lyric cities: poet, performance, and community a

Transcription

lyric cities: poet, performance, and community a

LYRIC CITIES: POET, PERFORMANCE, AND COMMUNITY A DISSERTATION SUBMITTED TO THE DEPARTMENT OF CLASSICS AND THE COMMITTEE OF GRADUATE STUDIES OF STANFORD UNIVERSITY IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY Nicholas Boterf June 2012 © 2012 by Nicholas Owen Boterf. All Rights Reserved.
Re-distributed by Stanford University under license with the author.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons AttributionNoncommercial 3.0 United States License.
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/3.0/us/
This dissertation is online at: http://purl.stanford.edu/sj539hc7564
ii
I certify that I have read this dissertation and that, in my opinion, it is fully adequate
in scope and quality as a dissertation for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy.
Richard Martin, Co-Adviser
Anastasia-Erasmia Peponi, Co-Adviser
Josiah Ober
Susan Stephens
Approved for the Stanford University Committee on Graduate Studies.
Patricia J. Gumport, Vice Provost Graduate Education
This signature page was generated electronically upon submission of this dissertation in
electronic format. An original signed hard copy of the signature page is on file in
University Archives.
iii
iv LYRIC CITIES: POET, PERFORMANCE, AND COMMUNITY
Nicholas Boterf, Stanford, Ph.D.
Stanford University, 2012
Reading Committee Member: Richard Martin
Richard Martin
My dissertation analyzes how poets in archaic Greece interacted with their own local communities and how they positioned themselves within the community through their poetry. Archaic Greece (ca. 800-‐480 BC) was a time of great political and social change as interactions between the various autonomous Greek city-‐states intensified. Recent research has emphasized the role that poets had in negotiating local identities within this growing network of Greek states. Instead of studying how poets communicate with and praise other communities, this study will analyze how poets interact with and position themselves within their own community. As I argue in this study, a poet adapts a fundamentally different persona at home rather than abroad. v ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: I want to thank first of all my committee (Richard Martin, Anastasia-‐Erasmia Peponi, Susan Stephens, and Josiah Ober) without whose sound advice and constructive criticism this dissertation would not come into being. I also wish to thank my peers Matt Simonton and Al Duncan for always providing helpful suggestions and advice. I also wish to thank Leslie Kurke and Melissa Mueller, who kindly provided me drafts of their forthcoming articles. Last, but far from least, I thank my parents, whose support I have always relied on. vi All translations, unless otherwise noted, are my own, though in most cases I have consulted the
Loeb translations. Sometimes no doubt my translation betrays their influence. For Sappho, I have
used the standard edition of Voigt; for Theognis, I use the text and line numbering in Gerber’s
Loeb; for Pindar, I use Snell-Maehler’s edition. Quotations for all other texts are from the either
standard editions of the text listed in the Oxford Classical Dictionary or the most recent Loeb
editions.
For abbreviations of ancient sources, I follow the list at the front of the Oxford Classsical
Dictionary. In rare cases where the OCD does not provide a particular abbreviation for a text, I
have consulted the abbreviations listed in the most recent edition of the LSJ.
vii Table of Contents
Introduction: A Lost World of the Local ....................................................................................... 1 Chapter One: Locality and Community ......................................................................................... 6 Introduction................................................................................................................................. 6 Getting Local: Local and Translocal in Contemporary Scholarship .......................................... 6 Living Local: Anthropological Perspectives ............................................................................ 13 Local Knowledge: Greek Ideas of “Locality” .......................................................................... 17 Nothing to Do with Panhellenism? ........................................................................................... 32 Conclusions............................................................................................................................... 42 Chapter Two: The Poet In His Community.................................................................................44 Introduction............................................................................................................................... 44 Poets: A Vaguely Defined Job.................................................................................................. 45 Placing the Poet: The Topography of Authorship .................................................................... 48 Ramblin’: A World of Wandering Poets .................................................................................. 79 Community, Space, and Strife .................................................................................................. 86 Guests and Authority ................................................................................................................ 93 The Return Home: Poets in their Own Communities ............................................................... 97 Conclusions............................................................................................................................. 102 Chapter Three: Sappho’s Exclusive Song................................................................................. 104 Introduction............................................................................................................................. 104 Sappho: Monodic or Choral? .................................................................................................. 105 Charis Wars: Sappho and Her Rivals ..................................................................................... 112 Sappho’s Superior Song: The Rhetoric of Exclusivity ........................................................... 117 An Agōn at the Kallisteia? ...................................................................................................... 135 Out the Door and Into the World: Sappho’s Kleos ................................................................. 142 The Girl From Sardis: Recreating Memory Abroad ............................................................... 157 Sappho the Iambist?................................................................................................................ 167 Chapter Four: Theognis’ Virtual Cities..................................................................................... 184 Introduction:............................................................................................................................ 184 Sympotic Poetry as Communal Poetry ................................................................................... 184 The Nature of the Theognidea ................................................................................................ 189 Playing Theognis: His Various Roles ..................................................................................... 196 Theognis and Megara: A City and its Poet ............................................................................. 218 Conclusions: Megara as a Virtual City ................................................................................... 229 Chapter Five: Pindar in Thebes: Pythian 11, Gender, and Community ......................... 232 Introduction:............................................................................................................................ 232 A Date with the Oresteia ........................................................................................................ 232 Pythian 11 As “Local” Poetry................................................................................................. 239 Myth and Gender: Tragedy in Pythian 11 .............................................................................. 244 The “Break Off” and the Local Citizens................................................................................. 251 Theban Peers, Local Features ................................................................................................. 261 viii Conclusion: New Directions in Locality and Archaic Greek Literature......................... 275 Appendix A: Evidence for Naming Practices in Epigraphy................................................ 277 Appendix B: Names of Authors in Archaic and Classical Greece ..................................... 284 Bibliography: .................................................................................................................................... 290 1 Introduction: A Lost World of the Local
Archaic lyric poetry is above all a poetry of loss. Not only do many of the poems
themselves focus on ideas of loss, whether erotic, funerary, or athletic, but this theme is
doubly refracted in our experience of the poetry itself. From the voluminous amount of
archaic Greek poetry that reached the Library of Alexandria, only a slim, scattered, and
mostly obliterated fraction remains. Even on the page, the ample blank spaces in our texts
vividly illustrate that we have only the slightest traces of a once great literature. The very
reading of this poetry is itself a recognition of how much we have lost.
But even before the oral performances began to be converted into words on a
written page, the story of archaic Greek lyric poetry is a story of loss. Archaic Greece
was a song culture, a society where poetry was “the prime medium for the dissemination
of political, moral, and social ideas.”1 Poetry and its performance formed the very fabric
of this culture. Poetry likely filled the air everywhere: from professional performances at
a festival to amateur performances in the halls of the symposium. Unfortunately, much of
this world, humming with words, song, and music, is lost to us. With the advent of
writing, many of these ephemeral compositions were lost. As with all changes of media,
choices were made as to what should be preserved and what shouldn’t be.
What’s more, this lost world of poetry probably consisted to a large degree of
“local” poetry, which I tentatively define as poetry performed by and to other members of
the same community. Unlike the poetry that by and large survives, which deals with
topics and myths that interest more than one community, local poetry was produced and
consumed at a local level. Local traditions, practices, traditions, cults, rites, and events,
1
Herington (1985): 3.
2 all obscure to the rest of the Greek-speaking world, would have been dealt with
extensively. More than “translocal” poetry, local poetry addressed a specific audience’s
sense of self-identity, and in the process of performing this identity, helped to also
constitute it. But because of their very parochial nature, most of these compositions were
lost somewhere in the transmission process.
It is this lost world of “local poetry” that this dissertation provides a first step to
elucidating. In my dissertation, I focus on the figure of the poet, and analyze how he
interacts with his own local community. The figure of the poet, addressing his fellow
citizens as both a poet and a citizen, can help us to analyze the tensions between the local
and the translocal. Why does he choose a particular local or non-local version of a story?
Why do poets sometimes downplay their role in their local community, and at other times
sometimes explicitly highlight it? And how do performances in a poet’s own community
differ from ones in others? Through the figure of the poet, we can sense some of the
contours of this lost world of “local” poetry.
In the first chapter, I examine and analyze ancient concepts of locality. Through
an intensive investigation of the closest Greek word for “local” (ἐπιχώριος) I argue that
archaic and classical ideas of “locality” indicate a demarcated cultural unit separable
from others. Furthermore, things that are epichoric are predominately cultural: rather than
indicating natural features of the landscape, the term “local” designates specifically
man’s relationship to them. “Locality” therefore principally involves man’s relationship
with nature, rather than nature itself pure and simple. “Locality” in archaic and classical
Greek thought is a human quality.
In the second chapter, I build upon this discussion of locality and examine how it
3 relates to poets and their poetry. I first argue that poets’ personas are intrinsically tied to
their local community. To prove this, I analyze both poets’ and other authors’ names.
Authors’ names, rather than being arbitrary parts of a text, inherently reveal ideas of
authorship. Unlike modern authors’ names, which stress the patronymic (e.g. William
Shakespeare), ancient names stress the toponym (e.g. Herodotus of Halicarnassus). While
modern names stress the author as a biological individual, ancient names stress where an
author is from. I therefore conclude that a poets’ hometown is an essential part of his
persona.
If a poet’s persona is related to his local community, what happens when he
performs in that community, rather than without? In the last part of the chapter I argue
that poets have to utilize different rhetorical strategies within their own community rather
than in other communities. When in other communities, poets typically gain in authority,
because they are “disembedded” from the local community. Because they are not
members of these communities, their advice is not tainted by suspicions that they are
envious or biased. On the other hand, things are completely different when poets return
home. They are faced with an audience composed of their very own social peers and
competitors, and one where whatever they say or do will be suspected of being done in
self-interest. A poet’s authority diminishes when he performs within his own community.
To compensate, as I argue, poets adopt two broad rhetorical strategies. In the first, what I
call an “inclusive” stance, the poet tries to assimilate himself to his fellow citizens. He
argues that, just like them, he is a humble and loyal member of the community. Rather
than emphasizing his exceptional poetry or poetic skills, the poet emphasizes his loyalty
to the community. On the other hand, in an “exclusive” stance, the poet underscores his
4 own exceptionality. Scorning his local community in the here and now, he argues that
proof of his poetic ability lies in his fame abroad and in the future. The exclusive poet
therefore differentiates himself from his local community, and instead highlights his own
antagonistic relationship with it.
The third chapter begins my case studies of individual authors. In this chapter, I
focus on Sappho. I place her poetry in an agonistic, choral context within Mytilenean
society. I focus on her interactions with other local girls groups. It is surprising that some
of her most explicit declarations of perpetual and posthumous fame arise in the context of
her interactions with rivals. I argue that in these interactions she adapts an exclusive
stance, and her fame primarily consists in her and her group members mutually
remembering each other within a performance context. By their reciprocal reminiscences
of each other, Sappho and her girls create a translocal network of sorts that connect
Sappho and her lovers through time and space.
In the fourth chapter I focus on the sympotic poetry of Theognis. In contrast to
most recent approaches of Theognis, I argue that “Theognis” is not a unitary persona, but
a set of sometimes contradictory personae that allow performers to speak within a
sympotic performance context. This can be seen in some of the contradictions within the
corpus itself: sometimes Theognis is young, sometimes old; sometimes an exile,
sometimes a poor man; he can sometimes even be a solidier or a sea-farer! There are too
many contradictions in the Theognidea to support any idea of Theognis as a unitary
figure. But despite this flux in personae, it appears that Theognis is constantly from
“Megara.” In the last part of the chapter, I examine how the Theognidea as a whole
creates a sort of virtual Megara that performers in the symposium can all participate in.
5 While Theognis often displays an antagonistic and “exclusive” relationship to this
Megara, he also can play anyone within this city. This virtual “Megara” becomes
populated with all the voices that Theognis can himself play.
In my final chapter I conduct a close reading of Pythian 11, an ode performed in
Pindar’s own hometown of Thebes. I argue that we should understand this ode as a sort
of response to Aeschylus’ Oresteia. Like this famous trilogy, gender is also
problematized in Pythian 11. The ode, as I argue, moves from the highly feminized world
depicted at the beginning of the poem to a masculine world of Pindar’s own fellow
citizens portrayed at the end. In this regard, the highly charged “break-off” and his
denunciation of tyranny that follows is critical for establishing his own persona in front of
his fellow citizens. I argue that Pindar in this poem displays an “inclusive” persona, and
that several peculiar features of the ode can be explained if we understand properly the
local context of the ode.
6 Chapter One: Locality and Community
Introduction
To fully discuss the relationship between a poet and his local community, some
definitions are in order. At its heart, this project involves two terms that need fuller
explication and contextualization: “local community” and “poet.” This chapter will
investigate the first, while my next chapter will analyze the place of the poet in archaic
Greek society. I first investigate the terms “local community” because, as it will be
argued in the next chapter, a poet’s persona is inextricably tied to his “local community.”
One cannot understand poets without understanding the communities they were born in
or associated with. It therefore becomes imperative to analyze and define what we mean
by “local community” before we discuss “poets.” Right away we note that the concept of
“local community” bifurcates itself into two different terms: “local” and “community.”
While the relationship between these two terms may seem obvious, it will be my
contention throughout this discussion that these terms should not be easily equated.
“Localness,” the “local,” and the like express a quality, as well as a form of rhetoric, that
is different than the community per se. This chapter then will be focused on defining
what exactly we mean when we say “local,” “locality,” and the like. In turn, this
discussion will provide us with a definition of community, and a way to reconceptualize
the relationship between local and translocal forces in archaic Greece.
Getting Local: Local and Translocal in Contemporary Scholarship
In recent years the relationship between local forces and translocal /global forces
within Greek literature has received increased attention. An indicator of this interest can
7 be seen in the collection of recent essays edited by Tim Whitmarsh, Local Knowledge
and Microidentities in the Imperial Greek World.2 Each of these essays analyzes how
local identities interact with and negotiate with the overarching translocal “Roman”
identities in the period. What does it mean to be “Greek” under the Roman empire? More
specifically to archaic Greek poetry, the relationship between local, “epichoric” and
translocal, “panhellenic” forms of poetry has been recently scrutinized. A new book by
Alexander Beecroft, Authorship and Cultural Identity in Early Greece and China has
directly confronted this tension between the local and the panhellenic in archaic lyric. In
pursuing this topic, Beecroft takes a comparative approach, examining how a
“cosmopolitan” literature developed out of local, “epichoric” literatures in both ancient
China and Greece.3 Locality, and the interaction between the local and the translocal has
therefore become a very relevant topic in contemporary scholarship.
Other recent scholarship in Greek lyric has focused on placing archaic Greek
poetry in its local, performative context. While oftentimes less explicitly concerned with
the interplay between the local and the translocal as the studies cited above, this
scholarship has shed significant light on how local influences color the presentation and
rhetoric of a poem. This is most evident in scholarship on epinician, where there have
been several exemplary studies of individual poems within a local context.4 Several
studies have gone further, and have analyzed the “local color” of odes from a specific city
or region.5 But this interest in the dynamics of locality can be felt in the scholarship on
2
Whitmarsh (2010).
See Beecroft (2010): 7-11 for the most explicit discussion of his methodology.
4
Currie (2005) studies how Pindar’s poetry intersects with local hero cults; Fearn (2003) argues that an ode
of Bacchylides puts the town of Phleious “on the map”; Hornblower (2004) places Pindar’s corpus in its
historiographical context; Kurke (2007) analyzes how Pindar’s second partheneion reflects local Theban
elite negotiations.
5
For odes from Aegina, see Burnett (2005); Fearn (2011). For Sicily, see Morrison (2007b).
3
8 other forms of lyric poetry. Choral poetry beyond epinician has also been analyzed as an
institution within one’s own community.6 Most revealing is the case of theoric choruses
i.e. choruses that are sent abroad to perform at a festival in another community.
Kowalzig, Nightingale, and Rutherford have all pioneered excellent studies on the
practice and cultural context of theōria, and how these choruses negotiate a civic identity
abroad.7 Another institution within the city-state, the symposium, has also been subject to
much recent analysis. While discussions here have centered on the institutional character
of the symposium within the Greek city-state, rather than its possible local and translocal
contexts, these discussions have helped to focus the conversation on the role of archaic
poetry within the city-state.8 Each in its own way, these various studies have helped to
emphasize that poetry is essentially local and a part of the institutional character of each
city-state.
Several reasons can be found for this intense recent interest in forms of “locality”
and “community.” One of the primary reasons for this interest, even if unsaid, is the
world we are now living in. In the postmodern, globalized world that has formed over the
last few decades, “locality” and “space” have become key issues. It is one of the
interesting paradoxes of the current global economy that, as much as it obliterates space
6
Wilson (2000) is the most detailed examination of choregia as an institution within Athens. Other studies
have similarly focused on choral song culture within Athens: see e.g. Kowalzig (2004); Martin (2003).
Calame (1999) himself has also helped to focus attention on the civic identity of chorus members in tragic
choruses. Also notable in this regard is Stehle (1997): 26-70, which deals with broad issues of chorality and
community. For a recent discussion of choruses in tragedy from a ritualistic standpoint, see Bierl (2009).
For a historical view of choral poetry and its relationship to local myth, see Kowalzig (2007).
7
See Nightingale (2004); Kowalzig (2005); Rutherford (2004), (2007). Also see the essays in Elsner and
Rutherford (2005).
8
Interest in this subject can be traced back to Osywn Murray’s edited volume Sympotica. Without
hyperbole, as Rabinowitz (2009): 118 writes, Osywn Murray in this volume “deserves credit for singlehandedly resurrecting the symposion as an object of inquiry.” By placing elite symposia in the center of
archaic Greek elite interactions, he gave energy to studies examining poetry composed in the symposia. See
e.g. Bowie (1986) on the mostly sympotic contexts of early elegy. More recently, Collins (2004) discusses
the rivalry and competition involved in “capping” verses, mostly but not exclusively in sympotic contexts;
an important discussion of sympotic poetry can also be found in Stehle (1997): 213-261.
9 between locations, the global economy makes the ideas of “locality” and “location” even
more relevant.9 As Tim Whitmarsh notes, the phrase “Think global, act local” is a
“business cliche,” but a cliche that nonetheless reflects the state of the world that we live
in.10 In a world more and more governed by the internet, it has become increasingly
problematic to distinguish the international from the local. While far from the only
feature of the new globalized economy, the internet more than any other erodes, if not
outright collapses, distinctions between global, transnational cultures and local,
indigenous cultures.11 This has made it all the more urgent to analyze and discuss the
interplay between local and translocal forces in other societies, including pre-literate and
pre-industrial societies like archaic Greece. How did networks, and conceptions of local
and translocal, come to be despite the absence of globalized forms of communication?
In Greek lyric specifically, the influence of Gregory Nagy has been critical in
focusing attention on “the local.” In his book Pindar’s Homer, Nagy discussed in detail
the dichotomy between the “epichoric” and the “panhellenic.” While he was not the first
scholar to use these two terms, his research has given them new meaning. He argues that
the increased intercommunication between various poleis during the archaic period had
specific effects on Greek texts. As these poems increasingly came to be performed in
different cities and for different audiences, the poetry lost its distinctly local and
epichoric features. “Panhellenic” poetry is formed from the interaction and synthesis of
all these various traditions, resulting in a poetry that retains the common features that all
the poleis share while shedding the idiosyncratic and peculiar features of individual
9
A useful summary of the anthropological literature on the relation between the global and the local can be
found in Kearney (1995).
10
Whitmarsh (2010b): 2-3.
11
For an exploration of this phenomenon, see Hannerz (1987) (though not specifically dealing with the
internet).
10 poleis. Reperformance over an increasing geographical range, therefore, tends to
“whitewash” texts, removing local details while retaining those details that most other
city-states share and can agree upon.12 One of the most obvious ways this process occurs
is in local dialects. As Stephen Colvin writes in a recent overview of the subject, “In the
Archaic and Classical periods the Greek language is an abstract notion in the sense that
there was no standard language, but a collection of dialects that we think were mostly
mutually intelligible.”13 As these poems slowly became fixed into “panhellenic” texts,
these local dialects were often superseded by wider-circulating literary dialects, such as
the literary Ionian used by Homer and Hesiod.14 In Nagy’s schemata, the development of
both panhellenic literary dialects and panhellenic myths are inextricably linked to the
widening circulation of texts and performative traditions amongst the cities of the Greek
world.
Nagy’s distinction between the “epichoric” and the “panhellenic” has proven to
be extremely influential. Broadly speaking, three trends have evolved from his analysis.
First, rather than viewing the “epichoric” and “panhellenic” as mutually incompatible
modes, Nagy sees them developing side by side. After all, one cannot have a “local”
version without some idea of another, more common variant somewhere else. Instead of
seeing poets merely choosing (and believing) a single local or panhellenic version of a
12
The most succinct articulation of Nagy’s thoughts can be found in Nagy (1990): 52-4, 435-6. He further
expands on his ideas in his discussion in Nagy (1996a).
13
See Colvin (2010): 200.
14
In some cases, we have evidence for this transition. The most compelling evidence of dialectal shift
appears in a skolion cited by Athenaeus (891 PMG). In this case we are fortunate to possess the original to
compare it with, a poem of Alcaeus’ (294 V). The later skolion differs in some not insignificant ways, and
transforms many of the Lesbian dialectical forms into their more recognizable Ionian counterparts. For
discussions of these differences, see Rösler (1980): 97-8; Currie (2004): 53. An interesting instance in the
opposite direction, that is, in making a dialect more “local” is how Alcman seemed to have been artificially
“laconized” through the transmission process: see Calame (1983): xxv-vii; Carey (2011): 439-40 (he rightly
calls it a “stylised hyper-laconism”).
11 story, the two versions co-exist in a productive and dynamic relationship with each other.
For example, in Stesichorus’ Palinode 192 PMG we see “panhellenic” and “local”
versions of the same myth of Helen coexisting side by side. The very presence of both of
these myths at the same time allows Stesichorus to reject one version of them.15 The
“epichoric” and the “panhellenic” do not exist as walled-off gardens, but require each
other for self-definition. Secondly, although Nagy himself does not explicitly say so, by
implication his interpretation suggests that the “local” and “panhellenic” are themselves
rhetorical stances. By seeing the local and panhellenic versions as co-existing
simultaneously, Nagy raises new questions about the function of both local and
panhellenic poetry. The question changes from “Why does a poet believe this particular
version?” to “Why does a poet choose this particular version?” Most often, the obvious
answer is that a poet is trying to appeal to some particular audience with a particular
version of his story. Myth, and by extension the whole lyric performance, becomes a way
of interacting with a specific audience. And this leads to the third point, that in Nagy’s
schemata reperformance becomes a critical issue. By the very process of performing a
text over and over again in front of different audiences in different locales a text
automatically becomes “panhellenized.”16 Its local features are slowly worn away as
better-known details are substituted in its place. Reperformance has distinct and
discernable effects on texts, and is just as important to understanding them as any original
performance.
15
The local and “panhellenic” nature of the myths has been argued by Beecroft (2006), (2010).
It should be noted that throughout this dissertation I use the term “text” in its most neutral meaning, as a
work produced in any medium. A “text” can be words in a written or oral form, visual media in a vase or a
monument, etc. I therefore do not intend any opposition between orality or writing by my use of this term.
16
12 Nagy’s work nicely dovetails with a related trend: the movement away from the
formalistic analyses of Pindar’s poetry by Elroy Bundy in favor of more holistic
approaches. Bundy, in a famous two-part study Studia Pindarica, emphasized the unity
and cohesiveness of not only each Pindaric ode, but also the entire Pindaric corpus.
Breaking with the biographical interpretations current in his day, he argued that the sole
reason and purpose of any Pindaric poem was praise of the victor. Therefore, historical
and biographical considerations should be bracketed, and focus should be concentrated
on how the formal elements of the poem achieve the goal of praising the victor.17
Bundy’s formalistic approach to the poems has been the dominant paradigm in Pindaric
studies for some time. Recently, however, studies have begun to take a fresh look at the
specific historiographical and local contexts of individual poems as well as the corpus as
a whole. Leslie Kurke’s The Traffic In Praise is foundational in this regard, since she
argues that the victory ode serves to integrate the victor back into his local community.
Her analysis provided impetus to scholars eager to break away from the confines of a
strict Bundyan formalism.18 If the victory ode is meant to integrate the victor back into
the local community, differences between different local communities begin to matter
more. As Simon Hornblower writes in the introduction to his co-edited volume Pindar’s
Poetry, Patrons, and Festivals, in contrast to Bundy, he and the other contributors to the
volume “seek rather to emphasize the differences between poems, especially for patrons
from different regions.”19 Rather than being negligible to the goal of praising the victor,
17
Bundy (2006): 4-6 contains the best encapsulation of Bundy’s method in this regard. For a perspicuous
(and unusually critical) discussion of Bundy’s influence, see Young (1970): 85-88. The more widely held
position is made by Heath (1986): 96-98 in his criticism of Young.
18
It should be noted that “localness” becomes a specific concern for Kurke later on. In Kurke (2007), for
example, she attempts to place a Pindaric partheneion in the context of elite Theban negotiations.
19
Hornblower and Morgan (2007): 3-4.
13 the historical and local context is essential to the texture of an individual poem.
Furthermore, Nagy’s distinction between “epichoric” and “panhellenic” nicely overlaps
with this tension between the particular, “local” character of an individual ode and the
generic “panhellenic” nature of the corpus as a whole. It is no wonder, then, that the
tension between the epichoric and panhellenic has been a mainstay of most post-Bundyan
work on epinician.20 The incorporation of Bundyian formalism in approaches that
emphasize the historical and local context as well as the acceptance of Nagy’s distinction
between the epichoric and panhellenic have rekindled interest in issues of locality within
epinician scholarship.
Living Local: Anthropological Perspectives
Both “locality” and “community” are therefore very pertinent issues to recent
discussions of archaic lyric poetry. What has not been accomplished, in this intense
scrutiny of the contours of local performance, is to properly analyze and define the
“local” and the “panhellenic” as conceptual spaces. Many studies, including to a certain
extent Nagy’s own, do not thoroughly examine what makes something “local” or
“panhellenic.” These terms have usually been taken as “givens,” and their dichotomy
assumed to be self-evident. Even worse, since the publication of Pindar’s Homer, the
dichotomy between the two has solidified. An example of this can be seen in a recent
article by Beecroft on Stesichorus’ Palinode. In Pindar’s Homer, Nagy argued that the
word ἀλήθεια (“truth”) is an indicator and mark of “panhellenism.”21 This is a
problematic position: it is not entirely clear in the passages he cites, such as the Muse’s
20
21
For the scholarship on this subject, see footnote 3 above.
Nagy (1990): 66-9.
14 address to Hesiod in his Theogony (lns. 27-8) and Pindar’s Olympian 1, whether we are
dealing with a “local” or a “panhellenic” perspective.22 But in Beecroft’s recent essay,
this problematic assertion becomes hardened into a concrete dichotomy. As he writes, “If
as Nagy suggests alêthês in Pindar and others can be marked programmatically for
Panhellenism, then it is at least plausible that etumos and its doublet etêtumos can be
marked as local, or epichoric.”23 This creates an unduly schematic view of the
relationship between the epichoric and panhellenic, and unfortunately essentializes what
are likely to be very fluid, mediated, and highly contextual categories. It is therefore
essential that we reinterrogate what we mean by these terms, and try to explicate the
nuances involved in their usage. The goal of this chapter will be to define the terms
“local” and “panhellenic” and to explicate in more detail what exactly these terms mean.
To properly define the “local” or the “epichoric,” we must first interrogate the
very idea of “localness.” Anthropologists and historians generally agree that “locality”
and “localness” are primarily social and cultural constructs. The creation of local place
depends on a complex interaction of actors, objects, intentions, landscapes, social forces,
etc.24 A good way to begin discussing this social aspect of “localness” can be found in the
works of the anthropologist Arjun Appadurai. In a foundational article, he writes, “I view
22
In the case of Hesiod, as Jenny Strauss Clay (1988): 326, (2003): 58-9 has convincingly argued, the
Heliconian Muses invoked here are epichoric in nature, contrasted with the Pierian Muses invoked a few
lines later. Nagy (1992): 119-20, 128n8 somewhat confusingly claims that the panhellenic Pierian Muses
are included in the concept of the local Heliconian Muses. But it is just as likely that the Heliconian Muses
are merely local manifestations of the panhellenic Pierian Muses. In any case, it is more than a little unclear
how we are to view what the Muses themselves say. As for Pindar’s Olympian 1, it is unclear what the
relationship between the two versions of the Pelops myth that Pindar presents is (see Gerber (1982): 54-55
for discussion about this topic).
23
Beecroft (2006): 57; this same thought is repeated again in (2010): 151-2.
24
Appadurai (1995); Casey (1996): 18-19; Pollock (1998): 32 argues that “localization” is a historical
process. Much of my comments about “localness” also overlap with anthropological discussions of place:
Harvey (2009): 176 summarizes the issue very eloquently: “In making places (such as home), we make
ourselves, and as we remake ourselves, so we perpetually reshape the places we are in…”; also see Harvey
(2009): 190-4 for an excellent overview of how place is shaped by “permamences.” Thalmann (2011): 2-24
(especially 14-24) provides an excellent introduction to the issues involved from a classical perspective.
15 locality as primarily relational and contextual rather than as scalar or spatial. I see it as a
complex phenomenological quality, constituted by a series of links between the sense of
social immediacy, the technologies of interactivity and the relativity of contexts. This
phenomenological quality, which expresses itself in certain kinds of agency, sociality,
and reproducibility, is the main predicate of locality as a category (or subject) that I seek
to explore.”25 Two important points can be gleaned from this description: first, “locality”
is not primarily spatial. It is less about trees in the landscape, and more about the people
who interact with the trees in the landscape. To be sure, Appadurai does not completely
exclude spatial considerations, but the primary “stuff” of locality is social and cultural
materials. You place a fence in your yard not primarily to demarcate space, but to
demarcate your household’s autonomy and “privacy” from the neighbors. In this case, the
spatial acts as a metaphor for the social. This leads to a second point: whatever these
social and cultural materials are, agents engage and interact with them in complex, multifunctional ways. What is and isn’t “local” depends on context, and despite the surface
fixity of what is “local,” can change quite rapidly under different circumstances.
If we understand that the social is the primary constituent of the “local,” then
locality and “localness” are primarily forms of social grouping. This has several
consequences. First, “localness,” like any group formation, depends on membership. As
much as it includes certain people, it excludes others.26 Determining who is “in” and who
is “out” (a process usefully called “boundary control” by Simon Goldhill) is a central
function of the concept of “locality.”27 In the case of “localness,” membership seems to
be unusually defined by “who is out.” Anthropological research has shown that the very
25
Appadurai (1995): 204.
For the “exclusionary” aspect of place in general, see Harvey (2009): 190.
27
Goldhill (2010): 47-8.
26
16 idea of “localness” can only be created by some sort of supralocal perspective. 28
“Localness” is never merely a “local” phenomenon, but only comes about with
recognition that there is a larger world out there. When one labels someone or something
as “local,” he implicitly contrasts it with the wider world. From the first moment that
something is marked as “local,” it is already implicated in a wider series of relations
beyond its immediate surroundings.
A second implication of seeing “localness” as a form of social grouping is that it
should be seen as a way of constructing reality, rather than reality itself. Locality, as
emphasized earlier, is above all a construct. Like a map, it presents a cultural space as a
cleanly demarcated and homogeneous unit. In reality, boundaries are likely to be much
more porous.29 Anthropologists have warned that “locality,” “localness,” and the like can
be extremely misleading terms, in danger of separating tangled webs of discourse into
isolated, compartmentalized units.30 I want to emphasize that this danger arises precisely
because locality by its nature compartmentalizes one’s variegated social reality. It turns a
bricolage of social relations, interactions, traditions, and ideologies into a homogenous
unit with clearly demarcated boundaries. Rather than emphasizing the factors that divide
and differentiate a group of people, it emphasizes their connectedness by virtue of being
part of the same social-cultural unit. “Localness” becomes an umbrella form of social
grouping, in which no subdivisions are permitted. 31
28
See Whitmarsh (2010b): 2 and the bibliography contained therein.
Casey (1996): 42 in fact sees its “porosity” as essential to its nature. Harvey (2009): 188-9 criticizes
Casey’s ideas of porosity for diluting too much what makes the concept of “place” compelling in the first
place, namely that it represents a unique confluence of human and social energies. However, Harvey’s
objections can be addressed by emphasizing that although the boundaries of place are more porous than its
rhetoric might suggest, it is certainly not leaky enough to lose many of its distinct characteristics.
30
See Lovell (1998): 4-5 for an excellent discussion of this issue.
31
To be precise, the only subdivisions permitted are even more fine-grained identities of locality. For
instance, you can be an American, a Californian, a member of Stanford University, a resident of Palo Alto,
29
17 A final implication of seeing “localness” as primarily a form of social grouping is
that both the social and physical borders of the “local” need to be constantly maintained.
Appadurai himself writes, “locality is an inherently fragile social achievement. Even in
its most intimate, spatially confined, geographically isolated situations, locality must be
maintained carefully against various kinds of odds.”32 This meshes well with the thoughts
of other social theorists, such as Bruno Latour, who have emphasized how social
groupings, rather than being a “given”, need constant maintenance to survive.33 Rather
than being a set boundary, the distinction between “local” and “non-local” is constantly
negotiated, and by various actions and rituals, repeated and reinstated again and again.
Localness’s very fragility is itself an opportunity for communal solidarity and renewal.
As I will argue in more detail later, the performance of lyric poetry is one way that such
locality is continually maintained.
Local Knowledge: Greek Ideas of “Locality”
The discussion above has attempted to develop, with the aide of anthropology and
sociology, a cross-cultural, “etic” definition of “localness.” We have argued that
“localness” is primarily a form of social grouping, one that is principally shaped,
paradoxically, by supralocal forces. We have also emphasized that locality is an
inherently fragile institution, and one that needs to be constantly maintained. The next
task is to investigate whether these concepts map onto “emic” archaic and classical Greek
and live on California Avenue. Other such forms of identification (being a Republican or Democrat, being
a member of a photography club etc), don’t map onto local places in quite the same way.
32
Appadurai (1995): 205.
33
See Latour (2005): 35.
18 ideas of “locality.” We also need to investigate how our common-sense ideas of locality
contrast with archaic Greek notions of “localness” and “place”
The word in ancient Greek that best translates into “local” in English is the word
ἐπιχώριος. It should be noted at the beginning that ἐπιχώριος is just one word in a larger
vocabulary of “locality” in archaic and classical Greece.34 Words such as “neighbor”
(γείτων), “city” (πόλις), “fatherland” (πάτρη), “house” (οἶκος) all can, at various times
and instances, indicate “locality” or “localness” in some form or another. However, I
concentrate specifically on the word ἐπιχώριος for several reasons. First, it is the basis of
the English term “epichoric,” often used in the scholarship summarized in my
introduction above. It is my hope that this investigation into the word ἐπιχώριος will aide
scholars who are using (with an increasing frequency) the English equivalent in their
research. Far more important, however, is that this word differs substantially from the
other terms listed above. Many of the other words that can indicate “localness” refer to
concrete, physical objects, such as one’s home, neighbor, or city. Their significance as
markers of locality primarily exists in metonymy. Although ἐπιχώριος itself, as I will
argue below, has its own physical dimension, it is considerably more abstract than the
other terms listed above. It is the only word in the ancient, archaic Greek vocabulary that
treats “locality” as a phenomenological entity in itself.
It could be objected, however, that by focusing on a single word we are
unnecessarily reducing the richness and complexity of the concept of locality. Even more
problematic, many of the texts we will analyze in later chapters of this dissertation do not
refer to the word ἐπιχώριος at all. How can we be certain that the concepts behind the
34
In the following discussion, I have focused on instances of the word ἐπιχώριος up to the fourth-century
B.C.E.
19 word ἐπιχώριος are there even when the word isn’t? It will be my contention in studying
this word that it can lead to a better understanding of general thought patterns that lay
behind all of Greek thinking about locality. This discussion, therefore, will focus not so
much on how ἐπιχώριος is used rhetorically within texts, but more on the general thought
patterns and world-view that lie behind it. As we shall see, there is significant overlap
with the definitions of “the local” and “locality” that we described above.
Despite being the closest word for “local” in Greek, the word ἐπιχώριος differs in
significant ways from the English term. Derived from the Latin word locus, the word
“local” often has an abstract sense in English. Besides indicating a particular region or a
community, it can more broadly indicate a position in a sentence, on the body, in space,
and even more generally anywhere on the space-time continuum.35 You can have an
equally thriving “local scene” in Tokyo as well as on a space station orbiting Mars, check
the news for the “local weather,” congratulate somebody for having a “local tumor”
successfully removed, and analyze “local clusters” of stars through a telescope. By
contrast, the Greek word ἐπιχώριος remains firmly fixed to the ground. Derived from
χώρα “ground,” the επι- prefix somewhat literally indicates something “on the ground.”36
In contrast to the English “local,” which suggests a “zooming in” on a particular subject,
χώρα and ἐπιχώριος suggest a broad expanse of the earth.37 Another clue is revealed in
the word’s cognates. ἐπιχώριος is related to the verbs χωρέω and χωρίζω as well as the
adverb χωρίς, which reveal notions of “emplacement,” “distinction,” and “separation”
35
See respectively OED s.v. “local” A.1.c, A.4, S1 s.v. “local cluster,” A.1.A.
On the etymology of χώρα, see most recently Beekes (2009): s.v. χώρα. For the basic sense of “land” or
“ground,” see Algra (1995): 35. It must be noted, however, that many of the uses of “local” in English
outlined above can be found in the word χώρα (see e.g. the various meanings listed in the LSJ, s.v.). The
word ἐπιχώριος appears to be more specialized than its root.
37
By contrast, in ancient Greek, the word τόπος seems to fulfill this role. As Algra (1995): 34 discusses,
such phrases as οἱ τῆς χώρας τόποι (Plat. Leg. 760c) show that τόπος is often considered to be a smaller
unit than χώρα.
36
20 respectively.38 Something that is epichoric is what makes a place its own demarcated,
self-contained cultural unit. It should also be emphasized that, besides having a spatial
dimension, the “epichoric” has a temporal one as well. The word ἐπιχώριος is very
oriented towards the present - it suggests a long tradition of cultural habits that shape
current customs.39 This very traditionality over the temporal dimension is what gives a
place its distinctive features and customs. On both the temporal and spatial levels, the
epichoric is what makes a place a place.40
If ἐπιχώριος indicates a self-contained cultural unit, this raises the question,
whose cultural unit is it? Does ἐπιχώριος indicate “our” country or “their” country?
Simon Goldhill, in an interesting discussion of the word ἐπιχώριος, sees two senses of the
word dominating historiographical writing. In the first sense, used by Herodotus, the
word ἐπιχώριος refers to the customs and habits of others, as opposed to the speaker’s
own customs. In the second sense, used by Thucydides, it refers to one’s own habits and
customs, as opposed to others’.41 Goldhill’s distinction, however, is problematic. First
off, Goldhill mysteriously neglects a striking instance where Thucydides uses the word
ἐπιχώριος to indicate the customs of others. In describing a skirmish between Thebans
and Thracians, Thucydides writes “unsurprisingly, the Thracians rushed out and massing
38
For its relation to these words, see Beekes (2009): s.v. χώρα. For χωρέω specifically having an idea of
emplacement see Chantraine (1983): s.v. χώρα: “transitif < contenir, avoir place pour>, intransitif au sens
<faire place, quitter les lieux> d’ où faire mouvement, aller.”
39
See Casey (1996): 36 for the temporal features of locality.
40
Note that I use the term “place” loosely here and throughout the discussion. The word χώρα is in fact
often rendered as “space,” while τόπος is often rendered as “place.” But as Algra (1995): 31-8 has
convincingly argued, these terms are often used interchangeably and do not precisely map onto modern
notions of “space” and “place” (for an interesting introduction and philosophical discussion of these issues,
see Casey (1996)). The words χώρα and τόπος must be rendered as “place” or “space” according to their
context. And as mentioned above, there is evidence that the adjective ἐπιχώριος has a more restricted
meaning than either of these noun forms. By “place” therefore I mean an extended expanse of land,
coterminous with a specific cultural unit. It is in this concrete sense of “place” I contrast with the more
abstract, spatial ideas embodied in τόπος.
41
Goldhill (2010): 51.
21 together in their epichoric battle formation, defended themselves against the Theban
cavalry, which first attacked them” (οὐκ ἀτόπως οἱ Θρᾷκες πρὸς τὸ τῶν Θηβαίων
ἱππικόν, ὅπερ πρῶτον προσέκειτο, προεκθέοντές τε καὶ ξυστρεφόµενοι ἐν ἐπιχωρίῳ
τάξει τὴν φυλακὴν ἐποιοῦντο) (7.30.2). Here the phrase “in their epichoric battle
formation” (ἐν ἐπιχωρίῳ τάξει) cannot refer to anything but the Thracians’ unique battle
line. It cannot be translated as “our,” but must be translated (as I have above) as “their.”
Goldhill’s general point, therefore, must be qualified at least.
And even in instances where Thucydides appears to explain his own Athenian
customs, it can be questioned whether epichoric means “our.” A good example occurs in
the famous passage where he describes the peculiarly Athenian habit of keeping herms on
their front porches and temples. When Thucydides writes, “It was during this time that all
the Herms made of stone in Athens (they are something epichoric, a square type
manufacture, many of them on private front porches and temples…”) (Ἐν δὲ τούτῳ,
ὅσοι Ἑρµαῖ ἦσαν λίθινοι ἐν τῇ πόλει τῇ Ἀθηναίων (εἰσὶ δὲ κατὰ τὸ ἐπιχώριον, ἡ
τετράγωνος ἐργασία, πολλοὶ καὶ ἐν ἰδίοις προθύροις καὶ ἐν ἱεροῖς)) (6.27), is he talking
from an Athenian viewpoint or disseminating information as an impartial observer? Does
ἐπιχώριος mean “how we do things here” or “how they do things there”? Simon Goldhill
himself writes, “This explanation creates an audience, a range of expectation. Thucydides
indicates that his expected audience is one beyond Attica, beyond an experience of
Athen’s territory. This is performing the ktēma es aiei, the ‘possession for all time.’”42 It
is undoubtedly true that Thucydides presents this information for the good of a
“panhellenic” audience, but there is no indication that he is speaking as an Athenian at
42
Ibid., 52.
22 this point. In fact, the presence of an international audience suggests the opposite:
Thucydides explains to a non-Athenian audience how the Athenians do things
“epichorically” over there.
It is the same situation with Thucydides’ famous declaration in the first book that
“In fact men uncritically accept from one another the oral accounts of their ancestors,
even if they are epichoric to them” (οἱ γὰρ ἄνθρωποι τὰς ἀκοὰς τῶν προγεγενηµένων,
καὶ ἢν ἐπιχώρια σφίσιν ᾖ, ὁµοίως ἀβασανίστως παρ’ ἀλλήλων δέχονται)(1.20). Even
though this immediately brings to mind the specifically Athenian example of Harmodius
and Aristogeiton, it is clear by the generalizing “men” (οἱ…ἄνθρωποι) that he means
men all across Greece (and the world too?). And the clarification “epichoric for them”
(ἐπιχώρια σφίσιν) itself seems to suggest that epichoric items are not inherently selfreferential. Once again, it can be doubted whether a distinction between “our” and “their”
can easily be made.
I would argue, therefore, that we should not try to separate the self-referential
epichoric statements from the non self-referential. When one contemplates the epichoric,
one always takes a step back and adopts an objective perspective, even if it’s your own
society you are judging. ἐπιχώριος, even when used self-referentially, always means
“their.” The perspective of a curious, detached observer is the basic mode of the
“epichoric.” After all, as we have discussed above, the local can only be grasped by a
trans- or supralocal perspective. The perspective of the “epichoric” is therefore the
perspective of an outsider or as James Redfield has aptly discussed in the case of
Herodotus, a “tourist.” Unlike the anthropologist, the “tourist” does not leave home to be
assimilated, but encounters other cultures to make his own sense of his native culture
23 stronger.43 The tourist of epichoric exotica navigates a similar dialectic: by even labeling
something epichoric, one admits that it is not universal, but restricted to a certain tract of
land. Yet this noted peculiarity seems to always affirm the tourist’s own sense of culture,
whether he belongs to this peculiar culture or not. By labeling something as epichoric, a
tourist puts a person, object, or social norm in its proper place, so that the tourist can feel
more at home in his own proper place.
If the epichoric perspective is above all that of a detached tourist, the next
question is, what does he see? What is included under the epichoric? First of all, the
people themselves. The most common usage of ἐπιχώριος in archaic and classical
literature up to the fourth century is to indicate the people who live on a certain tract of
land.44 In Athenian discourse, ἐπιχώριος usually indicates a native born Athenian.
Thucydides, for instance, when he describes the send-off to the Sicilian expedition,
contrasts the intentions of the natives in seeing the spectacle to that of the foreigners.45
Plato (and for that matter, some of the Athenian orators) also adopt a restrictive use of the
43
It is worth citing Redfield’s (1985): 100 own elegant words here: “The tourist, in fact, travels in order to
be a foreigner, which is to say, he travels in order to come home. He discovers his own culture by taking it
with him to places where it is out of place, discovers its specific contours by taking it to places where it
does not fit. Tourism is thus both a proof and a source of cultural morale…The tourist comes home with a
new knowledge that he is at home, with a new appreciation of the only place where he is not a foreigner.
Thus cultural relativism becomes ethnocentric and serves to reinforce the tourist's own norms; since he is
Greek it is proper that he continue to be Greek.” Although I believe that Redfield is generally correct in this
assessment, it must be admitted that he overemphasizes the naive stubbornness of the tourist figure. As
Nightingale (2004): 65-6 discusses, it was a constant fear in archaic and classical Greece that a “tourist”
would assimilate to other cultures, and therefore return and “contaminate” his own city with new norms.
“Tourists” in ancient Greece were more receptive to foreign ideas than Redfield believes.
44
See e.g. Pind. Pyth 4.118; Hdt. 1.199, 2.60, 2.63, 2.150, 4.81; Eup. 71 (Kock); Plat. Meno 94d8; Hippoc.
Aer. 22.3 etc.
45
See Thuc. 6.30-1: “and with them went the whole entire crowd, so to speak, of the city, both citizens and
foreigners, and on the one hand each of the epichōrioi accompanied their own people, some friends, some
relatives, some sons…but on the other hand, the foreigners and the other crowd came for the sight, since it
was worthy of attention and an unbelievable thing to contemplate” (ξυγκατέβη δὲ καὶ ὁ ἄλλος ὅµιλος ἅπας
ὡς εἰπεῖν ὁ ἐν τῇ πόλει καὶ ἀστῶν καὶ ξένων, οἱ µὲν ἐπιχώριοι τοὺς σφετέρους αὐτῶν ἕκαστοι
προπέµποντες, οἱ µὲν ἑταίρους, οἱ δὲ ξυγγενεῖς, οἱ δὲ υἱεῖς…οἱ δὲ ξένοι καὶ ὁ ἄλλος ὄχλος κατὰ θέαν ἧκεν
ὡς ἐπ’ ἀξιόχρεων καὶ ἄπιστον διάνοιαν). Here Thucydides clearly contrasts the reactions of the ἐπιχώριοι
and the ξένοι.
24 term, only applying it to “natives” of Athens.46 Oftentimes ἐπιχώριος is translated
“citizen,” but Plato elsewhere applies the word to non-citizens like women and children.
