, Susan, 35
state of mind, 69–70 Ninth Olympian (Pindar), 198, 205, 206,
mental states of characters, 56–7, 59, 224
63–6, 69–70, 74, 299 Ninurta Epic, 47
messengers see heralds Nisbet, R.G.M., 219
metalepsis, 6 Nisetich, F.J., 218n47
Metiochus and Parthenope, 271 Nonnus, 153
mid-turns, 80–1, 83–4, 94, 95 novels, 2, 270–1
middle-beginning-end, 158 and Achilles Tatius, 265
Miller, A.M., 326 epistolary, 7–8, 298–313
Mimesis (Auerbach), 13–18, 23–4, 57 ‘now’, 229–31
Mimnermus, 110 Nünlist, René, 9
mind-reading, 62–5
mirror stories, 181 Oatley, K., 109n15, 114n36
mnēsterophonia, 90, 93, 94–5 occasion, 8
mono no aware (the pathos of things), 107 in Horace, 219–22
Morgan, J.R., 2 in Pindar, 197–218
Morris, Sarah, 18, 29 Odes (Horace), 197, 199
Morrison, A.D., 7 Odysseus
mortality/immortality in Ajax (Sophocles), 116
in Homer, 97 scar, 13–14, 16–18, 91
in Pindar, 199, 201, 206–9, 212, 218, see also Odyssey
222, 225 Odyssey (Homer), 3, 88–9t
Most, Glenn, 144 and Aethiopica (Heliodorus), 267–8
Motoori Norinaga, 107 and the anonymous traveller, 327–8
mutability of fortune, 8, 113, 115 and the Bible (Hebrew), 13–19
awareness of, 108 choice of beginning, 137–55
and historiography, 118–24, 129–30, gap management, 68–9, 71–4
131, 135 indefinite articles, 192
Japan, 107–8 nature’s cycles, 97–100
Myres, J., 76n7, 78 Nausicaa, 192, 194
mythology, and Sappho, 175 Revenge, 76, 87, 88t, 90
ring-composition, 76–91
naming, in Sappho, 175, 177–9, 183–4, shifts of focus, 57
188 withdrawal and return, 91–6
narrative theory, 5 Oedipus, 201
Narratology and Interpretation (De Oedipus at Colonus (Sophocles), 170,
Jong), 5–6 239–40
narrators, in tragedy, 233–5 Oedipus Tyrannus (Sophocles), 116–17,
Narrators and Focalizers (De Jong), 4, 317 234
index 377
‘On Proteus’ (Antisthenes), 153 Isthmian 2, 199, 209–18, 222–3, 225

On the Sublime (Longinus), 317 Olympian 1, 225
Ooms, S., 168n31 Olympian 2, 115, 197, 199, 200–7,
‘ordinary people’, 302–3 212–18, 219, 222, 224
Orestes (Euripides), 237 Olympian 3, 197, 198, 199, 208–9,
Orientalism, ‘hard’, 31 212–18, 223; and the Odes of
Osborne, Robin, 29 Horace, 220
otherness, 264, 266, 270, 273–5 Olympian 9, 198, 205, 206, 224
Otterlo, W., 77 Olympian 10, 197
Pythian 3, 115
Page, D., 192n39, 195n51 Pythian 4, 199, 214–15, 216–17,
paideia, 265 217n44, 223
Pamela (Richardson), 299–300, 309, Pythian 5, 214, 215–17, 217n44, 223
311–12 Pythian 6, 198, 199, 200, 203, 205,
Panegyricus (Isocrates), 323–4 206–7, 209–12, 218, 222–3, 225
parables see gnōmai Pythian 8, 109–10
Parallel Lives of Aemilius Paullus and Pinker, S., 105n
Timoleon (Plutarch), 120–35 Plato, 152
parallelism, 79, 80 letters, 300, 301, 303, 304, 305–7
‘parallelomania’, 30 Phaedo, 324–5
Paris Republic, 152, 270
Iliad, 43t; and Aphrodite, 81; duel Symposium, 270
with Menelaus; 37, 42t, 81, 157n3 plausibility, 169
in Sappho, 190n37 Plutarch, Parallel Lives of Aemilius
Parry, Milman, 14 Paullus and Timoleon, 120–35
Partridge, R.B., 49 Poe, Edgar Allan, 315
Patroclus, 42t Poem of the Righteous Sufferer, 106
and Achilles, 59, 62–8, 70–1, 93n62 Poetics (Aristotle), 109, 117–18, 145
death of, 163–4, 165 on Iliad, 156–7
Paulsen, Thomas, 268 poetry
Pausch, Dennis, 6 archaic, 114, 325–6
Peleus, 62, 111–12, 115, 212 epinician, 114
in Pindar, 199, 200, 202, 205, 206–7, points of view
222 first person, 144, 283, 284–7, 331
Penelope, 57, 64, 84, 85t, 86–7, 100 second person, 316–17, 317, 331
dreams, 22 third person, 331
and Odysseus, 90–1, 94–6, 97–9 Polybius, 121–2, 132–3, 241, 243, 244
state of mind, 74 and causality, 255
Penwill, J., 302, 306 didacticism, 257
performance culture, 222–5 even-handedness, 258
and tragedy, 233–5 on his readers, 280–1, 282–4;
perspicuity, 169 knowledge of historical events,
persuasion, 65 288–92 ; macro-structure of his
Phaeacis, 76, 87, 88t, 90 work, 292–6; talking about oneself,
Phaedo (Plato), 324–5 284–7
philhellenism, German, 15–16, 17 and stock situations, 252–3
Philoctetes (Sophocles), 235, 237 Porter, James, 15, 16, 17, 57n12
Philostratus, 260, 266 Possession (Byatt), 315–16
Life of Apollonius, 274 Powell, Barry, 18
Phoenician Women (Euripides), 170 Pratt, Mary Louise, 18–19
Phoenix, 66–7, 68, 75, 275–6 Priam
phoenix, 275–6 in Aristotle, 117
Photius, 265 Iliad, 7, 60; and Achilles, 26–7, 81t,
Pickard-Cambridge, Sir A.W., 237 105, 111–12, 115, 128
Pindar, 8 in Plutarch, 127
378 index
Prince, G., 182 repetition, 80, 184, 231