For example, he writes “if he happens to be a native, whether a child or a man or a
woman…”(ἐὰν δ’ ἐπιχώριος ὁ παρατυγχάνων ᾖ τις, ἐάντε παῖς ἐάντε ἀνὴρ ἐάντ’ οὖν
γυνή) (Leg. 881c-d). It appears that ἐπιχώριος means anybody of free status who dwells
within a region and who can claim Athenian birth. Likely this more restrictive meaning
of ἐπιχώριος among Athenian authors reflects peculiarly Athenian claims to
autochthony.47
Despite the specific uses within Athenian discourse, ἐπιχώριος seems to be
generally unmarked as to gender and status. Oftentimes it is used in the plural to describe
all the residents of a particular cultural unit. This can be seen most of all in the “source
citations” (usually beginning with οἱ ἐπιχώριοι followed by some verb of speaking /
saying / thinking) that elicit a local perspective on aspects of mythology, geography, and
local history. The most famous source citations are of course Herodotus’, though other
authors make use of this device.48 The first one of these “citations” in The Histories that
explicitly mentions the ἐπιχώριοι is representative. In this passage, Herodotus describes
the festivities of the Egyptians: “And they gather, whatever men or women (but not
46
In the Laws the Athenian speaker establishes a law that, if a citizen should feel wronged by a foreigner,
he should take him to court, “so that he does not dare to strike a native ever again” (ἵνα πόρρω γίγνηται τοῦ
τὸν ἐπιχώριον ἂν τολµῆσαί ποτε πατάξαι) (879d). Elsewhere in the Laws he makes a distinction between a
slave (δοῦλος), a foreigner (ξένος), and an ἐπιχώριος (764b). As for the orators, Hyperides frag. 16.4,
Aeschines De Falsa Legatione 22.12, and In Ctes. 172.12 (both directed against Demosthenes and his
supposed “Scythian” orgins) all use ἐπιχώριος in this sense.
47
For the relationship of autochthony and the Athenian land, see Loraux (2006) [1981]: 210-11.
48
In Herodotus, such source citations can be found at 2.60, 2.63, 2.150, 4.81, 4.84, 7.176, 8.129, 9.51. For
Herodotus’ source citations, see the provocative and controversial work of Fehling (1989). Responses to
and refutations of Fehling are many and numerous: I have found most useful Fowler (1996), (2006);
Luraghi (2001). For other similar “source citations” in other authors, see Hellanicus frag. 111; Hipp. Aer.
22.3; Theopompus frag. 115 (Jacoby). It seems likely that such “source-citations” were more common in
historical and scientific fields of inquiry that used historia than our extant evidence indicates (for the link
between “history” and the natural sciences through historia, see Fowler (2006): 29-33).
25 children) are there, to numbers of seven hundred thousand, as the epichōrioi claim”
(Συµφοιτῶσι δέ, ὅ τι ἀνὴρ καὶ γυνή ἐστι πλὴν παιδίων, καὶ ἐς ἑβδοµήκοντα µυριάδας,
ὡς οἱ ἐπιχώριοι λέγουσι)(2.60). In such “citations” as these, Herodotus attributes some
form of “local knowledge,” whether of a certain custom or mythological curiosity, to “the
locals.” It is assumed in these source citations that the residents of a particular space of
land represent a homogeneous cultural unit with a distinct set of beliefs and traditions. As
Luraghi has noted in the case of Herodotus, Herodotus seems to be generally unaware of
possible contradictions within a tradition, rather than between traditions.49 Rather than
being a peculiarity of Herodotus’ system of “citations,” this represents a broader
understanding of the local in archaic Greek culture. The local residents know best their
own stories. Thucydides’ claim that “In fact men uncritically accept from one another the
oral accounts of their ancestors, even if they are epichoric to them” (οἱ γὰρ ἄνθρωποι τὰς
ἀκοὰς τῶν προγεγενηµένων, καὶ ἢν ἐπιχώρια σφίσιν ᾖ, ὁµοίως ἀβασανίστως παρ’
ἀλλήλων δέχονται) must have been an extremely paradoxical statement at the time. It is
usually assumed throughout Greek literature that local groups have a privileged
relationship to their surroundings. By claiming that even “epichoric things” need to be
subjected to testing and analysis, Thucydides questions this assumption of the inherent
“correctness” in local knowledge.50
While “the locals” in Herodotus display all sorts of knowledge about everything
from genealogies to tides, it is a strange fact that the local features of the geography
themselves rarely, if at all, have the word ἐπιχώριος attached to them. This is most
striking in the case of springs, which are once described by Herodotus as having a
49
Luraghi (2001): 151. As he also notes (153), Herodotus’ methodology also involves an elite bias: usually
what the elite say in a community is represented as the word of the community.
50
For Thucydides’ questioning of “local knowledge,” see Luraghi (2001): 151.
26 specifically local name: “There are in this pass hot springs, which the locals call the
Basins” (Ἔστι δὲ ἐν τῇ ἐσόδῳ ταύτῃ θερµὰ λουτρά, τὰ Χύτρους καλέουσι οἱ
ἐπιχώριοι…) (7.176). Nowhere in archaic and classical literature are springs described as
epichoric, despite their common association with certain local spaces, dating all the way
back to the epic poets.51 The same can be said for tides, paths, or passes, all objects of
“local knowledge” in Herodotus.52 Furthermore the flora and fauna that inhabit this
landscape are also rarely described as epichoric.53 None of these natural features
themselves are described as “epichoric” in early Greek literature, even though they are
clearly objects of knowledge by the οἱ ἐπιχώριοι themselves. Even the land itself only
becomes epichoric by dint of being plotted or named.54
So what makes these natural parts of the landscape “epichoric” in this one
instance, but not epichoric in themselves? I would suggest it is a matter of relation: the
51
See Il. 22. 147-152 for Homer’s famous description of the hot (and for that matter, cold) springs near the
Scamander. The most famous spring in Greek literature however may be the enigmatic “Horse spring”
where the Muses do their bathing in the Theogony (ln. 6).
52
For the tides, see 8.129: “the high tide of the sea washed ashore, as big as it ever has been, though the
locals say this happens often” (ἐπῆλθε πληµµυρὶς τῆς θαλάσσης µεγάλη, ὅση οὐδαµά κω, ὡς οἱ ἐπιχώριοι
λέγουσι, πολλάκις γινοµένη); for tracks, see the famous track of the traitor Ephialtes at Thermopylae: “The
local Malians first found this path” (Τὴν δὲ ἀτραπὸν ταύτην ἐξεῦρον µὲν οἱ ἐπιχώριοι Μηλιέες) (7.215);
finally, the pass of Thermopylae itself is recognized as having a different name by locals: (“this land is
called Thermopylae by most of the Greeks, but by the locals and those who live around it, simply “The
Gates” (καλέεται δὲ ὁ χῶρος οὗτος ὑπὸ µὲν τῶν πλεόνων Ἑλλήνων Θερµοπύλαι, ὑπὸ δὲ τῶν ἐπιχωρίων
καὶ περιοίκων Πύλαι) (7.201).
53
Despite their frequent use in epichoric rituals, plants and other flora are never described as “epichoric,”
with the exception of a specifically florid analogy in Plato’s Republic. In this passage Socrates expresses
his dissatisfaction with the constitutions his dialogue has currently cooked up, comparing the likelihood of
a philosophical nature to become weakened under a bad constitution to how “a foreign seed sown in
another country tends to grow weak when faced with an epichoric variety and become
overpowered”(ὥσπερ ξενικὸν σπέρµα ἐν γῇ ἄλλῃ σπειρόµενον ἐξίτηλον εἰς τὸ ἐπιχώριον φιλεῖ
κρατούµενον ἰέναι)(497b). Animals too, are never described as “epichoric,” with the exception of a single
reference to birds (see Aristotle Hist. An. 615a. This exception likely results because birds in archaic Greek
literature can be easily assimilated into the “cultural” sphere. For example, see Alcman 39 PMG where
Alcman is described as inventing the words and melody of the current song by listening to the warbling of
partridges (Ϝέπη τάδε καὶ µέλος Ἀλκµὰν /εὗρε γεγλωσσαµέναν /κακκαβίδων ὄπα συνθέµενος).
Aristophanes’ Birds is the culmination of this type of thinking, with anthropomorphic birds undertaking to
create a polis, the acme of civilization itself. With these examples in mind, and other examples that we do
not have time to discuss here, it is easy to see how birds could be assimilated into the cultural sphere of the
“epichoric.”
54
See Plato Leg. 923e2 for a κλῆρος ἐπιχώριος; for the land being named, see Plat. Alc. 123b6.
27 epichoric does not indicate nature pure and simple, but specifically human interactions
with nature. Even though the word ἐπιχώριος implies a wide swath of land, it is not the
land itself that is indicated, but the human interaction and achievement contained within.
The word ἐπιχώριος indicates not the naked ground, but named, explored, or known land.
By knowing, discovering, or even naming a feature of the landscape, men transform these
objects of nature into objects of culture.55 The οἱ ἐπιχώριοι therefore are a unique,
demarcated, social group that forms a unique relation to the world around it. In this sense,
it is essentially a form of social grouping, encompassing all who possess this particular
set of relationships with the world around it. The domain of ἐπιχώριος is firmly grounded
in the human.
Given that the primary valence of the word ἐπιχώριος is human, it is not
surprising that the adjective is found frequently paired with cultural products. The most
concrete of these products are weapons and clothes, which are described multiple times
as “epichoric.”56 Sometimes ἐπιχώριος can refer to food, feasts, and festivals.57 At other
times it can refer to certain metal goods, such as cauldrons and forms of local coinage.58
The emphasis in all these passages is on the uniqueness and peculiarity of the local form
of an otherwise well-known object. ἐπιχώριος can also refer to more abstract cultural
properties and institutions. In the sphere of religion, gods and heroes are both described
55
A similar account of the relationship between man and nature, with a focus on the polis itself, can be
found in Scully (1990): 16-40. As he describes it, the polis is often described as “sacred” because of the
human progress embodied within: see e.g. “Sacred Troy rising from the plain deserves its epithet precisely
because the polis, inspired by Zeus, leads man toward the uniquely human. The act of civilization itself is
sacred and partakes of the divine. The polis, even more than a “political” community, is a religious one,
separated as it is from nature itself” (26).
56
See Pin. Pyth. 4.80; Hdt. 1.195, 7.64, 7.67, 7.72, 7.74, 7.79, 7.91; Xen. Cyr. 6.4.2.
57
See Aristotle frag. 565.76; Ephorus frag. 178 Jacoby.
58
For the cauldron, see Hdt. 4.61. For the coinage, see Hdt. 3.56.
28 as “epichoric,” as well as certain forms of sacrifice.59 The epichoric also extends to the
political and legal realms, where ἐπιχώριος modifies both kings, generals, and laws.60
Oaths sworn in wartime are also described as “epichoric.”61
More commonly, though, ἐπιχώριος refers to unclassifiable matters of personal
behavior. These can range from the Persians’ habit of kissing those whom they honor, to
their custom of not being seen traveling on foot, to the Cretans’ peculiar nonchalance
towards raising and competing with horses.62 At a verbal level, it can refer to a distinct
manner of speaking and even to a certain dialect.63 This general idea of repeated social
habits can also indicate ingrained characteristics. In comedy ἐπιχώριος can playfully refer
to the native habits or characteristics of a people, such as the Megarians’ penchant for
misfortune or the Athenian tendency not to invite guests when they have money.64 In one
instance in Empedocles, this meaning is generalized to indicate something “native” to
man himself: “nor did they yet display the lovely form of limbs nor a voice and the sort
of body epichoric to man” (οὔτε τί πω µελέων ἐρατὸν δέµας ἐµφαίνοντας / οὔτ’ ἐνοπὴν
59
For heroes, see Hdt. 5.66, 8.39; Aristotle frag. 443. For gods, see Hdt. 4.96, 5.102, 9.119; Ar. Nub. 601.
For sacrifices, see Thuc. 1.126; Democritus frag. 259 D-K.
60
For kings, see Xen. Cyr. 7.4. For generals, see Hdt. 7.96; for laws, see Thuc. 5.105.
61
See Thuc. 5.18, 5. 47.
62
See respectively Xen. Ages. 5.4, Xen. Cyr. 8.8.19, and Plat. Leg. 834b7.
63
For the Sparta tendency to be “laconic,” see Thuc. 4.17; for dialect, see Aristotle frag. 563.4.
64
See respectively Ar. Ach. 832, Plut. 342. This tongue-in-cheek use of ἐπιχώριος helps to explain an
anomalous use of the word in Plato’s Symposium. There Aristophanes uses the word to describe his own
“personal,” comedic Muse: “I am scared about the things I am going to say, not if I say something
ridiculous- this would be good and epichoric to my Muse, but if I say something completely ridiculous”
(ἐγὼ φοβοῦµαι περὶ τῶν µελλόντων ῥηθήσεσθαι, οὔ τι µὴ γελοῖα εἴπω—τοῦτο µὲν γὰρ ἂν κέρδος εἴη καὶ
τῆς ἡµετέρας. µούσης ἐπιχώριον—ἀλλὰ µὴ καταγέλαστα) (189b). Here Aristophanes, in downplaying his
own speaking abilities, seems to playfully subvert the word’s usual meaning and misapply it to himself
personally. This could be interpreted as a playful swipe at his own usage of the word ἐπιχώριος in his own
plays, or more likely, a mild parody of a more general usage of the word in Old Comedy itself, many
instances of which do not survive.
29 οἷόν τ’ ἐπιχώριον ἀνδράσι γυῖον) (DK 62.7-8). Finally, ἐπιχώριος can be used to describe
truly singular deeds or misfortunes that happened locally.65
Given the focus of this dissertation on lyric poetry, one subcategory of uses of
ἐπιχώριος deserves special attention: the uses pertaining to stories, or more specifically,
song and dance. As in the Thucydides passage described above, oral traditions and local
stories can be considered “epichoric.”66 More specifically, ἐπιχώριος can refer to songs.67
But the most striking use of ἐπιχώριος in terms of musical culture is its frequent
application to choruses. Several times choruses are described as “epichoric.”68 The word
χορός may very well be etymologically derived from χώρα, though modern scholars have
been rightly skeptical of this.69 In any case, a folk etymology between the two words
seemed to have existed in antiquity, as a pun in Plato and other examples indicate. When
Plato describes the admirers flocking around Protagoras, he writes “and foreigners for the
most part became visible, whom Protagoras leads from each of the cities he passed
through, enchanting them with his voice like Orpheus, and they attend to him, summoned
by his voice-and there were some of the locals in this chorus (δέ τινες καὶ τῶν ἐπιχωρίων
ἐν τῷ χορῷ)”(315b).70 The association between chorality and locality is therefore strong
in archaic and classical Greek thought. Choral performances are inevitably local
performances.
65
For deeds, see Pin. Pyth. 5.116, Isthm. 7.2. For misfortunes, see Aesch. Supp. 661-2.
See Thuc. 1.20; Hdt. 7.197. I say “oral” because there seems to be no indication that ἐπιχώριος was
applied to anything written. The only exception can be found in Ephorus of Cyme, who apparently wrote a
book entitled Ἐπιχώριος” (frag. 70 F 1). But this more than anything seems to indicate the content of the
book (local oral traditions of his home in Cyme). We know, for instance, that he engaged in an elaborate
genealogical explanation that made both Homer and Hesiod related by birth (see Ps. Plut. 1.2 (3 West)).
67
See Ephorus frag. 149.20 Jacoby.
68
The term ἐπιχώριος is applied to the “local” women that a chorus of women mock in Hdt. 5.83. See also
Hecataeus frag. 12 Jacoby; Dicaearchus 72 Mirhady; Arist. frag. 76.4.
69
For a skeptical view of the etymology, see Chantraine (1983): 1282.
70
For another instance of this etymological pun, see also Hecataeus frag. 12.
66
30 While we have been exploring the various usages of what the epichoric is, what it
isn’t is just as important. We have already mentioned the striking omission of landscape
and geography. None of the traditional elements of Greek religion, such as mountains,
springs, and rivers are ever labeled as epichoric in archaic and classical Greek literature.
Another striking omission is weather. As strange as it might be for modern scholars used
to “local weather” reports, weather of any sort is not considered “epichoric.” Not even
reoccurring phenomenon, such as tides or annual flooding, or even persistent and
reoccurring disasters such as earthquakes, are ever graced with the adjective ἐπιχώριος.71
The major exception can be found in the Hippocratic treatise On Airs, Waters, and
Places, which frequently describes the “airs” and diseases (though note, never the
“waters”) as epichoric to a region.72 No doubt part of the reason these items are labeled
“epichoric” is that this treatise deals more with issues of “climate” rather than “weather”
and the effect of these conditions on humans. Still this is a bizarre usage of the term, even
more so because “airs” are explicitly not “on the ground.” By claiming these items are
epichoric, we might say that the author of the treatise is making a polemical point, trying
to emphasize that these natural causes indeed have human consequences.
And while discussing what the “epichoric” is not, it is worthwhile to ask what is
the opposite of the word ἐπιχώριος. What is its antonym? The clear antonym that appears
over and over in our texts is the term ξένος (and its variants).73 The word ξένος itself is a
polysemous one, encompassing meanings from a “guest-friend” to “stranger” and
71
Though, it should be noted, tides in one instance are a piece of knowledge claimed by the οἱ ἐπιχώριοι;
see the discussion of Hdt. 8.129 above.
72
For “airs,” see Hipp. Aer. 1.6, 4.3, 15.20; for “diseases,”see 2.4, 3.13, 3.27, 4.24. Elsewhere in the
Hippocratic corpus the word ἐπιχώριος is only used once, referring to a disease at De Hum. 13.3.
73
See e.g. Pin. Pyth. 4.118; Hdt. 1.199; Eupolis frag. 71 Kock; Pl. Resp. 497b, Leg. 730a5 etc.
31 sometimes even referring to the host of such a guest-friend or stranger.74 What unites
these various meanings is that the word ξένος always marks a social outsider from a
different social and cultural unit. As Herman notes, there is a “curious propensity of
ancient writers to indicate the provenance of the actors. It is as if they considered their
provenance inseparable from their personalities. Thus, it appears that a xenos, whether he
came from a city, tribe, ethnos, or some other social unit, always had a group identity
distinct from that of his partner.”75 Institutions such as ξενία (“guest-friendship”) bridge
this gap, and integrate the outsider into the epichoric “in-group.”76 And it should be noted
that a ξένος does not have to be Greek: as Herman extensively documents, relationships
of xenia were frequently entered between Greeks and non-Greeks. Even two non-Greeks
could be connected by xenia!77 Whether Greek or not, the word ἐπιχώριος seems to
indicate a closed social unit with its own particular culture, while something ξένος lies
outside of that social unit. Both ἐπιχώριος and ξένος can indicate something peculiar and
strange, but the difference is a matter of belonging. Something that is ἐπιχώριος belongs
in a certain social unit, its peculiarity reinforced by tradition and custom; something that
is ξένος, does not.
To summarize our results thus far, ἐπιχώριος is in many aspects similar to the
theoretical definition of locality we sketched at the beginning of the chapter. The word
ἐπιχώριος is tied to the land, indicating a self-contained, homogeneous, and distinct
social / cultural unit. The use and application of this term is completely anthrocentric, and
74
See the various meanings listed in the LSJ s.v. As Finley (1965): 100 writes, this is “a semantic range
symbolic of the ambivalence which characterized all dealings with the stranger in that archaic world.”
75
Herman (1987): 11.
76
For this function of ξένια, see Mitchell (1997): 17. The most useful account of guest friendship still
remains Herman (1987).
77
See Herman (1987): 12 and Appendix A, 166-175.
32 even if applied to outside objects, expresses man’s relationship with these objects. The
antonym and opposite of the word is ξένος, which marks a person from a different social
and cultural unit. Both terms ἐπιχώριος and ξένος therefore constitute instances of social
grouping, indicating a particular lifestyle and relationship to the elements of human
culture.
By way of this discussion of locality, we can finally clarify what we mean by
community. The “community” is simply the concrete manifestation of human energy and
culture that rests on top of a particular epichoric unit. The people, the homes, and the
activities that take place within, that serve to create and replicate the epichoric customs
and habits, are the community. Often this takes the form of the polis, but other
organizational forms of community were certainly possible in the archaic and classical
periods.78 By “local community” therefore, I indicate primarily the people with a set of
shared epichoric traditions that occupy a certain cultural unit. When a poet performs
within a community, he performs within a well-delimited cultural space. This space, far
from being a neutral performance venue, is thoroughly embedded in the human cultural
activities of that particular polis.
Nothing to Do with Panhellenism?
If this is our definition of the local community, where does it leave its supposed
opposite, the “panhellenic”? The word “panhellenism” is a modern one, though it is not
entirely without precedence in the ancient world. The Greek word Πανέλληνες first
appears in Homer, and occurs elsewhere occasionally throughout the archaic and classical
78
For other forms of community beyond the polis, see Snodgrass (1980): 42-46.
33 periods. Within the catalogue of ships, Oilean Ajax is described as “surpassing with his
spear the Panhellenes and the Achaeans” (ἐγχείῃ δ’ ἐκέκαστο Πανέλληνας καὶ Ἀχαιούς)
(Il. 2.530). The collocation “Panhellenes and the Achaeans” is certainly odd: how are the
Panhellenes different from the Achaeans (one of the usual terms for a Greek in Homer)?79
Elsewhere in the Iliad, the word “Hellas” seems to indicate a small country in the region
of the Malian Gulf to the north, south of Thessaly.80 It is likely then, that the panHellenes, indicates not the “whole of a Greece” but a confederacy of heterogeneous
groups in this region acting under a common name (as in the case of the Παναθήναιοι or
Πανίωνες).81 In fact, the first known instance where the word “Hellenes” seems to
indicate an “inclusive” sense of Greek identity does not occur until the sixth-century, in
an elegiac poem seen by Pausanias.82 The “pan” prefix therefore seems to indicate less
absolute unity but rather unity through diversity.
And even in later literature when “Hellas” becomes synonymous with “Greece,”
Panhellenes seems to indicate the diversity of its residents, rather than any shared
identity. “All of the Greeks” is often a better translation than a bare “Greeks” in these
79
Homer calls the Greeks Achaeans, Argives, and Danaans at different times, and does not use the term
“Hellas” for Greece (see Ross (2005): 303). This was noted even in antiquity by Thucydides (1.3).
80
In the Catalogue of Ships Achilles is described as the leader of “all the men who possess Phthia and
Hellas with its fair woman” (οἵ τ’ εἶχον Φθίην ἠδ’ Ἑλλάδα καλλιγύναικα) as well as Pelasgian Argos (Il.
2.683). All of these territories appear to circle the Malian Gulf, although Homer is none too precise with
boundaries. Other passages in Homer suggest that Phthia and Hellas are neighbors (Il. 9.395, 9.478-9; cf.
Od. 11.496). Multiple scholars have seen the Spercheios valley as the most likely location (see Hall (2002):
127n.5 for the relevant bibliography). It appears, both from the epithet cited above and Achilles’ comments
at Il. 9.395-6, that the Hellenic ladies were particularly comely. For a more detailed examination of the
evidence for Hellas in the epics, see Visser (1997): 653-4, 653n.29; Fowler (1998): 9-11; Hall (2002): 1278. It should also be noted, as pointed out by Fowler (1998): 10 and Hall (2002): 128, that in the Odyssey the
term Ἑλλάς appears to have been extended to mainland Greece, especially in the formula καθ’ Ἑλλάδα
καὶ µέσον Ἄργος (Od. 1.344, 4.726, 4.816; cf. 15.80) which seems to indicate respectively the Peloponnese
and the mainland (an exception being the pairing of Phthia and Hellas at Od. 11. 496). Fowler (1998): 10
sees this difference between the two epics as marking different stages of an emerging “Hellenic” identity.
81
See Fowler (1998): 10; Hall (2002): 132. Fowler (1998): 11-5 and Hall (2002): 134-54 make a
convincing case for seeing this confederacy as reflecting the amphictyony that won control of Delphi in the
First Sacred War.
82
See Hall (2002): 130-1. For the passage, see Paus. 10.7.5-6. If Pausanias can be trusted, the inscription
can be securely dated to 586 (see ad loc in West).
34 cases. Archilochus (102 West) writes “and the misery of all the Greeks came together at
Thasos” (Πανελλήνων ὀϊζὺς ἐς Θάσον συνέδραµεν). Here it seems that “Hellas”
indicates “all of Greece” and the pan- root emphasizes the diversity of the motley crew of
lowlifes that are descending on Paros.83 Likewise, Hesiod in the Catalogue of Women (at
least according to Strabo) describes Helen’s suitors as panhellenes (frag. 130 Merkelbach
/ West = Strabo 8.6.6). A more ambiguous example appears in the Works and Days:
Hesiod describes how the sun during the month of Lenaion travels to the cities of dark
men, “and shines later for all the Greeks” (βράδιον δὲ Πανελλήνεσσι φαείνει) (528). This
could be interpreted as emphasizing the shorter days for all of Greece as a whole, but I
would argue otherwise. Elsewhere in the Works and Days Hesiod is very keen to
emphasize local differences in the calendar.84 For instance he writes, “the thirtieth day of
the month is the best to inspect the work done and to distribute the rations, whenever,
discerning the truth, the people celebrate the day” (τριηκάδα µηνὸς ἀρίστην / ἔργα τ’
ἐποπτεύειν ἠδ’ ἁρµαλιὴν δατέασθαι. /εὖτ’ ἂν ἀληθείην λαοὶ κρίνοντες ἄγωσιν) (7668).85 The enigmatic phrase, “discerning the truth” (ἀληθείην…κρίνοντες) is explained by
West in the context of ancient calendars: “Civic calendars often fell out of step with the
moon…and it was on the 30th that errors arose…So it was always a question of when to
have the thirtieth.”86 The thirtieth day, therefore, is the day when different cities have
different civil calendars. I would suggest, like these civic calendars, the shorter days that
the Panhellenes experience are shorter at different times and at different places. Hesiod’s
83
For the likely diverse origins of the Greek colonists in this period, see Osborne (1996): 128-9.
The following interpretation relies heavily on Nagy (1990): 62-3.
85
Note that I print the text of West (1978) here (also the version used by Nagy (1990): 62-3). Solmsen in
his OCT edition moves the critical line 768 down a line, thereby changing its sense. But there is no reason
to argue with the manuscripts on this point, especially since, as I will discuss below, West offers a perfectly
good explanation for this line.
86
West (1978): 351.
84
35 words above express not a universal, standardized reduction of time for all of Greece, but
the simple chronological fact that sunrise and sunset varies from place to place. The panprefix, like in the other archaic examples we have analyzed, seems to indicate diversity
and multiplicity rather than unity.
But in any case, “panhellenism” meaning something along the lines of “a
common Greek identity” was not an ancient term. The meaning of “panhellenism,”
therefore, must be sought in modernity. The related adjective, “panhellenic,” seems to
have first appeared in 1847 in the writings of George Grote. The noun form soon
followed: the Oxford English Dictionary lists the word as first occurring in a 1849 Times
article.87 No doubt Grote’s coinage of the term was implicated in the desire to provide a
strong historical unity to the Greeks.88 As for what exactly this “common Greek identity”
actually entails, the exact meaning and historical development of “panhellenism” has
been fiercely debated by scholars. It is generally agreed, despite the lack of a specific
word in the Greek lexicon, that the Greeks did have some notion of panhellenism. The
question is, when did it arise and in what form? And was it primarily a political or
cultural notion?89
More often than not, “panhellenism” has been understood as a cultural notion
rather than a political one. A minority of scholars have defined the term narrowly,
applying it only to a united Greek campaign against Persia in retribution for the wars of
87
OED s.v. The term “Hellenism” seems to have appeared around the same time, first popularized by J.G.
Droysen in his monumental Geschichte de Hellenismus (1836-77). See Porter (2009): 9-11.
88
Scott (2010): 261.
89
For helpful overviews of the literature, see Ross (2005): 301-2; Mitchell (2007): xv- xviii; Scott (2010):
260-4.
36 480-79 BC.90 However, the majority of scholars have defined “panhellenism” in terms of
a shared cultural self-identification amongst the Greeks. In its weakest sense, it is often
used by scholars to emphasize the cultural koine that existed in Greece during the
classical period. Several recent studies, for instance, have placed quintessentially
Athenian art forms such as tragedy in a “panhellenic” context, combating a narrow,
Athenocentric view of the evidence.91 Others use the term to indicate the form of selfidentity that appeared after the Persian Wars, when the Greeks began to contrast
themselves with the barbarian “Other.” For these scholars, the “creation of the barbarian”
is the defining mark of panhellenism.92 And finally those who define “panhellenism” as
increasing intercommunication and interdependence amongst the various Greek cities
argue that there is a version of nascent panhellenism in archaic Greece.93 Two factors are
commonly cited: on a literary level, the unity of the Greek forces in the Iliad, even if not
explicitly commented on by the work itself; and on a material level, the growth of
international “panhellenic” sanctuaries like Olympia or Delphi. As the interaction
increased between city-states, an idea of “Greekness”, even if basic and embryonic,
began to emerge.
It is in this third, last sense that the term “panhellenism” has been mostly used by
philologists. This is the sense, for instance, used by Gregory Nagy in his distinction
90
Flower (2000): 65-66 distinguishes between two senses of “panhellenism”: the polarization of the
barbarian and an idea of a retributive campaign against Persia. His analysis primarily focuses on the
second.
91
For tragedy in a wider, panhellenic context, see Taplin (1999); Csapo (2010): 90-103; for the place of
Athenian art in the wider Greek world, see Morris (1998).
92
See Perlman (1976): 4-6; Edith Hall (1989): 1-3; Cartledge (1993): 12-13; Konstan (2001): 36 sees the
construction of an oppositional Greek identity as a result of the Athenian empire.
93
Snodgrass (1971):419-21; Ross (2005) analyzes the Iliad and concludes that the epic displays “a nascent
Panhellenic identity based on linguistic unity” (314); Hall in his various writings also detects a nascent
panhellenic identity before the Persian Wars, but dates it later than other writers: see (2002): 129-34, 168171; a good summary of Hall’s views can be found at (2007): 270-5.
37 between the epichoric and the panhellenic as described above. If the epichoric, in usual
scholarly parlance, indicates the cultural habits and stories that can be found at home, the
“panhellenic” represents what can be found outside in the rest of Greece. The panhellenic
then would be a sort of oral aggregate of stories and customs within Greece, a sort of
check-list of things that each polis can mutually agree upon. As Gregory Nagy writes,
“Panhellenic poetry would have been the product of an evolutionary synthesis of
traditions, so that the tradition that it represents concentrates on traditions that tend to be
common to most locales and peculiar to none.”94 If the epichoric represents peculiarity,
the panhellenic represents commonality.
Unfortunately, this division between the epichoric and panhellenic is deeply
problematic. Recent scholarship has given us cause to question this assumption. In his
extensive research on the question of “Hellenicity,” Hall has concluded that “Greek
settlers cannot have failed to be aware of linguistic, cultural, and perhaps even ethnic
differences between themselves and the populations with whom they came into contact,
but there is no evidence that they conceived of this difference in Hellenic (as opposed to
civic, regional or sub-Hellenic) terms until well into the Classical period.”95 In other
words, there is no trace of a broad Hellenic self-identification amongst the Greek
colonists. Furthermore, as Hall argues, the panhellenic sanctuaries, such as Olympia and
Delphi, cannot be used straightforwardly as evidence for an emerging “panhellenic”
identity. As Herodotus shows, only “Hellenes” were allowed to compete in the Olympic
games by the early fifth-century, but we do not know how old this rule was.96
94
Nagy (1990): 54.
Hall (2002): 121.
96
See Hall (2007): 272. Hall (2002): 164 for himself places the genesis of Hellenic identity in the
initiatives of the Thessalians, who used “Hellenic” identity to create a shared identity for the trans-regional
95
38 As for the sanctuaries themselves, by the seventh century they became meeting
places for the elites from all over Greece to communicate and compete with each other.
But as Hall emphasizes:
It would…be mistaken to confuse the emergence of a transregional
aristocracy with the crystallization of Hellenic self-consciousness. Firstly,
the elites grounded their identity in the fact that they were not the same as
the dêmos in their home communities: social and cultural considerations
outranked ethnic or civic ones. Secondly, with the practice of guest
friendship, gift exchange, and intermarriage, the borders between Greek
and non-Greek aristocrats were…very porous.97
Hall places the development of a Hellenic identity before the Persian Wars, arguing that
“Hellenic identity arose in the elite environment of the Olympic Games during the course
of the sixth century and that it served both to cement alliances between the ruling families
of various regions and to promote the hegemonic claims of the Thessalians over their
neighbours.” This affiliation was legitimated primarily through genealogy, not language,
religion, or culture.98 But again, he emphasizes that the spread of a “Hellenic” identity
was a mostly elite development. As he writes, “the oppositional context in which the
Hellenic identity first emerged operated not horizontally between geographically
contiguous populations…but rather vertically between status groups within Greece.”99
Hellenic identity, therefore, was a way of separating the elites that visited the Olympic
games from the masses back home. Hellenism was not so much an expression of a
common literature, religion, or culture, but a way for elites to distinguish themselves
from their own communities. All in all, as Hall eloquently argues, Hellenic identity was a
elites who frequented the games. The locus classicus for the “criterion” of Greekness at the Olympic games
is Hdt 5.22.1-2.
97
Hall (2007): 272.
98
Hall (2002): 227.
99
Ibid.,164.
39 compromise, a way to balance their commitments to their elite peers and their loyalty to
their own community.100
Another recent study by Michael Scott of the quintessential “panhellenic”
sanctuaries Delphi and Olympia has also questioned the usefulness of the word
“panhellenic.” As he convincingly argues, these sanctuaries were not always ramparts of
Greek unity as they are sometimes made out to be, and were at times bitterly contested
over by different Greek city-states. Furthermore, both sanctuaries still retained a
distinctly “local” flavor, and were often dominated by local poleis.101 As he writes,
“Whatever these panhellenic sanctuaries were, they were not, on the ground at least,
places where everyone could be found all the time in unity with one another.”102 But most
importantly, as Scott argues, the term “panhellenism” does not capture the diversity of
people using the sanctuary and the similarly diverse uses they put it to. He concludes that,
“Given such complexity, the straightforward application of the label ‘panhellenic’ to this
group of (sometimes very different) sanctuaries as a description of their place in the
Greek world begins to seem ill-fitting and vague.”103
The picture that Hall and Scott paint, therefore, seems to be one of greater
interactions between Greek city-states, but very little ideas of any overarching unity
between them. If Hall is correct, Hellenic identity grew as a form of elite self-fashioning,
rather than from any overarching ideas of inherent “Greekness.” If any awareness of
“Greekness” is to be found in the archaic period, it must be weak, informal, and specific
100
Hall (2007): 272-3, 275.
Scott (2010): 256.
102
Ibid.
103
Ibid., 257.
101
40 to only certain contexts. The term “panhellenism” and the notions of unity that it implies
are unable to support such a weak sense of Greekness.
And the problem with “panhellenism” is not only with its “Greekness” but also
that it explicitly excludes non-Greeks. As we have seen, the conceptual opposite of a
local resident is the ξένος figure. And as we have also noted above, the word ξένος is a
relatively vague concept, encompassing any stranger, guest, friend, or host from a
different social unit. The ξένος and the relations of ξενία that result from it do not have to
be strictly between two Greek parties: foreigners too could equally be a party to ξενία.
This fact alone should raise alarm bells about our use of the term “panhellenic” and the
Greek-centric view of the world it implies. If quintessentially “Greek” social institutions
like xenia can reach beyonds the bounds of Hellas, why not mythology and poetry? And
if the unmarked, reflexive idea of a ξένος includes both Greeks and non-Greeks, why
should we restrict the idea of the outside world to just Greeks? The Greeks were in
constant contact with other populations during the archaic period, from indigenous
populations in the West to Egypt and Lydia in the East. As Oswyn Murray writes, “The
Mediterranean economy was probably more unified and more advanced than at any
period before the conquests of Alexander.”104 It makes sense therefore, whatever we call
the opposite of the “epichoric,” not to restrict it to just Greeks. The Greeks were too
deeply involved in the world stage at this time for their “supralocal” horizons to be just
limited to themselves.
Furthermore, this focus on “Greeks and Greeks only” raises tricky problems in
certain texts. For instance, in Sappho 96 V, she describes a member of her circle
performing in Lydia. As I will argue in the upcoming pages, here we have an example of
104
Murray (1993): 240.
41 poetic diffusion that should be taken as a model for the spread and transmission of
Sappho’s own works. But this diffusion cannot be described as “panhellenic” solely on
the basis that it takes place in Lydia. “Panhellenism” appears to be inadequate even in
describing the basic facts of the performance context of this poem. And problems also
arise even with “generic” statements of fame. For instance, the anonymous rhapsode of
the Homeric Hymn to Apollo promises the Delian maidens that “we will bring your fame
far as we roam across the earth the well-founded cities of men”(ἡµεῖς δ’ ὑµέτερον κλέος
οἴσοµεν ὅσσον ἐπ’ αἶαν / ἀνθρώπων στρεφόµεσθα πόλεις εὖ ναιεταώσας)(174-5). Are
these cities of men specifically Greek? The text seems to imply the opposite, that he will
travel cities across the earth and that the Delian maidens’ kleos will spread to the very
ends of the earth. Certainly a knowledge of Greek would probably be necessary for any
audience to properly appreciate and understand the Delian maidens’ “fame,” but the text
seems unaware of that possibility. Likely the rhapsode hasn’t quite thought about the
issue of translation and how it might negatively impact the fame he is going to spread.
When pressed, this anonymous rhapsode would likely respond in affirmative that, yes,
sufficient Greek was needed to understand the fame he is going to spread. But if
anthropology has taught us anything, it is that indigenous societies often do not think
about these sorts of questions.105 The term “panhellenism” therefore suggests a too strict
line of demarcation between Greek and non-Greek, one that may not have been pertinent
in the archaic period before a stronger form of Greek identity emerged.
Because of these concerns that the term panhellenism insists on a “too-strong”
sense of Greek identity and on excluding non-Greeks from consideration, I will generally
105
As Tim Whitmarsh (2010b): 2 correctly writes concerning “locality,” “A people living in isolation on an
island would not think of themselves as ‘local’- in fact they would be much more likely to think of
themselves as the blessed possessors of the cosmos.”
42 avoid the term “panhellenism” in this work. If I do resort to the term in order to
contextualize my work with other scholarship, I will use it with quotation marks. Rather,
I prefer the term “translocal.” This term properly captures the energy and increasing
connectedness of archaic Greece, without assuming a unified Hellenic identity. The term
“translocal” also does not sacrifice what was compelling about the epichoric / panhellenic
model, a critical distinction between poetry performed within a community and the
vague, but ever growing sense, that this local poetry differs from poetry that is outside the
community. The term “translocal” captures more precisely the vague, often complex
feelings of “otherness” with which the epichoric is contrasted.
Conclusions
In this chapter, I have attempted to define and delimit a model for locality. I have
concluded that Greek ideas of locality are very similar to recent anthropological
discussions of “localness” and “locality.” “Localness” is primary a form of social
grouping, separating those who live within a demarcated cultural unit from those that
don’t. It is also a fragile form of grouping that requires upkeep. As I suggested in this
chapter, and will explicate more in the coming chapters, lyric poetry has a specific role in
performing and renewing the communal solidarity that is implied by locality. In Greek
specifically, the word ἐπιχώριος indicates a primarily human space, and indicates a set of
people who interact with their environment in a particular and unique way. The opposite
of this, ξένος, indicates something from a different cultural unit and space. Both words
can indicate peculiarity and difference, but something ἐπιχώριος belongs in a certain
space, while something ξένος, doesn’t. The “local community” can therefore be defined
43 as the concrete manifestations of an epichoric culture within a certain cultural unit, the
actors and their dwellings that inhabit this particular expanse of the earth. Finally, I have
found reasons to question the current usage of the word “panhellenism” and the
conceptual baggage it brings with it. As I have argued, the term posits too strong of a
Greek identity in the archaic period and is too focused on the Greeks themselves. It
neglects how other cultures shaped the Greek imagination during the archaic period. I
therefore prefer the term “translocal” as a much more accurate description of the
conceptual space outside of one’s own community.
Furthermore, I have emphasized that “locality” is primarily a form of social
grouping, rather than an phenomenological entity “in-itself.” I have suggested that the
opposition between the “epichoric” and “panhellenic that many scholars use should be
redefined as a distinction between “insiders” and “outsiders.” When a poet, for instance,
praises a certain city, and incorporates local epichoric exotica into his poem, he creates an
audience of those with privileged knowledge and belief in the myth he is telling. Those
that do not understand the myth, or believe another version of it, are excluded. Scholarly
research should focus on how locality creates its own form of social grouping. Rather
than opposition, we should see the divide between “local” and “translocal” as a division
between those included and excluded from the club of “locality.” The next chapter will
focus on the figure of the poet himself, and how he can put these ideas of locality to use
on a rhetorical level.
44 Chapter Two: The Poet In His Community
Introduction
In the last chapter, we outlined a theoretical approach to locality and community.
We determined that locality is fundamentally embedded not in the environment, but in
human activity. Locality is primarily a form of social grouping, a set of people with a
shared unique culture and a privileged relationship to the surrounding environment.
Furthermore, as we analyzed in the previous chapter, the definition of the “local” always
depends on “translocal” forces. It relies on a dichotomy between “us” and “them” i.e.
between the local space of ἐπιχώριος and the outside world of ξένος. In this chapter we
will further explicate the difference between these two spaces by focusing on the figure
of the poet in the archaic and classical periods. As I will argue in this chapter, the poet
interacts with his own community differently than he does with other communities. In
other words, the poet’s epichoric persona is different from his foreign persona. Part of the
reason for this, as this chapter will demonstrate, is that a poet’s persona is inextricably
linked to his own home community. At the beginning of this chapter I will study authors’
names in detail. I will argue that authors’ names, and by extension poets’, are inextricably
tied up with “place.” Place is so fundamentally linked with ideas of authorship that the
ancients often used an author’s hometown as part of his very name (for instance,
Herodotus of Halicarnassus). This practice, as I will argue, reveals something important
about the different conceptions of authorship that the Greeks had. In particular, I will
argue that a poet’s hometown forms an integral part of his persona. In the second half of
this chapter, I will expand on these observations, studying how a poet’s persona changes
45 when he goes abroad. The poet’s presence in other communities, contrary to our instincts,
increases his authority rather than diminishes it. By contrast, when a poet performed
within his own community, his authority decreases. As a result the poet needed to
compensate for his diminished authority. The techniques by which a poet augments his
own weakened authority within his own community will form the last part of the chapter
and the subject matter of the rest of the dissertation.
Poets: A Vaguely Defined Job
The first question to be asked is, “What is a poet?” Archaic Greece was above all a
song culture. As John Herington writes, “Poetry, recited or sung, was for the early Greeks
the prime medium for the dissemination of political, moral, and social ideas.”1 In this
“song culture” poets and their poetry therefore played a vital role in spreading and
creating ideas. And because they played such a valuable role in the political, moral,
religious, and social realms amongst others, poets had multiple functions within archaic
and classical Greek society. This can be paralleled in other societies. A very helpful and
striking example comes from Thomas Hale’s work on the African poets called “griots” in
his book Griots and Griottes. In a chapter titled “A Job Description for Griots” he kindly
summarizes under different subheadings the various possible roles that these poets can
play: they include genealogist, historian, adviser, spokesperson, diplomat, mediator,
interpreter and translator, musician, composer, teacher, exhorters, warriors, witness,
praise-singers, ceremony participant (in Namings, Initiation, Courtship, Marriages,
1
Herington (1985): 3.
46 Installations (meetings of chiefs), and Funerals respectively).2 Each of these “job
descriptions” that Hale has identified for the Griots could also be applied with equal
validity to the archaic Greek poets. Any account of the “poet” in archaic Greece must
therefore recognize the very fluidity of the concept of the “poet.” A poet could take on as
many roles as there were uses for his poetry.
In the context of this very fluid and very flexible work environment, poets
fashioned themselves according to the job specifications at hand. We are therefore
fortunate that the archaic poets frequently comment on both themselves and their
qualifications for the task at hand. Earlier scholars of archaic poetry oftentimes took the
poets at their own words in these instances, sometimes relying on the extant poems
themselves, at other times on the ancient biographical traditions about the poets. The lyric
poems of these poets, rather than being rhetorical pieces of self-fashioning, were taken as
biographical facts to be mined.3 A critical watershed in this regard is the publication in
1981 of Mary Lefkowitz’s The Lives of the Greek Poets. Her approach can easily be
summed up in a sentence contained within her introduction to this volume: “I hope to
show that virtually all the material in all the lives is fiction.” As she reasonably
concludes, most of the vitae, rather than demonstrating special acquaintance with the
biographical information of a poet’s life, derived their data from the poet’s own works.4
The stories in the vitae tradition are therefore not independently verified facts, but
interpretations of the poets and their poems. As scholars after Lefkowitz quickly
understood, this makes the vitae just as valuable in their own right, as documents in the
2
Hale (1998): 18-58.
Such is the approach, with varying degrees of credulity, of scholars such as Burn (1960), Bowra (1961),
and Podlecki (1984).
4
Lefkowitz (1981): viii.
3
47 history of the reception of these poets. While the vitae might not tell us much about the
historical poets themselves, they tell us a great deal about how these poets were viewed.
Numerous studies post-Lefkowitz have demonstrated that these vitae can be used to
discuss how these poets were perceived in antiquity.5
Even the supposedly “biographical” and “historical” information embedded in the
poems themselves should be viewed less as objective “facts” and more as an act of active
persona-making on the part of the poets themselves. As recent musicological research has
emphasized, cross-culturally musical performance is primarily a locus for performance of
the self. As Philip Auslander has emphasized, the primary product that musical
performance produces is not the music itself, but a stylization of the self: “I posit that in
musical performance, this representation of self is the direct object of the verb to perform.
What musicians perform first and foremost is not music, but their own identities as
musicians, their musical personae.”6 The personae that musicians and poets present,
therefore, are an essential part of their performance, just as important as even the lyrics or
the musical score itself. The same is equally applicable to the song culture of ancient
Greece. As has been amply documented in the case of archaic lyric poetry, poets adopt
different personae during the performance of their poetry.7 Poets, in their myriad social
roles, also present a myriad of personae. In Auslander’s terms, Archaic Greek poetry
could be described more as a place for performance of selves rather than a singular self.
5
See e.g. Nagy (1979): 279-308 (though published before Lefkowitz); Lamberton (1988); Graziosi (2002);
Kurke (2003); Compton (2006).
6
Auslander (2006): 102.
7
The most detailed examination of persona and mimesis in archaic Greek poetry remains Nagy (1996b).
48 Placing the Poet: The Topography of Authorship
One of the things that bind all these various selves together, I would argue, is the
epichoric community that the poet is associated with. A poet’s home community forms an
integral part of his persona, no matter where or what he performs. In fact, it is so integral
that his home city becomes incorporated into poets’ and other authors’ very names.
Though authors’ names seem to be on the surface an arbitrary part of the poetic process
(couldn’t Shakespeare have written Romeo and Juliet under any other name?),
postmodern scholarship has shown that an author’s name has wider implications for
concepts of authorship. As Michel Foucault has noted in his famous essay “What is an
Author?” an author’s name is never just a proper name. It functions as a means to
classify, authenticate, and identify a text or a tradition in a wide variety of discourses.8
Authors’ names are not themselves neutral facts: they are created, and themselves create,
a series of contexts for the reception and performance of an author’s work. A welldocumented case of the “creation of an author” appears in Elizabethan drama, where
playhouses began to attribute the plays to individual playwrights rather than companies of
players. Elizabethan audiences were therefore encouraged to come see a play not because
a certain troupe performed it, but because a certain author wrote it. The entire
collaborative effort of producing, rehearsing, performing, and staging a play becomes
reduced to and attributable to a single author’s creative genius.9 A more contemporary
example of names creating their own contexts is a modern-day book signing. Here an
author often explicitly exposes audiences to the content of the book by reading a pertinent
passage. This performance is followed by the signing itself, where audience members
8
9
See especially Foucault (2001) [1969]: 1626-8.
For a recent overview of the making of the author with a focus on Shakespeare, see Erne (2003): 56-77.
49 purchase the book to have their own copy signed with the author’s name. In both of these
cases, the author’s proper name functions as more than a simple proper name. Rather, it
creates a set of contexts and or expectations for the reception and performance of an
author’s work.
Before we proceed, my use of the terms “author” and “authorship” needs to be
addressed. As has been noted by many scholars, the concept of “authorship” is a
problematic one in the predominantly oral song culture of archaic and classical Greece.10
I choose to use the word “author” here in order to emphasize the wide range of genres
and texts mentioned in this discussion. Although my focus will be on poets, it is my
contention that they are best analyzed using broader conceptions of authorship and
authority in archaic and classical Greece. I therefore use the term “author” in a very weak
sense, meaning an individual to whom a text or series of texts is attributed. This
individual is thought to have some qualities of ownership over these texts.11 Because of
his ownership, the poet is therefore considered to be the creative force behind these texts.
I want to emphasize, however, that this definition does not exclude performance, or
for that matter, reperformance, as a means to authorship.12 Theognis, after all, in the
beginning of his famous sphragis poem claims some sort of ownership over his work and
10
One of the most influential treatments of authorship in the archaic Greek world can be found in Nagy
(1990): 339-81; see also Ford (1985) for a penetrative analysis of the dynamics of authorship in the case of
Theognis; for an interesting, recent comparison of authorship in ancient Greece and China, see Beecroft
(2010), esp. 1-25.
11
For the difficulties and nuances involved in concepts of ownership in archaic Greece, see Woodbury
(1952): 23-5; Ford (1985): 87-95. Both of these articles not coincidentally analyze one of the most explicit
statements of authorship in archaic Greece, Theognis’ so-called “sphragis” poem (19-38 West), where
Theognis as an author claims some sort of ownership over his text. Also good examples of poems as
property can be found in the vitae of Homer, where disputes over the ownership of his poems leads to the
attribution of them by different poets (for a poem as a present, see 5.5 West (cf. Callim. Epigr. LV GowPage; for the theft of a poem of Homer, see Ps. Hdt. 16). Naturally these texts are late, but the stories
themselves can be reasonably traced back to the archaic period.
12
For performances as a means to authorship, see Beecroft (2010): 17.
50 then goes on to immediately describe local reperformances of it throughout Greece.13 It
appears that performance and reperformance of oral texts are “owned” by authors just as
much as written texts. This brings us to an important point: we should not associate this
“ownership” with the precise transmission of a written text. As numerous studies have
emphasized, texts maintained and transmitted in an oral tradition tend to be extremely
variable. Furthermore, several excellent studies of authorship and reperformance have
suggested that ancient poets themselves were well aware of this variability, and harbored
no illusions about the permanence of their texts.14 It is likely that poets themselves did
not expect their works to remain the same across reperformances, and did not conceive of
their texts as “fixed” as in modern times. The fame they receive as authors and owners of
a text comes in spite of the inevitable changes that accrue as their text is reperformed.
In modern day English, one can address someone in face-to-face conversation in a
number of ways: by first name alone, by a title + last name (”Goodbye, Mr. Anderson”)
in more formal contexts, by a combination of first and last name (and even expandable to
a middle name), or just by a nickname alone. While the structure first name + last name is
generally restricted to a limited number of situations in everyday conversation (like
mothers scolding children), when it comes to literature, the structure first name + last
name becomes standard.15 In English, the structure first name + last name regularly
identifies an author of a work.16 This naming device persists across a wide variety of texts
and genres: for instance, we can perform a play by William Shakespeare, read a novel by
Ernest Hemingway, read the investigative journalism of Bob Woodward, or even cite a
13
See lns. 19-24 West.
See Woodbury (1952): 23; Ford (1985); Currie (2004): 54-5.
15
I owe this discussion of forms of naming and address to Dickie (1996): 43-50, 54.
16
A possible exception is the occasional pseudonym (for example, Saki ). But it is notable that many
pseudonyms themselves replicate the structure of first name + last name, e.g. George Eliot, Mark Twain.
14
51 piece of criticism by Michel Foucault. The modern structure first name + last name
(traditionally a patronymic) indicates authorship in a wide variety of texts.
By contrast, the ancient Greeks for the most part used only their first name in faceto-face conversation. Unlike English, the first name in ancient Greek has the functions of
both the first name and last name in English (for example, Socrates is addressed as “O
Socrates” rather than Mr. Sophroniscus). And unlike the last name in modern day
English, there was no set second term. If further differentiation was needed, the most
common types of second terms were either a patronymic or an ethnic / demotic, but in a
pinch, even a nickname (such as the “the younger Socrates”) would do. Given the
importance of the first name, it is not surprising that in face-to-face conversation, as far
as we can tell from the literary evidence, the bare first name predominates in direct
addresses. Eleanor Dickey, in her detailed analysis of forms of address from Herodotus to
Lucian, calculates that 64% of all singular addresses are by first name alone.17 However,
both patronymics and city names (so called “ethnics”) can be used if the addressee needs
to be specified further.18 Although Dickey primarily uses later evidence, this data likely
also reflects conversational practices of the archaic and early classical periods. In
epigraphy, we also notice a similar phenomenon. In the epigraphic poems listed by
Hansen in his edition of Carmina Epigrahica Graeca I have found roughly 70 examples
of patronymics and 19 of ethnic designations between the eighth century and fifth century
17
Dickey (1996): 46.
Dickey (1996): 52-4 finds nearly 55 examples of address by patronymic. It should be noted, however,
that nearly half of these examples come from Plato. Dickey suggests that this is a peculiarity of Socrates’
own address system (55-6). Dickey detects a formal, deferential tone to most of these uses of patronymics
(55). As for ethnics and place-names, Dickey finds 42 examples amongst prose writers (175). As Dickey
notes, the use of an ethnic implies relative status, and that the social status of the addresser is superior to
that of the addressee (176).
18
52 B.C.19 It appears, therefore, that both patronymics and ethnics co-exist side by side with
each other in both face-to-face conversation and in literary epigraphy. In the case of
literary epigraphy, it even appears that patronymics appear twice as often as ethnics.
When we turn to literature itself, we find that the most common way for an author
to refer to himself or to another author is by a first name alone. This should not surprise
us, since as mentioned above, the first name in Greek has many of the qualities of the last
name in English. Even in English we can refer to just “Shakespeare” or “Hemingway”
instead of their full names. The bare first name in Greek seems to be like the bare last
name in English, the most “unmarked” and casual form of an author’s name.20
The naming of poets by first name alone goes back to Homer, where Demodocus
and Phemius are both introduced only by their first names (Φηµίῳ Od. 1.15; Δηµόδοκον
Od. 8.43). It should be noted, however, in the case of Phemius that later in the Odyssey he
is graced with the patronymic Terpiadēs (Τερπιάδης) at 22.330.21 Oftentimes it is unclear
whether and to what extent a poet is referring to himself as an author or an actor within
the narrative. Sappho, for example, in dialogue either with Aphrodite or another member
of her circle, is frequently named (frags. 1.20, 65.5, 94.5, 133.b V), though not always
explicitly designated as the “author” or “composer” of a poem. Yet even when her name
appears in a dialogue with another character, her name seems to carry more force than a
simple address. The prime instance of this is Sappho 1 V, where the mention of her name
invokes not just the present performer of the poem, but the whole corpus of her erotic
19
For more information about my methodology in obtaining these results, see the appendix.
It should be noted here that in this discussion I do not differentiate between proper names and
professional names. Multiple scholars have suspected that names such as Homer, Hesiod, and Terpander
were invented, professional names, oftentimes reflecting the genre of song each author performed (for
Homer, see Nagy (1996a): 89-91; for a different view, see West (1999): 375-6; for Hesiod, see Most
(2006): xiv-xvi; for Terpander, see Nagy (1979): 17 n.4n1, (1990): 86). However, there seems to be no
difference in usage from these professional names and historically attested individuals (like Herodotus).
21
See Russo et al, (1992): ad loc for a good discussion of this passage.
20
53 poetry.22 Similar problems arise with other authors’ mentions of themselves: Alcaeus’
description of himself in his shield poem (401 B Voigt) and Solon’s allusion to himself in
an imagined conversation with a critic (frag. 33 West), as much as they call attention to
the poet as an actor within the poem, they also call attention to the poet as an auctor. The
mention of the name stresses the continuity between the actor portrayed in the poem and
the poem’s actual author. A rather different situation, and a more interesting one, occurs
in the case of Hipponax. Throughout the tattered remains of his poetry, Hipponax
mentions himself at least three times.23 These self-references are all the more striking
because his fellow iambist Archilochus never mentions himself once in his extant poetry.
While we cannot discount the possibility that if more of Archilochus’ poems survived
intact we would possess at least some mentions of his own name, their different selfnaming practices seem to reflect fundamentally different strategies of “fictionalization”
between the two poets. Unlike the ego of Archilochus, which remains unnamed and
easily dissociable from the poet himself, Hipponax readily embraces and inhabits an
entirely fictionalized persona.24 Even within authors of the same genre, the strategies of
naming can vary wildly.
However, some authors do make explicit authorial statements using only the first
name. The most obvious example appears in the elegiac poets Phocylides and
Demodocus. They both begin their poems with a simple tag using only their first name:
“here’s another one from Phocylides (Demodocus)” (Καὶ τόδε Φωκυλίδου: (frag. 1, 2,
22
For Sappho 1 V as a programmatic invocation of her whole corpus of erotic poetry, see Barchiesi (2000):
171-3; also see Mace (1993): 359-361, though I do not agree that the emphatic repetition of δηὖτε indicates
a common corpus of δηὖτε poems.
23
See fragments 36, 37, and 79.9 West. Fragment 1 West could be counted as a fourth instance, if we
believe the second line was lifted straight from Hipponax by Callimachus. West prints this line as
Callimachus’, but Gerber (1999b) reserves the possibility that this line is a genuine citation of Hipponax.
24
For the fictionalization of Hipponax’s persona, see Carey (2009b): 165; for names as a distancing device,
see 165n. 39.
54 and 3 West); καὶ τόδε Δηµοδόκου: (frag. 2 West). These stamps at the beginning of the
poem probably give the elegiac poet an air of authority, showing him to be a master of
traditional gnomic advice.25
It is in Alcman, however, that we find the most explicit declarations of authorship
by the first name only. In two fragments, he describes himself as the author of the poem:
Ϝέπη τάδε καὶ µέλος Ἀλκµὰν
εὗρε γεγλωσσαµέναν
κακκαβίδων ὄπα συνθέµενος, (39 PMG )
These words and melody Alcman invented when he heard the warbling
voice of partridges…
Here Alcman explicitly describes the process of making his song. He invents not only the
melodies but the words to his tunes when he hears the partridges singing. More than
simply indicating the “authorship” of Alcman, the rhetoric of him “discovering” (εὗρε)
the components of his song suggests its newness and originality. Not only is he laying
claim to a particular song, but laying claim to a different type of song.
A less obvious example of “authorship,” but one that is equally important, occurs
in another poem where Alcman names himself:
καί ποκά τοι δώσω τρίποδος κύτος
†ὦκἐνιλεα Γειρης†
ἀλλ’ ἔτι νῦν γ’ ἄπυρος, τάχα δὲ πλέος
ἔτνεος, οἷον ὁ παµφάγος Ἀλκµὰν
ἠράσθη χλιαρὸν πεδὰ τὰς τροπάς·
οὔτι γὰρ ἁδὺ τετυγµένον ἔσθει
ἀλλὰ τὰ κοινὰ γάρ, ὥπερ ὁ δᾶµος,
ζατεύει. (17 PMG )
And in the future I will give you a great tripod bowl... It has still not been
over a fire, but soon it will be full of pea soup, the kind that Alcman, who
eats everything, loves hot after the solstice: he eats no (sweet confections?)
but seeks common fare just like the people.
25
For the poet as a master of traditional gnomic advice, see Ford (1985): 83-4; Hubbard (2007): 210-11.
55 While the first passage clearly refers to Alcman as the author of the poem he is
performing, this second fragment is more problematic. The performance context of this
fragment has been the subject of much controversy. Who gives the tripod, who receives
it, and where this tripod was given and received have all been disputed. Suggestions for
the recipient have ranged from the tripod being a wedding gift for his fiancé, to a gift for
an eromenos, to a dedication to some god or hero (Apollo and Hercules are popular
choices in the scholarship).26 However, since Alcman mentions his own name, it is clear
that the poem is spoken in his own voice, whether mediated by a chorus or sung
monodically.27 Judging from the vigorous scholarly debate in antiquity about whether
Alcman was a native Spartan or a Lydian, it is likely that Alcman never mentioned his
home city or possibly even a patronymic that might identify him.28 These two fragments,
therefore, are probably representative of Alcman’s normal naming practice.
Outside of these self-referential statements, several authors are cited frequently by
first name only. It is quite common to quote or cite an author by first name alone. Over
twenty examples of this type of citation up to the fifth century are known to me. The
authors cited in this fashion are diverse, from Homer and Hesiod to Stesichorus to even
26
The suggestion of his fiancé as a recipient is Welcker’s; for a good overview of the older scholarship on
this poem, see Bagordo (1998): 260-1. For the interpretation of the recipient as an eromenos, see Nafissi
(1991): 211-4; Bagordo (1998): 268 sees the act of dedication as an intergeneric polemic against the
Apollonian paian; for Hercules as the recipient, see Nannini (1988): 34-5.
27
Nannini (1988): 25-6 provides ample parallels for the switch between third-person and first person that
appears in this poem (Gerber (1994): 38 concurs). As he rightly notes, Hesiod in the opening of the
Theogony does the same thing as this fragment but in reverse, switching from a third-person to a firstperson.
28
The ancient commentators on Alcman know of two possible fathers: Damas (mentioned by the Suda s.v.
Ἀλκµάν, a scholiast on Pindar (i. 11 Drachmann), and an extant papyri dating from the third century A.D
(P.Oxy 3542)) and the name Titarus (mentioned only by the Suda s.v. Ἀλκµάν). Neither one is known from
our extant fragments, and it is likely that both were concocted by the scholiasts. For another example of a
poet’s father being extrapolated from the text itself in the biographical tradition, see the discussion of West
(1978): 232 on the origins of Hesiod’s father. As Bowra (1961): 18 notes, both of these names are
interestingly enough Greek.
56 Sophocles. Certain authors, such as the epic poets Homer and Hesiod, seem to be more
often cited in this way.29 The solitary first name, therefore, is by far the most prevalent
form of referring to another “author.”
When we look beyond the first name, a surprising phenomenon occurs: authors
more frequently identify themselves by city of origin (so-called “ethnics”) rather than
patronymics. Patronymics, with a few exceptions, disappear almost entirely from
authorial self-statements. Self-reference or citation by first name remains the most
common way for an author to be described, but when further differentiation was needed,
ethnics were far more often used. This is especially striking in view of the epigraphical
evidence mentioned above, where instances of patronymics outnumber ethnics by nearly
a two to one ratio. Furthermore, patronymics are also very common in early Greek
literature. After all, Greek literature can be said to start with a patronymic: “Rage,
goddess, sing of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus” (Μῆνιν ἄειδε, θεὰ, Πηληϊάδεω
Ἀχιλῆος)(Il. 1.1). However, when describing themselves or other authors, Greek writers
tended to avoid the patronymic in favor of the ethnic with very few exceptions. It will be
useful to first review these few and limited exceptions to the rule.
The first exception can be found in the philosopher Alcmaeon, who prefaces his
work both with a patronymic and a place name: “Alcmaeon of Croton the son of
Peirithous said the following to Brotinus, Leon, and Bathyllus…” (Ἀλκµαίων
Κροτωνιήτης τάδε ἔλεξε Πειρίθου υἱὸς Βροτίνωι καὶ Λέοντι καὶ Βαθύλλωι·) (DK 24B1).
The iambic poet Susarion provides another example of combining patronymic and place
of origin. In the sole fragment ascribed to him, he describes himself using not only his
29
See the appendix.
57 name, patronymic, and city, but even his local village (a “demotic”): “Silence, people:
Susarion the son of Philinus, from Tripodeske in Megara says the following” (ἀκούετε
λεώι· Σουσαρίων λέγει τάδε /υἱὸς Φιλίνου Μεγαρόθεν Τριποδίσκιος).30 And finally, if a
citation from Lucian is indeed a representative parody of his work, Ctesias in his Indica
may have introduced himself by both a patronymic and an ethnic: “…like Ctesias the son
of Ctesiochus from Cnidos, who wrote about the lands around India…”(<ὧν> Κτησίας ὁ
Κτησιόχου ὁ Κνίδιος, ὃς συνέγραψεν περὶ τῆς Ἰνδῶν χώρας…)(Luc. Ver. hist. 1.3).31
The last example of this structure occurs in the late fifth century poet Timotheus. In
the famous so-called sphragis section of his Persians, he presents the audience with a
poetic genealogy of his own citharodic forebears. In this genealogy, he begins by
invoking Orpheus in the following terms:
πρῶτος ποικιλόµουσος Ὀρφεὺς <χέλ>υν ἐτέκνωσεν
υἱὸς Καλλιόπα<ς ⏑–
–⏓> Πιερίαθεν·
Orpheus, knowing a variety of music, first crafted the tortoise-shell lyre,
the son of Kalliope… from Pieria.
This passage differs from the others just analyzed in that, instead of a patronymic,
Timotheus describes Orpheus’ parent by a metronymic. While the metronymic is usually
ignored in every day life, in mythological and poetic texts where descent from a goddess
is emphasized the metronymic gains new importance.32 Here, Orpheus, the archetypical
30
If, of course, we assume Susarion was an iambic poet: see West (1974): 183-4 for a discussion of the
evidence. His conclusion is that “as it is, the fragment manifestly belongs to the genus iambus.”
31
See Marincola (1997): 273n9. Fehling (1975): 65 believes the citation to be genuine.
32
For a good discussion of this phenomenon in Homer, see Higbie (1995): 115-7. The prime example of
this is Aeneas’ boasting of his more powerful mother and genealogy at Il. 20. 206-41.
58 citharodic poet, is described by first name, metronymic, and his birth place, Pieria.33 We
will discuss this and the rest of Timotheus’ sphragis in more detail in the next section,
but for now, I will suggest that it is for its exotic and archaizing flavor that Timotheus
uses this “three-pronged” name. Since Orpheus begins a poetic genealogy that leads up to
Timotheus himself, Timotheus describes Orpheus’ divine heritage in terms appropriate to
the mythic past.
These are the only extant instances of the structure “Name + City + Patronymic”
(with the addition of demotic in the case of Susarion) that I know of.34 This “threepronged” form of the name has Near Eastern parallels. For instance, the book of Jeremiah
specifies both Jeremiah’s father and the hometown of his father’s priestly caste: “The
words of Jeremiah, son of Hilkiah, of the priests who were in Anathoth in the land of
Benjamin…” (Jer. 1.1). Also in the book of Ezekiel, after describing his revelation in the
first person, he specifies both his father and the place of his revelation: “the word of the
33
All testimony concerning Orpheus’ birth places him in Thrace. Apollonius of Rhodes locates his birth
near the peak of Pimpleia, a district of Pieria (τόν ῥά ποτ’ αὐτή /Καλλιόπη Θρήικι φατίζεται εὐνηθεῖσα
/Οἰάγρῳ σκοπιῆς Πιµπληίδος ἄγχι τεκέσθαι) (Arg. 1.23-5). This seems to confirm that Timotheus in his
lacunose mention of Pieria probably intended it to be his birthplace. As such, it appears that Timotheus is
our earliest witness for this tradition. One should note that there are some traditions that place his birth
further south, overlapping with his place of death. The concluding lines from the Orphic Argonautica seem
to imply that he was born near the site of his death around Mt. Olympus: “from there I hurried to snowy
Thrace, to the land of the Leibethrians, to my fatherland: and I entered the very famous cave where my
mother bore me in the bed of great-hearted Oiagros” (Ἔνθεν δ’ ὁρµηθεὶς ἐσύθην χιονώδεα Θρῄκην
/Λειβήθρων ἐς χῶρον, ἐµὴν ἐς πατρίδα γαῖαν· /ἄντρον δ’ εἰσεπέρησα περικλυτὸν, ἔνθα µε µήτηρ /γείνατ’
ἐνὶ λέκτροις µεγαλήτορος Οἰάγροιο) (1373-6) (Dottin). The land of Leibethrians is closer to Olympus, and
is in fact where many scholars ancient and modern place Orpheus’ death by dismemberment.
34
This, however, hasn’t stopped other scholars from creating more. It has been suggested that Heraclitus
frag. 1 originally began with the words “<Heraclitus the son of Bloson the Ephesian says the following>:
men never have comprehension of this true account ”(<Ἡράκλειτος Βλόσωνος Ἐφέσιος τάδε λέγει:> τοῦ
δὲ λόγου τοῦδ’ ἐόντος ἀξύνετοι γίνονται ἄνθρωποι). For more information about the history of this
emendation, see the apparatus criticus to DK frag. 22.B.1 and West (1971): 9. West on the same page also
hypothesizes that Pherecydes’ work began with the tag “<Pherecydes the Syrian said the following, the son
of Babys>” (<Φερεκύδης Σύριος τάδε ἔλεξε Βάβυος υἱός>). Also in the case of the multi-talented
philosopher / poet Ion of Chios some scholars have restored his name to the beginning of one of his extant
fragments: “<Ion of Chios says the following:>, and this is the beginning of his account: all of existence
consists of three things…” (<Ἴων Χῖος τάδε λέγει>· ἀρχὴ δέ µοι τοῦ λόγου· πάντα τρία)(frag. 1 DK). In
both of these cases, a δέ at the beginning of the extant opening of the fragment does seem to suggest that
some sort of “tag” went before, but there is no evidence as to what form it took. In both cases, Marincola
(1997): 272n5 rightly urges caution.
59 Lord came to the priest Ezekiel son of Buzi, in the land of the Chaldeans by the river
Chebar….”(Ezek. 1.3). These and other biblical precedents suggest that this “threepronged” name was probably used more widely than our evidence suggests, especially
among Ionian writers in frequent contact with the Near East.35
As for patronymics alone, the historian Antiochus in his work On Italy named
himself in this way: “Antiochus the son of Xenophanes wrote up the following about
Italy…” (Ἀντίοχος Ξενοφάνεος τάδε συνέγραψε περὶ Ἰταλίας…) (FGrHist 555 F 2 ).
The biblical precedents for naming oneself by both name and patronymic are once again
very strong. Many of the prophetic books of the Old Testament begin with some mention
of both the author’s name and his father, usually with additional specification.36 It is
therefore likely that even more early historians whose work does not survive prefaced
their narratives with both a name and patronymic. An even more intriguing case occurs in
Timotheus, where he names his rival Phyrnis by a patronymic alone, while referring to
himself by an ethnic: “You were blessed, Timotheus, when the herald said, “Timotheus
the Milesian has beaten the son of Camon,” that Ionian melody-twister…” (µακάριος
ἦσθα, Τιµόθε’, ὅτε κᾶρυξ /εἶπε· νικᾶι Τιµόθεος /Μιλήσιος τὸν Κάµωνος τὸν
ἰωνοκάµπταν) (802 PMG ). We will return to this passage shortly, but for now, I will say
I believe he uses the patronymic as an insult. And finally, Herodotus sometimes identifies
poets by father or both father and city, though he is hardly consistent in this practice.37
A more general exception to this relative disuse of patronymics could be found in
the rhapsodic and citharodic performers. On the surface, the Homeridae, the rhapsodic
35
For a fuller list of Near Eastern parallels, see Fehling (1975): 66-69; cf. Marincola (1997): 271-2.
See e.g. Isa 1.1, 2.1, 13.1 Jer. 1.1 Hos. 1.1, Joel 1.1, Zeph. 1.1, Zech. 1.1. For a good overview of the
structure of these names, see the commentary on Jer. 1.1 in Meeks (1993).
37
For further examples of this, see the appendix in the back.
36
60 group that claimed descent from Homer, seems to be an exception to this general rule.
And recently Timothy Power has convincingly argued that early citharodic groups were
organized similarly to these rhapsodic groups. Like the Homeridae, citharodes were a
traveling group of professionals who performed the poems of and claimed descent from a
mythical founder (in this case, Terpander).38 Taken together these two groups seem to
provide a strong exception to the trend that I have identified, the general disdain of
authors’ towards using genealogical terms. However, I would dispute that either of these
two groups were “authors,” at least according to the parameters established above. As we
defined “authorship,” authors have some claim of ownership over the texts they perform.
This is particularly not the case with rhapsodes and citharodes, who explicitly claimed
not to perform their own songs, but the songs of their respective founders. As the various
vitae of Homer make clear, Homer himself was considered the clear “owner” of the epic
poems attributed to him. So much so that the theft of his poems or the giving of them as
wedding gifts are presented as explanations for these poems becoming associated with
other authors.39 In fact, much of the biographical lore we possess about Homer and
Terpander was probably disseminated in the rhapsodes’ and citharodes’ own
performances.40 Therefore, we probably should consider rhapsodes and citharodes less
“authors” in their own right, and more as secondary performers and interpreters of
38
See Power (2010): 331-5.
For poems as presents, see Proclus Chrestomathy 1.5 = 5.5 West (cf. Callim. Epigr. LV (Gow-Page)); for
the theft of a poem of Homer, see Ps. Hdt. 16 = 2.16 West.
40
For the dissemination of Terpander’s vita by citharodes, see Power (2010): 331. For Homer, see Ford
(2002): 71. We see such biographical information conveyed in The Homeric Hymn to Apollo when the
rhapsode asks the Delian maidens to tell any passerby that their favorite singer “is a blind man, who dwells
in rocky Chios, all of whose songs are the best thereafter” (τυφλὸς ἀνήρ, οἰκεῖ δὲ Χίῳ ἔνι παιπαλοέσσῃ,
/ τοῦ πᾶσαι µετόπισθεν ἀριστεύουσιν ἀοιδαί) (172-3).
39
61 poetry.41 This is not to deny the creativity involved in rhapsodic performance, or the
possibility that they themselves performed original songs.42 It is to emphasize that they
preferred to attribute these songs to other “author” figures. And it also serves as an
excellent lesson that ideas of authorship do not always overlap with creativity and
originality. One can create original content, and still not be considered an “author.”
And that is all the evidence, at least that is known to me, of poets naming
themselves or being cited by patronymics. What is striking is that even though the
evidence cited above shows that using the patronymic was an acceptable alternative with
clear Near Eastern precedents, the great majority of archaic and classical Greek authors
do not use the patronymic.43 Instead, when they refer to themselves or other writers, they
prefer to use the ethnic in some form. The clearest and most well known examples of this
phenomenon appear in writers working within the historiographical tradition.44 For
instance, in a well-known fragment, Hecataeus writes:
Ἑκαταῖος Μιλήσιος ὧδε µυθεῖται· τάδε γράφω, ὥς µοι δοκεῖ ἀληθέα
εἶναι· οἱ γὰρ Ἑλλήνων λόγοι πολλοί τε καὶ γελοῖοι… (FGrHist 1 F 1a)
Hecataeus the Milesian says the following: what I write is in my opinion
the truth. For the stories of the Greeks are both many and ridiculous.
Herodotus most famously follows Hecataeus in emphasizing his city of origin rather than
his family:
41
Ford (2002): 68-72 discusses how rhapsodes were the first “critics” of the poems they themselves
performed.
42
For the creativity of rhapsodic performances, see Collins (2001). Collins himself sees a “fixed text” of
Homer behind rhapsodic performances, but I suspect even original texts could at times be incorporated into
“Homer’s” performances. Certainly the attribution of The Homeric Hymn to Apollo to Cynaethus suggests
that rhapsodes could pen and perform their own original works under the auspices of “Homer.”
43
It should be noted that there are biblical examples of naming that also eschew the patronymic and give
the ethnic instead. See Mic. 1.1 and Nah. 1.1. However, as previous examples indicate, mentions of the
father far outweigh the few exceptions.
44
An excellent overview of naming practices in ancient historiography can be found in Marincola (1997):
271-5.
62 Ἡροδότου Ἁλικαρνησσέος ἱστορίης ἀπόδεξις ἥδε… (Hdt. 1.1)
This is the performance of Herodotus of Halicarnassus of his
investigation…45
It is important to note that in antiquity the textual variant Θουρίου also circulated in place
of Ἁλικαρνησσέος. This variant is attested by Plutarch but is rejected not only by
Plutarch himself but also by most modern scholars.46 In this case, Herodotus still defines
himself by using a place name, his home of exile and place of death Thurii rather than his
birthplace Halicarnassus.
The most interesting use of the format first name + city, however, appears in the
historian Thucydides. Thucydides, in the famous opening words of the work, introduces
himself by name as an Athenian:
Θουκυδίδης Ἀθηναῖος ξυνέγραψε τὸν πόλεµον τῶν Πελοποννησίων καὶ
Ἀθηναίων…(Thuc. 1.1)
Thucydides the Athenian wrote up the war between the Peloponnesians
and the Athenians…
This is not normal naming practice for Thucydides. Elsewhere in the Histories, he
regularly introduces characters by both a first name and a patronymic.47 However, unlike
Herodotus, Thucydides was both an auctor and an actor in his Histories, serving as an
Athenian general in the Peloponnesian war. This distinction, as it turns out, is reflected in
how he names himself. When he later introduces himself as a historical figure within the
work, instead of revealing himself using his ethnic, he instead uses his own patronymic:
45
For the translation of ἀπόδεξις as “performance,” see Nagy (1990): 215-23.
The important exception is Jacoby, who famously declared that Θουρίου was the original reading.
However, our manuscripts are consistent in printing Ἁλικαρνησσέος, and most modern editors leave it as it
is. For a good overview of the scholarship on this issue, see Asheri, Loyd, and Corcella (2007) ad loc.
47
For Thucydides’ standard naming practice, see Hornblower (1991): 4.
46
63 οἱ δὲ ἐναντίοι τοῖς προδιδοῦσι… πέµπουσι…ἐπὶ τὸν ἕτερον στρατηγὸν
τῶν ἐπὶ Θρᾴκης, Θουκυδίδην τὸν Ὀλόρου, ὃς τάδε ξυνέγραψεν, ὄντα
περὶ Θάσον…(4.104)
and the party opposing the rebels [inside Amphipolis]…sent to the other
commander in Thrace, Thucydides the son of Olorus, who wrote up these
events, when he was near Thasos…”48
Here, when he introduces himself as an agent in the action, he uses a patronymic.
As Hornblower notes, in both of these instances “The distinction author / agent is
precisely, even quaintly, observed…”49 Even as he reminds the reader that the actor
Thucydides will later become the auctor of this work, he marks the difference between
these two roles with the use of an ethnic in one case, his patronymic in the other.
Thucydides therefore clearly presents himself as an auctor with an ethnic designation.
Turning from prose to poetry, the archaic and classical poets frequently use the
form first name + city. The first poet to be identified in this way can be found in Homer,
the obscure Thamyris the Thracian.50 And as mentioned earlier, Phemius himself is also
described with a patronymic (Τερπιάδης) late in the Odyssey at 22. 330.51 The most
famous declaration of authorship in this form, however, belongs of course to Theognis. In
his famous sphragis poem, Theognis declares himself to be the author of the text:
Κύρνε, σοφιζοµένῳ µὲν ἐµοὶ σφρηγὶς ἐπικείσθω
τοῖσδ’ ἔπεσιν, λήσει δ’ οὔποτε κλεπτόµενα,
οὐδέ τις ἀλλάξει κάκιον τοὐσθλοῦ παρεόντος,
ὧδε δὲ πᾶς τις ἐρεῖ· ‘Θεύγνιδός ἐστιν ἔπη
τοῦ Μεγαρέως· πάντας δὲ κατ’ ἀνθρώπους ὀνοµαστός.’
48
Translation based on Robert B. Strassler’s in The Landmark Thucydides.
Hornblower (1991): 5.
50
See Il. 2.594-5: “where the Muses encountered Thamyris the Thracian and put an end to his song”
(…Δώριον, ἔνθά τε Μοῦσαι /ἀντόµεναι Θάµυριν τὸν Θρήϊκα παῦσαν ἀοιδῆς). The use of the structure first
name + place, which emphasizes his authority as a poet, rather than the bare First Name that both
Demodocus and Phemius receive, supports the suggestion (made by Martin (1989) 228-30) that Thamyris
was a rival poet outside the Iliadic tradition.
51
See page 9.
49
64 Cyrnus, let a seal be placed on these verses for me, a skilled and wise poet.
Their theft will never pass unnoticed, nor will anyone take something
worse in exchange when that which is good is at hand. And everyone will
say “These are the lines of Theognis of Megara: named throughout all of
mankind.”
This is one of the most extensive descriptions of authorship in antiquity. And not
coincidentally, it is also one of the most controversial. For the sake of brevity, I will
present my own interpretation here, which will be more rigorously defended in a later
chapter. Here Theognis claims a sort of ownership over his words by means of a
sphragis. Whatever form this sphragis itself took, the fame that results from it takes the
structure of name + place. Although often translated as “famous,” the adjective
ὀνοµαστός here literally means “named.”52 Theognis in quoted speech here gives us the
precise way he expects to be named in future reperformances of his poetry. As it turns
out, he claims his poetry will survive by describing only his first name and city.
A more nuanced case is that of Hesiod, who in his description of the Muses
carefully refers to the place of his initiation, but not specifically to his hometown of
Ascra:
αἵ νύ ποθ’ Ἡσίοδον καλὴν ἐδίδαξαν ἀοιδήν,
ἄρνας ποιµαίνονθ’ Ἑλικῶνος ὕπο ζαθέοιο. (22-3)
They [the Muses] once upon a time taught Hesiod a beautiful song, as he was
tending his lambs underneath holy Helicon.
We know from the Works and Days that Hesiod’s hometown is actually Ascra, a village
near Helicon. In his description of his father’s migration to Boeotia, he also mentions
Helicon, but focuses his attention on the insignificance of the town of Ascra: “and [my
father] settled in a wretched village near Helicon, Ascra, horrible in the winter, terrible in
52
See LSJ s.v. I.
65 summer, never pleasant” (νάσσατο δ’ ἄγχ’ Ἑλικῶνος ὀιζυρῇ ἐνὶ κώµῃ, /Ἄσκρῃ, χεῖµα
κακῇ, θέρει ἀργαλέῃ, οὐδέ ποτ’ ἐσθλῇ)(639-40). Not only does he not mention his
hometown in the opening of the Theogony, but remains silent about it all throughout the
rest of the work. Why this focus on Helicon then? In part, we can attribute this
privileging of place of initiation over hometown to Near Eastern parallels, where the
description of the exact place of a divine revelation often appears.53 However, I would
suggest that a more subtle rhetoric is also at work here. In the Works and Days Hesiod
presents himself as an outsider to the community in what Richard Martin calls a
metanastic stance.54 By emphasizing his outsider status to the community, Hesiod gives
himself more authority to critique it and thus give advice to it. In the immediate context
of the Works and Days, Hesiod mentions Ascra and his father’s sailing to bolster his own
authority to give Perses’ advice. This allusion to Ascra seems to lend more authority to
his role as an adviser to Perses. This stance is different than the one he presents in the
more internationally oriented Theogony, which explicitly assimilates the local Muses who
initiate him with the more famous Muses in Pieria.55 Not coincidentally, when Hesiod
stresses in the Works and Days that he in fact has very little practical knowledge about
sailing, he describes his dedication of a tripod to the Heliconian Muses (”winning with
my hymn I received a two-handled tripod, which I dedicated to the Muses of Helicon,
where they first set me on the path of song” (ὕµνῳ νικήσαντα φέρειν τρίποδ’ ὠτώεντα.
/τὸν µὲν ἐγὼ Μούσῃσ’ Ἑλικωνιάδεσσ’ ἀνέθηκα /ἔνθα µε τὸ πρῶτον λιγυρῆς ἐπέβησαν
ἀοιδῆς) (Op. 657-9). Here, as in the beginning of the Theogony, his international poetical
53
See, for example, the case of Ezekiel cited above (Ezek. 1.3). West (1966): 158-161 provides a good
overview of other parallels, both from the Near East and elsewhere.
54
See Martin (1992).
55
For the assimilation of the Heliconian Muses with the Pierian Muses, see Clay (1988), (2003): 54-7.
66 power is emphasized. In this difference of usage between Ascra and Helicon, we see here
a slight differentiation between poetic and practical authority. When Hesiod stresses his
ability to advise his fellow community members, he emphasizes Ascra; on the other hand,
when he emphasizes his international poetic authority, he stresses Helicon. This implies
that naming oneself serves to create distance, rather than familiarity as might be
expected.
Finally, Timotheus in two passages illustrates a complex engagement with
patronymics. The first passage occurs near the end of Timotheus’ Persians, in the famous
section where he declares his own poetic lineage:
Τέρπανδρος δ’ ἐπὶ τῶι δέκα
ζεῦξε µοῦσαν ἐν ὠιδαῖς·
Λέσβος δ’ Αἰολία ν<ιν> Ἀντίσσαι γείνατο κλεινόν·
νῦν δὲ Τιµόθεος µέτροις
ῥυθµοῖς τ’ ἑνδεκακρουµάτοις
κίθαριν ἐξανατέλλει,
θησαυρὸν πολύυµνον οἴξας Μουσᾶν θαλαµευτόν·
Μίλητος δὲ πόλις νιν ἁ
(15,col6.)’ ἁ | δυωδεκατειχέος
λαοῦ πρωτέος ἐξ Ἀχαιῶν. 791. 221-34 PMG
Orpheus, knowing a variety of music, first begat the tortoise-shell lyre, the
son of Kalliope… from Pieria. But Terpander after him yoked his muse in
ten harmonies: Aeolian Lesbos gave birth to him, a glory to Antissa: but
now Timotheus makes spring up the kithara in meter and rhythm striking
out eleven notes, opening the much hymned, chambered store room of the
Muses: but the city of Miletus raised him, a city of a people with twelve
walls, foremost amongst the Achaians.
67 The textual issues of this passage are complex and controversial, and in this brief
discussion, I will touch only upon the ones most relevant to my interpretation. Here
Timotheus sketches out a sort of poetic genealogy to his own citharodic performance. He
begins with the description of Orpheus discussed above, who is identified by both a
metronymic and a mention of his birthplace. The position of this “three-pronged” name at
the beginning of Timotheus’ genealogy suggests that he uses it as a deliberate exotic
archaism. Orpheus belongs to the distant past, where gods begat the heroes of old.
Timotheus continues on to describe the poet Terpander as being “born a source of glory”
for the city Antissa, and attributes to him the invention of the ten-stringed lyre.56 By
emphasizing Terpander’s δέκα songs in contrast to his own ῥυθµοῖς…ἑνδεκακρουµάτοις,
Timotheus literally “one-ups” Terpander, not only in the number of strings but also in the
degree of poetic adornment. Emphasizing Terpander’s qualities as an inventor, it allows
Timotheus to exalt even more his own poetical achievement.
This poetic rivalry between Timotheus and Terpander can also be seen later in the
poem. There Timotheus none too humbly contrasts his own nurturing by Miletus
(Μίλητος δὲ πόλις νιν ἁ θρέψασ’) (lns. 234-5) with Terpander’s Lesbian birthright
56
Some scholars have argued that the phrase δέκα…ἐν ὠιδαῖς refers to Terpander’s invention of the various
citharodic nomes: see Barker (1984): 96n.16; Janssen (1984): ad loc; Campbell (1993) ad loc. The
difficulty with this is that nowhere else is Terpander accredited with the invention of specifically ten
nomes. Other scholars have argued that ᾠδαί here refers not to “songs” but “strings” (see Hordern (2002):
ad loc; Power (2010): 338-9). This interpretation, however, runs into a similar problem: the ancient
testimony outside Timotheus unanimously credits Terpander with the invention of the seven-stringed lyre,
not ten. However, there are advantages to this second interpretation: there are plausible reasons as to why
Timotheus would portray Terpander as having ten strings rather than seven. As suggested by West (and
approved by Hordern) Timotheus seems to be relying on a tradition that Orpheus himself invented the
seven string lyre, and that Terpander added three strings to this to make ten (see West (1992): 363n.22;
Hordern (2002): 242-3). This suggestion becomes even more plausible when it is remembered there is at
least one other tradition in archaic Greece that attributes the invention of seven-stringed lyre to a
mythological figure. In the Homeric Hymn to Hermes lines 39-54, Hermes makes a seven-string lyre out of
a tortoise shell, like Orpheus in the Timotheus passage. The parallelism between this tradition and
Terpander’s invention has been noted by Nagy (1990): 90.
68 (Λέσβος δ’ Αἰολία ν<ιν> Ἀντίσσαι γείνατο κλεινόν) (227-8).57 Not only is there a
contrast between Terpander’s Aeolian and Timotheus’ Ionian heritages, but there is
subtle shift in language between the two descriptions.58 Timotheus describes Terpander’s
relation to his home Antissa in terms of “birth” (γείνατο), while Timotheus describes his
own relation to Miletus in terms of “nurture” (θρέψασ’). In fact, this imagery of birth
continues from Orpheus’ own birth by Calliope, and in turn Orpheus’ own “begetting”
(ἐτέκνωσεν) of the lyre.59 The genealogy here marks a slow progression not only in the
number of strings added to the cithara, but also a slow progression from birth to nurture
and from nature to culture.60 In fact the peculiar collocation of “he yoked his Muse in ten
harmonies” (δέκα / ζεῦξε µοῦσαν ἐν ὠιδαῖς) probably owes something to discussions of
progress in the fifth century, where yoking livestock is a common element of progress
towards humanity’s present state.61 Terpander, and by extension Timotheus himself,
tames the primitive and wild music like humans first yoked livestock. Fittingly, this
catalogue ends with a description of the consummation of culture and urbanity itself, the
polis, with its twelve-walls (δυωδεκατειχέος) allowed to even outnumber Timotheus’
innovation of eleven strings.62
It should be noted that this rhetoric of the polis being a parent to the poet is not
original to Timotheus. It appears multiple times in archaic and classical Greek literature.
57
As Power (2010): 538-41 convincingly argues, Timotheus in this passage takes on the role of a new
Terpander.
58
For Timotheus’ frequent use of an Aiolean / Ionian rivalry, see Power (2010): 341.
59
Power (2010): 302n.313 wittily notes Orpheus’ “metaphorically paternal role vis-à-vis the lyre that he
invents.”
60
For the concept and use of the term “progress” in antiquity, see Dodds (1973); Guthrie (1971): 79-84
collects some of the most representative passages.
61
For descriptions of the first yoking of wild animals, see Aesch. PV 462, Soph. Ant. 350-2.
62
This epithet is a neologism, and it is made even more striking, as Power (2010): 540n.357 notes, that in
actual fact the cities in the Ionian confederation were probably without walls. Power (2010): 541 sees the
mention of the walls as invoking Amphion’s creation of the walls of Thebes and hence the ability for
citharody to provide a musical foundation for a city.
69 Perhaps the most explicit instance of this appears at the beginning of Pindar’s Isthmian 1:
“My mother, golden-shielded Thebe, I will put your concern above even my
obligations…”(Μᾶτερ ἐµά, τὸ τεόν, χρύσασπι Θήβα, /πρᾶγµα καὶ ἀσχολίας ὑπέρτερον
/θήσοµαι…. (Isthm. 1.1-3). Sometimes this kinship is expressed through mythological
filiation: for instance, in Olympian 6 Pindar expresses his fellow kinship with the town of
Stymphalos through his relation to the eponymous nymph of Thebes, Thebe: “my
grandmother was a Stymphalian, blooming Metope, who bore horse-taming Thebe,
whose delightful water I will drink” (µατροµάτωρ ἐµὰ Στυµφαλίς, εὐανθὴς Μετώπα, /
πλάξιππον ἃ Θήβαν ἔτικτεν, τᾶς ἐρατεινὸν ὕδωρ / πίοµαι…) (Ol. 6.84-6).63 Instead of
representing themselves as children of actual fathers, many of times poets prefer to
represent the polis itself as their parent. This becomes a method by which biological
genealogy can be subsumed under the cultural authority of the polis.
This brings us to the second passage of Timotheus, mentioned earlier above:
µακάριος ἦσθα, Τιµόθε’, ὅτε κᾶρυξ
εἶπε· νικᾶι Τιµόθεος
Μιλήσιος τὸν Κάµωνος τὸν ἰωνοκάµπταν, (802 PMG)
You were blessed, Timotheus, when the herald said, “Timotheus the
Miletian has beaten the son of Camon,” that Ionian melody twister.
In this passage, Timotheus imitates the form of a herald’s cry, announcing his
victory.64 Timotheus personally describes himself by an ethnic but describes his
63
The imagery of the polis giving birth or raising a person often appears as well with characters who are
not poets: Pindar addresses the city as the “city which rears the population” (πόλιν…λαοτρόφον)(Ol. 5.1),
and identifies Peleus and Amphityron to be children of their respective homes: “[Peleus], who is rumored
to be the most pious man the plain Iolkos has raised” (ὅν τ’ εὐσεβέστατον φάτις Ἰαολκοῦ τράφειν πεδίον)
(Isthm. 8.40); “and Argos raised the spearman Amphityron” (θρέψε δ’ αἰχµὰν Ἀµφιτρύωνος) (Nem. 10.13).
Euripides also uses this image: “and Salamis is the fatherland that raised me”(Hel. 88) (Σαλαµὶς δὲ πατρὶς
ἡ θρέψασά µε;); “she [Thebes] birthed me to be a betrayer of my fatherland” (προδότην γενέσθαι πατρίδος
ἥ µ’ ἐγείνατο) (Phoen. 996).
64
For the form of this passage, and a useful listing of comparable passages, see Hordern (2002): 259. A
tricky issue is raised in the translation of this passage: where exactly does the “quoted” herald’s cry end?
70 opponent, Phrynis, by a patronymic. Given Timotheus’ self-presentation within the
Persians we just discussed, I think this distinction is indeed purposeful and important. As
Hordern has noted, this use of a patronymic alone in an actual announcement would be
unusual.65 As in the Persians, Timotheus seems to call attention to his own Ionian
provenance by calling the non-Ionian Phrynis an “Ionian melody bender.”66 By calling
him only by his patronymic, not only does he deny him the propagation of his first name,
which, as we have seen from Theognis, is a central component of a poet’s fame, but by
mentioning his father, he also reminds the audience that Phrynis is in fact not Ionian.67
Like the phrase “Ionian melody bender” this is probably intended as an insult. In fact, the
close connection between the words Κάµωνος and ἰωνοκάµπταν is emphasized by the
repetition of kam sounds in the last line of the passage.