‘principle of alternation’, 8, 103–36 in the Odyssey, 138–40, 142
in historiography, 118–36 in Sappho’s works, 179, 184, 187, 189
Prins, Y., 188 in tragedy, 231
Procopius, 320 Republic (Plato), 152, 270
prolepses, 157, 160, 163–4, 165n21, return, withdrawal and, 91–4
166–7, 252 revenge, 61, 92–7, 163
prologues (proems), 80, 145, 162, Revenge, and ring-composition, 76, 88t,
165n21, 264 90
Ajax (Sophocles), 116, 171 Rhetoric of Fiction, The (Booth), 4
Euripides, 163, 168–9 Richardson, N.J., 76n7, 78–9, 84,
Heike monogatari (The Tale of the 153n39, 326n23
Heike), 108n12 Richardson, Samuel, 299, 303
Iliad, 172–3 Rigveda, 110n22
Odyssey, 87–9, 88t, 94, 95, 137–8 ring-composition, 3, 76–91, 100
Parallel Lives of Aemilius Paullus and roles, actors and, 235–40
Timoleon, 130 Rollinger, R., 31n12
in Polybius, 282, 288, 289 Rood, Tim, 252n
Sophocles, 171 Rose, G., 92–3, 96
prophecy, 95 Rosenmeyer, P.A., 306, 309n37
prose epic, 146 Rothe, C., 63n22
Proteus of Pharos, 151–4 Rowe, C.J., 325n
Proust, Marcel, 318 ruin (atē), 112–13
proverbs see gnōmai Russo, Joseph, 33, 38n29
Pseudo-Demetrius, 167–8 Rutherford, Ian, 271
Purves, Alex, 8–9, 321n12 Rutherford, Richard, 34
Pythian 3 (Pindar), 115
Pythian 4 (Pindar), 199, 214–15, 216–17, Said, Edward, 14
217n44, 223 Sallust, 316
Pythian 5 (Pindar), 214, 215–17, 217n44, Sandmel, S., 30
223 Sappho, 8–9, 143–4, 175–96
Pythian 6 (Pindar), 198, 199, 200, 203, Sargon King of Battle, 45
205, 206–7, 209–12, 218, 222–3, 225 Saul, 43–4
Pythian 8 (Pindar), 109–10 Sayers, Dorothy L., Documents in the
Case, The, 299–300, 301, 305, 306,
Qadesh poem, 51, 52 309, 311–12
questions as plot device scar, Odysseus’, 13–14, 16–18, 91
in Homer, 176–7 Scenes of Clerical Life (Eliot), 315
in Sappho, 177–9, 181, 183–4 Schechner, Richard, 108–9
Quintilian, 158 Scodel, Ruth, 6, 7, 74, 86, 177, 181n16,
196n, 230
race, 271; see also otherness Scott, Walter, 320
Ramayana, 53n72 Second Book of Kings, 33
Ramesses II, 47–9, 48t Second Idyll (Theocritus), 141–4
rasa theory, 108–9 Second Isthmian (Pindar), 199, 209–18,
Rawles, R., 195 222–3, 225
readers, of historical narrative, 279–81 Second Olympian (Pindar), 115, 197,
recognition, 90–2, 94, 97–8 199, 200–7, 212–18, 222, 224
Red and the Black, The (Stendhal), and Odes (Horace), 219
319–20 self-awareness, 7
Redfield, James, 18 self-consciousness, 9–10, 82
Rehm, R., 228n6, 233n24 self-limitation, 56
Reinhardt, K., 63n23 Sennacherib, 49, 50t
rejuvenation, 98–100 Seventh Letter (Plato), 301, 304
remote narrators, 244, 258 Shakespeare, William, Henry V, 34n21
index 379
Shapiro, K., 203n15 Theagenes, 147, 149, 260, 263–4, 268,