From this overview, it is reasonable to conclude that authors were closely
associated with a certain city or place.68 In fact, poets are so associated with a certain city
or place that they can refer to themselves or their work by that place alone. The most
famous instance of this is the mention of “a blind man, who dwells in rocky Chios”
(τυφλὸς ἀνήρ, οἰκεῖ δὲ Χίῳ ἔνι παιπαλοέσσῃ…) in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo (ln.
While the phrase “son of Kamon” (τὸν Κάµωνος), as Hordern notes, is certainly odd, the phrase “Ionian
melody twister” (τὸν ἰωνοκάµπταν) could not possibly be a part of any real herald’s cry (something that
Hordern (2002): 259-60 is mysteriously oblivious to, despite his ample documentation of the pejorative
overtones of this phrase). Power (2010): 454n.98 rightly takes a more skeptical view of the veracity of this
herald’s cry. In my translation, therefore, I assume that this phrase was not part of the imitated herald’s cry.
Of course it is possible that in performance Timotheus undercut the mimetic realism of his cry by
intonating this insult as well, thereby making the entire description a quotation of the herald’s cry.
65
Hordern (2002): 259. The normal practice was to name the victor by first name, patronymic, and city of
origin (see Kurke (1993): 142).
66
See Power (2010): 341.
67
Power (2010): 393n.217 notes, as was first argued by Wilamowitz, that it is possible that Phrynis’
father’s name was actually Σκάµων. In this case, Timotheus shortened it for possibly comic and derogative
reasons, and I would add, to add more emphasis to the alliteration. In any case, both Κάµων and Σκάµων
are both well-attested Lesbian names (see LGPN 1. s.v.). They probably even in their day sounded Lesbian.
68
It should be noted here that Burkert (1972): 252 and n.68 reconstructs the title of Philolaus’ On Nature as
“Philolaus of Croton says the following on nature”( <Φιλόλαος Κροτωνιάτας περί φύσιος ὧδε λέγει·>).
71 172). This “blind man from Chios” is of course Homer, whose persona the current
rhapsodic performer inhabits in the course of his song. No doubt part of the reason why
the blind man remains nameless is to facilitate re-performance by other rhapsodes.69 Like
Santa Clauses at the mall, each one could claim when pressed that he is not the “real”
Homer but just a stand-in. This same principle applies also to Terpander and the
citharodes who claimed descent from him, whom, as we discussed above, probably were
organized like rhapsodes. Sappho preserves the earliest mention of the “Lesbian singer,”
but the phrase “after the Lesbian singer” (µετὰ Λέσβιον ᾠδόν) became proverbial.70 This
proverb was thought even in antiquity to refer to Terpander, by an authority no less
preeminent than Aristotle himself.71 The cry “after the Lesbian singer” became so famous
that it was incorporated into the rituals of the Carnean festival itself.72 Again, we see the
pressures of secondary performances exerting themselves. Any citharode who performed
at the Carnea would temporarily take on the mantle and persona of Terpander himself.73
Terpander, like Homer, was constantly resurrected and reenacted within performance.
The device of naming oneself only by an “ethnic” is also frequently used in
epinician poetry. Bacchylides refers to himself as a “Cean nightingale” when he discusses
his future fame: “And when a man calls out your name truthfully, he will also sing of the
grace of the honey-tongued Cean nightingale…” (σὺν δ’ ἀλαθ[είᾳ] καλῶν /καὶ
µελιγλώσσου τις ὑµνήσει χάριν/ Κηΐας ἀηδόνος. (3.95-6 Maehler). He also addresses his
69
For Homer’s namelessness in this passage, see Martin (2009): 90.
See Sappho 106V = Demetr. De eloc. 146 Innes: “Outstanding, like the Lesbian singer to foreigners”
(πέρροχος, ὠς ὄτ’ ἄοιδος ὀ Λέσβιος ἀλλοδάποισιν). It appears that this comparison was directed at the
groom during a song performed at a wedding. For the proverb “after the Lesbian singer,” see Cratin. fr. 263
Kassel-Austin; Plut. De Sera 13, 558a; Eust. Il. 9.129 Erbse; Zen. 5.9; Heschyius s.v. Λέσβιος ᾠδός, s.v
µετὰ Λέσβιον ᾠδόν. These fragments are all gathered in Gostoli 60a-h.
71
See Eust. Il. 9.129 Erbse= 60c Gostoli.
72
See especially Plut. De Sera 558a and Eust. Il. 9.129 Erbse.
73
For citharodes at the Carnea imitating the persona of Terpander, see Power (2010): 331-2.
70
72 poetic labors as “much-famed Cean cares” (εὐαίνετε Κηΐα µέριµνα… )(19.11 Maehler).
On several occasions Pindar also claims to drink the waters of the Dirce (a river near
Thebes): “[songs] which have at last appeared next to the greatly famed Dirce” (τὰ παρ’
εὐκλέϊ Δίρκᾳ χρόνῳ µὲν φάνεν) Ol. 10.85; “I offer them a drink of the holy water of the
Dirce…”(πίσω σφε Δίρκας ἁγνὸν ὕδωρ) (Isthm. 6.74).74 In Olympian 6, Pindar
constructs a genealogy between him and the Stymphalian audience through the
eponymous nymph Thebe (lns. 84-6, also discussed above). In the same poem he asks the
chorus-leader, Aeneas, “whether we escape by our truthful words the old insult ‘Boeotian
pig’” (ἀρχαῖον ὄνειδος ἀλαθέσιν / λόγοις εἰ φεύγοµεν, Βοιωτίαν ὗν) (lns. 89-90).75
Elsewhere, Pindar refers to himself and Thebes explicitly. For example, he says,
“For you I come from glorious Thebes, bringing this song and the announcement of the
four-horse chariot that shakes the earth”(ὔµµιν τόδε τᾶν λιπαρᾶν ἀπὸ Θηβᾶν φέρων
/µέλος ἔρχοµαι ἀγγελίαν τετραορίας ἐλελίχθονος…) (Pyth. 2.3-4). The “sphragis” at the
end of the Pythian 4 is also illustrative: “he would then say, Arcesilas, what a stream of
ambrosial words he found, when he was recently entertained as a xenos at Thebes” (αί κε
µυθήσαιθ’, ὁποίαν, Ἀρκεσίλα, /εὗρε παγὰν ἀµβροσίων ἐπέων, πρόσφατον Θήβᾳ
ξενωθείς) (Pyth. 4.298-99).76 Oftentimes, these mentions of Thebes, whether indirect or
not, are the only indications that the ego of the ode is indeed Pindar. It is striking that
both Pindar and Bacchylides refuse to name themselves, both inside their epinicians and
outside of them. A reason for this can be surmised: as in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo,
the poets use the pseudo-anonymity of place-names to facilitate reperformance. As we
74
In frag. 198b S-M he also claims to drink the waters of the Tilphossa, a spring in Boetia.
In Isthm. 1.1 and 7.1 Pindar also directly addresses the nymph Thebe, but both of these odes were
performed in Thebes. Also see frag. 195 S-M.
76
In addition to these other references, frag. 194 S-M may be added. The original context is lost, but it may
be another self-reference, if Aristides’ comments (who preserves the fragment) are correct.
75
73 mentioned earlier, Pindar and Bacchylides were most likely keenly aware of the value of
secondary performances and actively shaped their odes to facilitate them. This use of a
place name in lieu of their own personal names, therefore, seems likely to help facilitate
reperformances by non-original performers. Just as was the case with Homer and
Terpander, it is easier to imitate the man from Thebes or Ceos than Pindar and
Bacchylides themselves.
To briefly summarize the results so far, it seems that the most popular way to refer
to authors is simply by their first name. However, in many distinct and conspicuous
cases, the author’s first name is augmented by his home city. Many of these instances of
name + city / place, probably not coincidentally, count amongst the most explicit
statements of authorship in archaic and classical Greek literature. The association
between poet and place is so strong that at times a place name can become representative
of the poet himself. Furthermore, this emphasis on place seems to come at the expense of
the patronymic. As we have seen in several instances, such as Thucydides’ different ways
of introducing himself within the Histories and Timotheus’ address of Phrynis by his
patronymic, the patronymic seems to have a different tonal level than the ethnic.
How do we explain this tonal difference? An interesting cross-cultural parallel has
been extensively analyzed by Dwight Reynolds. In his study of a community of Arabic
epic poets in Egypt, he notes the interesting phenomenon that, unlike the rest of the
villagers in the community, the poets are conceived as possessing no family or clan
names. Instead, they are addressed only by a first name and patronymic, with the title
“the Poet” replacing the clan / family name.77 As he notes, in the villagers’ imagination
“the poets’ families did not participate in the larger, on-going genealogy of the village;
77
Reynolds (1995): 59.
74 they were not locatable on the intricate map of blood, conjugal, and marital ties in which
all other residents of the village were presumed part.”78 But as it turns out, poets did
actually have clan and family names. They were just a closely guarded secret kept within
the narrow community of poets and their families. Reynolds himself recounts how he had
a potentially catastrophic faux pas when he revealed his knowledge of this hidden naming
system to one of the poets themselves. Poets did have family names, they just preferred to
keep them secret.79
Like all anthropological comparisons, this one should be used with caution. As the
secondary bibliographical tradition amply shows, the Greeks had no problem with the
idea that poets had fathers. Indeed, it would certainly be odd if they denied this biological
fact! In preferring to use a place name rather than a patronymic when talking about
themselves, however, I suggest that Greek poets achieve something similar to what
Reynolds articulates in his ethnographic study: they exclude themselves from the
genealogical continuity of their community. When poets name themselves, and present
themselves as authors, they downplay their local and genealogical ties to the community.
Instead, from the examples surveyed above, they prefer to emphasize the mere fact that
they are from a certain place without stressing any other ties to their community. To be
sure, this “authorial stance,” as we might call it, does not preclude other stances. Hesiod
and Sappho are two poets, for example, who talk extensively about their own families.
But it is striking that when they wish to portray themselves as authors and to emphasize
their own poetical authority, they tend to distance themselves from any mention of their
78
79
Ibid., 60.
Ibid., 60-1.
75 families.80 This is most apparent in the tonal differences we detected above between the
poetical authority that Hesiod projects in the Theogony and the practical authority he
displays in The Works and Days. And as we saw, poets often represent themselves as
being descended directly the polis itself. This helps to make sense of Timotheus’ and
Pindar’s rhetoric of the polis being the parents of poets. Instead of representing
themselves as having biological fathers within the polis, poets often prefer to represent
themselves as “children” of the polis itself. Although they claim to represent the
community, paradoxically, authors and poets portray themselves as separate from the
community itself.
Another anthropological parallel can provide more insight into the function of the
structure name + place. In his study of authors’ names in medieval Hindu devotional
poems (pads), John Hawley notes that authors’ names, rather than indicating the original
writer of the poem, imbue the poem with authority and place it within a tradition.
Authors’ names in this tradition serve to anchor a poem in a specific context and to give
the poem a proper weight and tone.81 Two features of pads deserve special mention in
this regard. First, the “seals” traditionally appear at the end of the poem. As Hawley
notes, this placement has the effect of forcing a reinterpretation of the poem in light of
the sanctity of its author. However banal its content or mediocre in its quality, the poem
gains new meaning with the mention of the author.82 In fact, Hawley lists some
convincing examples where the mention of the author causes an entire tonal shift to the
80
It is striking, that when the secondary tradition does give poets an extended genealogy, they are often
descended from other poets. See e.g. Stesichorus’ supposed descent from Hesiod (T1 Campbell); for a
discussion of genealogies of poets as literary theories about genres, see Beecroft (2010): 72-84.
81
Hawley (1988): 287-8. One cannot help comparing this article to Ford’s (1985) seminal treatment of
Theognis.
82
Hawley (1988): 283.
76 poem.83 The mention of the author, therefore, provides an opportunity for reflection and
reevaluation in performance. Second, Hawley notes that these “seals” are often not
grammatically integrated into the preceding poem. Translations often assume a verb of
speaking or the like, but this is not necessarily the case. This has the effect, as Hawley
argues, of making the relationship between author and text more ambiguous.84 In this
ambiguous relationship between author and text, the author becomes a figure more of
authority than of actual authorship.
The archaic and classical Greek evidence by comparison could not be more
different. Unlike the pads that Hawley surveyed, Greek authors usually (with a few
exceptions like Timotheus) begin their poems with declarations of authorship. If not
immediately at the beginning, it usually follows shortly after a “hymnal” prelude.85 And
second, without exception, the declaration of authorship is tightly integrated syntactically
with the rest of the text. One of the most common combinations is first name + place +
some form of the deictic pronoun ὅδε + some form of the verbs λέγω or γράφω.86 There
is no mistaking who is doing the speaking, or what the relationship is between the author
and the work being performed. These two differences, when combined, indicate that the
author in Greek texts positions himself differently than authors in the Hindu texts
discussed above. First off, because these authorial statements appear at the beginning of a
83
Ibid., 282-5.
Ibid., 277-8.
85
Such is the case in Hes. Theog. 1-21 and Thgn. 1-18. For the hymnal character of the first poems of the
Theognidea, see Nagy (1985): 27-8; Hubbard (2007):206.
86
The most common formula is some form of γράφω + the neuter plural deictic pronoun τάδε (for γράφω,
see Hecataeus FGrHist 1 F 1a; for συνέγραψε, see Antiochus FGrHist 555 F 2; for ξυνέγραψεν, see Thuc.
4.104). Aorist forms of συγγράφω appear without a deictic at Thuc. 1.1 and Lucian’s supposed citation of
Ctesias (Luc. Ver. Hist. 1.3). Another common formula is some form of λέγω + τάδε (see Alcmaeon DK
24B1 and Susarion frag. 1 West). Forms of ἐρέω and µυθέοµαι are also used in conjunction with ὧδε (for
ἐρεῖ, see Theog. 22; for µυθεῖται, see Hecataeus FGrHist 1 F 1a). Alcman also uses the verb εὑρίσκω
(εὗρε) with τάδε in frag. 39 PMG. Herodotus, Phocylides, and Demodocus all use only a deictic (ἥδε, in the
case of Hdt. (1.1); τόδε in the cases of Phocylides frags. 1,2, 3 and Demodocus frag. 2 (West)).
84
77 work and make frequent use of deictic pronouns, they should be interpreted as
performative gestures. As Mark Griffith long ago argued in the case of Hesiod, selfnaming provides authority to the speaker. By naming himself at the beginning of a work,
an author attempts to elicit authority from the audience in performance.87 While of course
many of the authors surveyed above (such as Thucydides) explicitly use writing rather
than oral delivery as their mode of dissemination, the strategy remains the same in the
written performance of the text. Naming oneself provides authority for what follows,
whether written or oral. Secondly, because the author’s name often precedes the work
itself, the work becomes immediately interpretable in light of the author’s figure. The
figure of the author from the onset provides a framework for the poem to be interpreted
and judged. The syntactical cohesion of the “sphragis” with the rest of the poem assures
that the poet has a direct presence in his work that informs and guides the audience’s
reception of the work throughout the performance. One knows that these words are
Theognis of Megara’s or Herodotus of Halicarnassus’, and this knowledge helps to guide
the audience’s interpretation for the rest of the poem. These self-naming statements,
therefore, contribute to the poet’s persona.
If these authorial statements are a part of an author’s persona, what role then does
the place name play in this persona? The place name, I would argue, is a key part of this
persona. Being from a certain place becomes a component of the author’s personality that
informs the work itself. This emphasis on place over and above family therefore has
important implications for the persona of an ancient author. If modernity stresses the
individuality of the author, normal Greek practice does the opposite. In modern, Western
discourse, the structure first name + patronymic implies a unique biological individual,
87
See Griffith (1983).
78 singular in his creative genius.88 Even if we know that William Shakespeare is from
Stratford on Avon, we relegate that information to secondary biographical information.
One can find it on Wikipedia or in a biography of the Bard, but one is not confronted
with that information every time one reads Hamlet. In Greek practice, the opposite
occurs: the place that an author comes from becomes emphasized, while family names
are often relegated to the comments of scholiasts. Authors need to be from somewhere.
Rather than emphasizing the individuality of a particular author, it emphasizes his place
on a mental map of Greece. Not only does it place him in a specific geographical and
political unit, but it also emphasizes his place within a particular city-state’s traditions.
The place name specifies what epichoric unit and what mythological and cultural
traditions a poet belongs to. The place-name, therefore, heightens the poet’s claims to
traditionality and suggests that he incorporates the epichoric traditions of his own polis
into his song. The place name signals more than just where an author is from, but rather
his place within the combined epichoric traditions of the various Greek city-states.
I began this discussion by mentioning how authors’ names can create their own
contexts for performance and reception. In the case of the structure first name + city, the
context that is most naturally suited for this is performance abroad. By declaring
themselves from a certain city-state, authors, and by extension poets, allow audiences to
“place” them both geographically and culturally. An audience who hears an author or
poet from Halicarnassus, Megara, or Chios knows what traditions he or she represents.
By contrast, when performing poetry intended mostly for local consumption, there is no
need to further specify one’s home city. The construction first name + city, therefore,
88
For the influence of Lockian and other realistic ideas of individuality on the development of the modern
novel, see the dated but still essential study of Watt (1957): 18-21. The pages cited here also contain an
interesting discussion of the effect of realism on proper names within the novelistic form.
79 immediately marks a poetic product as available for export, ready to be consumed by
audiences in a wide variety of locales. Authors’ and poets’ practices of self-naming
assume performance abroad as a ξένος, rather than performance as an ἐπιχώριος at home.
Ramblin’: A World of Wandering Poets
As we determined in the last section, authors, and by extension poets, are
inextricably linked to their local community. Their home community becomes part of
their poetic persona, a part which they carry with them wherever they go. Furthermore, as
I have argued above, this practice seems to be oriented towards performance abroad.
After all, why spell out that you are from a certain place in front of your own neighbors?
The structure first name + place seems primarily designed for performances beyond one’s
own limited epichoric circle. It is therefore probably not a coincidence that we witness
the heyday of wandering poets during the archaic and classical period. A brief description
of this world of wandering poets will provide a necessary context for our discussion to
come.
As we discussed in the last chapter, archaic Greece was a time of great social
change, as the various city-states began to interact with one another. While I argued last
chapter that these interactions supplied less of an overarching sense of “Greekness” than
has been assumed by most scholars, it is undeniable that cities were trading goods and
ideas at a rapid pace. One of these goods was poets and their poetry. Some of these poets
were itinerant professionals, such as rhapsodes and citharodes. Other poets travelled and
performed for other reasons. As Ewen Bowie has emphasized in his recent overview of
the evidence for archaic lyric wandering poets, they did not travel necessarily to perform
80 or to receive commissions. As he explains, “Rather it is because most poets are a species
within the genus ‘member of a local elite,’ men who were much involved in what has
conventionally been called colonisation and in associated trade and travel.”89 As Bowie’s
words remind us, the job description of poets often overlapped with other professions that
required travel. The urge to hit the road was not always a purely artistic one, but one tied
up with the increasing mobility of archaic Greek society as a whole. Poets were in fact
just one of the many migrants shuffling between cities in this period. Seers, philosophers,
and other practitioners of "wisdom"(σοφία) were all part of this riotous crowd circulating
between city-states.90 In many ways the job descriptions of this motley crew of sages
overlapped with that poets. Both offered advice, both often utilized verse, oftentimes they
were politicians in their own right.91 As we emphasized at the beginning of this chapter,
the role of a poet was a polysemous one, and overlapped with many others. Poets were
just one of, and often inseparable from, the crowd of other wanderers.
However, one clarification is in order. While it is true that a large part of the poetry
we possess must be of an elite provenance, it should give us pause that poets (ἀοιδὸς) as
early as Hesiod are put in the same category as beggars (πτωχὸς) (Op. 25-6). Even as late
as Aristophanes, the wandering poet can be conceived of as so poor that he requires a
cloak.92 While it is hard to discern sometimes whether this is a reflection of the actual
social-economic conditions of wandering poets or more a matter of self-fashioning and
persona-making on the part of poets themselves, we should be open to the possibility that
89
Bowie (2009): 106.
For a good representative discussion of another practitioner of wisdom, Anacharsis the Scythian, see
Martin (1996). For the seven sages as practitioners of poetry as well as wisdom, see Martin (1998). For a
more recent look at wandering philosophers in classical antiquity, see Montiglio (2000).
91
Again, the example of the seven sages nicely encapsulates all these traits, combining poetry, political
ambition, and advice. See Martin (1998).
92
See Ar. Av. 940-48. For an acute analysis of this scene, see Martin (2009): 93-4.
90
81 wandering poets were not exclusively from the elite.93 The shuffling of poets to and from
cities probably involved non-elites just as much as elites. The category of “poets”
probably encompassed poets of the highest order invited to elite symposia as well as
street musicians begging for every dime to their name. Poets were probably as variegated
socially as they were variegated in function.
If we turn to concrete examples of wandering poets, we find that they are attested as
early as Homer and Hesiod. Poets themselves in archaic times were considered to be one
of the dēmiourgoi, a motley crew of iterant professionals that included doctors, seers, and
even beggars.94 The earliest attested wandering poet could be Thamyris the Thracian
mentioned in the second book of the Iliad. In an unusual aside, he is described as having
an unfortunate run-in with the Muses as he is traveling: "where the Muses encountered
Thamyris the Thracian and put an end to his song, as he was going from Oechalia and the
home of Eurytus the Oechalian”( …Δώριον, ἔνθά τε Μοῦσαι /ἀντόµεναι Θάµυριν τὸν
Θρήϊκα παῦσαν ἀοιδῆς / Οἰχαλίηθεν ἰόντα παρ’ Εὐρύτου Οἰχαλιῆος)(Il. 2.594-6).95 In
the Homeric poems, the most consummate wandering poet of all is Odysseus himself,
who acts like a bard when he visits the courts of the Phaecians.96 Furthermore, like a
bard, Odysseus is a habitual storyteller, weaving lies even when the occasion does not
call for it.97 Hesiod too offers evidence of his own travel. In his sphragis he brags to his
brother Perses about how he won a tripod for his own poetry at the funeral games of
93
The persona of a beggar and thief is actively taken up, for example, by Hipponax (see especially frag. 32,
34 West). On the “fictive” nature of Hipponax’s persona in this regard, see Carey (2009b): 165.
94
For a discussion of the category of dēmiourgos, see Finley (1965): 36-7. Hes. Op. 25-6 explicitly classes
singers (ἀοιδὸς) with potters (κεραµεὺς), carpenters (τέκτων), and beggars (πτωχὸς).
95
For Thamyris as the "archetypical" wandering poet, see Wilson (2009). Also see ftn. 50 above.
96
For this aspect of Odysseus, see Hunter and Rutherford (2009): 10.
97
The most egregious are his so-called "Cretan Lies" at Od. 13. 256-86, 14.191-359, 19.165-202, 221-48,
262-307, 336-42. For a useful analysis of these Cretan lies, see Haft (1984). For an occasion that does not
necessarily call for lying, see his deception of his father Laertes in Book 24 (lns. 258-79, 302-14).
82 Amphidamas at Chalcis (Op. 654-7). This brief sea voyage therefore becomes the basis
of the Certamen tradition that Homer and Hesiod competed against each other at these
games.98
In the archaic period several types of professional poets competed for audiences’
attention. First of all was the rhapsodes, who recited the Homeric poems to audiences
across Greece.99 Second were the citharodes, who, decked out in their elaborate
costumes, performed Terpandrean nomes.100 Furthermore, it has been argued that
Stesichorus himself led wandering choruses throughout Greece, singing the traditional
epic tales in choral form.101 Whether or not we accept the truth of the latter, there were
obviously multiple kinds of professional poets crowding the roads of archaic Greece. And
we can add to this the possibly multifarious number of generic praise poets, such as the
one described in Aristophanes’ Birds 904-57.102 Wandering poets had many performance
venues available to them. Funeral games, such as the one that Hesiod won a tripod at,
provided an early forum for poets to compete.103 Another early setting was agonistic
games at festivals. Multiple stories describe Terpander, and the Lesbian citharodes that
followed in his footsteps, as performing at the Spartan festival of the Carnea.104 But the
most vivid description of performance at a festival may be in the Homeric Hymn to
Apollo, with its unforgettable description of a rhapsode’s interaction with the Delian
Maidens (Hom. Hym. Ap. 146-76). These large regional festivals were probably one of
98
For this sphragis as the basis for the Certamen tradition, see Lamberton (1988): 6; Hunter and Rutherford
(2009): 6.
99
Discussions of rhapsodes are numerous. I have found most useful Nagy (1996b): 59-86 and Collins
(2001). Herington (1985): 167-76 usefully collects the evidence.
100
Power (2010) goes into great detail about every aspect of citharodic performance in antiquity. For
specifically citharodes’ rivalry with rhapsodes, see pages 250-7.
101
See Burkert (2001): 107-8.
102
See Martin (2009): 93-4.
103
See Hes. Op. 646-662.
104
See Power (2010): 394-403 for a good discussion of the evidence. See also footnote 71 above.
83 the major avenues for performance of a variety of choral and monodic forms. In sum,
archaic Greece furnished many opportunities for a poet to ply his trade. Funeral games,
competitions, and festivals all provided potential venues for a traveling poet to perform.
Other professional and non-professional lyric poets were also habitual wanderers.
In an extensive recent article, Ewen Bowie has marshaled considerable evidence for
travel amongst most of the major lyric poets.105 While not all of his arguments are equally
compelling, as a whole he paints a very persuasive picture of lyric poets of all stripes
traveling and performing abroad. Even poets that seem relatively parochial (such as
Alcaeus and Hipponax) seem to have travelled in some way or another.106 These poets
travelled in a number of capacities. First, they themselves could be colonizers, as the case
of Archilochus amply demonstrates. In his poetry, he often complains about his new
home on Thasos. At fragment 21 he compares the island to the back of an ass: “this island
stands like the back of an ass, bristling with wild woodland”(ἥδε δ’ ὥστ’ ὄνου ῥάχις
/ἕστηκεν ὕλης ἀγρίης ἐπιστεφής). He also makes an unfavorable comparison with
another settlement: “the land is not at all beautiful, desirable, or attractive, like the one on
the streams of the Siris” (οὐ γάρ τι καλὸς χῶρος οὐδ’ ἐφίµερος /οὐδ’ ἐρατός, οἷος ἀµφὶ
Σίριος ῥοάς) (frag. 22 West). This constant complaining about one’s new home forms a
theme in archaic Greek literature. Hesiod too in the Works and Days employs this
persona to describe his new home in Ascra: “Ascra, awful in the winter, terrible in the
summer, and never nice” (Ἄσκρῃ, χεῖµα κακῇ, θέρει ἀργαλέῃ, οὐδέ ποτ’ ἐσθλῇ) (ln.
640).107 In fact, his father’s described migration from Cyme to Boeotia could be
105
Bowie (2009).
For Alcaeus and Hipponax’s traveling, see Bowie (2009): 118-21; for Hipponax, see 111-2.
107
For the similarity of Hesiod’s “I” to that of the lyric poets, see Martin (1992).
106
84 described as a clever reversal of this colonization motif, traveling instead from the
margins to the mainland.108
Another class of emigrant was those who migrated to already well-established cities
and made them their home. The most notable city in this regard was Sparta. Time and
time again in the secondary traditions about the city poets are said to have emigrated
there. The largely mythical Terpander may have been Sparta’s biggest catch. According
to the preserved testimonia of antiquity, Terpander was born in Lesbos, and when invited
to perform at Sparta, he quelled stasis there with his poetry.109 Alcman too was said to
have been a native of Lydia, a rumor that was the subject of much scholarly attention in
antiquity.110 Even Tyrtaeus was rumored to be a schoolteacher in Athens, snatched up by
the Spartans when morale flagged in the Second Messenian War.111 Other poets were
highly sought after by tyrants and their courts. Polycrates of Samos, in particular, seemed
to have been very successful in attracting talent. Both Ibycus and Anacreon were for
some time members of his court.112 One of the major coups of the Peisistratid court was
to attract away Anacreon and Simonides.113 Bacchylides and Pindar, although they
performed for both oligarchic and democratic regimes, were also often quite cozy with
tyrants like Hiero.114 Odes like Pindar’s Olympian 1 and Bacchylides’ Ode 3 amply
testify to their cordial relations with the tyrants in the west. Journeys to the courts of
tyrants, therefore, ranked high amongst travel destinations for the lyric poets.
108
See Op. 633-40. For the colonial overtones of Hesiod’s father’s journey, see Nagy (1982): 62-3.
For versions of this story, see 12, 13, 14a, 14b, 14c, 15, 19, 20, 21 Gostoli.
110
The testimonia is collected in T2- T9 Campbell.
111
The testimonia is collected in T2-T8 Gerber.
112
For Ibycus’ relationship with Polycrates, see T1 Campbell; also see frag. 286 PMG. For Anacreon’s
relationship with Polycrates, see T4-6 Campbell.
113
For details of this, see [Pl.] Hipparch. 228bc.
114
For an excellent overview of the broad range of regimes these poets performed for, see Hornblower
(2004): 129-266.
109
85 And the travel of lyric poetry was not restricted to genre. Elegiac poets, whose
poetry could be more easily taken up by amateurs in a symposium, travelled just as much
as their more professional peers. The elegiac poets especially are very vocal about their
wandering: “Theognis” for instance, specifically describes his travels from Sicily and his
joy at returning home:
ἦλθον µὲν γὰρ ἔγωγε καὶ εἰς Σικελήν ποτε γαῖαν,
ἦλθον δ’ Εὐβοίης ἀµπελόεν πεδίον
Σπάρτην δ’ Εὐρώτα δονακοτρόφου ἀγλαὸν ἄστυ·
καί µ’ ἐφίλευν προφρόνως πάντες ἐπερχόµενον·
ἀλλ’ οὔτις µοι τέρψις ἐπὶ φρένας ἦλθεν ἐκείνων.
οὕτως οὐδὲν ἄρ’ ἦν φίλτερον ἄλλο πάτρης. (783-88 Gerber)
For once I came to the land of Sicily, and to the plain of Euboea with its
vineyards, and to Sparta, the glorious city of the reed-nourishing Eurotas.
And they treated me with kindly friendship when I arrived: but no joy
came to my heart from them; nothing else is so much more beloved than
one’s fatherland.
Xenophanes is even more explicit about his time on the road:
ἤδη δ’ ἑπτά τ’ ἔασι καὶ ἑξήκοντ’ ἐνιαυτοὶ
βληστρίζοντες ἐµὴν φροντίδ’ ἀν’ Ἑλλάδα γῆν·
ἐκ γενετῆς δὲ τότ’ ἦσαν ἐείκοσι πέντέ τε πρὸς τοῖς,
εἴπερ ἐγὼ περὶ τῶνδ’ οἶδα λέγειν ἐτύµως. (8 West)
Sixty and seven years already have tossed my thoughts throughout the
land of Greece: and from my birth [until the time] there are twenty five
years in addition to these, if I know how to speak truthfully about these
sort of things.
Apart from his extraordinarily long life, his “throwing his brains around” nicely attests to
the spread of wisdom and advice that was part of a long life on the road. As repositories
of traditional wisdom and advice, the “product” that elegiac poets offered was oftentimes
their own sage precepts. And this trait they shared with other practitioners of wisdom:
Herodotus, for instance, narrates the long advice that the lawmaker / sage / poet Solon
86 gives to the tyrant Croesus in the first book of his Histories (1.29-33). While probably
largely fiction, this narrative indicates how much travel and advice were associated in the
archaic and classical Greek mind.115
In sum, when we look at archaic Greece, we see a world where poets travelled
frequently and often. Poets didn’t always pack their bags just to perform elsewhere, but
also because of the other roles they played, such as advisors, colonizers, etc. Both elites
and non-elites travelled, whether because of their elite provenance or for commissions.
Archaic and early classical Greece therefore could justifiably be called a world of
travelling poets.
Community, Space, and Strife
It is in this context of a world of constantly moving poets that a poet’s relationship
to his home community must be sought. If, as I have argued above, a poet’s hometown
was an intrinsic part of his persona, how did that persona change when he travelled to and
from his home community? How did the fact that he was a Theban, Megarian, Lesbian,
etc., translate in a foreign context? Contrary to our assumptions, when a poet enters a new
town or village, he gains in authority. This reflects more generally Greek attitudes
towards guest-friends and strangers. This can be illustrated quite nicely by a story in
Herodotus. After the battle of Thermopylae, Xerxes summons Demaratus to ask him what
the army should do next. Demaratus gives the advice to split the fleet in two, and harass
the Spartans on their turf in the Peloponnese. Another general, Achaemenes, denounces
Demaratus, and accuses him of petty envy and jealousy of Xerxes. Xerxes accepts
115
For an overview of the historicity of this passage, see Asheri, David, Alan Lloyd, and Aldo Corcella
(2007): 99 .
87 Achaemenes’ advice not to divide the fleet, but reprimands him for his words against
Demaratus:
Achaemenes…I think you are right. Nevertheless, though Demaratus’
judgement is not so good as yours, he told me in good faith what he
thought best for me. I will not accept your suggestion that he is secretly
hostile to my cause; I have evidence of his loyalty in what he has said on
previous occasions, and, apart from that, there is the well known fact that a
man often hates his next-door neighbor and is jealous of his success, and
when asked for advice will not tell him what he really thinks will help him
most- (ὅτι πολιήτης µὲν πολιήτῃ εὖ πρήσσοντι φθονέει καὶ ἔστι δυσµενὴς
τῇ σιγῇ οὐδ’ ἂν συµβουλευοµένου τοῦ ἀστοῦ πολιήτης ἀνὴρ τὰ ἄριστά
οἱ δοκέοντα εἶναι ὑποθέοιτο), unless, indeed, he is a man of exceptional
virtue, such as one seldom finds. But the relationship between men of
different countries is very different from that between men of the same
town; a man is full of sympathy for the good fortune of a foreign friend,
and will always give him the best advice he can (ξεῖνος δὲ ξείνῳ εὖ
πρήσσοντί ἐστι εὐµενέστατον πάντων, συµβουλευοµένου τε ἂν
συµβουλεύσειε τὰ ἄριστα.). Demaratus is a foreigner and my guest; I
should be obliged, therefore, if everyone would refrain from maligning
him in future. (Sélincourt’s translation)(Hdt. 7.237).
As Leslie Kurke rightly notes in regards to this passage, “The observation that one’s
fellow citizens are envious of one’s success seems a bit incongruous in the mouth of the
Great King of Persia. In this case, as often in Herodotus, a barbarian dynast expresses
what is essentially a Greek aristocratic position…”116 This speech should therefore be
considered to embody Greek values, rather than Persian values. In this case, Xerxes
clearly outlines a clear dichotomy between local, epichoric space and foreign space.
When at home in one’s town, one cannot trust one’s fellow citizens since they may be
motivated by envy. By contrast, friends from another country are trustworthy and will be
gladdened by your success.
116
Kurke (1991): 90.
88 Where does this spatial dichotomy come from? And why is the ξένος figure to be
trusted over and above one’s neighbor? A scholiast, noted by D’Alessio in his seminal
1994 article on the Pindaric first-person, gives us a good starting point: “this is the
sentiment: since I am a ξένος, I speak the truth, because I am outside the envy between
citizens. For it is natural for citizens to be envious towards one another” (ὁ δὲ νοῦς·
ξένος ὢν λέγω τἀληθῆ, τοῦ φθόνου ἐκτὸς ὢν τοῦ πολιτικοῦ. ἔµφυτον γὰρ τοῖς πολίταις
τὸ ἀλλήλοις διαφθονεῖν) Σ Nem. VII 89c). As Pindar himself puts it, “for certainly, praise
from home is mixed with blame” (ὁ γὰρ ἐξ οἴκου ποτὶ µῶµον ἔπαινος κίρναται) (fr. 181
S-M).117 Thucydides too in his aphoristic manner sums up this distinction in a similar
way when he puts these words into Alcibiades’ mouth: “and in turn in whatever ways I
have distinguished myself [lit: “shown”] within the city, by supporting choruses or
something else, naturally they are envied by my fellow citizens, but to foreigners it
appears as strength itself” (καὶ ὅσα αὖ ἐν τῇ πόλει χορηγίαις ἢ ἄλλῳ τῳ λαµπρύνοµαι,
τοῖς µὲν ἀστοῖς φθονεῖται φύσει, πρὸς δὲ τοὺς ξένους καὶ αὕτη ἰσχὺς φαίνεται) (6.16).
Here it is assumed that one’s contributions to a community are naturally envied by one’s
fellow community members, but respected abroad. Instead of seeing it as an altruistic
contribution to the city itself, fellow citizens view it as a crushing gift that they cannot
match or reciprocate. A fellow citizen’s advice, therefore, is essentially tainted: his every
word or seemingly good piece of advice could be attributed to malice. The foreigner, on
the other hand, does not suffer from this endemic social competition and has no reason to
hold back his praise or even blame of your actions. Outside of the local social economy
of competition, his words have more force.
117
D’Alessio (1994): 127 cites both these passages.
89 This social economy of competition can be contextualized within the socialeconomic conditions of Greece before the Persian Wars. Archaic Greece was a time of
intense political and social change, as city-states began to form and a population boom
began to push these states’ resources to their limits.118 During this period a rising middleclass of hoplite farmers became a social force. While it is debated about how much a
force this hoplite middle class was, it remains the case that until the middle of the sixth
century the elites for the most part dominated power within the polis.119 Even though
there may have existed “proto-democratic” tendencies, the wealthy elite still
monopolized power within the city-state.120 For all intents and purposes, an oligarchic
elite controlled the early Greek city-state.121
As this population explosion continued, it put additional pressure on the oligarchic
class that ruled the city-states. And even as it was increasingly pressed by the hoplite
class, the wealth of the now-booming economy raised the stakes.122 As the stakes grew
higher, competition by elites over these resources intensified.123 Conflicts quite often
turned to violence, and armed conflict (stasis) became an endemic problem for the Greek
118
The classic discussions of the demographic explosion are in Snodgrass (1971): 365-7, (1980): 23-4; for
a more realistic assessment of the rate of growth, see Morris (1987): 156-67.
119
For elite domination of the polis, see Anderson (2005): 178-80; For debates about the influence of
hoplite farmers, Donlan (1997): sees the extent and empowerment of the hoplite class as determining what
regime a polis would take; Raaflaub (1997): argues that farmer hoplites played a critical role in the
development of the polis from an early stage. He admits, however, that the elites still dominated politics.
On the other hand, Foxhall (1997): 119 bluntly writes, “I would argue that generally the poleis of Archaic
Greece were little more than a stand-off between the members of the elite who ran them.” Anderson
(2005): passim, but especially 178-80 downplays the significance of any middle class.
120
Morris (1996), (2000), who sees proto-democratic tendencies towards egalitarianism motivating the
polis from an early stage, is the strongest proponent of this viewpoint. Criticisms of Morris’s and others’
position can be found in Foxhall (1997): 119-20 (“The ethos of ‘the community of the polis’ perceived by
Morris and others in early Greece might be only this: the egalitarianism of the equally powerful”);
Anderson (2005): 179n15, 185n31.
121
I use the term "oligarchic" for convenience. For doubts about the oligarchic nature of the early Greek
city-states, see van Wees (2000): 63, (2005): 178.
122
For a recent overview of the archaic economy, see Osborne (2007).
123
Anderson (2005): 180 criticizes archaic poleis for not providing legitimate leadership opportunities for
the elite.
90 city-states. The boundaries between legitimate authority and illegitimate authority were
often problematic.124 This intra-elite competition created an often dangerous, violent
atmosphere where the elite were frequently at war with another. As Hans van Wees has
noted in the case of Theognis, "[his] world is characterized…by violent competition for
power and property, and drastic changes of fortune, which made it impossible to sustain
any kind of closed élite."125
Greek poetry and poetics were well aware of the competitive nature of the early
Greek polis. The plot of the Iliad is not instigated by a Trojan attack or stratagem, but by
elite in-fighting within the Achaean camp (itself a virtual polis of sorts).126 But the state
of endemic competition within the community is best exemplified by Hesiod in the
beginning of his Works and Days. There Hesiod argues that there are two forms of strife:
“one of these a man would praise if he understood it, but the other is blameworthy; they
have completely different spirits. The latter fosters war and villainy and strife, the villain”
(τὴν µέν κεν ἐπαινήσειε νοήσας, /ἣ δ’ ἐπιµωµητή· διὰ δ’ ἄνδιχα θυµὸν ἔχουσιν. /ἣ µὲν
γὰρ πόλεµόν τε κακὸν καὶ δῆριν ὀφέλλει, /σχετλίη) (Op. 11-5). On the other hand, the
“good” strife:
ἥ τε καὶ ἀπάλαµόν περ ὁµῶς ἐπὶ ἔργον ἐγείρει·
εἰς ἕτερον γάρ τίς τε ἴδεν ἔργοιο χατίζων
πλούσιον, ὃς σπεύδει µὲν ἀρόµεναι ἠδὲ φυτεύειν
οἶκόν τ’ εὖ θέσθαι· ζηλοῖ δέ τε γείτονα γείτων
εἰς ἄφενος σπεύδοντ’· ἀγαθὴ δ’ Ἔρις ἥδε βροτοῖσιν.
καὶ κεραµεὺς κεραµεῖ κοτέει καὶ τέκτονι τέκτων,
καὶ πτωχὸς πτωχῷ φθονέει καὶ ἀοιδὸς ἀοιδῷ. (Op. 20-6)
124
Anderson (2005) particularly emphasizes this.
van Wees (2000): 53. Raaflaub (1997): 55 also sees a very fluid and fragile elite.
126
For the importance of strife to the early epic tradition, see Nagy (1979): 309-16. For the Achaean camp
itself acting as a sort of polis, see Raaflaub (1997): 52. For a good discussion of the role of elite in-fighting
in the Iliad, see Morris (2001): 83-8, though I do not agree with all of Morris’s conclusions.
125
91 She rouses even the man without means to work; because a man without
work looks at some other rich man, who is busy with the plowing and
planting and keeping his household well-managed; and a neighbor begins
to vie with his neighbor hurrying towards wealth; and this Eris is good for
mortals. And potter begrudges potter, carpenter begrudges carpenter, and
beggar envies beggar, and singer envies singer.
Hesiod here presents us with a model of intra-communal rivalry. Neighbors, when they
see one another working hard and gaining wealth, will be motivated by jealousy to
compete with them. This passage shares many features with later descriptions of rivalry,
and can help us flesh them out: first, it is specifically wealth that is the cause for dispute.
Capital, whether monetary or cultural, haunts descriptions of envy and competition
within the city. Second, this eris is triggered by a neighbor. When he sees another
neighbor doing well, he tries to outvie him. Feelings of rivalry begin by looking at what’s
happening next door. The emotions generated by seeing another neighbor do well are
primarily local, embedded and even circulated in one’s own community. Thirdly, the
emotions that are triggered are ones of envy and jealousy. This passage, in fact, contains a
virtual checklist of words for these emotions: ζῆλος, κότος, and φθόνος. Even though
Hesiod rigorously tries to distinguish between beneficial and non-beneficial forms of
strife, in actual reality they were probably difficult to separate.
The word “envy” (φθονέω) that Hesiod uses is of particular interest.127 By the end
of the archaic age, the noun φθόνος became the standard term in a poet’s vocabulary for
127
While many commentators have seen the verbs κοτέω and φθονέω as virtually synonymous, the verb
φθονέω may have a deeper relation to both poets and beggars even in the early part of the archaic period.
While no doubt both verbs are chosen for alliterative reasons (see West (1978): ad loc.), the verb φθονέω
seems to be especially associated with poets and beggars in the Odyssey. Telemachus asks his mother why
she “begrudges the goodly singer to provide pleasure in whatever way his heart is stirred” (“µῆτερ ἐµή, τί
τ’ ἄρα φθονέεις ἐρίηρον ἀοιδὸν / τέρπειν ὅππῃ οἱ νόος ὄρνυται;) (Od. 1.346-7). Odysseus uses this word
when he is dressed as and pretending to be a beggar (19.348) and most significantly, when he addresses the
beggar Irus (18.6, 8)(on which see Nagy (1979): 228-9). And when Odysseus himself acts like a poet
among the Phaeacians and obliges their request to speak of the companions he met in the underworld, he
also uses this verb: “I would not begrudge these things and to speak of other things even more pitiful” (οὐκ
92 the emotions of envy that arise when one sees another townsmen flush with wealth or
victory.128 A prime example of “envy” which encompasses many of the same themes we
found in Hesiod can be found in Pindar’s Olympian 1, dated to 476 BC.129 When telling
his audience what he considers to be the “true” version of the story of Pelops (namely
that Poseidon fell in love with him and kidnapped him), he attributes the traditional story
of Pelops to malicious rumor:
ὡς δ’ ἄφαντος ἔπελες, οὐδὲ µατρὶ πολλὰ µαιόµενοι φῶτες ἄγαγον,
ἔννεπε κρυφᾷ τις αὐτίκα φθονερῶν γειτόνων,
ὕδατος ὅτι τε πυρὶ ζέοισαν εἰς ἀκµάν
µαχαίρᾳ τάµον κατὰ µέλη,
τραπέζαισί τ’ ἀµφὶ δεύτατα κρεῶν
σέθεν διεδάσαντο καὶ φάγον. (Ol. 45-51)
But when you turned up missing, and when men, even after a long search,
could not bring you back to your mother, right away one of the envious
neighbors secretly said that they cut your limbs with a sacrificial knife
when the water was at a full boil over a fire, and as a last course they laid
out your flesh at the tables and ate it.
Here, as in Hesiod, envy begins with the neighbors. A neighbor, envious against Pelops’
family, creates a rumor that results in the traditional story of Pelops’ dismemberment.130
What is the cause for his resentment? It is not hard to find: a few lines down, Pindar
claims that “if the wardens of Olympus honored any single man, it was Tantalus; but he
was unable to digest his good fortune” (εἰ δὲ δή τιν’ ἄνδρα θνατὸν Ὀλύµπου σκοποί
/ἐτίµασαν, ἦν Τάνταλος οὗτος· ἀλλὰ γὰρ καταπέψαι /µέγαν ὄλβον οὐκ ἐδυνάσθη) (54 ἂν ἔπειτα /τούτων σοι φθονέοιµι καὶ οἰκτρότερ’ ἄλλ’ ἀγορεύειν) (11.380-1) (for Odysseus’ role as a poet
here, see Hunter and Rutherford (2009): 10). It appears that φθόνος has a very early association with both
beggars and singers. It should be noted that some exceptions occur: the verb is used when Alcinous speaks
to Nausicaa (6.68) and in the Iliad, describes Hera’s willingness to let Zeus destroy whatever city he wants
if he lets her destroy Troy (Il. 4.55, 56).
128
In Pindar alone, the word occurs 25 times. Bulman (1992): 2 notes that Pindar is first to use the noun
form in our extant literature. She usefully compares his use of the word ὕβρις, which by her count, appears
12 times in Pindar. Envy forms a major theme for Pindar.
129
For the dating, see Race (1997): 44.
130
For the discussion of local neighbors and envy in Pindar, see Kirkwood (1984): 172-3.
93 6). Pelops’ family’s good fortune then is the implicit cause of this neighbor’s distortion.
As we saw in Hesiod, once again prosperity (ὄλβος), the monetary and social capital
involved in human flourishing, is the trigger that causes emotions of envy.
To briefly recap, the institution of the polis in the archaic and early classical periods
was especially prone to conflict and strife amongst elites. This social context of constant
squabbling and fighting with one’s neighbors and citizens has several results: first, it
created an atmosphere of general competition and distrust amongst one’s fellow citizens.