shift of focus, 55–62 271–3, 275–6
Shriver, Lionel, 299 Themistocles, 300, 301–2, 303–4, 310
similes, Homer, 22–3 Theocritus, 141–4
Siphnian treasury, 203, 204, 212 Theodicy, 106
Skinner, M.B., 185n28 Theognis, 179n14
Snell, B., 56 Theon, Aelius, 138–9, 140, 158
sociality of emotion, 103 Theory of Mind, 56, 64, 73–4, 104n4
solitude, 141 Theotimus, 216
Sophocles theoxeny, 90, 91, 96
Ajax, 116, 168–9, 171, 229, 231 Theron, 199, 200–1, 208
Antigone, 61, 112n29, 113, 234, and Olympian 3 (Pindar), 208
237 Thetis
Electra, 232, 235 in Euripides, 206n19
and Euripides, 304–5 in the Iliad, 63, 166, 180–1, 187
Oedipus at Colonus, 170, 239–40 in Pindar, 202–3, 205–7
Oedipus Tyrannus, 116–17, 234 in Sappho, 182–3
Philoctetes, 235, 237 Third Olympian (Pindar), 197, 198, 199,
Trachiniae, 169, 227, 230, 236 208–9, 212–18, 223
Sorrows of Young Werther, The and the Odes of Horace, 220
(Goethe), 299, 300–1 Thrasybulus, 199, 202, 205, 206–7,
space, and tragedy, 227–9 209–13, 216, 217
Stanley, K., 81 Thucydides, 159, 241, 285
Stegmann, C., 331 on beginnings, 141
Steiner, George, 112n29 and causality, 254–5
Stendhal, 319–20 didacticism, 257
stock events, 245, 246–50t, 251, 259 Dionysius of Halicarnassus on,
stock situations, 9, 241–59, 246–50t 172
structural narratology, 2 even-handedness, 258
structure, 156–74 on mutability of fortune, 119–20
Suda, 265 and stock situations, 252–3
‘suggestion of retreat’ theme, 36–7, 39 Tilg, Stefan, 146
Suppliant Women (Euripides), 170 Timaeus, 122
Swain, S.C.R., 129n84, 133, 134n105, time, and tragedy, 229–33
135n106 Timoleon see Parallel Lives of Aemilius
Swann’s Way (Proust), 318 Paullus and Timoleon
Symposium (Plato), 270 Tiresias, 83, 83t, 95, 100
synkrisis, 133, 135n106 tis/ti
and the anonymous traveller, 323–4,
tables of contents, 290 327, 331
Tale of the Heike, The (Heike in Homer, 176–7, 184–8, 193
monogatari), 107–8 in Sappho, 189–91, 193–4
Tale of Sinuhe, 47–9, 48t topoi, 241–59, 246–50t
Taplin, Oliver, 63n22, 228 Trachiniae (Sophocles), 169, 227, 230,
Tatum, W.J., 130n92, 132, 134n102 236
tedium, 172 tragedy, 9, 56, 116–18, 226–7
Telemachus, 57, 87, 90, 94–5, 97, 98n85, performance and, 233–8
99 and space, 227–9
and Athena, 327 and time, 229–33
Telemachy, 76, 83–6, 85t, 92–3 Trollope, Anthony, 299, 311
temporal sequences, Iliad, 78–9 Tukulti-Ninurta Epic, 45
Tenth Olympian (Pindar), 197 Tyche, 124–6, 143
‘testing with words’ theme, 37–8, 39, tychē, 121–2, 123n, 127–8, 130, 132–3,
90 135; see also mutability of fortune
Thalmann, W. G., 76 type-scenes, 90
380 index
‘Utopias’, 198–9, 200–9, 224 withdrawal and return, 91–4