One’s local community was far from a friendly or even a neutral space; it was permeated
with competition, envy, and strife. And this competition was reflected in the literature of
the period, especially but not exclusively in the word φθόνος. “Envy” becomes a way of
talking about the intra-elite competition that dominated the conceptual space of one’s
own hometown.
Guests and Authority
Given this state of conflict during the archaic period, reflected both in historical
reality and poetic literature, it is no wonder that many of the elite began to look outside
their community for friends. As competition within one’s community intensified, the elite
began to nurture ties with other elites. An international elite began to be formed at this
point. As Herman notes, “at times the horizontal ties of solidarity which linked together
elites in separate communities were stronger than the vertical ties which bound them to
inferiors within their own community.”131 And as we have discussed in the last chapter,
this elite distinguished themselves by calling themselves “Hellenes” and by participation
131
Herman (1983): 8.
94 in the Olympic games.132 At the same time that elites were looking outside their own
poleis to support their own political authority, they were looking outside to affirm their
own cultural authority.
Poets themselves were eager to provide this social capital, and often portrayed
themselves as a “guest-friend” or ξένος.133 A clear example of this rhetorical strategy
occurs in Pindar:
ξεῖνός εἰµι· σκοτεινὸν ἀπέχων ψόγον,
ὕδατος ὥτε ῥοὰς φίλον ἐς ἄνδρ’ ἄγων
κλέος ἐτήτυµον αἰνέσω· (Nem. 7.61-2)
I am a xenos: I keep away the blame that dims, and like streams of water, I
bring fame to a man who is my friend, and I will praise him truly.
Here Pindar “authenticates” the truthfulness of his praise by claiming he is a xenos. The
personal connection between host and guest-friend does not damage the reliability of his
message. On the contrary, it seems to enhance his authority. His praise seems truer and
the fame he brings to his guest friend all the more brighter by the mention of this
relationship. As we saw in Xerxes’ speech earlier, the advice and words of a foreigner
were more authoritative precisely because he could not be tainted by the envy that is
natural for a fellow citizen. In emphasizing his status as a guest-friend, Pindar seems
eager to capitalize on the authority being a foreigner brings.
A foreigner’s authority and power is testified outside of Pindar. In the parabasis to
Aristophanes’ Acharnians, the poet explicitly criticizes the Athenians for fawning on any
word that a foreigner utters:
132
For the elite origins of the term ‘panhellenism” in the Olympic games, see the discussion in the first
chapter.
133
For an excellent discussion of guest-friendship in the Pindaric corpus, see Kurke (1991): 135-59.
95 …and the poet claims he deserves many prizes from you, since he stopped
you from being too deceived by the words of foreigners (ξενικοῖσι λόγοις
µὴ λίαν ἐξαπατᾶσθαι), from enjoying those that flatter you and becoming
a puffed-up citizenry. Before ambassadors from cities deceived you first
by calling you “violet-crowned” (ἰοστεφάνους), and whenever anyone
said the “crowns” part you would sit on the edges of your little buttcheeks. And if somebody flattered you by calling Athens “shiny”
(λιπαρὰς καλέσειεν Ἀθήνας), he would get it all through that “shiny” bit,
by tacking on an honor that is used for sardines. (Ar. Arch. 633-40).
Since Pindar uses both epithets, we can be sure that Aristophanes’ target is epinician and
dithyrambic poetry and diction.134 In fact, as Peter Wilson notes in his study of choregia
in ancient Athens, it is no coincidence that the dithyrambic choruses, which often
featured foreign composers, were more likely to praise Athens in florid terms.135 So
powerful are these words that they transform what would be otherwise formulaic and
common language (as Aristophanes points out, the epithet “shining” was also applied to
sardines) into compelling and persuasive forms of speech.136 Even Aristophanes seems to
admit by using the particle λίαν (“too”) that he cannot completely stop his fellow citizens
from being fooled by the guiling words of foreigners. Praise from a foreign source is so
intoxicating that even Aristophanes’ own advice cannot completely quell it.
Another testament to the quasi-magical power of a xenos figure’s poetry can be
seen in the legends surrounding Terpander. According to the preserved testimonia of
antiquity, Terpander was born in Lesbos, and when invited to perform at Sparta, he
quelled stasis there with his poetry.137 As much as this story seems influenced by later
theorists of social harmony such as Damon of Oa and the classical belief of the
134
For the epithets, see Pin. Isthm. 2.20 (an epinician), frag. 76 S-M (from a dithyramb).
Wilson (2000): 66-7.
136
See Olson (2002): ad loc for a thorough discussion and examples of why these fish are “shiny.”
137
For versions of this story, see Gostoli 12, 13, 14a, 14b, 14c, 15, 19, 20, 21.
135
96 talentlessness of Spartans in music, it does properly reflect archaic notions of space.138
Only a poet that comes in from the outside can provide some sort of harmony to the
discord within a state.
It should be emphasized that this increase of authority does not completely insulate
a poet from harm. Pindar in particular often warns about the danger of praising a victor
even in a community that’s not his own. A nice example, and one that encompasses many
of the themes we have discussed, occurs in Nemean 8:
πολλὰ γὰρ πολλᾷ λέλεκται, νεαρὰ δ’ ἐξευ- (20)
ρόντα δόµεν βασάνῳ (20)
ἐς ἔλεγχον, ἅπας κίνδυνος· ὄψον δὲ λόγοι φθονεροῖσιν,
ἅπτεται δ’ ἐσλῶν ἀεί, χειρόνεσσι δ’ οὐκ ἐρίζει. (Nem. 8.20-22)
Many things are said in many ways, but for the one finds new topics for
praise and gives them over to the touchstone for scrutiny, it is danger
entire. Words are a meal139 for the envious, and they always cling to the
noble, and never find quarrel with the base.
Here, as we have seen above, “strife” (ἐρίζει) and “envy” (φθονεροῖσιν) are explicitly
assimilated.140 While Pindar here does not explicitly define the envious as one’s fellow
citizens, in the myth that directly follows this “break-off” he describes “the secret votes”
(κρυφίαισι…ἐν ψάφοις) (26) that Ajax’s fellow Danaans use to deprive him of his
deserved prize, the arms of Achilles. There should be no doubt that the envious here are
the victor’s fellow townsmen.141 The “new subjects” (presumably the present
performance) that praise the victor expose him to danger.142 The poet’s words can
138
For Damon of Oa, see Barker (1984): 168-9.
Technically the non-bread part of the meal i.e. what you put on the bread. See Davidson (1998): 20-25.
140
As noted by Nagy (1979): 226.
141
Bundy (2006)[1962]: 40 also interprets this passage this way.
142
For this interpretation of νεαρὰ, see the extensive discussion of Miller (1979): 113-5; see also Mackie
(2003): 17.
139
97 provide a metaphorical feast for his envious townsmen.143 As such, they help to stir up
strife within the victor’s community. However, it is clear that the danger here also
threatens Pindar: it is specifically “danger entire” (ἅπας κίνδυνος) for the man who
discovers new topics of praise (νεαρὰ…ἐξευρόντα), which can only indicate the poet.
This envy, primarily directed at the victor, can also rebound against the poet; if he is too
long, too effusive, or too direct in his praise, he risks alienating his audience.144
Overpraise of a victor to his fellow community members can endanger even a poet acting
as a xenos.
In sum, we have found good evidence that a poet’s authority was increased when he
visited another town. Because he is outside the social competition of the community, a
foreign poet has more power to praise or blame the community than a local citizen has.
Since, as we argued in the first part of this chapter, a poet always carries around his
identity as a member of his home community, people immediately identify his praise as
emanating from a non-local source. The intimate link between a poet and his home
community serves to augment the power of his words when he visits other cities.
The Return Home: Poets in their Own Communities
It is now necessary to ask, what happens to a poet when he returns to his own
community? Unlike performances in other communities, he can no longer rely on his
authority as a foreigner and a xenos figure. And as we have observed above, there is
143
I assume λόγοι here refers to Pindar’s own words. Fenell (1883): ad loc, claims that the λόγοι here are
“criticisms,” but this seems to ignore the flow of thought in this passage. It is dangerous to say something
new because the envious will use it against the victor. “Don’t feed the trolls,” as the modern day internet
axiom goes. For λόγος being synonymous with “song,” see Nem. 6.30. For Pindar himself being a λόγιος,
see Nagy (1990): 222-4.
144
For a recent discussion of the risks of performing epinician poetry, see Mackie (2003): 12.
98 ample evidence that fellow citizens’ advice, whether poets or not, were considered
suspect and tainted by envy. If going abroad grants a poet an increase in authority, it is
reasonable to assume that in his own town a poet experiences a decrease in authority
when he returns. How does a poet compensate for the persistent suspicion that his advice
and praise may be tainted by envy? And what personae does he rely on if he cannot use
the persona of a xenos?
In this regard I identify two broad rhetorical strategies that poets employ in their
own communities, exclusionary and inclusionary. When a poet takes an exclusionary
stance, he argues that his superior poetic abilities separate him from his fellow
community members. He thus creates his poetic authority by effectively making himself
an outsider. Theognis, in a passage that we have cited and will often return to in this
dissertation, displays an excellent example of an “exclusive stance.” In his sphragis
poem, he writes:
οὐδέ τις ἀλλάξει κάκιον τοὐσθλοῦ παρεόντος·
ἀστοῖσιν δ’ οὔπω πᾶσιν ἁδεῖν δύναµαι.
οὐδὲν θαυµαστόν, Πολυπαΐδη· οὐδὲ γὰρ ὁ Ζεύς
οὔθ’ ὕων πάντεσσ’ ἁνδάνει οὔτ’ ἀνέχων. (19-26 Gerber)
Cyrnus, let a seal be placed on these verses for me, a skilled and wise poet.
mankind.” But I am still not able to please all the townsmen. Nor is it
remarkable, Polypaïdes: not even Zeus pleases everybody when he rains or
holds back.145
145
My translation and interpretation follow closely Gerber’s Loeb. For a more detailed discussion of this
poem and the interpretive issues involved, see my chapter on Theognis below.
99 Here Theognis, as elsewhere, emphasizes his special poetic skill (σοφιζοµένῳ). He then
goes on not only to forecast his future fame, but also to complain about his ill treatment at
home. As Nagy accurately notes about these lines: “The poetry itself is setting up a
dramatic tension between its own present and the future. In his own here-and-now, the
poet cannot be wholly accepted even by his own community; in the future, he will be
accepted not only by all Megarians but also by all Hellenes.”146 Theognis therefore deals
with the assumed envy and hostility of his townsmen by looking outward and into the
future. He does not try to downplay his poetic excellence- to the contrary, he in fact
vaunts it. The future fame of his poetry and his popularity abroad forms a counterweight
to and compensates for his ill treatment amongst his townsmen. In asserting his own
poetic fame, he notably stands out from his hostile fellow citizens. This “exclusive”
stance then, looks outside the community for support. In fact, it is a method by which a
poet tries to siphon off some of the authority of a xenos figure while within his own
community.
However, in an inclusionary stance, a poet assimilates himself to his fellow
countrymen. Despite his exceptional poetic abilities, the poet tries to convince his
countrymen that he too is a humble member of the community. The “inclusionary stance”
is therefore all about blending in with one’s local community. To choose an example that
does not overlap with the rest of this dissertation, Alcman 17 PMG (discussed briefly
above) represents a paradigmatic example of this type of situation:
146
Nagy (1985): 35.
100 ἠράσθη χλιαρὸν πεδὰ τὰς τροπάς·
οὔτι γὰρ ἁδὺ τετυγµένον ἔσθει
ζατεύει. (17 PMG )
And in the future I will give you a great tripod bowl... It has still not been
over a fire, but soon it will be full of pea soup, the kind that Alcman, who
eats everything, loves hot after the solstice: he eats no (sweet
confections?) but seeks common fare just like the people.
As we already discussed above, the overall context of this poem is unclear, and there are
numerous questions about the possible identity of the recipient.147 Far more important for
our purposes is what Alcman says next: he claims that he loves pea soup and seeks out
“what is common” like the people themselves. These lines explicitly “politicize”
Alcman’s eating habits. The phrase τὰ κοινὰ unites the political and the gastronomical,
by demonstrating how Alcman’s eating habits resemble the general public’s. And
Alcman may have gone further: even though line 6 is highly corrupt, some scholars
restore a form of the word “sweet” (ἁδύ) to the line.148 This is highly suggestive, because
poets and poetry are several instances in the archaic period described as “sweet.”149
Alcman therefore creates a disconnect in performance between the sweetness of his song
and the plainness of the fare he consumes. Even if we do not accept this emendation, it is
clear that he says these words to assimilate himself to the dēmos. Rather than focusing on
the superior quality of his song, he explicitly assimilates himself to the common folk.
This slightly self-deprecating, humble style is exactly what is characterized by the
“inclusionary” stance. The poet deals with the extraordinariness of his own poetic ability
147
See note 27 above.
Campbell (1988): ad loc adopts this. Page does not print this emendation, but suggests it as one of the
possibilities in his criticus apparatus. Calame (1983): ad loc prefers the emendation ἠύ.
149
A good example of this occurs in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, when the singer asks the Delian
maidens: “who is the sweetest (ἥδιστος) of singers who visits here?” (169-70). Not surprisingly, it turns out
to be “Homer, ” the blind man from Chios. Alcman himself describes the Muses as “sweet” at 59b.1 PMG.
(Ϝαδειᾶν…Μωσᾶν).
148
101 by emphasizing his qualities as a normal, decent citizen of the community. As Alcman
focuses on the plain fare he eats with the community rather than his sweet song, so other
poets with an “inclusive” stance focus on the features that unite them with their fellow
community members rather than their own exceptional poetry.
These two stances also form fundamentally different approaches to locality and
even time. We mentioned in the first chapter how lyric poetry has a role in reinstating and
recreating locality as a form of social grouping. We can now further clarify this. In the
“inclusive stance” a poet appeals to his local community as a group, reinstating himself
into this social group. The poet appeals to the here and now, pointing at the evidence that
he is a good citizen and his heart is in the right place. The “inclusive stance” therefore is
very oriented towards the present time and place of performance: the poets’ current
attitudes towards the community become crucial in demonstrating his solidarity with it.
On the other hand, in the “exclusive” stance, the poet’s authority is deferred both
spatially and temporally. The poet appeals to his future fame in other communities. The
imagined success of this fame compensates for the present feelings of hostility within his
own polis. His success later and elsewhere proves his current critics wrong. In this way,
the poet siphons off some of the authority of a xenos figure, even when performing in his
own town. In both cases, the social bond of “locality” is strengthened, but in different
fashions. The “inclusive stance” reaffirms the poet as a member of the local community,
thus in turn reaffirming the cohesion of the “local” social grouping itself. On the other
hand, the “exclusive” stance seems to problematize the poet’s relationship to a
community. While it affirms the hostile community as a group, it also opposes them
directly to other communities elsewhere which are giving and will give the poet a better
102 reception. The poet both belongs to and is ostracized from the group in the “exclusive
stance.”
Conclusions
To conclude, in this chapter I have argued that place is an essential part of a poet’s
persona. The place name, which is prominent in most authors’ names, and by extension,
poets’, reveals that authorship was intrinsically tied to place in archaic and early classical
Greece. Authors need to be from somewhere. Because a poet’s persona is so tied to his
hometown, his persona and rhetoric differ considerably when he performs in another
community rather than his own community. I have argued that this distinction overlaps
with more general archaic and classical ideas about one’s fellow community members.
One’s fellow citizens, because they are rivals in the social competition of the community,
are always suspected of envy. Their words and even praise are from the start tainted by
suspicions that they are really trying to bring harm to you and your success. This helps to
explain why poets, when they enter another community, experience an increase of
authority. As a xenos figure they are honored and have more authority to praise and
blame the community. By contrast, as I suggest, when a poet returns home, his authority
becomes limited. In the chapters that follow, I will discuss the different personae that
authors adapt when they return home. In this regard, I identify two broadly overarching
strategies. The first is an “exclusive” stance, where a poet emphasizes his own
exceptionality within the community. To combat the current hostility in his own
community, he argues for his fame elsewhere and in the future. This becomes a way for a
poet to siphon off some of the authority of a xenos figure within his own community. The
second is an “inclusive” stance, where a poet tries to assimilate himself to the people.
103 Instead of emphasizing his own exceptional poetry, he emphasizes his solidarity with his
fellow citizens. He tries to prove that he too is a humble citizen within the community.
The different tonal levels and variations on these two basic rhetorical strategies will be
the subject of the following chapters.
104 Chapter Three: Sappho’s Exclusive Song
Introduction
In my first two chapters, I outlined a theoretical approach to locality and poetry
performed within one’s community. In these chapters, I identified two different stances
that a poet can take within a community. The first, an “inclusive” stance, is where the
poet assimilates himself to the rest of the community. He in effect argues that, despite the
power of his poetry, he is no different than the average citizen. The poet then takes
extraordinary pains to emphasize his solidarity with the common man. By contrast, in the
“exclusive” stance, a poet emphasizes his distinction within the community. He argues
that his poetry makes him special, and because of it he will be granted fame all across the
world. This future fame compensates for the assumed current hostility that his boasting
will incur within his local community. With these two stances come different conceptions
of locality and authority. The “inclusive” stance seeks authority within one’s own town,
by placating the local citizens. By contrast, the “exclusive” stance defers this authority
both temporality and geographically; it derives its authority from future performances of
the poetry in places outside a poet’s hometown.
In this chapter, we will investigate one such instance of an “exclusive” stance in
Sappho’s poetry. I will argue that Sappho’s poetry is best understood in a primarily
choral and agonistic context. Sappho’s poetry and choral performances were one of the
means that the constantly feuding elites in Mytilene used to self-promote themselves at
their rivals’ expense. Thus, Sapphic poetry should be understood as a form of
competitive, elite self-fashioning. As I will further argue, she takes an “exclusive” stance
in her poetry, claiming fame (kleos) for herself in this competitive environment. This
105 fame, as further investigation will show, consists of members of Sappho’s circle
remembering Sappho and performing her songs across the world. Sappho’s poetry
imagines itself spreading across the earth as the girls in Sappho’s circle remember her in
their new homes. Finally, in the last section, we will analyze another, different persona of
Sappho’s that is manifested in poems directed towards her brother. We will find that her
persona in these poems is markedly different from the rest of her corpus in that she relies
on communal norms and values to shame her brother. Her authority in these poems there
comes from within the community, rather than without.
Sappho: Monodic or Choral?
It has never been debated that parts of the Sapphic corpus were choral. Scholars
for a long time have known that the epithalamia or “wedding songs” were poems
publically performed by a choir of young women.1 Rather, these poems have usually
been considered the exception. As Page writes, in one of the standard and most influential
commentaries on Sappho, “There is no evidence or indication that any of Sappho’s
poetry, apart from the Epithalamians, was designed for presentation by herself or others
(whether individuals or choirs) on a formal or ceremonial occasion, public or private [my
emphasis].”2 Most scholars, like Page, have assumed that these parts of the Sapphic
corpus were performed monodically.3 The problem is, these epithalamia appear to be
virtually indistinguishable from the rest of the corpus. Fragments 27 V and 30V, both
generally agreed to be epithalamia, are in Sapphic strophe, indicating that Sappho’s most
1
See e.g. Page (1995): 119-20.
Ibid., 119.
3
See e.g. Burn (1960): 228; Bowra (1961): 193-4; Kirkwood (1974): 100-49; more recently, Burnett
(1983): 209n4; Parker (1996); Stehle (1997): 288-310
2
106 famous meter could be used in wedding songs. Furthermore, it appears that the
Alexandrian editions of Sappho did not necessarily separate the epithalamia into a
separate book, but often grouped them with other poems of the same meter.4 It may very
well be the case that many of the fragments thought to be monodic are actually choral
epithalamia, and what we label as epithalamia are only the poems where information
about the performance context has survived intact. It comes as no surprise, therefore, that
both the “private” and monodic character of the Sapphic corpus has been questioned. The
most notable critics of this have been Claude Calame and André Lardinois.5 Because of
their belief that Sappho’s primary role was that of a choral teacher, they argue that much
of the Sapphic corpus was indeed choral and publically performed. As Lardinois writes,
“most of her poetry was composed for public performances and not for the privacy of her
"circle," as is generally assumed.”6
This vision of Sappho’s chorality, however, is pushed the furthest in a recent book
by Franco Ferrari. In Sappho’s Gift (first published in Italian in 2007), he notes “there is
no indication of the existence of poetic compositions from archaic or classical Greece, at
least from Homer to Euripides, that were not composed with a view to a specific context,
for a conventional oral situation and for a definite audience– public religious celebration
(panegyris), symposium, temple, marriage, funeral, theater, etc.”7 Ferrari then proceeds,
throughout the book to interpret (and sometimes re-interpret) Sappho’s corpus from
4
Page (1955): 125-6 argued that the epithalamia were distributed amongst the various books of the
Alexandrian edition of Sappho if they shared that particular book’s meter. The rest with their unclassifiable
meters were gathered into the ninth book of epithalamia in the Alexandrian edition. However, recently
Yatromanolakis (1999a) has questioned the entire existence of a ninth book of epithalamia. He believes
that book eight contained many of these epithalamia, but was not an exclusive or separate book, containing
other poems beside epithalamia. For a good recent introduction to these issues, see Acosta-Hughes (2010):
92-104.
5
See Lardinois (1994); Calame (1996).
6
Lardinois (1994): 75.
7
Ferrari (2010): 12.
107 simultaneously a public, performative, and choral point of view. He is merciless in
thrusting into public view what looks like personal and private moments. An early, but
typical example is his analysis of fragment 98 V, a fragment where Sappho supposedly
bestows a family heirloom to her daughter Cleis.8 Instead of interpreting this as an
intimate, private moment, Ferrari simply writes: “In this perspective the head-band
becomes a deixis of absence. Cleis’ head is not covered by a headband that would have
been exactly appropriate for the situation; there is on the other hand a garland of flowers
such as the grandmother suggested for blonde girls, while the other girls each wear a
scarlet ribbon.”9 The headband, instead of a personal moment between mother and
daughter, becomes a performative act within a choral context. The “giving” of the
headband becomes a key moment in the choral dance being played out before the
audience’s eyes.
Like Ferrari, the following argument will assume that Sappho’s group was
primarily choral, and most of the fragments were performed in a choral context. In my
view, Ferrari’s analysis persuasively shows that performative explanations can be found
for almost every “private” moment in the Sapphic corpus. This approach naturally will
not please everyone, but I hope the following analysis will be internally consistent and
persuasive enough to validate my assumption of choral performance. At the very least,
viewing Sappho in a choral context corrects one of the long-lying assumptions about the
“private” character of Sappho’s verses. Even if we restrict the performance of Sappho’s
poetry to a select and private group of fellow women, no matter what, these verses
became part of the “public” domain. As we will see, I find reasons to suggest that
8
A typical interpretation in this vein can be found in Page (1955): 97-109. For more about Cleis, see
footnote 17 below.
9
Ferrari (2010): 13.
108 members of the community outside of Sappho’s own circle were meant to hear these
verses. It is therefore my contention throughout this chapter that Sappho’s poetry was
“public” poetry, meant to be heard, talked about, and even circulated amongst the greater
community. Sappho’s verses, as I hope my argument will show, cannot be “private,” no
matter in what sense we restrict the term.10
Beyond debates about the performance of Sappho’s poetry, there remains
questions about the exact composition and organization of the group. Sappho’s circle
seems to have been composed of both local and international students: an anonymous
compiler in a fragmentary notice writes that “she taught peacefully the noblest girls of not
only local families, but even of those from Ionia” (ἡ δ’ ἐφ’ ἡσυχία[ς παιδεύουσα τὰς
ἀρίστας οὐ µόνον τῶν ἐγχωρίων ἀλλὰ καὶ τῶν ἀπ’ Ἰωνίας) (261a.7 SLG = F 214b
Campbell).11 The Suda actually lists some of the names. It distinguishes between three
“companions and friends” (ἑταῖραι…φίλαι) named Atthis, Telesippa, and Megara with
whom Sappho is accused of having sexual relations with (πρὸς ἃς καὶ διαβολὴν ἔσχεν
αἰσχρᾶς φιλίας) and between three “students” (µαθήτριαι), Anagora of Miletus, Gongyla
of Colophron and Eunica of Salamis (Σ 107= T2 Campbell). This notice in the Suda,
however, is problematic in a number of ways. First, the name Anagora does not appear
anywhere in the extant fragments, leading most editors to revise the name to “Anactoria,”
who appears several times in the Sapphic corpus.12 But more importantly, it is not clear
what exactly the difference is between the “companions / friends” (ἑταῖραι…φίλαι) and
10
For an influential formulation of the “privacy” of Sappho’s poetry, see Winkler (1996): 91-2.
The fragment appears to contrast Alcaeus’ warlike activity with Sappho’s own quiet and peaceful role as
a teacher. See Campbell (1982b): ad loc and Ferrari (2010): 35-6. Unless otherwise noted, all translations
of Greek are my own.
12
Anactoria appears at 16.15 V. Maximus of Tyre and Ovid in their testimonia also recognize her as
Sappho’s lover (see T19 and T20 Campbell).
11
109 the students (µαθήτριαι). While the commentator seems to suggest that Sappho only had
sexual relationships with her “companions / friends”, the “student” Gongyla appears in
several fragments that seem to be erotically charged, as well as Anactoria, if her name
can be safely restored to this passage.13 As Holt Parker notes, the distinction between
these two groups seems to be based on location- her friends seem to be local Lesbian
women, while the “students” seem to be from the greater part of Ionia. The commentator
seems to have explained the presence of foreign women on Lesbian soil by glossing them
as “students” of Sappho.14 It appears, therefore, that part of Sappho’s “circle” consisted
of girls from abroad who resided with her for long periods of time. We do not know how
Sappho was compensated for these services or what other arrangements existed between
her and her students, but it undoubtedly appears that Sappho’s circle had an international
flavor.15
Despite the attested international presence in Sappho’s group, Sappho’s circle
seems to have been in part a “family” affair. The ancient testimonia make ample
reference to her family: a father, mother (one of them deceased when Sappho was
young), a husband, a mother and a daughter both named Cleis, three brothers,
respectively named Charaxus, Erigyius, and Larichus.16 In no other biographical tradition
13
For Gongyla, see also 95.4V where her name appears on the papyri, several lines above a wish on the
part of Sappho for death. Likely, Gongyla is leaving Sappho’s group and Sappho is expressing a wish for
death out of desire for her (for a similar line of thought see 94V). Also see 213V, where a commentary
indicates that Gongyla will be a “yoke-mate” with Gorgo and Pleistodica. For the erotically charged
character of the term, see Calame (2001): 240. Gongyla may also appear in fragment 22V. For Anactoria,
see Sappho’s famous longing for her walk in 16V.
14
Parker (1996): 157-8. As Dirk Obbink privatim mentioned to me, as my discussion in the last chapter
indicates, the addition of ethnics to the names of Sappho’s students also indicates that they were also poets
in their own right. I will discuss this further below.
15
Ferrari (2010): 43-44 suggests that Sappho’s students provided exotic luxury items as a form of
compensation. See more about this below.
16
For a deceased parent (gender unspecified), see T13. For the husband, see T2. For the grandmother Cleis,
see T1, T2. For the daughter Cleis, see T1, T2, T16, 98V, 132V, 213a V. For her brothers, see T1, T2, T14;
for Charaxus specifically, see T16 Campbell, the various sources compiled under 254 V, 5V, 213aV; for
110 that I know of does an ancient Greek poet have such an extended family. Some of these
family members are demonstrably the product of the biographer’s imagination, most
notably the husband Cercylas from Andros, whose name literally means “Dick from the
Man-Island.” Other figures, such as the daughter Cleis and Sappho’s mother of the same
name, should also be viewed with skepticism.17 However, Sappho’s brothers are well
attested: according to Athenaeus, she often praised her youngest brother Larichus because
he poured wine in the Mytilenean town hall (Ath. 10. 425a = 203V) and in one fragment
she even prays for the safe return of a “brother” (τὸν κασί]γνητον) (5.2 V). Most likely
the particular brother referred to here was Charaxus, who in the anecdotal tradition
eloped with a courtesan named Doricha and was the subjected to stern reprimands from
Sappho herself.18
We will discuss Sappho and her criticism of Charaxus in more detail later, but for
now it is important to point out in fragment 5V the presence of the word τίµας “honor”
Larichus specifically, see Ath. 10. 425a =203V.
17
Scholars have generally accepted that Cleis is indeed Sappho’s daughter (some exceptions include
Williamson (1995): 2; Bennett (1994): 346). This biographical information, in my opinion, should be
viewed with more skepticism. Nowhere does Sappho specifically use the word “daughter”; at 132V she
calls her a “child” (πάις), a term that can equally be applied to a lover (see 49 V for example). In fact, it is
suspicious that in the same poem she says “I [would not take] all of Lydia for her or lovely…” (ἀντὶ τᾶς
ἔγωὐδὲ Λυδίαν παῖσαν οὐδ’ ἐράνναν) (132.3 V), a trope that is familiar from Sappho 16 when she refers to
Anactoria: “I would rather see her lovely walk and the bright sparkle of her face than Lydian chariots”
(τᾶ]ς <κ>ε βολλοίµαν ἔρατόν τε βᾶµα /κἀµάρυχµα λάµπρον ἴδην προσώπω /ἢ τὰ Λύδων ἄρµατα) (16.179 V). Ferrari (2010): 11 claims that this is spoken “to extol her own affection for her daughter,” but it is
striking that the same motifs are used in erotic and filial contexts. In fact, Ferrari’s own interpretation of the
performed and public nature of 98V, a poem that features a conversation between Sappho and Cleis, seems
to suggest that Cleis was simply the chorus-leader in this poem (see Ferrari (2010): 12-14). Furthermore,
the presence of Sappho’s mother Cleis in fragment 98V can easily account for her supposed daughter’s
name. It is likely that the biographical tradition derived the name Cleis from this very poem itself. For such
a misreading see Hes. Op. 299, where Hesiod’s address to Perses (Πέρση, δῖον γένος) led ancient
biographers to call Hesiod’s father “Dion” (for more information on this biographical tradition, see West
(1978): ad loc.). Likely commentators, eager to clear Sappho of the charge of homosexuality,
misinterpreted Cleis’ role and assigned her the same name as Sappho’s mother, who was mentioned in 98
V.
18
For the elopement of Charaxus with Doricha, see Ov. Her. 63-70 = T16 Campbell and the various
sources compiled under 254V. For Sappho’s criticism of Charaxus and Doricha, see also T16 and
especially Ath. 13.596bc = 254c V. We will discuss Charaxus in more detail below.
111 when Sappho writes τὰν κασιγ]νήταν δὲ θέλοι πόησθαι /[
] τίµας (“but may he
[Charaxus] want to make his sister…honor”) (lns.9-10). The letters or words before the
word τίµας are missing on the papyrus fragment, but certainly Wilamowitz’s supplement
ἔµµορον] τίµας “have a share in honor” captures the sense, if not the exact wording, of
the lost beginning of the line.19 In this case, we can see that Charaxus’ actions are
intimately linked with Sappho’s own honor and possibly that of her group. Her brother
has brought dishonor to the poet, which she hopes will be reversed by his future actions.
This same concern for familial honor underlies her praise for her brother Larichus, whose
wine-pouring seemed to have been praised by Sappho on multiple occasions. As the
scholiast to the Iliad informs us, it was a custom for handsome young nobleman to pour
the wine (ἔθος γὰρ ἦν, ὡς καὶ Σαπφώ φησι, νέους εὐγενεῖς εὐπρεπεῖς οἰνοχοεῖν) (Σ Il.
20.234 T). Therefore, Larichus’ wine-pouring was not just a personal honor, but a
reaffirmation of Sappho and her family’s social rank, aristocratic provenance, and even
physical beauty. And if, as some scholars have suggested, Sappho and her family were
part of the Cleanactid clan, one of the four clans that dominated elite politics in Mytilene,
the need for social and political capital would have been even more pressing.20 In any
case, despite the international clientele, Sappho’s circle appears to be firmly rooted in
familial and local aristocratic matters.
19
For editors who restore Wilamowitz’s ἔµµορον, see Treu (1976): ad loc; Campbell (1982b): ad loc. Page
(1955): 47 also tentatively suggests the restoration αἰ]νήταν δὲ θέλοι πόησθαι / τὰν πότ’ ἠ]τίµασ’ (“and
may he want to make one praised whom he once dishonoured”). This reconstruction, however, mars the
symmetry between the “brother” (τὸν κασί]γνητον) in line 2 and “the sister” (τὰν κασιγ]νήταν) in line 10.
However, it must be noted that even in this version of the text issues of honor and dishonor are of a central
concern to Sappho and do not affect the point of my argument.
20
Ferrari (2010): 17-18 summarizes the evidence. The best proof for associating Sappho with the
Cleanactid is an obscure reference to “these memorials of the exile of the Cleanactids” (ταῦτα τὰς
Κλεανακτιδα/φύγας †..ισαπολισεχει†/µνάµατ’) at the end 98b.7-9 V. But the text here is in exceedingly
poor shape, and numerous other supplements and interpretations have been posed to these lines: see the
criticus apparatus in Voigt, ad loc and Burnett (1983): 214 fnt.13 for a helpful overview of the
reconstructions.
112 Charis Wars: Sappho and Her Rivals
The aristocratic heritage of Sappho has important implications for her social
milieu, especially since she had poetic rivals within her own day. Sappho, it appears, was
not the only woman on Lesbos to be surrounded by a circle of women. Maximus of Tyre,
a philosopher and sophist of the second-century AD, provides the most detailed
description of Sappho’s rivals:
But what else is [the love] of the Lesbian [i.e. Sappho] than it, the Socratic
art of love? ... For what Alcibiades and Charmides and Phaedrus were to
him, this is what Gyrinna and Atthis and Anactoria were to the Lesbian.
And what the professional rivals (ἀντίτεχνοι) Prodicus and Gorgias and
Thrasymachus and Protagoras were to Socrates, this is what Gorgo and
Andromeda were to Sappho. Sometimes she censures them, sometimes
questions them, and she uses irony over the very same things as Socrates.
(Max. Tyr. 18.9 =Campbell T20)
While Maximus’ comparison of Sappho to Socrates probably reveals an anachronistic
understanding of Sappho’s poetry, his testimony does show that Sappho had her own
“professional rivals” (ἀντίτεχνοι) to contend with. The existing fragments themselves
confirm Maximus’ description and amply testify to the extent of these rivalries. Sappho’s
chief rival, or at least the one with the most venom directed at her in our extant
fragments, is Andromeda.21 Gorgo remains a more shadowy figure, whose name appears
multiple times in the extant fragments, but often without much context.22 These women
appeared to have competed with Sappho over the same students. Defections from one
circle to another were common, and form a major theme in Sappho’s poetry. Andromeda
21
Andromeda is explicitly named in fragments 68.5, 130.4, 133.1 V (and is restored at 65.2 V); it also
appears from Athenaeus’ comments that she was addressed in 57 V. See also P.Köln II 60= S476 SLG
(published after Voigt).
22
Gorgo is explicitly named in 103A a col II 9, 144.2, 213.3 V.
113 appears to have scored a major victory in luring away one of Sappho’s favorite students,
Atthis: “Atthis, to think of me has become hateful to you, and you fly to Andromeda”
(Ἄτθι, σοὶ δ’ ἔµεθεν µὲν ἀπήχθετο /φροντίσδην, ἐπὶ δ’ Ἀνδροµέδαν πότη<ι>) (130.3-4
V). According to a fragmentary ancient commentary published after Voigt’s edition,
Andromeda may have repeated her victory with Sappho’s student Gyrinno.23 Gorgo also
got the upper hand against Sappho at least once, managing to persuade Gongyla to leave
her circle according to a second-century A.D. papyrus commentary (123 V). In another
poem Sappho appears to call a certain Mica a name because she chose “the friendship of
the Penthilids’” (φιλότ[ατ’] ἤλεο Πενθιλήαν̣) (71 V).24 Other rivalries can be surmised
from Sappho’s aggressive tone. Apparently she wished a sarcastic good day to a certain
Polyanactid girl (155 V). And to a certain Irana she said. “never have I met anyone more
annoying than you” (ἀσαροτέρας οὐδάµα πΩἴρανα σέθεν τύχοισα) (91 V). These rivalries were not just a matter of petty infighting, but serious matters of
social capital and prestige. As Ferrari has emphasized in his recent study of Sappho,
rivalries between Sappho and other women’s circles were formed at an intersection of
aesthetics, politics, and elite self-representation. As he writes, “the abandonment of one
circle in favor of another could therefore signify a crack in more complex relations; a
break between Sappho and a single student could bring about crises and readjustments in
the changeable distribution of power and prestige among the leading families of the
island.”25 Ferrari himself offers a primarily economic motivation for this process of
readjustment, that a lost student would not be able to provide foreign luxury items as
23
See P.Köln II 60 = S476 SLG and Ferrari’s (2010): 47-9 comments on this fragment.
Ferrari (2010): 23-5 argues that Andromeda herself was a Penthilid. If this is true, Mica herself would
have been another victory for Andromeda’s camp.
25
Ferrari (2010): 44.
24
114 payment for their “tuition.” However, there is very little evidence to support this model. 26
It is also striking that the most extant evidence of gift exchange in the Sapphic corpus,
Aphrodite’s threat in Sappho 1, seems to contradict Ferrari’s hypothesis. In this passage
Aphrodite threatens that if Sappho’s lover “does not accept gifts, she will give them” (αἰ
δὲ δῶρα µὴ δέκετ’, ἀλλὰ δώσει) (1.22 V). Here the gifts do not flow from the students to
Sappho, but from Sappho to her own students and lovers. If they refuse Sappho’s gifts,
Aphrodite will punish them in the future with lovers of their own to give gifts to.27 And
even if we assume the existence of such “tuition,” it would not have been the only source
for such luxury items. Sappho’s brother Charaxus is described as a trader in the ancient
biographical tradition, and Alcaeus had a brother who went on military service in the
Near East. Such people were probably the primary source for the latest in exotica from
Lydia.28
It is more likely, therefore, that luxury items formed only a part of the complex
calculus of social capital and prestige involved in the defection of a student. Equally
important in this economy of aristocratic self-fashioning would have been the prestige
associated with the performance itself. In this regard, we can expect that the public
performances of Sappho and her rivals would have provided the leading families of
Mytilene important opportunities for self-display. This would be even more true if the
26
Ferrari (2010): 42-44. He sees 101 V as evidence for gift exchange between pupil and teacher: “and
purple headbands that Mnasis sent from Phocaea with the wind’s breath, prized gifts” (χερρόµακτρα δὲ
†καγγόνων† /πορφύρα κὰτ ἀύτµενα / τὰ τοι Μνᾶσις ἔπεµψ’ ἀπὺ Φωκάας / δῶρα τίµια †καγγόνων†). The
text printed here is Ferrari’s, and it differs in a number of ways from the version in Voigt’s edition, most
notably in accepting Wilamowitz’s emendation of the undecipherable τατιµάσεις to τὰ τοι Μνᾶσις (“things
which Mnasis [sent]”). But this whole fragment is in extremely poor condition, the exact context is unclear,
and even if we restore the name Mnasis, this “gift” could be a dedication to a goddess, not necessarily a
present to Sappho herself.
27
This is the most popular interpretation of this line. See Carson (1996): 227-9.
28
For Charaxus’ trading, see Strabo 17.1.33. For Alcaeus’ brother, see 350V and also Strabo 13.2.3. For
the importance of trade with the Near East in general for archaic Mytilene, see Spencer (2000): 75-6.
115 other rival circles were closely tied to particular aristocratic families, as I argued was the
case for Sappho’s own group. Not only would they provide a chance to show off their
family’s accumulated wealth and power, but also to demonstrate in performance their
inherent aristocratic beauty and grace.
The defection of a student would detract from a family’s reputation in a number
of ways. On a symbolic level, it would give the other circles an unwelcome chance to
gloat over their victory. It would also raise tricky questions about the family’s influence,
leadership qualities, and possibly even divine favor. On a more mundane level, it also
meant the loss of a significant investment. Even though we do not know how such
logistical details as room and board were handled in these women’s circles, training a
chorus member for an extended period of time was no doubt a significant economic
venture.29 The loss of a student therefore meant the loss of a not inconsequential
monetary outlay. And just as bad, it also meant the loss of a trained singer and dancer,
thus in effect deprecating the quality of the performance itself and its attendant potential
for self-display and social capital.
Furthermore, these defections appear to be not entirely separable from the social
upheavals rocking Mytilene. The abandonment of Mica for the Penthilid clan, for
example, has strong political overtones. The Penthilid clan was the foremost family of the
island until its leader and the ruler of the island itself, Penthilus, was assassinated. The
family, although fallen from the heights of power, appeared to still exercise a
considerable influence, enough so that later on, in order to consolidate his own reign, the
29
For a detailed discussion of the troubles involved in recruiting and training a chorus in classical Athens,
see Wilson (2000): 71-86.
116 tyrant Pittacus married into this family.30 Alcaeus actually refers to this marriage in one
of his poems (70 V), and it is possible, although by no means necessary, that Sappho’s
own poem dates from this same period. It is also possible that Sappho’s own exile, as
reported by the Parian marble (T5 Campbell), belongs to the same turbulent period that
also saw the banishment of Alcaeus and his clan by Pittacus.31 We will discuss the
evidence and ramifications of Sappho’s exile later on, but for now it is enough to note
that Sappho’s group seems to have been implicated in the political events of the time. The
defection of a student to another chorus leader was just as much a political choice as it
was a pedagogical and aesthetic one.
Given the social and political prestige tied up in these rivalries between women’s
circle leaders, it is not surprising that Sappho often emphasizes the aesthetic differences
between her circle and that of others. As Sappho often implies in her criticism of her
rivals, her circle is much better than other women’s circles. Although most of her
comments on other women’s groups are unfortunately lost, the form her criticism takes
and the nexus of social, aesthetic, and performative considerations it entails can be
clearly seen in a small fragment preserved by Athenaeus. He reports that Sappho once
mocked Andromeda’s poor choice in lovers: “what country lass bewitches your
mind?...wearing country clothes…not knowing how to pull her rags to her ankles? (τίς δ’
ἀγροΐωτις θέλγει νόον ...../ἀγροΐωτιν ἐπεµµένα στόλαν..... /οὐκ ἐπισταµένα τὰ βράκε’
ἔλκην ἐπὶ τὼν σφύρων;) (57 V = Ath. 21bc).32 This very witty jibe successfully questions
Andromeda’s authority on multiple levels. By mocking her poor choice in lovers, it
30
Useful discussions and reconstructions of Pittacus’ activities on Lesbos can be found in Page (1955):
149-243; Andrewes (1956): 92-99; Burnett (1983): 108-16; Ferrari (2010): 23-5.
31
Ferrari (2010): 22.
32
For some excellent comments on the import and context of Sappho’s insults here, see Ferrari (2010): 3942.
117 questions the physical attractiveness of the members of her group. Furthermore, it implies
that Andromeda does not have as close a relationship to Aphrodite as Sappho has. In
fragment 1 V Sappho makes it very clear that one of Aphrodite’s powers is to make a
person fall in love even against their will.33 Andromeda appears to have gotten the raw
end of the bargain, and seems to have fallen for a less than ideal girl. Moreover, by
mocking the “rusticity” of her lover’s dress, she not only questions her fashion sense, but
also the ability of her circle to instill desire in onlookers. And finally, in the description of
the girl not knowing how to draw her dress to her ankles (οὐκ ἐπισταµένα τὰ βράκε’
ἔλκην ἐπὶ τὼν σφύρων), there appears to be a criticism of their capacities as performers.
Ferrari has convincingly compared this description with pictorial representations of the
dance, and has concluded that Sappho’s fragment primarily refers to a pose assumed by a
woman in the lead of a festival procession.34 In this case, Sappho explicitly questions
Andromeda’s and her group’s ability to perform and carry out their civic duties. Not only
are they ungraceful and ill dressed, but they also are not well-trained enough to dance
properly and perform their religious duties to the satisfaction of the god. Sappho’s
criticism of Andromeda, although at first sight nothing more than a sarcastic insult, turns
out to implicate Andromeda in a web of aesthetic, religious and social considerations.
Sappho’s Superior Song: The Rhetoric of Exclusivity
These aesthetic considerations, as it turns out, also extend to the quality of
Sappho’s own song. Her rivalries seemed to have provided Sappho with occasions for her
33
See 1. 23-24 V: “if she is not in love, she soon will be, even if she refuses” (αἰ δὲ µὴ φίλει, ταχέως
φιλήσει /κωὐκ ἐθέλοισα).
34
Ferrari (2010): 40-2.
118 most explicit pronouncements of future poetic glory. While equally overt declarations of
her own poetic ability probably appeared elsewhere in the corpus, it is striking how many
of such statements in the extant fragments occur in the context of disputes with other
woman. It is more than a little paradoxical that Sappho pronounces her own international
fame just as she engages in essentially local rivalries with members of her own
community. Since our focus is on how Sappho interacts with her community, it will pay
to discuss in detail this set of fragments where she asserts her own musical superiority in
the face of her enemies. As we will see, her appeals to her own posthumous fame serve to
mark her off from an imagined hostile community. She therefore nurtures an “exclusive”
stance in regard to her fellow townsmen.
The most explicit pronouncement of the exclusivity of Sappho’s group in the face
of an outsider appears in fragment 55V. For reasons that I will discuss below, I print
Campbell’s edition:
κατθάνοισα δὲ κείσηι οὐδέ ποτα µναµοσύνα σέθεν
ἔσσετ’ οὐδὲ πόθα εἰς ὔστερον · οὐ γὰρ πεδέχηις βρόδων
τὼν ἐκ Πιερίας· ἀλλ’ ἀφάνης κἀν Ἀίδα δόµωι
φοιτάσηις πεδ’ ἀµαύρων νεκύων ἐκπεποταµένα.
But when you die you will just lie there and nobody will remember you in
the future, nor will there be any longing for you: because you don’t share
in the roses from Pieria, but even in the house of Hades you will wander
unseen among the dark corpses, having flown (from the living)
This fragment is quoted multiple times throughout antiquity and all the sources agree that
it was addressed to a particular woman. Different sources, however, describe the woman
(and hence the motivation for Sappho’s attack) differently. Stobaeus writes that this poem
was spoken to “an uneducated woman” (πρὸς ἀπαίδευτον γυναῖκα); Plutarch at different
points calls her “some rich woman” (πρός τινα πλουσίαν) or “one of the women without
119 music or learning” (πρός τινα τῶν ἀµούσων καὶ ἀµαθῶν γυναικῶν).35 Aristides seems to
reference this passage when he writes:36 οἶµαι δέ σε καὶ Σαπφοῦς ἀκηκοέναι πρός τινας τῶν εὐδαιµόνων
δοκουσῶν εἶναι γυναικῶν µεγαλαυχουµένης καὶ λεγούσης ὡς αὐτὴν αἱ
Μοῦσαι τῷ ὄντι ὀλβίαν τε καὶ ζηλωτὴν ἐποίησαν καὶ ὡς οὐδ’
ἀποθανούσης ἔσται λήθη. (Or. 28.51) I presume that you also have heard Sappho when she was boasting to
some of those women who appeared to be fortunate and claimed that the
Muses have made her truly fortunate and enviable, and that when she dies
there will be no forgetfulness of her. From all these descriptions of the content of this poem, it seems that Sappho contrasted
her own poetical and musical abilities with this other woman’s lack thereof. Possibly, as
descriptions of this woman as “wealthy” and “fortunate” indicate, Sappho compared this
woman’s worldly wealth with her own poetic glory. It is likely that this poem was
addressed to either a member of a rival circle or a circle leader, but we should entertain
other possibilities. She might have been some member of the greater Mytilenean
community, unaffiliated with any particular “circle,” as the testimony about this woman’s
wealth might indicate. Whatever the specific context, it is clear from the fragment itself
that this woman is marked as an “outsider,” excluded from the activities of Sappho and
her circle. Beyond the outside context of this poem, there are also internal textual problems
in the extant fragment. The exact reading of the second line, in particular, has been a
source of disagreement. Stobaeus, the fullest source for these lines, prints οὐδὲ
†ποκ’†ὔστερον, but unfortunately this is not metrical. Various solutions have been
35
See respectively Stob. 3.4.12; Plut. Coniug. Praec. 145f-146a; Plut. Quaest. Conv. 646ef.
Some scholars have related Aristides’ testimony to other poems (such as 32 V and 147 V) (see Ferrari
(2010): 43n14 for a helpful overview of opinions). However, it is hard to imagine that Aristides is not
thinking of this poem, even if, as Yatromanolakis (2006): 381n2 suggests, Aristides is conflating multiple
poems in his description.
36
120 proposed: some editors correct the meter by printing an <εἰς> ὔστερον, other editors
replace ποκ’ with some noun, such as ὄνυµ <εἰς> ὔστερον or ἔρος <εἰς> ὔστερον.37
Yatromanolakis has recently even argued that there is an early instance of ἔπος (“word”
or “verse”) in the line, suggesting the reading οὐδὲ ἔπος <εἰς> ὔστερον (“nor will there
be a verse for you”).38 I have chosen, however, to print the emendation first proposed by
Bucherer and printed in Campbell’s 1982 Loeb edition: οὐδὲ πόθα <εἰς> ὔστερον (“nor
will there be desire for you”). The main objection to this reading, as Yatromanolakis
notes, is that nowhere else in Sappho and Alcaeus does this specific form of the noun
appear. The Lesbian poets regularly use the masculine form πόθος, but we do not have
any other attestations of the feminine form in Sappho and Alcaeus.39 But ποθή is a
perfectly good Homeric word, and I see no reason that Sappho or Alcaeus couldn’t have
used it.40 Despite its unorthodox form, reading the word ποθή in line 2 has the advantage
of linking desire and memory of the beloved in one word. πόθος and related words appear
in funerary epigrams of the archaic period, pointedly stating the desire for a lost loved
one. 41 In fact, thematically the juxtaposition between “memory” and “desire” can be
paralleled in Sappho 96.15-7 V: πόλλα δὲ ζαφοίταισ’ ἀγάνας ἐπι-/µνάσθεισ’ Ἄτθιδος
ἰµέρωι /λέπταν ποι φρένα κ[.]ρ... βόρηται (“often as she goes back and forth she
37
Yatromanolakis (2006): 386-7 has a very useful overview of the various readings of this passage.
Ibid., 387-8.
39
See Yatromanolakis (2006): 387. For πόθος, see Sappho 22.11 V, 48.2 V, 102.2 V, 94.23 V. See also
ποθήω at 36 V and πόθεννον at 15.11 V.
40
For ποθή in Homer, see Il. 1.240, 6.362, 11.471, 14.368, 17.690, 17.704; Od. 2.126, 8.414, 10.505,
15.514, 15.546. The definition that Cunliffe (1923): s.v. provides in his dictionary is enough to show how
suitable ποθή is for the context of Sappho 55 V: “A longing, yearning, or mourning for a person or thing
absent or lost.”
41
See CEG 10.10, 104, 175. 128 may or may not be funerary in nature. The most famous instance of this
word in Greek literature, Dionysius’ πόθος for the dead Euripides in Aristophanes’ Frogs (ln. 54), also
nicely illustrates the erotically charged sense of lost that the word indicates. Hercules’ questions to
Dionysius in the lines following (“[A desire] for a woman? For a boy? For a MAN?) (lns. 55-6) further
show that the word can indeed have erotic overtones.
38
121 remembers gentle Atthis and is consumed with desire in her tender heart”).42
Furthermore, the presence of a form of the verb φοιτάω in both passages (φοιτάσηις in
55.4, ζαφοίταισ’ in 96.15) suggests that these two passages are very closely related
thematically. I will discuss the meaning and implications of the verb φοιτάω in 96V in
more detail below, but for now it is enough to note that fragment 96 provides a strong
parallel to fragment 55 in thought and diction. I therefore believe that Campbell’s
reconstruction is the likeliest reading of this passage. Although the following
interpretation will not depend on this particular reading, I hope my analysis will be
supported by it.43
However we read this second line, it is clear that this fragment as a whole
illustrates the consequences of not being a member of Sappho’s group. As Hardie notes,
this poem is “a vindictive reversal of the literary motif of predicted glory and
immortality.” He rightly compares Theognis 245-7 (Gerber): “nor in death will you lose
your fame, but you will be on men’s minds, always possessing an unwithering name,
Cyrnus”) (οὐδέποτ’ οὐδὲ θανὼν ἀπολεῖς κλέος, ἀλλὰ µελήσεις / ἄφθιτον ἀνθρώποισ’
αἰὲν ἔχων ὄνοµα, / Κύρνε).44 In contrast to Theognis’ explicit mention of Cyrnus’ name
(note the juxtaposition of the word ὄνοµα (“name”) and the direct apostrophe Κύρνε),
Sappho never names her opponent.45 Although the rest of the poem is lost, the confusion
in the testimonia about the identity of the woman seems to suggest that Sappho never
named her addressee even in the lost remainder of the poem. By refusing to mention her
name even once, Sappho denies her even the slightest share of the fame associated with
42
In the Frogs Dionysius’ πόθος for Euripides is also described as a ἵµερος at line 59.
It should be noted that Hardie (2005): 17, 17n30 also restores πόθα and detects a sound play with the
ἐκπεποταµένα of the last line.
44
See Hardie (2005): 17.
45
Ibid.
43
122 her own song. Denying this woman a name results in a denial of her fame.
This poem, therefore, serves to characterize Sappho’s circle in a negative sense,
illustrating through the example of this anonymous woman what they are not. Unlike the
addressee, they do share (πεδέχηις) in the roses of Pieria. The verb πεδέχω (Aeolic for
µετέχω), as Hardie has shown, indicates participation in shared, communal activities.46
The mention of “Pieria,” as often in archaic Greek literature, here indicates the main
cultic center of the Muses, and stands as a metonym for the practice of poetry.47 The
anonymous woman’s exclusion from “sharing” in the “roses from Pieria” (βρόδων τὼν
ἐκ Πιερίας), therefore, probably indicates exclusion from the shared musical activities of
Sappho’s group.48 Indeed there is a sarcastic echo of the prefix πεδέχηις in the last line of
our fragment, where the woman wanders unseen “amongst the dark corpses” (πεδ’
ἀµαύρων νεκύων).49 Instead of sharing in the communal music-making of Sappho’s
circle, she will “share” the afterlife with the shades of the dead. And if we accept
Bucherer’s restoration of πόθα, the “charm” that is denied to this woman is also distinctly
erotic. Nobody will long for her, in contrast to the longing that figures such as Anactoria
in fragment 16 V instill even in their absence. Sappho’s circle has a monopoly on all
things musical and graceful, and exclusion from Sappho’s group means exclusion from
these things. As noted above, there is a thematic correspondence between “memory” and
“desire” in Sappho’s poetry: the desire that one feels for an absent person rekindles the
memory of her. Therefore, deprived of the charm and grace of Sappho’s group, the
46
Ibid, 17-18.
Hardie (2005): 17-18 has an excellent discussion of this symbolism, with the attendant bibliography. He
notes that the phrase “roses from Pieria” most likely indicates a crown. The denial of this crown to this
woman both excludes her from wearing it as a mark of devotion to the goddess (hence symbolizing her lack
of musical talent) and also wearing it as a mark of victory and praise (hence symbolizing her eventual
oblivion).
48
Lardinois (2008): 86-7 especially emphasizes this. See also Hardie (2005): 17-18.
49
As Hardie (2005): 17-8 notes.
47
123 anonymous woman lacks any means to preserve her posthumous memory amongst the
living.
In fact this language of “sharing” and “participation” is not without eschatological
implications. Two different views of the afterlife seemed to co-exist side by side from the
eighth century on.50 The first view cynically represents the afterlife as a sort of nonexistence. Hades was a dark and gloomy place, where the shades wandered aimlessly
without any consciousness or any hope.51 The dead soul of Achilles in Book 11 of the
Odyssey best embodies this pessimistic outlook when he declares: “I would rather be a
hired laborer and be a thrall for another, for a man without his own property, who does
not have much to eat, than to rule all the shades of the dead” (489-91). Even the very
worst kind of life, being a hired laborer to a man who himself is poor, is preferable to
death.
Although this “traditional” view appears most often in our literary texts, at a cultic
level there existed a different view of the afterlife. Certain mystery cults in antiquity
promised to their followers a happier existence after death. The most prominent of these
cults was the Eleusinian Mysteries. Located in the deme of Eleusis in Attica, the annual
festival of the Mysteries held initiation rites for both men and women, the exact details of
which remain to this day one of the best-kept secrets of antiquity.52 By participating in
and completing these rites, initiates were promised a better lot in Hades. While the
specific details of this afterlife are not always clear, one persistent feature of descriptions
of it throughout antiquity is especially pertinent to our inquiry: the presence of festivities,
50
See Morris (1989): 303-313 for an overview of archaic attitudes towards death; see also 310-12 for a
discussion of mystery cult and its likely eighth century origins (with bibliography).
51
An overview of pessimistic views of the underworld and their relevance to Sappho’s depiction of the
underworld can be found in Boedeker (1979): 46-7.
52
A good introduction to the mysteries can be found in Foley (1994): 65-71.
124 dancing, and chorality. Aristophanes in his Frogs makes a group of initiates in the
underworld a chorus, who can exclude those who they deem unfit from participating in
their dances.53 Plutarch describes the moment of the death when an initiate first sees the
underworld in terms of its festive sights and sounds: “from this [darkness] a marvelous
light meets [him], and purified regions and meadows receive him, and he perceives
voices, dancing, and the dignity of sacred sounds and holy sights” (frag. 168 Sandbach).
Diogenes Laertius even reports that the blessed got front row seats at events in afterlife
(6.39)! These instances can be multiplied.54 It appears that throughout antiquity, concepts
of the “good” afterlife were significantly colored by visions of song and dance.
It is in this context of mystery cult and their promises of a highly musical afterlife
that Sappho’s language of “sharing” and “participation” are especially loaded. Rösler has
in fact suggested that the Muses played a similar role for Sappho’s group as the
Eleusinian mysteries did for its initiates.55 Like the Eleusinian mysteries, the “cult of the
Muses” offered a separate realm for poets after death. By sharing and participating in
Sappho’s group, her pupils could themselves achieve a better life. Hardie has revived
Rösler’s suggestion in a recent article, but his argument remains largely speculative.56
While there were likely cults of the Muses on Lesbos, it is not clear that that they had the
strong eschatological beliefs that Rösler posits.57 Even such evidence linking Sappho to a
cult of the Muses, like her tantalizing reference to her and her group as “servants of the
Muses” (µοισοπόλων) (150 V), has a difficult and uncertain relationship with cultic
53
See Ar. Ran 324-459; for the (humorous) list of those excluded from its chorus, see 354-71.
See Foley (1994): 71 for an overview and more examples.
55
See Rösler (1980): 73n. 110.
56
In this regard, Hardie (2005): 30-1 surveys the evidence for mystery cults on Lesbos, but can only
conclude that it is a possibility for it to exist, and the Sapphic poems may or may not reflect cultic realities.
57
For evidence of cults of the Muses on Lesbos, see Shields (1917): 69-71.
54
125 realities on the ground.58 As Timothy Power notes, it is unlikely that Sappho applies this
title to her circle in a strict sense, since, unlike other µουσοπόλοι attested in antiquity,
Sappho’s group was not a professional organization. Rather, the title seems to be applied
metaphorically to express their devotion to the archetypical patrons of song and dance.59
Therefore, it seems more likely that in 55 V Sappho appropriates the language of mystery
cult as a metaphor for her own poetry, rather than reflecting the actual beliefs of the Muse
cult.
As it turns out, a recently published fragment has provided us a glance of Sappho
herself performing in the afterlife. It will prove useful to examine it in some detail before
returning to fragment 55:
].ο.[
]. υχ̣..[
]. νῦν θ̣α̣λ̣[ί]α̣ γ̣.[
] .ν̣έρθε δὲ γᾶς γ̣ε.[
]..ν ἔχο̣ι̣σαγ γ̣έρας ὠς [ἔ]ο̣ικε̣ν̣
θαυµά]ζ̣οιεν ὠς νῦν ἐπὶ γᾶς ἔοισαν
]λιγύ̣ραν, [α]ἴ̣ κεν ἔλοισα πᾶκτιν
]…. α. κ̣άλα, Μοῖσ’, ἀείδω.
Now festivity…but under the earth…possessing the honor, as it is
proper…they marvel at me as they do now when I am on the earth…clear,
if taking up the lyre….I sing, Muse, beautifully.
The version of the text I print is the editio princeps of Gronewald and Daniel (2004) with
one exception.60 The supplement θαυµά]ζ̣οιεν, first proposed by West, seems consistent
with the traces in the papyrus, and also is assured by the Roman poet Horace’s imitation
58
For a detailed discussion of this passage, see Hardie (2005): 14-17.
Power (2010): 389-90. Power instead locates the term within early associations of Lesbian citharodes on
Lesbos (see 385-93). If this is the case, this reflects a significant point of contact with Sappho’s poetry and
Lesbian citharody.
60
West (2005): 3, Hardie (2005): 24 and Ferrari (2010): 65 all offer fuller reconstructions of the poem, but
for our purposes the main contours of the fragment can be seen from the bare text.
59
126 of these lines.61 In Ode 2.13 Horace describes a narrow escape from a falling tree, and
imagines himself making a journey to the underworld and seeing Sappho and Alcaeus
performing there. Horace describes the shades’ reaction to their performance as utrumque
sacro digna silentio / mirantur umbrae dicere (“and the shades marvel that both tell of
matters that require a reverent silence”) (2.13.29-20).62 The verb mirantur is a close
translation of θαυµάζοιεν, suggesting that Horace is consciously imitating these lines. In
this case, Horace’s poem helps to provide further proof that Sappho claimed to perform
in the afterlife and can help guide interpretation of this fragment.
Even in its tattered state, the fragment clearly depends on a contrast between the
present festivities (νῦν θ̣α̣λ̣[ί]α̣) and Sappho’s posthumous fate “under the earth” (ν̣έρθε
δὲ γᾶς). In death, she expects some sort of γέρας, which Hardie aptly defines as “a prize
or privilege, a perquisite which attaches as of right to a particular status or which comes
as an appropriate recognition of achievement.”63 Presumably this geras will consist of her
continuing performance in the underworld; the next line seems to indicate as much with
its wish for the crowd’s wonder as “now when I am on the earth” (ὠς νῦν ἐπὶ γᾶς
ἔοισαν). The verb θαυµάζω and its noun form θαῦµα in archaic Greek literature indicate
a stupefied feeling of wonder. It has strong associations with visual perception and can
often describe the response of an audience to a performance.64 This description of the
underworld denizens’ reaction not only describes what she expects in Hades, but also
61
West (2005): 3. Hardie (2005): 23 and Ferrari (2010): 65 both concur. Hammerstaedt (2009): 25 notes
that the reading ]ζοιεν is quite possible, since “the surface was once torn in such a way that the lower
horizontal was obliquely disposed.”
62
Note also the religious language of the phrase sacro…silentio; as Nisbett and Hubbard (1978): ad loc
write, “Here the language of religion is transferred to poetry.” Given the eschatological language of 55V,
this is striking concurrence.
63
Hardie (2005): 24.
64
For a handy list of instances where θαυµάζω indicates audience response, see Hardie (2005): 23n72. For
the visual connotations of θαῦµα and θαυµάζω, see Prier (1989): 84-7, 91-4.
127 implies that the current audience also should be amazed at her poetry. It constructs the
current audience’s idealized reaction as much as it anticipates one in the afterlife. It is not
surprising then that the end of the poem itself seems to return to the present performance,
where this geras will be earned “if taking up the lyre….I sing, Muse, beautifully”( [α]ἴ̣
κεν ἔλοισα πᾶκτιν… κ̣άλα, Μοῖσ’, ἀείδω).65 The poem ends with the verb “I sing”
(ἀείδω), implying continuity between the present performance and the one in the
afterlife. Sappho’s fate after death, therefore, depends on the audience’s reception of her
current song.
This vision of Sappho’s own future performances in the underworld forms a
marked contrast to the anonymous woman’s fate in F 55V. While Sappho’s own afterlife
is filled with singing and dancing typical of descriptions of Eleusinian visions of the
afterlife, the anonymous’ woman’s afterlife is filled with nothing but damp and dark. The
woman is consigned “to wander unseen (ἀφάνης) among the dark corpses (πεδ’ ἀµαύρων
νεκύων).” Driven from Sappho’s own group, she has fallen from an “Eleusinian” sort of
afterlife into a Homeric one. Furthermore, the emphasis on the darkness in this
description not only reflects the general gloom of the underworld, but also underscores
the invisibility of the woman herself. As Lardinois rightly notes, this unseen wandering
can be contrasted with the brilliant choral performances of Sappho’s fellow group
65
It should be noted that other scholars reconstruct this final line differently. The main bone of contention
is the two words before the verb ἀείδω. Obbink (2009): 10 remains agnostic about the intrepetation of these
word(s), while West (2005): 3 prints θαλάµοις’. He argues that “this last-minute apostrophe of the Muse
does not look natural. Elsewhere in Sappho (six times) the Muses are always plural.” But other archaic
poets (such as Pindar) call upon a singular Muse regularly, sometimes quite late into a poem (see Isthm.
6.57 (ὦ Μοῖσα); also see Pyth. 4.279, though not in the vocative). Hardie (2005): 25 suggests that this
singular address arises from the mention of the Muse-name Thalia in the third line. On the same page, he
also lists other examples of early archaic Greek addresses to the Muse. Furthermore, the dative θαλάµοις’ is
very awkward, and it is unclear how it contributes to the overall sense of the line. This makes me believe
that the most likely reading is the κ̣άλα, Μοῖσ’ printed in the text above.
128 members, and for that matter, Sappho herself.66 The “shared activities” from which this
woman is excluded includes participation in the chorus, both in the present and in the
afterlife. Instead of performing for a crowd of willing spectators entranced with her
physical and musical charis, no one in the underworld can even see this anonymous
woman, let alone praise her poetry. The nameless darkness to which Sappho banishes this
woman blots out not only her memory and fame amongst the living, but even the
possibility of performance amongst the dead. In the underworld, no one can see you
dance.
In 55V, therefore, we see a significant piece of Sapphic self-representation.
Whether these two fragments represent actual cultic views on the part of Sappho or
whether they are primarily a literary conceit, it is clear that Sappho employs
eschatological language to represent the superiority of her own group. In the case of 55V,
she uses this language to vindictively exclude an outsider from her group and conversely
to express the pre-eminence and exceptionality of Sappho’s own circle. This outsider is
systematically denied all the benefits of Sapphic musical education and participation:
music ability, memory, erotic charm, and participation in the chorus. And her exclusion
extends into the afterlife: unlike the brilliant and wondrous performance that Sappho
imagines for herself in the underworld, the shade of this unfortunate woman is left to eke
out a shadowy half-existence in Hades. Fragment 55V is the best preserved and the most explicit example of when
Sappho uses an outsider to contrast her own group’s singing and dancing. However, this
pattern recurs multiple times elsewhere in the Sapphic corpus, albeit in a more tattered
form. Another example can be found in the poem that describes Mica’s defection
66
Lardinois (2008): 87.
129 (mentioned earlier above):
]µισσε Μίκα
]ελα[... ἀλ]λά σ’ ἔγωὐκ ἐάσω
]ν φιλότ[ατ’] ἤλεο Πενθιλήαν̣
]δα κα̣[….]τροπ’, ἄµµα[
]µέλ̣[ος] τι γλύκερον .[
ἔγεντ̣[
]α µελλιχόφων[ον] ὤ̣ραν
οὐ γάρ κ[
]δει, λίγυραι δ’ ἄη[ται (71 V)
Mica… but I will not allow you…you chose the friendship of the
Penthilids… villain(?)…us…a sweet song… arises…soft-voiced season
for in fact not…clear-sounding breezes
The text printed here differs from Voigt’s, and takes into account recent advances
in the reconstruction of the papyrus.67 Most problematically for our purposes, the
supplement κα̣[κό]τροπ’ (“villain”) printed by most editors seems to be too short to fit in
the gap in the papyrus.68 Recently, Ferrari has proposed a bold reconstruction of this
word as πολύ]τροπε (“fickle” or “wily”), but this word, besides being unparalleled in
Lesbian diction, also seems to be slightly too long.69 I therefore print the bare text and do
not attempt to restore the word, which in any event seems to have been some sort of
insult. While the text is badly damaged and its exact meaning is somewhat obscure, a
general line of thought can be made out. The surviving fragment begins with a direct
apostrophe to Mica. In the next line, Sappho seems to vehemently refuse to allow Mica to
do something. What exactly this “something” is is unclear, but in the next line Sappho
67
Puglia (2007): 28-9 has convincingly restored to this fragment some stray papyrus scraps. This has
provided the final lines of the poem with a slightly richer context, providing us with the verb ἔγεντ̣[ and the
noun ὤραν in line 6 and the particles οὐ γάρ κ[ in line 7. Furthermore, because there is a coronis to the side
of one of the papyrus scraps, this join also indicates that the poem must have ended at line 7. Therefore the
word “dewey” (δροσ[ό]εσσα) in line 8, as printed in both Voigt and Lobel-Page’s editions, must belong to
the next poem.
68
Voigt and L-P, Treu (1976), Campbell (1982b), Aloni (1997), and even Ferrari (1987) all print
κα[κό]τροπ’.
69
Ferrari (2010): 53.
130 states her reason for her prohibition: Mica has chosen the friendship of the Penthelids.
The Penthelids, as described earlier, were the ruling family of Mytilene before a series of
tyrannies rocked the city, and their political fortunes were only reversed when one of the
tyrants, Pittacus, married into the clan. In this case, it appears that Mica has chosen to
cast her lot with a rival choir-group that is affiliated (sponsored?) by the Penthelid clan.
The dichotomy between us and them is further emphasized, no matter how we reconstruct
the next line, by the mention of the “us” (ἄµµα[) (ln.4). This focus on “us” seems to lead
into a description of the present performance. The lines here are extremely lacunose, but
the phrases “a sweet song” µέλ̣[ος] τι γλύκερον and “soft-voiced” (µελλιχόφων) seem to
indicate man-made music. µέλος in archaic Greek literature almost always refers to
human song, particularly lyric poetry.70 Sappho appears to be describing her own group’s
song, and by implication, the present song as it is being performed. In the final lines of
the poem the description of the season (ὤ̣ραν) and the “clear-sounding breezes” (λίγυραι
δ’ ἄη[ται) seem to indicate that the time of year and natural landscape complements the
music performance. If not calling attention to the place of performance itself, she is
creating an idealized landscape where her group’s songs can flow freely.71 Mica, by
implication, is banned not only from participation in this shared performance of song and
dance, but spatially exiled from this idyllic landscape. Finally, another extremely tattered fragment yields one of the most explicit
70
Contra Ferrari (2010): 53-4, who argues that the sounds at the end of the poem are natural. As he writes,
“the song seems to culminate in a comparison between the absence of notes produced by musical
instruments and the presence of breezes enlivening the spring landscape with their sounds.” But µέλος
almost always indicates man-made music, and I can find no other instance in archaic Greek literature
through Pindar where µέλος indicates anything other than man-made sounds. In this regard, Alcman PMG
39 is instructive, where “Alcman has discovered these words and song by comprehending the warbling
voice of partridges” (Ϝέπη τάδε καὶ µέλος Ἀλκµὰν /εὗρε γεγλωσσαµέναν /κακκαβίδων ὄπα συνθέµενος).
Natural sounds are thus “arranged” (συνθέµενος) into words and lines of poetry (Ϝέπη τάδε) and a song
(µέλος).
71
For other Sapphic “landscapes,” see e.g. 2, 96.7-14 V.
131 references to Sappho’s own posthumous fame. .....]...α[
..Ἀνδ]ροµέ[δα
.....].ελασ̣[
.ροτ̣ήννεµε[
Ψάπφοι, σὲ φίλ[
Κύπρωι̣ β̣[α]σίλ[
κ̣αί τοι µέγα δῶ[ρον
ὄ]σσοις φαέθων̣ [
πάνται κλέος [
καί σ’ ἐνν Ἀχέρ[οντ
..[......]ν̣π̣[ (65 V)
Andromeda…Sappho, I love you…Cyprus…queen…and for you a great
(gift?)…to all whom the sun shining…everywhere fame, and you in
Acheron… As can be expected, there are some textual problems with this fragment, and the text
printed here differs in some ways from the one printed in Voigt.72 Most importantly for
our purposes, the supplement “Andromeda” in line 2 has been questioned by some
editors.73 However, no other persuasive supplements have been proposed, and
Andromeda’s name fits the context. In Ferrari’s recent reconstruction of the poem, for
example, he assumes the presence of the name and interprets it as a poem directly
addressed against Andromeda.74 Since this fits nicely with the pattern I have been
elucidating, I retain the name.
72
In line 7 I have chosen to print κ̣αί τοι (where τοι = σοι) as opposed to both Voigt’s and Lobel-Page’s
καίτοι (see Ferrari (2005): 23)). I also restore δῶ[ρον to the same line, following Fränkel. In light of the socalled “New Sappho” poem on old age, this seems like a reasonable supplement. The opening of this newly
discovered poem reveals that Sappho elsewhere uses “gifts” in a metaphorical sense to indicate divine
dispensations to mortals, more specifically the “gifts of the violet-bosomed Muses” (Μοίσαν ἰ]οκ[ό]λπω
κάλα δῶρα) of song and dance. Naturally if δῶ[ρον is the correct supplement to line 7, κ̣αί τοι becomes
greatly preferable to other alternatives.
73
This supplement was first proposed in the editio princeps of Hunt, and Treu (1976) approves of it.
Ferrari’s reconstructions in (2005) and (2010): 55-6 both assume the presence of the name. However, L-P
and Voigt do not print it. Campbell (1982b), Ferrari (1987) also do not print this reading, but suggest it
with a question mark in the accompanying translation. Aloni (1997) prints the name, but notes that the
reading is “assai incerto.”
74
Ferrari (2010): 55-64.
132 If we accept that Andromeda’s name appears in the beginning of the fragment,
Sappho’s response falls along lines similar to the other fragments we have analyzed. In
response to opposition, she appeals to her group’s and her own musical ability. Here it
appears that she accomplishes this by fictionalizing a conversation between her and
Aphrodite, a poetic strategy she uses mostly famously in Sappho 1 V. Aphrodite, directly
addressing Sappho, expresses her love for her (the broken φίλ[ must indicate some form
of the verb φίληµι, the Aeolic form of φιλέω “love”). The next line seems to express
more concretely how Aphrodite “loves” Sappho and what form this divine favor will
take. If the supplement δῶ[ρον is correct, Aphrodite promises to provide a “great gift” to
Sappho. The nature of this gift is revealed in the next few lines: the gift appears to be
widespread fame (πάνται κλέος). This fame seems to be extended as far as the sun shines
(however, we supplement the line beginning ὄ]σσοις φαέθων̣, this must be the general
gist of it).75 The geographical extension of Sappho’s fame above the earth in fact seems
to be contrasted with Sappho’s posthumous fate in Hades. If the recently uncovered
fragment about her performing in the underworld is any indication, it appears that this
poem also promises Sappho a blessed existence in the afterlife. The spread of her fame
above the ground perfectly complements her continual performance beneath it. Although several of these poems are extremely lacunose and any interpretation
must by necessity be provisional, a general pattern does emerge. When faced with
adversity from her rivals, she emphasizes the pre-eminence and authority of her own
song. This authority is expressed in a number of ways. Sometimes she emphasizes the
quality of the present performance (71 V), sometimes she fictionalizes a conversation
75
See e.g. West’s (2005): 2 restoration of “to all whom shining Helios encompasses with its rays” (ὄ]σσοις
φαέθων [Ἀέλιος φέγγεσιν ἀµφιβ]άσκ[ει).
133 with Aphrodite (65 V), sometimes she uses the language of mystery cult (55 V). What
unites these disparate rhetorical strategies is that they mark Sappho and her group off
from outsiders. Her close relationship with Aphrodite, the exquisiteness of the present
song, and the general charm and pleasure the group exudes as a whole all distinguish her
and her circle from the community at large. The most extreme version of this rhetoric of
exclusivity is her assertion that she will be secured a special place in Hades because of
her poetry. Although I believe this is most likely a poetic conceit, it remains a bold claim.
No other lyric poet claims such privileges from the Muses, and in such an explicit
manner. In emphasizing her exclusivity and her posthumous fame in the face of
opposition within her community, Sappho adopts a persona familiar from another Greek
author, Theognis. In his elegiac poetry, Theognis often laments his poor reception
amongst his townsmen. For example, at one point he writes, “I can’t understand the
attitude my townsmen have. I don’t please them when I act well or badly: but many
criticize me, both the bad and the good; but none of those without skill can imitate me”
(Οὐ δύναµαι γνῶναι νόον ἀστῶν ὅντιν’ ἔχουσιν· /οὔτε γὰρ εὖ ἕρδων ἁνδάνω οὔτε
κακῶς· /µωµεῦνται δέ µε πολλοί, ὁµῶς κακοὶ ἠδὲ καὶ ἐσθλοί· /µιµεῖσθαι δ’ οὐδεὶς τῶν
ἀσόφων δύναται) (367-70 Gerber). The word ἄσοφος (“one without wisdom / skill”), as
often in early Greek poetry, indicates specifically poetic skill and wisdom. Unable to
satisfy his fellow citizens, he falls back on the incomparable quality of his poetry.
Another more prominent example appears in the first half of the famous sphragis poem at
the beginning of the Theognidea:
134 οὐδέ τις ἀλλάξει κάκιον τοὐσθλοῦ παρεόντος·
ἀστοῖσιν δ’ οὔπω πᾶσιν ἁδεῖν δύναµαι.
οὔθ’ ὕων πάντεσσ’ ἁνδάνει οὔτ’ ἀνέχων. (19-26 Gerber)
Cyrnus, let a seal be set on these verses as I practice my skill, and their
theft will not go unnoticed, nor will anybody take in exchange anything
worse when something good is right there, but everyone will say the
following: “These verses are Theognis of Megara’s, famous amongst all
mankind.” But I am still not able to please all the townsmen. Nor is it
remarkable, Polypaïdes: not even Zeus pleases everybody when he rains
or holds back.76
As Nagy accurately notes about these lines: “The poetry itself is setting up a dramatic
tension between its own present and the future. In his own here-and-now, the poet cannot
be wholly accepted even by his own community; in the future, he will be accepted not
only by all Megarians but also by all Hellenes.”77 Theognis’ own future fame therefore
compensates for the current hostility amongst his countrymen. Moreover, this rhetorical
device allows Theognis to brush off any criticism: even Zeus can’t please everybody
when it rains. In effect the assertion of future and posthumous fame is intended to cast
doubt on those blaming him in the present.
Like Theognis, Sappho’s assertions of her own exclusivity and international fame
function as a way of discrediting the opposition. By emphasizing her superlative poetical
skill, she rebuffs the challenge made to her authority by rivals such as Andromeda.
Although Andromeda can trick young girls into abandoning Sappho and joining her
group, time will eventually show Sappho’s inherent superiority. And even at the time of
the present performance, the very utterance and enactment of these poems to a public
76
My translation and interpretation follow closely Gerber’s Loeb. For a more detailed discussion of this
poem and the interpretive issues involved, see my chapter of Theognis below.
77
Nagy (1985): 35.
135 audience of other community members would constitute “proof” of her circle’s marked
superiority. This in fact, illustrates a key difference from Sappho’s rhetoric and
Theognis’. While Theognis appears to slight the here and now in hope of future poetic
glory, Sappho in several instances (the new Sappho “underworld” poem; 71 V)
emphasizes the general quality of the present performance. This difference probably
reflects differences in genre and performative context: Theognis, unlike Sappho, was
composing for private sympotic performance by non-professional musicians. In any case,
Sappho thus creates a causal link between the present audience’s reaction and her
upcoming glory. The new Sapphic fragment discussed above does precisely this, only
claiming a special place in the underworld if she performs in a pleasing manner ([α]ἴ̣ κεν
ἔλοισα πᾶκτιν… κ̣άλα, Μοῖσ’, ἀείδω). Even as a poet with special musical skills and a
special relationship to Aphrodite, her fortunes and posthumous fame depend on her
audience. Performance of the poem then negotiates a complex dialectic of distinction
from and integration with the audience and community.
An Agōn at the Kallisteia?
One more question remains: where was poetry like this, so full of open
declarations of hostility towards her rivals and so full of poetical self-aggrandizing
actually performed? As I have argued in this chapter, Sappho’s poetry was primarily
choral and meant to be publically performed. These “rivalry” poems should be viewed in
this light, as publically performed moves in an intricate game of aristocratic selffashioning. Given this public context, the continual directness of these poems is striking,
with their frequent apostrophe (Μίκα (71.1 V), Ἀνδ]ροµέ[δα (65.2)) and second-persons
136 (κείσηι, σέθεν, πεδέχηις , φοιτάσηις in 55 V; σ’ , ἤλεο, and however we restore the
vocative ]τροπ’ in 71 V). While it could be argued that these deictic markers are
“fictive,” addressed to a rival not actually present at the performance, their very
frequency, in my opinion, suggests that something more complex is going on. Rhetorical
flourishes such as the (“I will not allow you”) (σ’ ἔγωὐκ ἐάσω) addressed to Mica in 71
V, Sappho’s taunt about Andromeda’s boorish lover (57 V), or her greeting of a
Polyanactid girl (155V) lose their effect if the rival is not present in the performance. The
aggressiveness and straightforwardness of these statements and the gestures that likely
accompanied them suggest a more sustained interaction between Sappho’s group and its
professional rivals.
I would like to suggest a different alternative: that the majority of the fragments
addressed to her rivals discussed above were performed in a festival with a specific
agonistic context, where competing choral groups could literally address one another.
One such a festival is the Kallisteia, which has been surprisingly understudied as a
possible location for the performance of Sappho’s poetry.78 The location of this festival
has been disputed, but most scholars follow the conclusions of Robert, who places it at
the Messon sanctuary in the middle of the island.79 This Messon sanctuary was a federal
religious site common to all the cities in Lesbos. The religious unity it fostered seems to
have been considerable, judging from the fact that, when the Lesbians established their
own koinon centuries later, they chose this site as their headquarters.80 However, in the
time of Sappho and Alcaeus, the political impact of this site was limited, and the different
78
The major exception being Gregory Nagy, who believes that this was the primary locus for the
performance of Sapphic poetry. See Nagy (1993), (2007): 24-8; (2009).
79
Robert (1960): 304. For helpful discussions and overviews of the issue, see Liberman (1999): 216;
Constantakopoulou (2005): 15-6.
80
Constantakopoulou (2005): 16.
137 cities in Lesbos seemed to have largely remained autonomous. The Kallisteia festival
would have been a rare moment of unity for an otherwise fractured political landscape.
The Kallisteia happens to be the only festival described in some detail by the
Lesbian poets themselves. There are indications that Sappho performed there in some
capacity: it is likely that Sappho F17, a prayer addressed to Hera (πότνι’ Ἠρα) was
performed at this sanctuary.81 Furthermore, an anonymous epigrammatist in the Palatine
Anthology (9.189) imagines Sappho setting up a chorus in the precinct of Hera, probably
to be identified with this same festival.82 However, the most detailed description of the
festival appears in the work of her contemporary Alcaeus. When he is in exile from
Mytilene, he describes how he happens upon the sanctuary and sees (or imagines) a
festival underway: ὄππαι Λ[εσβί]αδες κριννόµεναι φύαν
πώλεντ’ ἐλκεσίπεπλοι, περὶ δὲ βρέµε
ἄχω θεσπεσία γυναίκων
ιρα[ς ὀ]λολύγας ἐνιαυσίας (130b. 17-20 V) where Lesbian women are judged for their figure and go back and forth
with their robes trailing, and the heavenly sound of the holy annual ritual
cry rings all around
Here the festivities take the form of a beauty contest. Several sources throughout
antiquity confirm that this festival was organized as a competition over female beauty
and that it was conducted in the precincts of the temple of Hera.83
81
It has been long noted that this prayer was probably performed in the same sanctuary that Alcaeus
mentions. See Page (1955): 168; Nagy (2007): 5-6.
82
See Page (1955): 168n4; Nagy (1993): 222-3.
83
The philosopher (and fellow Lesbian) Theophrastus calls it and other such contests κρίσεις
(“judgements” or “trials”) (fr. 564 Fortenbaugh et al = Ath. Xiii. 610ab) and a scholiast to the Iliad
describes it as a “competition over female beauty” (ἀγὼν… κάλλους γυναικῶν) (∑ Il. 9.129). This same
scholiast also provides the name of the festival and informs us about it being held in the precinct of Hera. It
must be noted that during Sappho’s and Alcaeus’ time there was not yet a temple. It was not built until at
least the fourth century B.C., and even this date is too early for many scholars (see Constantakopoulou
(2005): 15).
138 However, as evident from Alcaeus’ own description, this beauty pageant was not
just a matter of appearance and good looks, but also seemed to have involved choral
singing and dancing. The female ritual cry ὀλολυγή is a sure marker of choral
performance, probably indicating a prosodion (a song performed during the sacrificial
procession) most likely performed after the beauty contest.84 As for the beauty contest
itself, it seems, from the few scraps of information that remain, that the winners were
organized into a chorus. The victors are always mentioned in the plural, and some of the
collective names used to describe them, such as the term Λεσβίδας used by Homer, seem
to have choral overtones.85 Alcaeus describes the women as “going back and forth”
(πώλεντ’). Although the verb πώληµαι (Aeolic for πωλέοµαι) normally does not indicate
dancing or chorality, in context the movement “of going back and forth” could easily
indicate such an action.86 Most likely choral performances themselves were also the
mechanism by which the girls were judged for their beauty. Rival choruses probably
competed against each other, and their beauty as manifested within the performance was
the basis for their victory or defeat. These agonistic choral performances within the Kaillisteia festival, I would argue,
provide the most likely context for the Sapphic poems discussed above. In competing
against each other, individual choruses would highlight and proclaim their own special
84
For ὀλολυγή as a marker of chorality and its connection with the sacrifice, see Calame (2001): 78. Likely
Sappho 17 V, discussed above, was one of these songs.
85
For the Lesbiades as a probable choral group, see Calame (2001): 30-1. For references to this group as a
plural entity, see Hesych. s. v. Πυλαίδες: “Those women judged for their beauty and the winners” (αἱ ἐν
κάλλει κρινόµεναι τῶν γυναικῶν καὶ νικῶσαι). It is likely that Agamemnon’s reference to Lesbian women
in the Iliad is a specific reference to the Lesbiades at the Kallisteia (“and I will give him [Achilles] seven
women who know flawless works, Lesbiades, whom I chose for myself when he captured well-founded
Lesbos” (δώσω δ’ ἑπτὰ γυναῖκας ἀµύµονα ἔργα ἰδυίας / Λεσβίδας, ἃς ὅτε Λέσβον ἐϋκτιµένην ἕλεν αὐτὸς
/ἐξελόµην)(Il. 9.128-30).
86
Comparison can be made with the verb φοίταµι (Aeolic for φοιτάω) of 96.15 V, on which I will discuss
in more detail below.
139 musical and erotic charis at the expense of their rivals. In performing, poets would
upbraid and attack these rivals, in order to reduce their rivals’ charis and augment their
own. We can get some idea of the dynamics involved in these Sapphic performances
from the maiden songs of Alcman. In Alcman, choruses interact with themselves and the
audience in a number of ways: they address a member of the chorus who is dancing apart
(“but Astymeloisa does not respond to me” (Ἀ[σ]τυµέλοισα δέ µ’ οὐδὲν ἀµείβεται)
(PMG 3.64); the girls ask the audience to look at the chorus-leader with a deictic gesture
“… and her silver face -why do I speak openly?- here is Hagesichora” (τό τ’ ἀργύριον
πρόσωπον, / διαφάδαν τί τοι λέγω; /Ἁγησιχόρα µὲν αὕτα) (PMG 1.55-7); the same
taciturn Astymeloisa also walks through the crowd (Ἀ]στυµέλοισα κατὰ στρατόν) (PMG
3.71).87 The maiden chorus in the Louvre Partheneion even mention what could be
considered a rival chorus, “the Pleiads” (Πεληάδες).88 All of these examples give a sense
of the possible ways a chorus could single out both its own members for praise and its
rivals for taunting. These types of performative utterances, accompanied by deictic
gestures, choreographed maneuvers, and marked use of performative space, I suggest are
exactly what we see when Sappho says something like “I will not allow you, Mica” (σ’
ἔγωὐκ ἐάσω). While the exact choreography is irreparably lost to us, it is not stretch to
imagine these words were accompanied by some sort of gesture, as well as addressed
directly to Mica and her newfound friends in the audience. Maybe even both rival groups
danced at the same time, and by turns verbally assaulted each other on the dance floor.
This is of course entirely speculative, but it gives us an idea of how words and dance
87
In this all-too brief description of the performative dynamics of Alcman, I rely on Peponi (2007) greatly.
See PMG 1.60 for the mention of “the Pleiads.” For the rival chorus interpretation, see especially the
thoughts of Campbell (1982a): ad loc. However, “the rival chorus” interpretation seems to have fallen out
of favor with most recent commentators: for overviews and a listing of the very full bibliography on this
issue, see Stehle (1997): 79-82; Hutchinson (2001): 90-93.
88
140 were actually combined in performance at the Kallisteia. There are parallels to the type of festival proposed here. A less well-known and
less exact parallel comes from the Argive Hybristika. In this festival, women and men
lined up in dueling choruses and mocked each other.89 It seems that there was
transvestitism involved, and it seemed to involve the public shaming of men in order to
make them better warriors.90 A more exact parallel, however, appears in Herodotus Book
5. After narrating how the Aeginetans stole the statues of Damia and Auxesia, Herodotus
goes on to describe the rites the Aeginetans establish for their newly acquired statuary: Ἱδρυσάµενοι δὲ ἐν τούτῳ τῷ χώρῳ θυσίῃσί τέ σφεα καὶ χοροῖσι
γυναικηίοισι κερτόµοισι ἱλάσκοντο, χορηγῶν ἀποδεικνυµένων ἑκατέρῃ
τῶν δαιµόνων δέκα ἀνδρῶν· κακῶς δὲ ἠγόρευον οἱ χοροὶ ἄνδρα µὲν
οὐδένα,τὰς δὲ ἐπιχωρίας γυναῖκας. (Hdt. 5.83)
They established and propiated [the statues] in this spot with sacrifices and
mocking female choruses, where ten men acting as choregoi publically
presented the choruses for each of the gods. But the choruses attacked no
man, but only the local women.
There are some uncertainties in this description; it is not clear, for instance, whether there
are ten choruses for each god (making twenty total) or whether it was ten total, with five
choruses divided between the two gods.91 There are also questions about what exactly the
choregoi are doing: are they chorus-leaders proper, or are they choregoi in the sense
current in Athens at the time Herodotus was writing, more like sponsors who paid for the
performance?92
Whatever the case, it is apparent here that we have an example of choral mockery
that is restricted to women. The verb κερτοµέω is used by Herodotus only in this passage.
89
Henderson (1987): 98.
This is Stehle’s (1997): 112-3 interpretation. Plut. De. mul. vir. 245e-f directly mentions the transvestism.
91
Stehle (1997): 112.
92
Stehle (1997): 112 supports the “sponsors” thesis; Nagy (1990): 364-5 sees the men as full-blown chorus
leaders, like Alcman.
90
141 κερτοµέω, as described in an influential formulation by Jenny Strauss Clay, “signals an
indirect but intentional perlocutionary act, and means 'to provoke or goad someone
indirectly into doing something, intentionally trying to elicit a response that one expects,
anticipates, or desires.'”93 As such, κερτοµέω appears to be a more controlled form of
mockery, one directed to elicit a reaction without libeling the person it is directed at.94
This describes precisely the tonal level of the insults in Sappho we have analyzed above.
And like the Kallisteia, it appears that in the Argive example the choral groups were set
against each other. Rival choruses, composed of local women, appeared to mock each
other and possibly even other women in the audience.
And it is notable that in both of these examples men play pivotal roles in the
festival in some way. This suggests a mixed-gendered audience for both the Argive and
Aeginetan festivals. In the case of the Lesbian Kallisteia, it is unclear from Alcaeus’
fragmentary description whether this festival too had a mixed-gender audience or was
restricted to women.95 Is Alcaeus actually witnessing the festival underway, or is his
poetry recreating in words an event that as a male he cannot witness? Frustratingly
enough, the papyrus is tattered in just those sections that might answer this question. The
phrase Alcaeus uses before describing the festival (συνόδοισί µ’ αὔταις) would ideally
provide some information about the setting and audience of the festival, but the meaning
and even grammar of the phrase is unclear (130b.15 V). 96 Given the parallels mentioned
above, I would prefer to see Alcaeus’ mention of σύνοδος here as bringing us into the
93
Clay (1999): 618-9.
This is Collins’s (2004): 71-2 conclusion.
95
Calame (2001): 122-23, 122n98, 198-99 seems to believe that these festivals were exclusive to women.
96
For a discussion of the grammar of this phrase and its irregularities, see Page (1955): 208. As for the
word σύνοδος, it appears very rarely in archaic Greek poetry and at different times seems to indicate
different forms of “coming together.” At Empedocles 17.4 D-K the word indicates the “coming together”
of the elements. At Solon F 4. 22 it indicates a completely different sort of “coming together,” that is
“conspiracies” or “secret meetings.”
94
142 world of grand Ionian festivals with a mix-gendered audience, such as is described in the
Homeric Hymn to Apollo, rather than women’s only festivals such as the Thesmophoria.97 In any case, before either an entirely female or mixed-gender audience, it would
provide an occasion for Sappho and other chorus leaders to negotiate their place in the
community. Such a beauty contest would provide an ideal forum for the nexus of
aristocratic self-display and competition found in these “rivalry poems.” The winners of
such a contest would prove a family’s aristocratic province and inherited beauty, and
display it for the community to see. In the context of the Kallisteia, her “exclusive
stance” would have had have an added punch, because it implicitly speaks about the
ultimate form of exclusivity itself, that of victory. This need to vaunt one’s superiority
within performance perfectly maps onto the tension I discussed above, between Sappho’s
claims to poetic superiority and her need to please the current audience. Furthermore,
such a festival would provide a perfect location for Sappho’s own assertions of translocal
and international fame. By performing at the Kallisteia, she was already marketing her
poetry outside the narrow bounds of her home community at Mytilene. Out the Door and Into the World: Sappho’s Kleos
This “translocal” fame needs further explication. In 65V Sappho appears to claim
that she will have “fame everywhere” (πάνται κλέος). Although the other fragments
analyzed above do not specifically mention the word kleos, it seems implied by their
97
The Delian festival in the hymn is described ”where the Ionians with their trailing robes gather, along
with their children and their modest wives” (ἔνθα τοι ἑλκεχίτωνες Ἰάονες ἠγερέθονται / αὐτοῖς σὺν
παίδεσσι καὶ αἰδοίῃς ἀλόχοισιν) (Hymn. Hom. Ap. 147-8). Both festivals mentioned as way of example, the
festival on Delos and the Athenian Thesmophoria, are described as a σύνοδος by classical authors, the first
by Thucydides in his description of the ancient Delian festival (3.104), the second by Aristophanes in his
Thesmophoriazusae (lns. 301-4).