Wohl, Victoria, 190n37
Van Otterlo, W., 77 wrath, and the Iliad, 144–5
Várhelyi, Z., 135n107 Wright, Allen, 35
Versnel, H.S., 113n35
virtues of narrative, 169 Xenocrates
vividness (enargeia), 23–4, 26 and Isthmian 2, 209–13, 214n32, 216,
217–18, 222, 224–5
Walbank, F.W., 295n46 and Olympian 2, 200, 202–3, 205–7
Wallace-Hadrill, A., 221n Xenophon, 241, 261n3
wandering, 151 and causality, 255–6
Wang Wei, 331–2 even-handedness, 258
Waverley (Scott), 320 Hellenica, 242
We Need to Talk about Kevin (Shriver), and stock situations, 252–3
299
Werther see Leiden des jungen Werthers, Younger, Kenneth Lawson, 42n40, 45
Die
West, David, 220 Zenodotus, 163
West, M.L., 29, 31n12, 32–3, 34, 39n32, Zenon of Rhodes, 283
39n34, 110, 179, 193n44, 328 Zeus
Weststeijn, W., 55n4 in Heliodorus, 149
Whitman, C., 76n7, 78–9, 82, 86 in the Iliad, 43t, 80, 81, 163; addressed
Whitmarsh, Tim, 149, 192n40, 263, by Menelaus, 69–70; Hera and
274 Athena, 38, 63–4; jars of Zeus,
Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, U. von, 179, 105, 111–12, 126–7, 131; testing the
209n25, 213n31 army, 35
Winkler, J.J., 154, 192 in the Odyssey, 96, 100

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EDINBURGH LEVENTIS STUDIES 7

Edinburgh Leventis Studies 1

Edinburgh Leventis Studies 2

Edinburgh Leventis Studies 3

Edinburgh Leventis Studies 4

Edinburgh Leventis Studies 5

Edinburgh Leventis Studies 6

Edinburgh Leventis Studies 7

Edinburgh University Press Ltd

Typeset in 11/13pt Times NRMT by

ISBN 978 0 7486 8010 8 (hardback)

The right of Douglas Cairns and Ruth Scodel to be identified

PART I DEFINING THE GREEK TRADITION

PART II THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE GREEK TRADITION

10 The Creative Impact of the Occasion: Pindar’s Songs for

PART III BEYOND GREECE

First, the University’s conference and accommodation specialists

Lucia Athanassaki is Professor of Classical Philology at the University

Douglas Cairns is Professor of Classics in the University of Edinburgh.

Erwin Cook is T. F. Murchison Professor of the Humanities at

Irene J. F. de Jong holds the chair of Ancient Greek at the University of

2012). Recent publications include A Narratological Commentary on

P. E. Easterling was Regius Professor of Greek at Cambridge

Lisa Irene Hau is Lecturer in Classics at the University of Glasgow.

Johannes Haubold is Professor of Greek at the University of Durham

Richard Hunter is Regius Professor of Greek at the University of

Adrian Kelly is Tutorial Fellow in Ancient Greek Languages and

J. R. Morgan is Professor of Greek at Swansea University, and Leader

A. D. Morrison is Senior Lecturer in Classics at the University of

René Nünlist is Professor of Classics at the University of Cologne

Dennis Pausch taught Latin and Greek at Gießen University from

Alex Purves is Associate Professor of Classics at UCLA. She is the

Ruth Scodel is D. R. Shackleton Bailey Collegiate Professor

Leventis Professor at Edinburgh in 2011. She has written Credible

name defines it as normative, exemplary, of especially high value. The

be ­analogous to convergent evolution, where similar traits (the wings

Greek narratives often raise questions that could be central to basic,

This chapter demonstrates one way in which we could historicise

13 Beck 2012: 9–10, 57–78.

16 On messengers: De Jong 1991; Barrett 2002; tragedy and narratology: Goward

highly self-aware fiction have permeated our sensibilities, we need to

BEYOND AUERBACH: HOMERIC

HOMER AND THE BIBLE

1 Auerbach 1953: 3–23 [1946: 7–30].

his grandfather Autolycus. The scar serves as a mark of recognition

It is better to be consciously than unconsciously timebound. In

rhetorical flourish, every phrase. Mimesis is quite consciously a

Auerbach insists that Mimesis, like any other attempt at literary

Auerbach’s Homer is in a sense a caricature of the inherited clas-

What Porter calls ‘the cliché’ of an ‘inherited classicized Homer’

9 Bremmer 1999; Konuk 2010.

its broadly antisemitic Tendenz.12 Like Freud before him,13 Auerbach

The genius of the Homeric style becomes even more apparent

In Trask’s translation, Auerbach’s argument sounds suitably compar-

Die Eigentümlichkeit des homerischen Stils wird noch deutlicher,

Eigentümlichkeit is best translated as ‘peculiarity’ or ‘idiosyncracy’,

seriously distorts the thrust of Auerbach’s prose. Another point is

15 Porter 2008: 120.

could no longer be done.17 Not for us the pathos of reading amidst

In Perth County, fencing is a big issue. You have to keep your

17 Auerbach 1953: 13.

field of comparative literature is to be a farmer always walking

HOMER AND GILGAMESH

be analogous to convergent evolution, where similar traits (the wings

‘ parallelomania’4 which currently characterises the project. In short,

c onstituent elements can be found entirely within the formular tradi-