143 obsession with Sappho’s own posthumous fate. Kleos itself is a central concept for
archaic Greek poetry; as Gregory Nagy’s research has emphasized, the word often
denotes the fame created by (re)performance of the poetry itself. Kleos is therefore a
meta-poetic term, describing both the content of a poet’s song and its continuation within
a traditional generic medium. 98 While I have already discussed how Sappho uses
declarations of her fame as a response to her contemporary rivals, this does not explain
what her concept of kleos is. What exactly does it consist of? And how does Sappho
expect her poetry, performed in an essentially local context, to obtain such a
universalizing fame? Unfortunately, an analysis of the word κλέος within the diction of the Lesbian
poets will not get us very far: Alcaeus never uses the term, and elsewhere Sappho uses it
only once. The other solitary use of the word κλέος in Sappho, however, is suggestive,
even if the context is maddeningly unclear. At the beginning of 44 V, in announcing the
marriage of Hector and Andromache, a messenger declares, “all of Asia… imperishable
glory” (τάς τ’ ἄλλας Ἀσίας .[.]δε.αν κλέος ἄφθιτον) (44.4). Unfortunately, the previous
line before this is missing, so the exact relationship between this “imperishable glory”
and “all of Asia” cannot be discerned. But the phrase κλέος ἄφθιτον itself is highly
significant: it appears to be an extremely old and traditional phrase, with parallels in other
Indo-European meters.99 This is the exact phrase used in Book 9 of the Iliad, when
Achilles announces the terms of his “choice”: “if I remain here and do battle around the
city of the Trojans, my return home will be lost, but I will have fame imperishable”
(κλέος ἄφθιτον ἔσται) (9.412-3). Given the preponderance of epic language and
98
99
See especially Nagy (1974): 248; (1979): 16-18; (1990): 150-1.
See Nagy (1974): 109-116.
144 phraseology in this poem, this verbal contact with the Iliad, especially with Hector’s own
enemy and future slayer, Achilles, is significant.100 As Shrenk has convincingly argued,
the wedding of Hector and Andromache as described in Sappho 44V reflects the
language and structure of the funeral of Hector in Book 24 of the Iliad.101 Likely the
reference to κλέος ἄφθιτον here is intended to provide Hector’s wedding with the same
level of fame as his future rival Achilles. By claiming that Hector’s own wedding is
worthy of the same kleos that Achilles will have, Sappho subverts male-centered
idealization of war as the only field for worthy endeavor. Unlike the martial Achilles,
who will obtain his kleos on the field of battle, Hector’s own unique kleos will be found
in his marriage to Andromache. This valorization of the private and erotic over the
martial is of a course a well-known strategy of Sappho’s, most famously appearing in
poem 16 V. However, what exactly this “fame” is, how Hector and Andromache’s
marriage obtained it, and how it relates to Sappho’s own project, all remain unclear. A more fruitful method to approaching Sappho’s sense of her own fame, I
suggest, lies in two large fragments, 94 V and 96 V. These two poems, when taken
together, trace a girl’s journey out of the safe confines of Sappho’s circle and into the
outside world. This movement not only corresponds to the girl’s personal journey into the
world of sexual maturation and marriage, but also marks a movement for Sappho’s own
song from performance to reception. As a girl leaves the Sapphic circle, Sappho invites
100
The “epic” diction of this fragment has long been noted: see Page (1955): 70-1.
Shrenk (1994). Shrenk more specifically argues that Sappho’s poem is modeled on and supposed to
recall the funeral, but it is just as possible that the influence actually works in the other direction. The
wedding of Andromache and Hector could belong to a separate tradition from the Iliadic Troy narrative
(indeed, the very existence of this poem might argue for such a tradition- who would want to be compared
to Hector at their wedding unless there existed a separate hymeneal song tradition about him?). This
separate tradition is what “Homer” himself recalls in his description of Hector’s funeral. For a discussion of
such issues, see Burgess (2001): 65 (Burgess suspects Hector is a pre-Iliadic figure).
101
145 the girl to remember her and the collective activities and emotions of the group.
Departures from the circle, therefore, crystallize and make explicit Sappho’s own
expectations of remembrance, and by extension, her expectations of her posthumous
fame. As we will see, a departing pupil’s memories of Sappho and of her fellow students
are crucial components of the Sapphic concept of kleos. Memory and desire create a
permanent bond that crosses time and space, linking the departed girl in her new home
with Sappho back on Lesbos.102 Let us begin with 94V. The extant remains of the poem begin as follows: τεθνάκην δ’ ἀδόλως θέλω·
ἄ µε ψισδοµένα κατελίµπανεν
πόλλα καὶ τόδ’ ἔειπέ̣ [µοι·
ὤιµ’ ὠς δεῖνα πεπ[όνθ]αµεν,
Ψάπφ’, ἦ µάν σ’ ἀέκοισ’ ἀπυλιµπάνω. (5)
τὰν δ’ ἔγω τάδ’ ἀµειβόµαν·
χαίροισ’ ἔρχεο κἄµεθεν
µέµναισ’, οἶσθα γὰρ ὤς <σ>ε πεδήποµεν·
αἰ δὲ µή, ἀλλά σ’ ἔγω θέλω
ὄµναισαι[...₍.₎].[..₍.₎].ε̣αι
ο̣σ̣ [……….] καὶ κάλ’ ἐπάσχοµεν·
(10)
πο̣[λλοις γὰρ στεφάν]οις ἴων
καὶ βρ[όδων …]κίων τ’ ὔµοι
κα..[…….] πὰρ ἔµοι π<ε>ρεθήκα<ο>
καὶ πό̣[λλαις ὐπα]θύµιδας
πλέκταις ἀµφ’ ἀπάλαι δέραι
ἀνθέων ἐ̣ [
] πεποηµµέναις.
(15)
καὶ π.....[
]. µύρωι
βρενθείωι ̣.[
]ρ̣̣υ[..]ν
102
I am indebted to Melissa Mueller for the talk “Authoring Memory: Sappho and the Female Network of
Song” on 7/9/2011 that also touches on the theme of memory in Sappho. I thank her for kindly providing
me with a copy of her talk, and I will cite her throughout this discussion whenever relevant.
146 ἐξαλ<ε>ίψαο κα̣[ὶ βασ]ι̣̣ληίωι
(20)
καὶ στρώµν[αν ἐ]πὶ µολθάκαν
ἀπάλαν παρ[
]ο̣ν̣ων
ἐξίης πόθο̣[ν
].νίδων
κωὔτε τις [ οὔ]τ̣ε̣ τι
ἶρον οὐδ’ υ[
]
(25)
ἔπλετ’ ὄππ̣[οθεν ἄµ]µες ἀπέσκοµεν,
οὐκ ἄλσος . [
].ρος
]ψοφος
]...οιδιαι (94V)
I truly wish I was dead! She was leaving me while weeping, and said many things to me and this:
“What a terrible mess we are in, Sappho; I’m honestly leaving you against
my will.” But I told her the following in response: “Farewell, go and remember me. Because you know how we cared for
you. But if not, I want to remind you… the good times we had… many
wreaths of violets and roses and crocuses(?) you put on together with
me… many woven garlands made with flowers (you put) around your soft
neck…with flowery myrrh you anointed yourself, fit for queen…
tender…and on soft sheets you would satisfy your desire… and there was
neither…nor any holy…nor is there any from which we were absent, not a
grove…chorus…sound… This fragment describes a girl’s departure from the circle and its crushing effects on her
lover, Sappho. It is likely that the reason for the girl’s departure was marriage, and
perhaps this poem was performed to celebrate the wedding, maybe at the ceremony
itself.103
For an often very patchy and difficult fragment, there are surprisingly very little
major textual issues. The problems of this fragment, however, are primarily those of
translation and interpretation, and most of these will be discussed in the course of our
103
See Lardinois (2001): 84.
147 analysis. However, one central issue, on which any interpretation hinges, must be dealt
with right away. As the text stands, it is unclear who the speaker is that begins our
fragment: is it Sappho herself or the girl who is leaving? Despite its prominence in our
extant text, this was not the original first line of the poem (and for that matter, not even
the second line in its respective stanza).104 Numerous scholars have assigned these lines
to the girl, on the grounds that they ensure a unity of tone between Sappho the teacher
and the departing, weeping student. As Burnett writes in a highly influential article, “The
disconsolate girl thinks that parting is the end of life and love, but her wiser mistress
commands her to go her way rejoicing.”105 Multiple scholars have followed her lead and
have subsequently assigned this opening line to the girl.106 However, there are difficulties
in this interpretation: in no other piece of Sappho or Homer does quoted direct speech
end so abruptly, only to be taken up again with a third person verb of speaking.107 Despite
the obvious appeal of assigning this line to the departing woman, the lack of parallels has
convinced many scholars to migrate back to the earlier view and assign the line to
Sappho herself.108
Not unrelated to these issues of speaker are the tricky issues of the function and
intent of this poem. What is this poem about, and what purpose does it serve? Several
answers have been traditionally given. Many scholars have seen this poem as a form of
“consolation”: by recalling the past to her erstwhile lover, Sappho hopes to ease the pain
104
For a helpful discussion of parchment on which this fragment was found, see Robbins (1990): 111-3.
Burnett (1979): 23. See also her discussion of this fragment in Burnett (1983): 290-300.
106
Greene (1996): 239-40; Snyder (1997): 59; Williamson (1995): 144-5; see more recently Larson (2010):
179.
107
For the difficulties of the speech markers here, see Robbins (1990): 114-5; Stehle (1997): 307; Ferrari
(2010): 138.
108
See Robbins (1990); Stehle (1997): 307; Lardinois (2001): 85-6; Ferrari (2010): 138.
105
148 of her imminent departure.109 Burnett has even seen Sappho’s words as a form of advice,
a sort of lesson in how to deal with the impending separation.110 However, in contrast to
these two approaches, which emphasize the effect that Sappho’s words will have on the
departing girl, others scholars have seen this poem as more self-centered. As Robbins
succinctly writes, “Sappho's poem is certainly a love-poem that speaks of mutual joy and
mutual pain. But it is in the last analysis a poem about herself.”111 In a related vein,
several scholars have seen this poem as primarily a form of lament, the polar opposite of
a consolation.112
This latter set of scholars, who emphasize the poem’s self-reflexive qualities have
a much stronger case in my view. Romanticizing critics have often overemphasized how
consolatory and dialogic this poem is: for instance, Greene claims that the poem begins
with us hearing “the distinct voices of the speaker and her departing lover shift back and
forth in nearly ritualized fashion.”113 This is patently untrue, even by a simple line count:
giving or taking the disputed opening “death wish” line, the girl has only two lines of
dialogue, compared to Sappho’s twenty-three lines of extant recollection. The poem more
and more seems like a monologue than a dialogue. Moreover, even the girl’s meager two
lines are of a markedly different character.114 She exclaims, not so much speaks.
Interpretation of this line depends on how we translate the ambiguous πόλλα here. Most
translators take the word with ψισδοµένα in the previous line (“weeping profusely”).115
However, as Robbins convincingly argues, it is better to understand line 3 as entirely self 109
For 94 V as a “consolatory” poem, see Page (1955): 81-3; Greene (1996): 241; Stehle (1996): 146-7.
For 94V as having a didactic function, see Burnett (1979): 23.
111
Robbins (1990): 119.
112
For 94 V as a “lament,” see Rauk (1989):109-110; Lardinois (2001): 85-6.
113
Greene (1997): 240.
114
For a detailed examination of the contrast in these two speeches, see Howie (1979): 306-10.
115
Treu (1976): ad loc (“Herzzerreißend geschluchzt”); Campbell (1982b). This is also supported by Page
(1955): 77.
110
149 contained: not only would this remove the harsh enjambment between stanzas, but it
leads to a tidy parallelism between ἄ µε ψισδοµένα κατελίµπανεν (line 2) and σ’ ἀέκοισ’
ἀπυλιµπάνω (line 5). Robbins therefore suggests the translation "she said much and this
(in particular).” 116 If this is indeed the best way to read these lines, the girl’s speech
becomes even more mediated by the Sapphic narrator: she says many things, but Sappho
chooses to select only the essential point. Rather than being in a soothing dialogue with
the girl, this poem seems more and more like a Sapphic soliloquy.
It is in view of this strong authorial voice that we should we read the heart of the
poem, Sappho’s advice to the departing girl: Sappho says to the departing girl “Farewell,
go and remember me” (χαίροισ’ ἔρχεο κἄµεθεν /µέµναισ’). There are several parallels to
this phrase in archaic and classical literature, but two in particular are especially relevant
to Sappho 94.117 The first, noticed by Schadewaldt, occurs in the Odyssey, when
Nausicaa says her final farewell to Odysseus: “Farewell, stranger, so that even when you
are in your own homeland, you will remember me, because you owe me first of all the
bounty for your life” (χαῖρε, ξεῖν’, ἵνα καί ποτ’ ἐὼν ἐν πατρίδι γαίῃ/ µνήσῃ ἐµεῖ’ ὅτι µοι
πρώτῃ ζωάγρι’ ὀφέλλεις) (Od. 8. 461-2).118 These words, spoken by a parthenos to a
departing man that Homer frequently suggests she will marry, provide an interesting
comparison to our Sappho fragment.119 It is significant that Nausicaa herself, in her and
Odysseus’ famous first encounter, was compared to Artemis leading a choir as a
choregos.120 But even more importantly, there is an explicit idea of exchange in these
116
Robbins (1990): 116-7. He is followed in this by Aloni (1997).
For additional parallels to the ones discussed below, see the criticus apparatus to Voigt.
118
Schadewaldt (1936): 367-8.
119
For an interesting discussion of the wedding theme in the Odyssey, see Austin (1991).
120
See Od. 6102-108. Even outside the frame of the analogy, Nausicaa is said to “lead the molpe” (ἤρχετο
µολπῆς) (6.101), which, although in a middle of a game of catch, can only indicate song and dance. See
117
150 words. The word ζωάγρια seems to indicate stricto sensu the ransom paid for a prisoner
of war’s life, a meaning that is weakened and extended to any type of obligation for
saving a person’s life.121 Nausicaa expects some sort of reward for her good deed, and in
the highly formal response of Odysseus that follows, he promises her that “even there [at
home] I will also give thanks to you continually like a god for the rest of my days,
because you gave me life, young woman” (τῶ κέν τοι καὶ κεῖθι θεῷ ὣς εὐχετοῴµην /αἰεὶ
ἤµατα πάντα· σὺ γάρ µ’ ἐβιώσαο, κούρη)(8.467-8). The exact sense of εὐχετοῴµην
(“give thanks to”) here is not entirely clear, but it clearly denotes some type of symbolic
honor and thanks in exchange for Nausicaa’s saving of his life.122 The reward Nausicaa
will receive will be continual remembrance of her.123
However, I want to call attention to another parallel, one that also explicitly
foregrounds the notion of “exchange” and will help us elucidate Sappho’s fragment 94.
During the Delian section of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, the poet describes in loving
detail an Ionian festival on Delos. This description culminates in a performance by the
Delian Maidens, a virtuoso local chorus, who remarkably “know how to imitate the
voices and rhythms of all men” (πάντων δ’ ἀνθρώπων φωνὰς καὶ κρεµβαλιαστὺν
Garvie (1994): ad loc.
121
See Garvie (1994): ad loc.
122
Garvie (1994): ad loc rightly draws a parallel to the phrase ᾧ Τρῶες κατὰ ἄστυ θεῷ ὣς εὐχετόωντο (“the
Trojans throughout the city honored him [Hector] like a god”) (Il. 22.394; cf. 11.761), but even this and the
other examples that Garvie cites are imperfect. Hector is in his own hometown, honored by his own
citizens, an imperfect parallel for this odd “honor” at a distance. Hainsworth in Heubeck et al. (1988): ad
loc, pooh-poohs the idea of the establishment of a hero cult for Nausicaa, but given the Phaeacians’ already
liminal and semi-divine status, I suggest that this should be considered a real possibility. In this sense, the
saving of his life would be repaid with cultic honors.
123
It is important to note that Apollonius of Rhodes, in his imitation of these lines, makes explicit the
mutual “remembering” that will take place (3.1069-71): “remember, if ever you return home, the name of
Medea: so I will also remember you, although you are far away” (Μνώεο δ’, ἢν ἄρα δή ποθ’ ὑπότροπος
οἴκαδ’ ἵκηαι, /οὔνοµα Μηδείης· ὧς δ’ αὖτ’ ἐγὼ ἀµφὶς ἐόντος / µνήσοµαι). These lines are most likely an
imitation of Homer rather than Sappho, though a Sapphic subtext cannot be completely ruled out.
151 /µιµεῖσθ’ ἴσασιν·)(161-2 Allen and Halliday).124 But as the poet turns to leave these
maidens, he says farewell in just as remarkable a manner:
ἀλλ’ ἄγεθ’ ἱλήκοι µὲν Ἀπόλλων Ἀρτέµιδι ξύν,
χαίρετε δ’ ὑµεῖς πᾶσαι· ἐµεῖο δὲ καὶ µετόπισθε
µνήσασθ’, ὁππότε κέν τις ἐπιχθονίων ἀνθρώπων
ἐνθάδ’ ἀνείρηται ξεῖνος ταλαπείριος ἐλθών·
ὦ κοῦραι, τίς δ’ ὔµµιν ἀνὴρ ἥδιστος ἀοιδῶν
ἐνθάδε πωλεῖται, καὶ τέῳ τέρπεσθε µάλιστα;
ὑµεῖς δ’ εὖ µάλα πᾶσαι ὑποκρίνασθ’ ἀµφ’ ἡµέων·
τυφλὸς ἀνήρ, οἰκεῖ δὲ Χίῳ ἔνι παιπαλοέσσῃ,
τοῦ πᾶσαι µετόπισθεν ἀριστεύουσιν ἀοιδαί.
ἡµεῖς δ’ ὑµέτερον κλέος οἴσοµεν ὅσσον ἐπ’ αἶαν
ἀνθρώπων στρεφόµεσθα πόλεις εὖ ναιεταώσας·
οἱ δ’ ἐπὶ δὴ πείσονται, ἐπεὶ καὶ ἐτήτυµόν ἐστιν. (165-176) (Allen and
Halliday)
But come, may Apollo be gracious, along with Artemis. But goodbye to
all of you: remember me also in the future, whenever some man who
dwells on the earth, a long-suffering stranger, comes here and asks: “O
girls, what man is the sweetest of singers who visits here, and you enjoy
the most?” And you all respond in unison about me: “He is a blind man,
and he dwells in rocky Chios, and all his songs remain the best in the
future.” And I will convey your fame as far along the earth as I roam the
well-inhabited cities of men. And they will believe it, because it’s also
true.
This famous passage presents an unparalleled moment of interaction between a chorus
and a poet. The scene described in this hymn functions as a sort of inverse to the scene
described in Sappho 94 V: in Sappho, a poet / chorus-leader bids a departing chorusmember to remember her; in this passage a departing poet bids a chorus to remember
him. There is even a significant verbal overlap between the two passages, one that has
largely gone unnoticed.125 The opening words of the poet’s address to the Delian Maidens
“But farewell to all of you: remember me also in the future” (χαίρετε δ’ ὑµεῖς πᾶσαι·
124
See Peponi (2009) for this translation of κρεµβαλιαστὺν.
Voigt does not list this section of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo as a possible parallel to 94.7, nor does
Page (1955): 77. The exception is Cavallini (1975): 52, who first noticed the parallel. Gerber (1993): 125
mentions this parallel in his overview of the scholarship written on fragment 94.
125
152 ἐµεῖο δὲ καὶ µετόπισθε /µνήσασθ) closely parallel Sappho’s own “Farewell, go and
remember me” (χαίροισ’ ἔρχεο κἄµεθεν / µέµναισ’), even down to the enjambment of
the verb of remembering (µιµνήσκοµαι).126 There is good reason, therefore, to see a close
connection between these two passages. In the Homeric Hymns themselves, the combination of some form of χαίρω and
µιµνήσκοµαι are traditional and formulaic ways to conclude a hymn and transition to the
next song.127 What is extraordinary about this particular address, however, is that the poet
directs his “farewell” not at gods, but at mortal women. Instead of himself
“remembering” the next song about a god, he asks to be remembered by these Delian
maidens. In this sense, his request to “remember me” must mean “include me in your
song.”128 As for the poet himself, he appears to be a rhapsode, who impersonates the
blind man from Chios. This blind man is of course Homer, whose persona and authority
the rhapsode adopts in performance.129 The poet here acts like a chorus-leader and even
conveniently composes the lines they are supposed to say in his honor when they
perform. As Richard Martin has noted, this whole dialogue presents a sort of “kleosbargain”: in exchange for advertising his poetic skill to anybody who happens to wander
by, the poet, as he himself travels the world, will spread the fame of the chorus.130 I would like to suggest that in Sappho 94V, we too are also witnessing a sort of
kleos-bargain. Like Nausicaa or the anonymous “man from Chios,” Sappho provides
memories in exchange for remembrance when the girl is far away. Unlike many current
126
It is important to note that the Odyssean parallel (8.461-2) also features enjambment of the verb
µιµνήσκοµαι.
127
For a discussion of such epilogues and their relevance to the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, see Miller
(1979), esp. 176-9.
128
See Clay (1989): 50-51 and 51n.105 for a list of parallels within the Hymn to Apollo itself.
129
For rhapsodic imitation of Homer, see Nagy (1996b): 59-8; also see Martin (2009): 90.
130
Martin (2009): 90.
153 interpretations of the poem, which emphasize how it creates a space of shared
remembrance in its last stanzas, this interpretation sees the figures of Sappho and her
lover as more distinct.131 Rather than “sharing,” there is an “exchange” of memories, an
act that the girl will only be able to reciprocate when she herself is far away. This notion
of mnemonic exchange is highlighted by a repetition of the verb µιµνήσκω: “Farewell, go
and remember me. Because you know how we cared for you. But if not, I want to remind
you” (χαίροισ’ ἔρχεο κἄµεθεν /µέµναισ’, οἶσθα γὰρ ὤς <σ>ε πεδήποµεν· /αἰ δὲ µή,
ἀλλά σ’ ἔγω θέλω /ὄµναισαι). The tight interweaving of the verbs µέµναισ’ and ὄµναισαι
(Aeolic for ἀναµνῆσαι) here underscores the reciprocity involved in this dialogue:
Sappho will remind, the girl will remember.132 But it should be noted that the girl’s
memory is highly mediated by Sappho herself: she specifically reminds the girl what to
remember. The phrase “but if not, I want to remind you” highlights the authority of
Sappho’s own voice in controlling the flow of memory.133 Like the anonymous rhapsode
in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, Sappho instructs a member of her chorus member what
she should remember about her and her group. And it must be noted that, to a certain
degree this act of “reminding” is conducted not for the girl’s sake, but for the audience.
131
See especially Greene (1997): 241. Burnett (1983) generally keeps the figures of “Sappho” and her
anonymous lover distinct, but she also states “The girl is to remember… a schema of experience. She is to
think of a series of three habitually repeated gestures, and these will lead her to an equally prismatic
memory of satisfied desire” (23).
132
As Mueller (2011 unpublished) notes, there is an important aspectual distinction here in Sappho’s use of
the perfect µέµναισ’: “Repeated acts of remembering produce a certain mindset, which is captured by the
perfect tense of the verb that we saw in fragment 94… In the perfect tense, the verb (µέµνηµαι) implies a
kind of remembering that keeps pace with the ever-shifting present; it is a call to enact a lasting state of
mind. This type of perfect-tense remembering is vital for the long-term survival of a poet’s corpus and the
constitution of her poetic reputation—her kleos.” Sappho is not referring to one act of memory, but a
certain mindset that comes about by recalling her over and over again.
133
See Greene (1997): 241: “The speaker’s assertion at line 9 that she will remind her beloved if she
doesn’t remember focuses attention on the poetic voice and its ability to activate the past and make it come
alive in the present.” One difficulty in Greene’s interpretation of this poem is that, despite this assertion of
poetic and narratorial authority, she claims that in the second half of the poem “boundaries of person,
object, and place seem to break down” (241). But doesn’t the highlighting of Sappho’s own control over
memory contradict this assertion?
154 The memories that Sappho presents give an audience a peek into the closed and intimate
world of her group. What do these memories about the group consist of? It is significant that Sappho
describes their love affair not in terms of intimate personal moments, but in terms of
activities characteristic of the group as a whole. There is no first kiss, no first glance.
Rather, the love affair is described by the girl’s participation in activities that could be
applied to any group member: stringing and putting on wreathes of flowers, anointing
oneself in expensive perfume, etc. These activities are most characteristic of private and
erotic pursuits, but as Lardinois has often emphasized in his writings, these activities can
also be interpreted as preparations for choral performance. He suggests that a linear
progression can even be read in these lines, culminating in the choral performances in the
last visible stanza in our text.134 Although Lardinois is probably correct to see that
flowers and perfume are not exclusive to purely erotic pursuits, it must be noted that
these stanzas cannot just describe the pre-choral dance arrangements, because the
description seems to culminate in an act of love-making: “and on soft sheets you would
satisfy your desire” (καὶ στρώµν[αν ἐ]πὶ µολθάκαν / ἀπάλαν παρ [
]ο̣ν̣ων) (21-3).135
Naturally sexual intercourse would seem out of place right before the big performance.136
Rather, as other commentators points out, the structure of Sappho’s reminiscences
here depends on a contrast between interior and exterior spaces.137 The first four stanzas
134
Lardinois (1997): 163-4; (2008): 85.
It must be noted that Lardinois follows Wilamowitz in interpreting these lines as referring not to a desire
for love but a desire for sleep- see (2008): 85n26 for earlier references. In this case, it would be equally
incongruous if they catch a quick catnap before the performance.
136
As Ferrari (2010): 139 notes, the “sheets” (στρωµναί) indicate coverlets specifically for a bed where one
spends the night (see n.9 on the same page for a list of comparative examples).
137
See Greene (1997): 242; Ferrari (2010): 143. This contrast would be even more marked if, as
Hutchinson (2001): 144 and Ferrari (2010): 138 suggest, the phrase “with me”(πὰρ ἔµοι) means something
more like “at my house.”
135
155 (lns. 12-23) present a series “indoor” or “private” activities, while the last two stanzas
before the fragment fades into utter oblivion represent “outside” or choral activities. This
movement from interior to exterior, I would also suggest, maps onto a narrative of the
girl’s sexual maturation and journey towards marriage. The descriptions of her various
activities as a member of Sappho’s group reflects the successive stages of her initiation,
with the end result being her participating in the chorus, possibly even acting as a chorus
leader. Whether the making of wreathes and the anointing oneself with perfume is meant
for erotic activities or public performance, the emphasis in this passage is how they
augment the girl’s beauty.138 There is a slightly voyeuristic quality to these stanzas, as the
girl’s body is fleetingly described or hinted at (e.g. “you put on” (π<ε>ρεθήκα<ο>),
“around your soft neck” (ἀµφ’ ἀπάλαι δέραι), “you anointed yourself “(ἐξαλ<ε>ίψαο))
but never becomes the direct focus of the text. All this elaborate preparation culminates
in the now-fragmentary description of sexual intercourse, where it is shown that her
adorned beauty has attracted the attention of Sappho and her comrades. She satisfies
Sappho’s desire, and her beauty, decked out and garlanded in the first three stanzas,
becomes confirmed by this act. The poem then moves outwards, to the performative
spaces beyond the household, where her recently minted beauty can be displayed to the
entire community. As the extant poem starts to disintegrate, she appears to act as a fullfledged member of the chorus, dancing in unison with the “we” (ἄµ]µες) of the whole
group. I suggest that at the end of the poem, she would be described as the pre-eminent
138
Garlands are specifically said to please the Graces. See 81 V: “But you put attractive garlands around
your locks, binding shoots of anise together with your soft hands. For the blessed Charites look on what is
full of flowers, but turn away from those without garlands” (σὺ δὲ στεφάνοις, ὦ Δίκα, πέρθεσθ’ ἐράτοις
φόβαισιν /ὄρπακας ἀνήτω συναέρραισ’ ἀπάλαισι χέρσιν· /εὐάνθεα †γὰρ πέλεται† καὶ Χάριτες µάκαιραι
/µᾶλλον προτόρην, ἀστεφανώτοισι δ’ ἀπυστρέφονται). In the Greek text printed here I adopt Seidler’s
emendation, printed in Campbell (1982b), of †προτερην† to προτόρην.
156 chorus member, her outstanding beauty differentiating her from the collective “we” of
her fellow chorus-members, and thus indicating her readiness for marriage.139 This is of
course entirely speculative, but it makes sense of the structure of these lines that I have
argued. The poem moves from the girl’s beauty, locked up and unadorned on the inside,
to its full manifestation in a performance. Sappho’s “reminding” therefore not only describes the course of her and the girl’s
relationship, but also follows the girl’s initiation into the group and her progress towards
marriage. The characteristic activities of the group that her and the girl engage in are
therefore thus arranged in way to recall her, and for that matter any other girl’s, gradual
progress and initiation within the group. This recollection culminates with a description
of her and her mates participating in choral performance. The “memory” that Sappho
gives her, therefore, is nothing less than an overview of any girl’s life within the group.
As I have argued, we should view this poem less as a poem of consolation and rather as a
piece of active self-positioning by Sappho. The point of this reminiscence extends
beyond reminding the departing girl about the pleasant times they had. This whole
description in fact could be interpreted as a sort of “advertisement” for the group and its
activities. By “reminding” the girl of her happy days in the group, she is expected to
spread the word about Sappho’s circle, and by extension, to spread the fame of Sappho’s
own poetry. This is not to deny the sensual and personal character of Sappho’s
description here. It is rather to emphasize how the personal and erotic coincide with the
public and performative. By describing in intimate detail the life of her group to the
departing girl in a public performance, Sappho recreates the life of the group, and the
139
For “beauty” and serving as a choregos as a marker of readiness for marriage, see Calame (2001): 199.
It’s possible, like Hagesichora and Agido in Alcman PMG 1, that both Sappho and her served as joint
choral leaders.
157 course of its education, for anybody in the audience listening. The Girl From Sardis: Recreating Memory Abroad
If Sappho “gives” this memory there in Lesbos as the girl departs, how does the
girl reciprocate Sappho in her new home? And how can a group member’s memory help
contribute to Sappho’s fame? As it happens, another fragment describes precisely such
memory at a distance:
]σαρδ.[..]
πόλ]λακι τυίδε̣ [ν]ῶν ἔχοισα
ὠσπ.[...].ώοµεν, .[...]..χ[..]
σε †θεασικελαν ἀριγνωτα†, σᾶι δὲ µάλιστ’ ἔχαιρε µόλπαι̣· (5) νῦν δὲ Λύδαισιν ἐµπρέπεται γυναίκεσσιν ὤς ποτ’ ἀελίω
δύντος ἀ βροδοδάκτυλος <σελάννα> πάντα περ<ρ>έχοισ’ ἄστρα· φάος δ’ ἐπίσχει θάλασσαν ἐπ’ ἀλµύραν (10)
ἴσως καὶ πολυανθέµοις ἀρούραις· ἀ δ’ <ἐ>έρσα κάλα κέχυται τεθάλαισι δὲ βρόδα κἄπαλ’ ἄνθρυσκα καὶ µελίλωτος ἀνθεµώδης· πόλλα δὲ ζαφοίταισ’ ἀγάνας ἐπι- (15)
µνάσθεισ’ Ἄτθιδος ἰµέρωι
λέπταν ποι φρένα κ[ᾶ]ρ̣[ι σᾶι] βόρηται· κῆθι δ’ ἔλθην ἀµµ.[..]..ισα τό̣δ’ οὐ
νῶντἀ[..]υστο̣νυµ̣̣[..₍.₎] πόλυς
γαρύε̣ [..₍.₎]αλον̣[.....₍.₎]τ̣ο̣ µέσσον· (20)
ε]ὔ̣µαρ[ες µ]ὲ̣ν οὐκ̣ αµ̣µι θέαισι µόρφαν ἐπή[ρατ]ον ἐξίσωσθ̣αι συ[..]ρ̣̣ο̣ς ἔχηισθ’ ἀ[..₍.₎].νίδηον 158 ]το̣[...₍.₎]ρατιµαλ[
].ερος (25)
καὶ δ[.]µ̣[
]ος Ἀφροδίτα
καµ̣[
] νέκταρ ἔχευ’ ἀπὺ
χρυσίας [
]ν̣αν
...₍.₎]απουρ̣̣[ ] χέρσι Πείθω
]θ[..]η̣σενη (30)
[
[
]ακις
]......αι
]ες τὸ Γεραίστιον
]ν̣ φίλαι
]υ̣στον οὐδενο[ (35)
]ερον ἰξο[µ
Sardis… often turning her thoughts here…(she honored?) you like a
conspicuous goddess, and she took great delight in your singing and
dancing…but now she is pre-eminent amongst Lydian women, as the
rosy-fingered moon outshines all the stars when the sun has set: and the
light spreads over the salty sea as well as the fields with many flowers.
The dew is poured beautifully, and roses bloom and tender chervil and
budding melilot: but often as she goes back and forth she remembers
gentle Atthis and is consumed with desire in her tender heart. For us to go
there…it’s not (possible?)…mind… much sings… middle…it is not easy
for us to compare to goddesses in lovely form…you
have…eros(?)…Aphrodite… pour nectar from a golden… with her hands
Persuasion… to the Geraestum…dear women…shall come(?)…
This poem portrays another departure from Sappho’s group, although this time the
heartbroken one appears to be a student that has already left the group. It appears that she
is now in Sardis; most likely, she married a Lydian husband. This woman, however,
appeared to have been a lover of Atthis, and while she performs amongst the other
women in Sardis, she remembers Atthis. This erotic triangle between the unknown
woman, Atthis, and possibly even Sappho herself, form the subject matter and dramatic
tension of this poem.140
140
For another poem depicting a love triangle, see 22 V, and also see Stehle (1997): 304 for some very
astute comments on Sappho’s role when she sings about members of her group desiring one another.
159 The textual issues that this fragment poses are both complicated and immense,
and it would be counter-productive to deal with them all here.141 In many ways this poem
is the inverse of 94 V, showing what happens to a girl after she has left the group. During
her time within the group, she took delight in the song and dance of Atthis (σᾶι δὲ
µάλιστ’ ἔχαιρε µόλπαι̣). Now, however, she is outstanding amongst Lydian women
(Λύδαισιν ἐµπρέπεται γυναίκεσσιν). The mention of specifically women (γυναῖκες) here
indicates that the girl has now been married, and stands preeminently amongst other
Lydian women. The verb ἐµπρέπεται here strongly suggests that the girl is performing in
a chorus of her fellow married women.142 Although it is unclear if Sappho had in mind a
specific epichoric Lydian festival or even a specific type of choral performance, we do
know that there were choral performances in Lydia that the Greeks took part in.143 This impression of chorality is further strengthened by the imagery that Sappho
uses to describe the girl in the subsequent lines. The newly wed is compared to, in order,
the moon shedding light on sea and fields, dripping dew, and flowers like roses, chervil,
and melilot. Scholars have generally been confused by the point of this imagery, and
some have accused Sappho of getting carried away with the description.144 These images,
however, are all highly appropriate to choral poetry. Comparing a girl to a star, for
example, can be found in Alcman: “like a star coursing through the shining sky or a
golden branch or soft down” ([ὥ] τις αἰγλά[ε]ντος ἀστήρ /ὠρανῶ διαιπετής / ἢ χρύσιον
141
The discussions of the commentaries of both Page (1955) and Hutchinson (2001) helpfully overview
most of the textual issues that this fragment presents.
142
Lardinois (1996): 162-3; Calame (1977): 1:91. For a discussion of the meager evidence we have of
women’s choral performances, see Stehle (1997): 107-13.
143
For an example of a Lydian festival known to later comic poets, see the “Dance of the Lydian Maidens”
see Autocrates F 1 Kock, and Ar. Nub. 599-600; see as well as Nagy (1990): 298-99, (2007): 6-7. While
Nagy is right to point this out as a possible performance venue for the former student of Sappho’s, the fact
that both of these sources specifically mention maidens (κόραι), but not married women may suggest that
Sappho had in mind a different festival.
144
Page (1955): 93-6; Macleod (1974); Carey (1978); Hague (1984).
160 ἔρνος ἢ ἁπαλὸ[ν ψίλ]ον) (PMG 3.66-8).145 Elsewhere Sappho herself associates the full
moon with dancing, although admittingly this seems to indicate more the time of the
performance rather than any sort of comparison: “The moon appeared full, and as they
took their position around the altar) (πλήρης µὲν ἐφαίνετ’ ἀ σελάννα / αἰ δ’ ὠς περὶ
βῶµον ἐστάθησαν) (154 V). As Calame has pointed out, the quality of “beauty” is a
mark of a choregos.146 But in this case, unlike her current student Atthis, the anonymous
girl is married, and therefore her “beauty” is described in more erotic and reproductive
terms. This seems to be the point of the erotically charged dew, like the dew that is shed
when the most famous married couple, Hera and Zeus, makes love in the Iliad.147 We
have already seen the abundant use that Sappho makes of floral imagery in 94 V, and
how such flowers act as signifiers of both choral performance and erotic desire. However,
unlike the more conventional floral catalogues, this one is highly idiosyncratic. The
“budding melilot” (µελίλωτος ἀνθεµώδης) and the “tender chervil” (κἄπαλ’ ἄνθρυσκα)
are both types of clover that appear rarely in Greek poetry. They appear abundantly in
meadows, thus testifying to the fertile power and influence of the moon, and by
extension, the girl herself.148 This catalogue of flowers, therefore, seems to be adapted
specifically to the girl’s status as a married woman. When this series of similes ends, we once again see the girl, but this time in pain
as she wanders (ζαφοίταισ’). Many scholars have interpreted the girl’s movement here as
literal wandering. However, I would suggest that the compound of the verb φοίταµι
145
For a provocative overview of star choruses in antiquity, see Csapo (2008). For a recent argument about
star choruses’ importance to Alcman, see Ferrari (2008).
146
Calame (2001): 199.
147
See Il. 14.351; also similar is Archil. 196a (West). For a discussion of these passages and other such
similar archaic Greek scenes of lovemaking, see Hague (1984): 31-2.
148
For this discussion of the botanical imagery, I am indebted to Hutchinson (2001): 182-3.
161 (Aeolic for φοιτάω) here continues the imagery of chorality that we have seen throughout
the entire poem. Although the verb means something like “wander” or “go back and
forth”, in several instances it is associated with chorality in archaic Greek poetry. For
instance, in the Homeric Hymn to Pan, the god “wanders through wooded fields along
with nymphs accustomed to choruses” (ὅς τ’ ἀνὰ πίση /δενδρήεντ’ ἄµυδις φοιτᾷ
χοροήθεσι νύµφαις)(2-3) and several lines later “and wandering with him are the
mountain nymphs, clear singers, who dance rapidly with their feet next to a dark-watered
stream, and the sound reverberates around the peak of the mountain” (σὺν δέ σφιν τότε
νύµφαι ὀρεστιάδες λιγύµολποι /φοιτῶσαι πυκνὰ ποσσὶν ἐπὶ κρήνῃ µελανύδρῳ
/µέλπονται, κορυφὴν δὲ περιστένει οὔρεος ἠχώ)(19-21).149 Although φοίταµι does not
necessarily indicate chorality, these instances prove that it is certainly not incompatible
with it. Given the pronounced choral overtones we have discussed throughout the poem,
it seems likely that the girl’s “going back and forth” here indicates dancing rather than
mere aimless wandering.
If we understand the girl as performing in a chorus, her actions while performing
gain in significance. As she dances, “she remembers gentle Atthis and is consumed with
desire in her tender heart” (ἀγάνας ἐπι- /µνάσθεισ’ Ἄτθιδος ἰµέρωι /λέπταν ποι φρένα
κ[ᾶ]ρ̣[ι σᾶι] βόρηται). As Hague has noted, this imagery of “devouring” and “wasting”
here contrasts with the images of fertility and growth contained in the simile.150 Despite
her sexual flowering expressed in the simile, she inwardly is worn away by desire as she
149
Comparison can also be made to Alcaeus’ description of the Kallisteia discussed above, where he uses
the verb πώληµαι (Aeolic for πωλέοµαι) to describe the women’s movements as they are being judged
(130b.18 V). It is quite possible that verbs of “going back and forth” indicate chorality for the Lesbian
poets.
150
Hague (1984): 31-5. Of course, there are extreme difficulties in the text at this point (see most recently
Hutchinson (2001): ad loc.) and there is some debate whether the verb here means, “devoured” or
“weighed down.”
162 relives the memory of Atthis. The anonymous girl, who once took delight in Atthis’ song,
now commemorates her with sadness within her own choral performance.
Here we can clearly see the “memory” that is given to a girl in return is memory
within the context of a choral performance. As Bakker has emphasized, memory within
archaic Greek poetry is a matter of enactment and visualization within the present.151 By
remembering someone or something, one makes it real within the present performance.
Such an instance of visualizing and making present one who is absent appears exactly in
16 V.15-6, when Sappho herself says “[which] has reminded me of Anactoria who is not
here” (µ̣ε̣ νῦν Ἀνακτορί[ας ὀ]ν̣έ̣µναι- / σ’ οὐ ] παρεοίσας). This act of reminding causes
her to reimagine the beloved Anactoria and wish to see her in visual terms: “I would
rather see her lovely walk and the shimmering sparkle of her face than Lydian chariots or
foot soldiers in arms” (τᾶ]ς <κ>ε βολλοίµαν ἔρατόν τε βᾶµα /κἀµάρυχµα λάµπρον ἴδην
προσώπω / ἢ τὰ Λύδων ἄρµατα †καν οπλοισι [ πεσδοµ]άχεντας)(16.17-20 V). The act of
remembering for Sappho, therefore, is not a private cognitive process, but a public,
performed speech act within a choral context. Memory reenacts the past and makes it
present both to the performer and audience. Mediated by the words of Sappho’s poetry,
everyone can “see” Anactoria’s beauty for themselves.
Not only is Sapphic memory realized within performance, but, as it turns out,
these memories also consist of other individuals within performances. Lardinois in a
recent article has argued that Sapphic memory primarily consists of memories of
performances.152 While Lardinois is correct to stress the performative aspects of Sapphic
memory, the basic grammar of the instances of “memory” in Sappho (πα]ῖδος οὐδὲ
151
152
Bakker (2005).
Lardinois (2008).
163 φίλων το[κ]ήων / π̣ά[µπαν] ἐµνάσθ<η> (16.11-12 V); Ἀνακτορί[ας ὀ]νέµναι- / σ’ (16.
15-6 V); µναµοσύνα σέθεν (55.1 V); κἄµεθεν /µέµναισ’ ( 94.7-8 V); ἐπι-/ µνάσθεισ’
Ἄτθιδος (96. 15-6 V); µνάσασθαί…ἀµµέων (147 V)) indicates that Sapphic memory is
not of entire performances but of persons. Lardinois’ thesis can be better reformulated
that memory within Sappho is primarily of individuals within the act of performance.
Performance provides the fullest realization and visualization of an individual’s beauty,
and when Sappho remembers a specific person, she remembers her at the pinnacle of
beauty within a performance. Memories of persons within Sapphic poetry usually consist
of visualizations of that person in the middle of a performance. In the case of 96 V, this
leads to a sort of reciprocal exchange of mnemonic performances: Sappho in Lesbos
remembers Atthis’ lover performing in Sardis, while the lover imagines the Atthis
performing back in Lesbos. Performance of the song is expected to lead to reciprocal
memories of other, earlier performances.
Memory, therefore, creates a permanent bond between members of Sappho’s
group, no matter how far away they are. When one member performs in Lesbos, she
remembers, and for that matter recreates, the performance of another girl elsewhere.
Similarly when the girl performs in her new home, she remembers her erstwhile days in
Sappho’s group, and visualizes her former lovers there. This notion of mnemonic
reenactment can help us further explicate the performative dynamics of fragment 96 V.
If, as argued above, we understand “memory” in its fullest sense, not as an internal
mental act, but as a publically performed speech act, the girl’s act of remembering her
friend on Lesbos can only indicate that she sings a song about her. In other words, she
visualizes and vividly describes the girl to the Lydian audience in the same way that
164 Sappho visualizes Anactoria for a Lesbian audience (and for that matter, the same way
that Sappho visualizes and reenacts her).153
It is a valid question to ask, whose song would this be? As we discussed above,
instruction in the Sapphic circle was probably an education above all in music technique.
Sappho’s students would learn how to sing, play instruments, and, at least at times, to
compose their own songs.154 The music they learned and the songs they sang, whether
Sappho’s or their own compositions, were predominately oral and highly traditional.155
Education and participation in the Sapphic group in part required one to gain adequate
understanding of the conventions and idioms of these musical traditions. The
traditionality of this poetry, however, does not mean that Sappho and her students did not
put their own unique “spin” on their songs. There most likely was a certain style that was
fostered within the group, whether in the diction and rhythm of the poetry itself, or in
extra-textual features lost to us, like the choreography, dress, and musical
accompaniment.156 Sappho’s rhetoric of superiority and uniqueness makes very little
sense unless musically they were different from other choral groups. Indeed, it is hinted
at that part of the reason the girl “outshines” (ἐµπρέπεται) her fellow chorus-members in
96 V is the superiority of her choral training and choral technique. The structure of the
song itself, like 94 V, recreates this education process, with the anonymous girl beginning
153
Mueller (2011 unpublished) also emphasizes this point.
Fragment 22 V indicates that impromptu songs expressing one’s desire for another member of the group
were part of the musical culture of the circle.
155
There is broad agreement that the Greek alphabetic script was invented c.800-750 B.C. (see recently
Wilson (2009): 545-6). While it is unclear to what extent Sappho and her milieu in Lesbian society were
literate, we cannot assume that writing did not play a role in the composition of Sappho’s poetry (see Harris
(1989): 48; Yatromanolakis (2007): 198). However, as Yatromanolakis (2007): 202-6 notes, the presence
of writing often co-exists with predominately oral thought patterns, and presents he an excellent case for an
oral substratum to Sappho’s poetry.
156
For the inventiveness of even traditional musical forms, with a focus on Sappho, see Yatromanolakis
(2007): 207-11.
154
165 as a spectator delighting in another girl’s songs, and by the end transforming into a
performer in her own right.
This means that these songs could be considered Sapphic in two distinct ways.
First, if these performances were original compositions in a particular style specific to
Sappho’s group, the act of remembering Sappho and her fellow group members in this
style would qualify the song as “Sapphic.” The Sapphic form of the song would validate
its subject matter, songs of love about members of the Sapphic group. But we should not
rule out the possibility that these songs could also be considered reperformances of
Sappho’s own poetry. Sapphic poetry then imagines itself being reperformed by students
themselves taking on the voice, name, and even persona of the instructor. 157 As Mueller
writes, “A poet is “remembered”— she is made present and visible—through the
reperformance of her songs, reperfomances which in turn create the longer-term
reputation (and authority) of their author.”158 Each time someone remembered “Sappho”
in performance, her international fame would increase. Sapphic poetry therefore imagines
itself spreading throughout the earth by her pupils remembering her in performance.
I must emphasize the word “imagine”: this may be nothing more than a poetic
conceit, with very little relation to actual performance conditions and modes of
dissemination. However, it is striking how this interpretation resonates with many current
reconstructions of the earliest phase of Sapphic transmission. In these reconstructions,
Sapphic poetry was first circulated outside Lesbos and preserved by girl groups.159
Individual members, moving in and out of the Sapphic circle, it is speculated, were
157
See Nagy (1996b): 73-86 for an exploration of the mimesis of Sappho in lyric. As he writes, “While the
music of Sappho lasts, Aphrodite is present, and whoever performs the music is Sappho, is the music of
Aphrodite” (86).
158
Mueller (2011 unpublished).
159
See most recently Yatromanolakis (2007): 210.
166 critical to spreading and disseminating Sappho’s poetry to future generations. It is more
than possible that the routes of transmission imagined by the poetry are a refraction of the
actual process of transmission for Sapphic song.
Whether this is a historical reality or a purely poetical conceit, Sapphic poetry
imagines itself spreading outward from Lesbos, as a network of performed memory and
desire that connects center and periphery. Taken together, fragments 94 and 96 V show
the full process of how Sapphic poetry imagines itself outside Lesbos: the departing
member is imparted with the task of recalling the group’s activities. When she does
“recall” her former life in the group, she does so in song and performance. Even though
the act of memory described in 96 V involves Sappho’s students remembering each other
and does not necessarily involve Sappho, Sappho 94 shows that the same dynamics of
memory apply to Sappho and her lovers as well.
This spreading of her poetry outside of Lesbos and across the rest of the world, I
suggest, is what is meant by Sappho’s enigmatic reference to “fame everywhere” in 71 V.
Her “exclusive” stance therefore consists of her and her poetry being remembered in
performance by her students. She derives her authority from the (re)performances of
Sapphic poetry across the world. The memory, and the live performance of Sapphic
songs, will bring her fame to the ends of the earth. This is what she means when she
mentions her own kleos. And it should be noted that Sappho herself might have had a
hand in spreading her own fame: a sole testimonial on the famous Parian marble
mentions that she was exiled to Sicily for a time (T5 Campbell). Indeed the content of
98V.7-9 also enigmatically mentions “these memorials of the exile of the Cleanactids”
(ταῦτα τὰς Κλεανακτιδα/ φύγας †..ι̣σαπολισεχει†/µνάµατ’) which may be a reference to
167 her own exile as well. If Sappho was really exiled, and if this exile exposed the Sicilians
to her poetry, she would have all the more reason to boast of her international fame. In
any case, Sappho’s fame is imagined to be spread by members of her group,
remembering her and her own unique brand of poetry.
Sappho the Iambist?
As we have discussed above, when negotiating the struggles within her own
community, Sappho generally adopts an “exclusive” stance, claiming that her poetry
distinguishes her from the greater community. Her exceptionality, as we have analyzed,
partially consists in her transcending the narrow confines of her community by being
remembered in performance abroad. However, our discussion of Sappho’s relationship
with the community will not be complete unless we discuss a specific set of poems where
Sappho displays a strikingly different aspect of her persona. It may come as a surprise
that Sappho, usually associated with melodious songs of love, was at times associated
with the genre of iambos. Iambic poetry itself is a form of poetry that deals with the
community, by exposing a community member as a transgressor and forcing him back
into the bounds of communal norms. As Christopher Brown writes about the poetry of
Archilochus: “By subjecting his enemies to invective, Archilochus seeks to protect the
community. However personal the insult, Archilochus treats his feud with Lycambes as a
matter of public concern, and this public aspect seems to lie very near the heart of
iambos.”160 This interplay between private feud and public benefit also cuts to the core of
Sappho’s supposedly iambic persona, as we shall see.
160
Brown (1997): 69.
168 The first of these authorities to identify Sappho as an “iambist” is the Suda. It
explicitly lists iambic poetry as one of her works: “She wrote (ἔγραψε δὲ) nine books of
lyric poems, and she was first to invent the plectrum. And she also wrote (ἔγραψε δὲ καὶ)
epigrams, elegiacs, iambics (ἰάµβους), and solo songs” (Campbell T2). This second
notice of her miscellaneous works seems most likely to derive from a different source
than the mention of her lyric poetry, separated as it is by the mention of her invention of
the plectrum and marked by the phrase “and she also wrote” (ἔγραψε δὲ καὶ ).161 Most
likely this list reflects apocryphal works circulated under Sappho’s name, rather than her
own songs. Still this suggests that Sappho’s work was perceived as “iambic” in some
way, and could spawn later imitators in this regard.
This perception of an “iambic” character is confirmed by a passage in
Philodemus, where he contrasts Archilochus and Sappho:
οἱ γ[ὰρ ἰ]αµβοποιοὶ τραγικὰ ποιοῦσιν, καὶ οἱ τραγῳδοποιοὶ πάλιν
ἰαµβικά, καὶ Σαπφώ τινα ἰαµβικῶς ποιεῖ, καὶ Ἀρχίλοχος οὐκ ἰαµβικῶς.
(fr. 117 Janko)
For the iambographers compose poems with tragic subjects, and the
makers of tragedies in turn compose poems with iambic subjects, and
Sappho composed some poems in an iambic manner and Archilochus
wrote some not in an iambic manner.
In this discussion, Philodemus tries to argue against those who claim that there is a
natural link between poets and the type of poetry they produce.162 Poets like Archilochus,
the archetypical iambographer himself, as Philodemus rightly notes, wrote poems without
definably “iambic” content. But what interests us is the inclusion of the lyric Sappho in
this argument: she too, Philodemus claims, “composed some poems in an iambic
161
Rotstein (2010): 35-6.
There is debate on exactly who Philodemus is arguing against here: Asmis (1992): 162-3 identifies him
as Crates of Mallos; Janko (2000): ad loc believes the opponent here is Pausimachus.
162
169 manner” (καὶ Σαπφώ τινα ἰαµβικῶς ποιεῖ). The ἰαµβικῶς here probably refers to content,
not to meter, since as far as we can tell, no iambic poetry of Sappho’s has survived, and it
is doubtful whether the Ionian iambic meters used by Archilochus were even available to
poets working within the Lesbian tradition.163 Rather, it seems to be the normal practice
of the Lesbian poets to treat a variety of themes and subject matters in lyric, melic
meters.164 The word ἰαµβικῶς therefore seems to be a loose designation, marking some
of Sappho’s poetry as sharing certain features with iambos. Likely, this “feature” was the
presence of invective, which in the Hellenistic period became recognized as the dominant
characteristic of iambos.165
Certain poems of Sappho’s, therefore, were perceived to be distinctly “iambic” in
character, if not in precise meter. The next question is, what poems? Many scholars have
argued that many of the “rivalry” poems discussed above, such as fragment 55 V, have
iambic elements.166 But as I have argued in the earlier section, it makes more sense to
view the rivalry and hostility of these poems in a choral performative context, rather than
an iambic one. While the presence of mocking, scolding, and other forms of stylized
aggression in these poems cannot be denied, the extant ancient testimony about these
poems does not support the idea that they were conceived as “iambic.” Maximus of Tyre,
for example, in the passage cited above, invokes not the mockery of Archilochus to
describe Sappho’s methods, but the cross-examination and irony of Socrates.167 And the
163
Rotstein (2010): 36.
Ibid.
165
For invective as the dominant feature of iambos, see Rotstein (2010): 319-46. About this passage of
Philodemus, Rotstein specifically says, “Abuse seems to be taken for granted as a dominant feature of
iambos as a genre” (140).
166
Compton (1987): 4-7, (2006): 98-101; Aloni (1997): lxxii-lxxv.
167
“Sometimes she censures them, sometimes questions them, and she uses irony over the very same things
as Socrates” (νῦν µὲν ἐπιτιµᾷ ταύταις, νῦν δὲ ἐλέγχει, καὶ εἰρωνεύεται αὐτὰ ἐκεῖνα τὰ Σωκράτους)
(Campbell T20).
164
170 ancient testimony we surveyed above about 55V, although it directly attacks an outsider
to the group, do not describe it in terms that evoke iambos. Plutarch describes her in
relatively unmarked terms as “speaking” (λεγούσης) or “writing” (γράψαι) to the woman,
while Aristides focuses on Sappho’s own boasting and claims for immortality
(µεγαλαυχουµένης καὶ λεγούσης).168 Even though there is aggression in these poems, it
seems that the tone of this aggression was perceived to differ from iambic poetry proper.
However, there remains another set of poems in which even the ancients
described Sappho as “slandering” and “mocking” particular persons. These are the poems
addressed to her wayward brother, Charaxus. Charaxus, of all the family members
mentioned in the Sapphic corpus, has had the most storied career in the secondary
biographical tradition. According to later sources, Charaxus was a trader who spent vast
amounts of money to free a courtesan he had fallen in love with, variously named
Doricha or Rhodopis. The first witness to this salacious story, Herodotus, calls this
woman Rhodopis: in his description of the pyramids at Giza in his second book, he writes
that some of the Greeks claim that a courtesan named Rhodopis built the smallest
pyramid. This is wrong, Herodotus goes on to state, and he describes in detail Rhodopis’
past, leading up to her elopement and freedom by Charaxus (2.134-5). Other writers,
however, in recounting this story claim that Sappho called this woman Doricha.169
Athenaeus even claims that Herodotus was mistaken in conflating Doricha and Rhodopis,
and that they are in fact two different people (Ath. 13. 596c-d).
Although it is far from clear how this assimilation between Doricha and Rhodopis
168
See respectively Plut. Quaest. Conv. 646ef; Plut. Coniug. Praec. 145f-146a; Aristid. Or. 28.51.
A papyrus biography about Sappho (T1 Campbell) and Ath.. 13.596b-d both only list Doricha as the
name of the courtesan. Strabo 17.1.33, Phot. s.v. Ῥοδώπιδος ἀνάθηµα, Suda s.v. Ῥοδώπιδος ἀνάθηµα, App.
Prov. 4.51 (Leutsch and Schneidewin) all note that, while other writers call her Rhodopis, Sappho calls her
Doricha.
169
171 happened, the secondary tradition seems in agreement that in her poetry Sappho called
her brother’s lover Doricha.170 This finds confirmation in the fragments of Sappho itself:
in particular, in fragment 15 V Doricha’s name (Δ]ωρίχα) appears, although admittingly
the first two letters of her name are restored.171 A recent study by Lidov has questioned
whether modern editors should restore Doricha’s name here, but as Yatromanolakis has
persuasively argued, the papyrus itself gives no solid grounds for removing this
restoration.172 It therefore appears that, whatever the secondary traditions surrounding
Charaxus’ lover, in her poetry itself she is referred to as Doricha.
The ancients who had access to the poems where Sappho mentioned Charaxus
and Doricha described the contents of these poems in ways that recall iambos. In one
poem at least, it appears that Sappho severely upbraided her brother. Our first witness to
Charaxus and Doricha’s affair, Herodotus, writes that, “Sappho greatly abused him in a
song” (ἐν µέλεϊ Σαπφὼ πολλὰ κατεκερτόµησέ µιν) (2.135 = 254a V). As noted by
multiple commentators, the verb Herodotus uses here, κατακερτοµέω, is extremely
strong, and elsewhere in the Histories is only used to describe Harpagus’ taunting of
Astyages, after he has had his revenge on him for feeding him his own children.
(1.129).173 The word thus strongly indicates vehement abuse that would be also suited to
170
For an excellent discussion of this assimilation within a sympotic context, see Yatromanolakis (2007):
334-7.
171
It should be noted that many editions (most significantly Voigt) restore Δωρί]χας to 7.1 V, but this
restoration is on very shaky grounds. As Lidov (2002): 223-4 notes, the dotted chi in Voigt’s edition could
just as well be a kappa, and there is hardly enough remaining context to guarantee such a reading. L-P, for
instance, just prints .ας .
172
See Lidov (2002): passim, but esp. 224. Lidov argues that the trace on the papyrus is not consistent with
an omega, and therefore the name Δωρίχα cannot be restored. But as Yatromanolakis (2007): 331-2 notes,
there is so little of the letter preserved of the letter before the rho that it is hard to claim that it is
“incompatible” with an omega. Furthermore, words and even personal names ending in –ρίχα are extremely
rare, and the meter requires a long vowel before it. Even if the trace is ambiguous, Δ]ωρίχα seems to be a
likely restoration.
173
Kurke (1999): 225-6; Lidov (2002): 231. The kata-prefix makes it much stronger than the unmarked
κερτοµέω discussed above.
172 iambic poetry.174 Although Herodotus here seems to have in mind a specific poem, we
should keep open the possibility that Sappho attacked her brother about Doricha in more
than one poem.175 Athenaeus in his description of the poem describes it in terms of
blame: “…and Doricha, who, when she became the beloved of Charaxus, Sappho’s
brother, while he was trading at Naucratis, the lovely Sappho slandered in her poetry
because she had robbed Charaxus of a great deal of money (διὰ τῆς ποιήσεως διαβάλλει
ὡς πολλὰ τοῦ Χαράξου νοσφισαµένην) ” (13.596bc). Athenaeus here uses the verb
διαβάλλω, which indicates a personal attack on one’s character, to describe the tone of
Sappho’s reprimand.176 Unlike the other ancient sources, however, Athenaeus claims that
Sappho attacked Doricha herself, rather than Charaxus. This has been interpreted as
revealing Athenaeus’ unfamiliarity with Sappho, but it is more likely that her criticism of
Charaxus was interspersed with disparaging comments about his poor choice in love
object. 177 Doricha, after all, was named in Sappho’s poetry, and it would be unsurprising
if she addressed her personally within the poem.
Both Herodotus and Athenaeus, therefore, utilize the language of blame to
describe this poem. Unlike other “aggressive” poems, like 55 V, the ancient testimony
174
Kurke (1999): 226 probably overstates the case when she claims, “Its [the verb κατακερτοµέω] coupling
with ἐν µέλεϊ suggests generic crisis, for such violent abuse might find a home in iambic poetry, or even on
occasion elegy, but should under no circumstances violate the domain of lyric.” But this very notice, as
well as the ancient testimony about Sappho’s “iambic” character surveyed above, suggests that violent
abuse was not incompatible with melic poetry, at least on Lesbos.
175
Elsewhere Herodotus uses the phrase ἐν µέλεϊ to refer to a specific song of Alcaeus about his lost of a
shield to the Athenians: “Alcaeus, composing these events in a song (ἐν µέλεϊ), sent it to Mytilene to
announce his misfortune to his friend Melanippus” (5.94-5). The text could not be more clear: here we have
a specific song sent to a specific person about a specific event. The existence of this specific song is further
confirmed by Strabo, who cites some lines from it (Strabo 13.1.38 = 401b V). For more instances where
Herodotus quotes a specific song, see Yatromanolakis (2007): 328.
176
See LSJ s.v. v.
177
Lidov (2002): 221 claims this is proof that Athenaeus was following secondary biographical traditions
about Sappho rather than her actual poetry. But this is to be overcritical: trenchant criticism of Charaxus
could not but be perceived as an attack on Doricha herself. Even if we assume that this is a critical lapse on
Athenaeus’ part, it is a decidedly minor one, and in no way suggests unfamiliarity with Sappho’s own
poetry.
173 describe Sappho’s reprimand of Charaxus in terms that overlap with iambos. It seems like
the notices of Philodemus and the Suda, rather than being misinformed, are part of a long
tradition of associating the poem(s) addressed to Charaxus with iambos. The scandalous
nature of Charaxus’ misdeeds probably lent these poems a “low-brow” character in
striking contrast to the rest of the corpus. While not as obscene as some of Archilochus’
sexual adventures, by breaching the very subject of prostitution these poems would have
been seen as having a “lower” generic character than the rest of the corpus.
Sappho the Counselor
One more ancient source on these poems, however, needs to be considered. The
final and most full source on Charaxus’ affair with Doricha comes in Ovid’s Heroides
15.178 In this poem, which pretends to be a love letter from Sappho to Phaon, Sappho
describes in detail the troubles she has had with her brother:
carpsit opes frater meretricis captus amore
mixtaque cum turpi damna pudore tulit.
factus inops agili peragit freta caerula remo,
quasque male amisit, nunc male quaerit opes.
me quoque, quod monui bene multa fideliter, odit;
hoc mihi libertas, hoc pia lingua dedit. (63-68)179
And my brother wasted his wealth, ensnared by the love of a whore, and
endured financial ruin mingled with foul shame. Now made poor he
wanders the blue seas with a swift oar. The riches he lost shamefully, he
now seeks just as shamefully. And he hates me also, because I earnestly
gave him much good advice. My frankness, my sisterly tongue gave this to
me.
This extended description helps to substantiate and expand the other sources described
178
It must be noted that the Ovidian authorship of this work has been recently disputed. See Tarrant (1981);
Knox (1995): 12-4.
179
Text based on Knox (1995). This text differs in certain respects from the text printed in standard
collections of the testimonia such as Campbell (1982b).
174 above. First, it corroborates Athenaeus that the main objection that Sappho had of the
affair was the money wasted. As Page rightly states, “It was not the fact but the
extravagance of the liaison which aroused her fury.”180 The focus in the original poems
must have been on the monetary losses that Charaxus endured in freeing his beloved.
This leads directly to the second point: Ovid suggests that Sappho’s “mocking” and
“slander” of Charaxus / Doricha consisted in “much good advice” (quod monui bene
multa). In the next line she states that her “frankness” (libertas) and “sisterly tongue” (pia
lingua) are what got her into trouble with her brother. The language here suggests that
Ovid is constructing Sappho as a sort of Roman satirist, one who displayed too much
libertas in the particular poem addressed to Charaxus.181 It appears that in the original
poems she not only offered criticism, but also gave some sort advice to Charaxus. Some
features of this description, however, seem do seem to be Ovid’s own: for instance, the
idea that Charaxus sought to reclaim his fortune by piracy, suggested in the words nunc
male quaerit opes (“he now seeks riches by evil means”).182 This is very unlikely to
derive from Sappho herself, and is likely an inference on Ovid’s part. However, it is
striking that Athenaeus in his notice uses the language of “stealing” and “robbery”
(νοσφισαµένην) to describe Doricha’s activities. Likely this rhetoric derives from the
original poem, and Ovid’s suggestion that Charaxus has turned to piracy to pay for his
debts is probably a playful (mis)interpretation of this language of robbery. The robbed
Charaxus himself becomes the robber. In any case, even at his most inventive, Ovid here
180
Page (1955): 50-1.
For the importance of libertas, and its opposite, licentia, to Roman satire, see Braund (2004). Also see
Horace’s comments on the old comic poets, that “if anybody deserved to be written down, because he was
a scoundrel or a thief, because he was an adulterer or a cutthroat or in any way notorious, they branded him
with great liberty (multa cum libertate notabant)”(Sat. 4.3-5)
182
Knox (1995): ad loc and Campbell (1982b): ad loc, both suggest that piracy is what is meant here.
181
175 seems to be working within the biographical tradition of the poet.
There does remain, however, a poem that corresponds to the characteristics
described above: it appears to mock a particular person, it gives practical advice, and it
concerns itself with the money wasted on a prostitute. The only difficulty is that this
poem has been traditionally attributed not to Sappho, but to Alcaeus. In the editio
princeps, Hunt, though with some hesitation, attributed the remains of this poem and
others on the same papyrus to Alcaeus (115- 128 V), mainly on metrical and stylistic
grounds.183 Subsequent editions, most notably Lobel-Page and Voigt, have also generally
attributed these poems to Alcaeus. This attribution, however, has not gone without
misgivings from some scholars: Hermann Frankel, Campbell, and Kurke have all doubted
the Alcaic authorship of this fragment.184 Most recently, Liberman in his Budé edition of
Alcaeus has excluded these fragments, on the grounds that the stylistic and metrical
criteria used by earlier scholars are subjective and inadequate.185 As he notes, poem 115
V bears a more than a passing resemblance to the locus amoenus described in Sappho 2
V. Moreover, it is more likely that in the “Pittacus in retirement” poem (119 V) the
subject matter is erotic rather than political.186 This all suggests a Sapphic authorship,
rather than an Alcaic one, and therefore Liberman excludes poems 115- 128 V from his
edition. It is in light of Liberman’s compelling analysis of these fragments, cited and
183
See Hunt (1922): 47. The meters are predominately in Asclepiads, with Alcaeus 119 V being in Alcaics.
All of these meters can be paralleled in Sappho (see Liberman (1999): xci), and likely belonged to the
metrically heterogeneous fifth book of Sappho’s poetry. For the variety of meters in this book, see
Liberman (1999): xci; Acosta-Hughes (2010): 97-8.
184
Fränkel (1928): 279, in his review of Lobel’s editions, assigned these lines to Sappho, claiming that they
were addressed to Charaxus. Campbell (1982b): 287 writes that these poems “are ascribed to Alcaeus
rather than to Sappho on the not entirely convincing evidence of metre (largely Asclepiad) and style.”
Kurke (1999): 226n10 also suggests that this poem could be attributed to Sappho.
185
Liberman (1999): lxxxvii- xci; Liberman’s arguments are approved by Yatromanolakis (2007):
332n211.
186
Ibid., lxxxviii-lxxxix.
176 approved by Yatromanolakis, that the following discussion will assume a Sapphic
authorship for poem 116 V.
If we understand Sappho as the author of poem 116 V, we appear to have part of
the poem that Sappho addressed to Charaxus. In it, Sappho enumerates the dangers of
wasting money on a prostitute:
ἐ]πόνησας κατα[]α̣µένα·
]..ς καὶ πόλλα χαρισ̣[
]δ̣ο̣ις· το̣ὶ̣ς δ’ ὐπίσω[.].[ (25)
[ ]ται· πό̣ρ̣ναι δ’ ὄ κέ τις δίδ̣[ωι
ἴ]σα κἀ[ς] π̣ολ̣ίας κῦµ’ ἄλ[ο]ς ἐσ̣β̣[ά]λην.
´̣]πε[..]ε.ι̣ς τοῦτ’ οὐκ οἶδε̣ν, ἐ̣µ̣ο̣ι̣ π[ί]θην
]ος ̣π[όρν]αισιν ὀµίλλει, τάδε γ̣ί̣νε[τ]α̣[ι·
δεύε̣[ι] µά[λ’] αὔτω τ̣ὼ χρήµ̣ατος̣ [ἄψερο]ν (30)
α]ἶσχος κα̣[ὶ κα]κ̣ό[τα]τ’ ὠλ̣ο̣µέν̣[αν
πόλλαν.[....]´[.]των, ψ̣εύδ̣η δε[.....]σ̣αι
.]α̣ι̣[.]λέ..[....] κάκων ἐσχατ̣[.....].[]
[
]ν̣δεµ[.].η ψύχαν ἀκατ̣[ ].
..]αίει δάκ[ρυσι]ν· ἀ δ’ οὐ[.]εσο.[ ]. (35)
.].[.].αι[]η[...].δ’ ἄλλος [̣ ..]..[
ὄ]ττις δεπ̣[....]εραι, γ̣..[
.].ρει κυµ[.....] ψῦχρ[ο]ν̣ [
.].ωρέοντ̣[....]µµε...[
.]π̣ερ Σίσυφο̣[....]ατον[¨]ά̣.[ (40)
[
[
[
[
]φεν ἀλλ̣[.]κλίννο̣[ (40a)
]π̣πα[.´̣].ο̣ις· ω.[ (40b)
]φίω, .[ ]..ε.[ (40c)
] [ (41)
…you worked it, all the while calling down curses... and many
charms(?)…to those who come later….but what one gives to a prostitute
just as well ought to be thrown into the waves of the grey sea. (If?) he
does not know this, it’s possible for me to persuade him… the following
happens to the man who consorts with prostitutes, when the deed is done
he must inevitably suffer disgrace and much accursed wretchedness…it
lies…extreme of evils… his soul…with tears…but (she?)…and another…
whoever…the cold wave…Sisyphus
inclines…
177 (116 V)
It is not entirely clear where the original poem began, but it is likely that it was a fairly
small poem of approximately thirty lines.187 In any case, the gist of the extant text is clear
enough. The quotation begins with an apparent reference to the prostitute’s line of
work.188 This leads into an obscure mention of her “ many charms (?)” (πόλλα χαρισ[)
and to “those who come later” (τοὶς δ’ ὐπίσω) (perhaps later customers?). Whatever this
may mean, it prompts Sappho into providing gnomic advice: “what one gives to a
prostitute just as well ought to be thrown into the waves of the grey sea.” As the papyrus
once again disintegrates into oblivion, she appears to enumerate the evils that ensue from
associating with prostitutes. The poem ends with what appears to be the greatest evil of
all (lit. “the extreme of evils” (κάκων ἐσχατ̣[ )), death itself. The poem ends with a visible
reference to Sisyphus at line 40, and the three lines that follow appear to be emendations
by a second scribe of lines mysteriously dropped from the first scribe’s transcription
(listed as 40a-c in the Greek text above). Although we do not know precisely where these
three lines were in the text originally, it is likely that they were from the end of the
poem.189
It is striking that, in what remains of the papyrus, she describes the evils that
come from cavorting with prostitutes in terms of shame and honor: after the deed is done,
a man suffers “disgrace and much accursed wretchedness” (α]ἶσχος κα[ὶ κα]κό[τα]τ’
ὠλοµέν[αν). Here the words α]ἶσχος and κα]κό[τα]τ’ are clearly “value” words, putting
187
Campbell (1982b) claims that a new poem begins after line 11. Voigt simply notes in the critical
apparatus that by line 14 a new poem appears to have begun. The exact calculation of the line count is
complicated by the additional three lines added by a second scribe (labeled 40a-c).
188
For πονέω indicating sexual activity, see Archilochus frag. 42 (West): “she was guzzling it down like a
Thracian or Phrygian guzzles beer through a straw, and bent over she was working it” (ὥσπερ αὐλῶι
βρῦτον ἢ Θρέϊξ ἀνὴρ /ἢ Φρὺξ ἔµυζε· κύβδα δ’ ἦν πονεοµένη).
189
This is, at least, what Campbell (1982b) and L-P believe.
178 Charaxus’ actions within a larger communal framework of ethical valuation.190 But
furthermore, as Sappho indicates, these words are not just for Charaxus: in a move more
than a little reminiscent of Sappho 16V, she claims she can prove the wastefulness of
spending on prostitutes to anybody that doesn’t know (τοῦτ’ οὐκ οἶδε̣ν).191 Although in
the extremely tattered first section of the poem she may have railed against specifically
Doricha, it is clear that by the end of the poem she turns to address more generally the
consequences of prostitution for not only Charaxus, but for anybody who is listening. The
main consequence, although the word is missing from our extant text, appears to be
poverty: given Sappho’s aforementioned obsession with money, it is not unreasonable to
suppose that Sappho is imagining the evils of “disgrace” and “wretchedness” as arising
specifically from Charaxus’ poverty. This would also go a long ways to explain Ovid’s
description of Charaxus as factus inops. “Disgrace” and “wretchedness” are in fact
traditional symptoms of poverty: for instance, Theognis once writes “Oh wretched
Poverty, hanging over my shoulders, why do you disgrace (καταισχύνεις) my body and
mind? The things you teach me by force, even though I am unwilling, are shameful
(αἰσχρὰ) and many” (649-51 Gerber). Examples of this can be multiplied.192 Even the
enigmatic reference to “lying” (ψεύδη) can be understood as responding to the traditional
theme, again clearly expressed in Theognis, that poverty teaches a man how to lie and
cheat.193 The end of poem appears to describe the ultimate evil, death itself. Again, death
190
For the sociopolitical dimensions of kak- words, see Morgan (2008): 32.
“It’s entirely easy to make this understandable to anyone” (πά]γχυ δ’ εὔµαρες σύνετον πόησαι π]άντι
τ[ο]ῦτ) (16.5-6).
192
In Theognis alone for the connection between poverty and shame / dishonor, see lns.155-6, 621, 1115.
1129-30 (West); for the wretchedness of poverty, see 181-2, 1061-2, 1114a (West).
193
Again, see Thgn. 388-90 (West): “even though he is unwilling, [poverty] brings a man to endure many
shameful things (αἴσχεα), constrained by lack of money: indeed she teaches many evils, lies (ψεύδεά),
deceptions, and accursed conflict.” Two caveats must be added here, however. First, it is not entirely clear
that what Sappho wrote was indeed ψεύδη; L-P suggests that τεύχη could be read here also. Most editions,
191
179 and poverty are explicitly linked by Theognis.194 It is a tempting idea, with the fragment’s
mention of tears (δάκ[ρυσι]ν) and a sudden feminine definite article ἀ, to see a poorly
attended pauper’s funeral only attended by Doricha being described here. Or maybe the
prostitute has moved on to another man (explaining the masculine ἄλλος̣)? Or maybe
both? However, we (imaginatively?) reconstruct the ending, it appears that Sappho
forecasts some sort of miserable death and afterlife for this archaic playboy.
It is not insignificant that in the other remaining poem where we have a reference
to Charaxus, Sappho also upbraids him in a way that places him within a framework of
communal shame and honor:
Κύπρι καὶ] Νηρήιδες ἀβλάβη[ν µοι
τὸν κασί]γνητον δ[ό]τε τυίδ’ ἴκεσθα[ι
κὤσσα Ϝ]ο̣ι̣ θύµω<ι> κε θέληι γένεσθαι
πάντα τε]λέσθην,
ὄσσα δὲ πρ]όσθ’ ἄµβροτε πάντα λῦσα[ι (5)
καὶ φίλοισ]ι Ϝοῖσι χάραν γένεσθαι
....... ἔ]χθροισι, γένοιτο δ’ ἄµµι
......µ]ηδ’ εἴς·
τὰν κασιγ]νήταν δὲ θέλοι πόησθαι̣
ἔµµορον]τίµας, [ὀν]ίαν δὲ λύγραν (10)
]οτοισι π[ά]ροιθ’ ἀχεύων
].να
].εισαΐω[ν] τὸ κέγχρω
]λ’ επαγ̣[ορί]αι πολίταν
]λλωσ̣[...]νηκε δ’ αὖτ’ οὐ (15)
]κρω[ ]
[
]οναικ[ ]εο[ ].ι
[
]..[.]ν· σὺ [δ]ὲ̣ Κύπ̣[..]..[..₍.₎]να
]θεµ[έν]α κάκαν [ (5 V)
]ι̣
including Voigt and Campbell (1982b), print ψεύδη. Second, if we accept ψεύδη, it could be argued that the
antecedent to the verb “lies” is not Charaxus, but Doricha herself, conning the hapless Charaxus. This is
certainly possible, but the extensive underworld description that appears to follow (most visible is the name
Sisyphus) suggests that Sappho here is focusing on Charaxus, and the evils that ensue from poverty, ending
with a penniless death and meager existence in the underworld.
194
See especially Thgn. 175-6, 181-2 (West).
180 Cypris and the Nereids, grant that my brother arrive here unharmed, and
whatever he wants in his heart be accomplished, and may he compensate
for whatever mistakes he made in the past, and be a source of joy for his
friends, and a source of pain for his enemies, and [may] not one thing
[harm us again?]. And may he want to make his sister [have a share in
honor]…grievious pain…who suffered formerly… hearing the milletseed…the accusations of the citizens… and may you, (august?) Cypris,
put aside your (former enmity?), and [ward off (?)] evil [harm?]
This poem appears to be an early instance of the poetic genre of the propemptikon, or a
“send off” poem. Here Sappho wishes her brother the best of fortunes, but her wishes are
shadowed by recollections of his past mistakes. These mistakes (ἄµβροτε), although
vaguely alluded to, most likely refer to his affair with Doricha. This would give added
punch to the dual addresses of Aphrodite (Cypria) that frame the beginning and the end
of the poem, and would also make sense of the cryptic mention of Aphrodite putting
aside something evil at the end of the poem. Most likely, Aphrodite is asked to put aside
her anger and come to Charaxus’ aide once again.195 It very well could be that Sappho
considers Charaxus’ love for Doricha a manifestation of Aphrodite’s displeasure towards
him. Not only does Charaxus face the dangers of the sea, but also the damage done to his
reputation with Doricha.
That it did do harm to his reputation can be seen in Sappho’s emphasis on honor
throughout the poem. In line 9-10, she says “And may he want to make his sister [have a
share in honor]”( τὰν κασιγ]νήταν δὲ θέλοι πόησθαι̣ / ἔµµορον]τίµας,). The letters or
words before the word τίµας are missing on the papyrus fragment, but certainly
Wilamowitz’s supplement ἔµµορον] τίµας “have a share in honor” captures the sense, if
not the exact wording, of the lost beginning of the line.196 In this case, we can see that
195
196
This is the tentative reconstruction of Page (1955): 48.
For the textual problems of this fragment, see footnote 19 above.
181 Charaxus’ actions are intimately linked with Sappho’s own honor. The fragmentary third
and fourth stanzas to this poem, with their vague references to “grievious pain”
(ὀν]ίαν…λύγραν), suffering in the past (π[ά]ροιθ’ ἀχεύων) , and the accusations of the
citizens (επαγ̣[ορί]αι πολίταν) reinforce this impression. This last phrase, the “accusations
of citizens” (επαγ̣[ορί]αι πολίταν), is especially interesting if it is correct (and some
scholars have doubted this restoration).197 Considering that the only other reference to the
citizenry (πολῖται) in extant Lesbian poetry is negative, even if the restoration is
incorrect, it probably captures the gist of the original text.198 Charaxus’ actions have
earned him the reproach of his fellow Mytileneans. What’s more, as several scholars have
recognized, the plural pronoun (ἄµµι) (7) implicates not only Sappho in the controversy
surrounding Charaxus, but also her extended family.199 Her brother has brought dishonor
to the entire group, which she hopes will be reversed by his future actions.
Sappho’s strategy, therefore, in shaming and advising her brother, is to put his
actions in an ethical, communal framework. By his actions, he has not only shamed his
family, but Sappho’s group that is associated with the family. As we noted at the
beginning of this discussion, this is similar strategy to what is employed in iambos. This,
and the low subject matter of the Charaxus fragments, probably led later commentators to
label these poems as “iambic.” But a parallel to Sappho’s words and strategy here can be
found in another genre, that of so-called “didactic epic” as represented by Hesiod in his
Works and Days. In this work, Hesiod upbraids his brother, Perses, for not working, and
197
Voigt most notably doubts this restoration, first proposed by Lobel. Campbell (1982b) accepts it.
See Alcaeus 130b6-7: “these citizens who harm one another” (τωνδέων τὼν [ἀ]λλαλοκάκων πολίτ̣αν).
Alcaeus voices similar sentiments at 348 V, making it likely that the “citizens,” when mentioned by the
elite Lesbian poets, were looked down upon with disdain.
199
Lardinois (1996): 165-6; Stehle (1997): 282-3.
198
182 proceeds to give him advice on how to properly maintain his household.200 Indeed, the
similarities between Charaxus and Perses have not gone unnoticed. As Compton writes,
“Kharaxos is a fairly close parallel to Hesiod’s Perses; both men have become
impoverished after having substantial sums of money; both are lazy.”201 As Compton
reasonably suggests, this probably reflects an early poetic theme, where a wayward
brother is chastised for his misbehavior.202 Even if later writers categorized her work as
“iambic,” contemporary audiences may have seen Sappho’s chastisement of Charaxus as
an adaptation of this theme.203
But there is a clear difference between Sappho’s persona and Hesiod’s in the
Works and Days. As Richard Martin has persuasively argued, Hesiod in his Works and
Days strikes a “metanastic” stance.204 As an immigrant to his community, a metanastic
figure becomes part of the community, yet remains outside of it. This tension between
being an insider /outsider gives the poet the authority to advise the community. Or to redescribe it in the terms I outlined in the previous chapter, this allows a metanastic poetic
to acquire some of the prestige and authority that attaches to a xenos figure. However,
this is precisely the opposite of what Sappho seems to do. Throughout these highly
fragmented poems, we only see her appealing to the ethical standards of the community.
She acts throughout these poems as an “insider,” protecting her family, group, and even
community from the fallout of Charaxus’ deeds. Indeed it is significant that Sappho’s
200
For the significance of the brother figure in the Works and Days, see Martin (2004).
See Compton (1987): 3-4; his thoughts are reiterated again in (2006): 97-8.
202
See Compton (1987): 4; (2006): 97-8. He further suggests that Sappho’s praise of Larichus could be the
antitype to Charaxus’ behavior. But we do not know in what context Sappho praised Larichus, so it is hard
to say if the two brothers were ever explicitly compared.
203
Martin (2004): 5 finds no other examples in Near Eastern literature of the symmetrical type of advice
offered by Hesiod to a brother figure. I submit that Sappho’s poems against Charaxus are indeed one
example of this type of theme.
204
See Martin (1992), especially 5.
201
183 first words to Charaxus in 5V imagine his return home. The pleasures and temptations of
the East, represented by Doricha, could send his journey wayward both financially and
literally. Home, and his proper, respectable place in the Mytilenean community, is where
he belongs.
Unlike in the “rivalry” poems we began with, therefore, Sappho draws her
authority here from the communal, ethical framework she sets up around Charaxus.
Sappho acts as a defender of not only her family and circle, but of the whole community.
There is no indication in these poems, as we have them, that Sappho’s appealed to her
kleos abroad, as I have argued is the case in the “rivalry” poems. Sappho’s role as a
counselor to her brother, therefore, seems to be an entirely distinct persona, in many
ways like the persona of an iambic poet, but also in some ways like the persona that
Hesiod establishes for himself in the Works and Days. The poems where Sappho advised
and mocked her brother were therefore probably wholly unique in archaic literature.
184 Chapter Four: Theognis’ Virtual Cities
Introduction:
In the previous chapter, I placed Sappho’s poetry in a choral agonistic context. In
this chapter, we will analyze a completely different body of poetry, that of the
Theognidea. Unlike the haphazardly preserved remains of Sappho we dealt with in the
last chapter, the Theognidea presents us a large collection of poems. At some 1389 lines
in Gerber’s recent Loeb edition, the Theognidea represents the largest collection of
archaic lyric poetry outside of Pindar, and the only one (again, besides Pindar) to come
down to us in manuscript form.1 We are therefore dealing with a far richer data set than
we did with Sappho, and a far richer series of interactions with one’s local community.
Furthermore, this discussion of the Theognidea holds a special place in my
argument, because it is the only sympotic text that my dissertation has the space to
discuss in detail. This chapter, therefore, provides us with a unique opportunity to analyze
poet’s interactions with their community inside a sympotic context. How do poets
interact with and present themselves to the local community within the confines of the
symposium?
Sympotic Poetry as Communal Poetry
Before beginning, we need to discuss how the Theognidea can be considered
“communal” poetry. Can a sympotic text truly be considered “communal”? For many
scholars the symposium, and by extension the poetry performed within it, are the polar
opposites of “communal” public poetry. This viewpoint can be traced back to Osywn
1
Unless otherwise noted, the edition and line numberings used in citations of the Theognidea are from
Gerber’s Loeb
185 Murray, who in his own essay in his edited volume Sympotica writes, “the symposion
became in many respects a place apart from the normal rules of society, with its own
strict code of honour in the pistis there created, and its own willingness to establish
conventions fundamentally opposed to those within the polis as a whole.”2 The
symposium, according to Murray, is a place apart and oftentimes contrary to the polis
itself. Sympotic ideology therefore is significantly at odds with the ideology of the polis
as a whole. Based on Murray’s discussion, a view of the symposium as fundamentally
anti-communal and anti-polis has been vigorously endorsed by Kurke and Morris. Their
distinction between a pro-polis “middling” class and an anti-polis aristocracy to a great
extent depends on the elite’s active participation in symposia that were ideologically
hostile to the overall welfare of the polis.3 The symposium, more than a space that is
independent of the polis itself, becomes a sign and symbol of an aristocracy that is
fundamentally opposed to the polis.
This opposition between the symposium and the general community also appears
in Eva Stehle’s Performance and Gender in Ancient Greece, one of the most extensive
meditations on what constitutes communal poetry in archaic Greece. Early on in this
book, she defines “community poetry” as “poetry composed for the setting and function
of community performance.”4 She then goes on to say, “The performers present
themselves as exemplary members of the community, for they concretize collective
attitudes as personal convictions and exhibit the shared beliefs in idealized forms. The
notion of community performance as providing reflection and model means that
2
Murray (1994b): 7.
For the origins of especially Kurke and Morris’s scholarship on the symposium in Murray, see Hammer
(2004): 492n.45. For the opposition between middling and elite, see Morris (1996): 34-5, (2000): 182-4;
Kurke (1992): 103-4 creates a similar opposition, and in (1997): 111-2 she explicitly quotes Murray.
4
Stehle (1997): 26.
3
186 community performers speak both for and to the audience at large: for the community as
reflectors of its beliefs and to it as models for renewed affirmations of those beliefs.”5
Later in the book she then describes what differentiates sympotic poetry from the group
solidarity that one finds in “community poetry” as she defines it: elite sympotic poetry
“has a narrower or different set of values from those acceptable in the community as a
whole. The discourse that defines the group will then be discourse marking its distinction
from the community.”6 She then goes on to describe certain “sympotic” poems as “anticommunal” and to cite various articles on the politically charged nature of the archaic
symposium.7 Sympotic poetry is poetry that actively marks it distinction from the greater
community; community poetry, on the other hand, is poetry that unifies the community in
one cohesive whole. Despite her more nuanced definitions of sympotic poetry, she too
falls into the trap of a binary opposition between community and sympotic poetry.
This assertion of the “anti-communal” nature of the symposium is problematic on
multiple levels. On a theoretical level, to paraphrase a dictum of Marx, this doctrine
necessarily divides a community into two parts, one of which is presumed to represent
the community, and one that doesn’t. By making the polis completely monopolize
legitimate discourse, no room is left for legitimate opposition, faction, and debate within
the symposium. By in effect denying the symposium any place within the Greek city, it
makes any discourse within it by nature subversive and anti-communal. Second, the
extent of the symposium’s subversiveness can be questioned. As certain events in Greek
history amply demonstrate, such as the famous “mutilation of the Hermes” in Athens,
5
Ibid., 28.
Ibid., 215-6.
7
Ibid.
6
187 symposia could indeed become hotbeds of subversive activity.8 But as Hammer notes, the
symposium at the same time engendered many civic leaders who sought power by
legitimate and legal means.9 The symposium did not just produce rebels who sought to
overturn the laws of the polis, but many men who submitted to and arose to positions of
power within the law. The focus on the symposium’s anti-communal nature, therefore,
risks simplifying and caricaturing what was in fact a complex institution. The
symposium’s relationship to the polis itself is equally complex, and cannot be adequately
captured by merely labeling it “subversive.”
Finally, one can also take issue with the assumption, held in all of these
discussions, that the symposium was a mostly private affair. Even within Murray’s own
Sympotica volume a note of dissent was fired by Pauline Schmitt-Pantel. As she argued,
the opposition between private symposium and public communal meal articulated by
Murray and others is problematic. Not only were public meals and symposia more on
different sides of a spectrum rather than binary opposites, but one can question how
“private” they were. Schmitt-Pantel’s conclusions are worth citing at length in this
regard:
I do not mean to cast doubt on the ‘private’ character of the symposion in
the sense that it was “restricted to some” or “not open to all,” but rather on
its private character in the sense that it was “connected with the world of
the private, ” a notion basically created to oppose that of the “public
world” in the sense of “political world.” This opposition between a world
of “the private” and a world of “the political” seems to me to come into
being long after the Archaic age and to be one of the consequences of the
emergence of “the political” as an autonomous category in the city…The
groups practising this form of sociability are the very groups which
comprise the civic body of the Archaic city. The gesture of reciting an
8
For this story, see Thuc. 6.27-9.
Hammer (2004): 492. Cf. Connor (1971): 26-29. As he notes, “Surely [the clubs] were not essentially or
inevitably political, still less conspiratorial. Their activities were as varied as the disposition of the
members…” (26).
9
188 elegy before such a group does not differ qualitatively from that of doing
so before an assembly. The fact that the elegy of Solon passes from the
agora to the banquet is even more persuasive evidence, in my opinion, of
the similarity of the public square and the symposion as places for
recitation of discourse which applies to the collective body of citizens. The
dichotomy to be found, in the time of Plato, between these two spaces
does not exist in the Archaic city. It is in this sense that I suggest that the
desire to oppose public and private forms of poetic discourse is an
artificial problem. Certainly, the symposion is not the agora, but poetic
discourse does not have a different function when composed for one place
rather than the other.
Instead of viewing the symposium as a “private” space, Schmitt-Pantel suggests that it
too was a “public” space, albeit with a limited, more selective audience. Although the
symposium had a limited first audience, the poetry performed there was expected to have
a wider distribution outside the symposium. While this restricted first audience is crucial
for our understanding of a poem, we should not expect a poem to stay restricted to this
audience for long. Rather, it is likely that sympotic poetry and music-making was
expected by the performers themselves to make its way outside of the symposium. In this
situation, the symposium and agora do not exist as polar opposites, but merely as
different performance venues with their own more or less narrow audiences. This is the
best way, for instance, to take Theognis’ frequent advice to remain silent and never
entrust anything important to anyone.10 It is hard to make sense of such warnings unless
Theognis was worried that inebriated chit-chat within the symposium could spread
outside of the symposium. In this case, and others which we will analyze in the course of
this chapter, there is a clear interplay between discourse within the symposium and
discourse without. Far from a private space, the symposium should be viewed as a public
space, albeit one that begins with and reflects the concerns of a limited audience.
10
Cf. lns. 73-4, 75-6.
189 Therefore, this chapter will take the symposium seriously as a locus for
communal discourse. While the symposium often reveals fractures and fissions within the
community rather than unity, the discussions and poetry performed within form an
important part of the communal life of any polis. As I will argue throughout, the
symposium is not a place isolated from the city, but a place where symposiasts’ roles
within the city are acted out, toyed with, and reperformed. Sympotic performances can be
considered stylized versions of people’s own roles within the city. As we will discover,
the persona of Theognis is critical in effecting the transformation from citizen to
symposiast. In the midst of the amateur sympotic poetry of the Theognidea, the
difference between poet and performer becomes elided, as well as the city both live in.
The Nature of the Theognidea
Near the beginning of the collection Theognis kindly provides us with his name
and city, declaring them both in his famous “sphragis” poem (lns. 19-38):11
τοῖσδ’ ἔπεσιν, λήσει δ’ οὔποτε κλεπτόµενα:
τοῦ Μεγαρέως· πάντας δὲ κατ’ ἀνθρώπους ὀνοµαστός. (lns. 19-23)
Cyrnus, let a seal be placed on these verses for me, a skilled and wise poet.
mankind.”
11
Throughout this discussion, I follow Gerber’s edition and Hubbard’s (2007): 207-13 convincing
arguments that we should consider lns. 19-38 as one poem. Earlier editors (most notably West) treated this
unit as two separate poems.
190 Every aspect of this poem has been subject to fierce debate amongst scholars- it has been
debated what exactly the sphragis is, whether it must be primarily oral or written, and
how exactly this sphragis is supposed to prevent theft.12 Furthermore, despite being one
of the most explicit declarations of authorship in archaic Greek poetry, Theognis’ own
authorship of the collection has been questioned. It is generally agreed that one single
individual could not have written the whole of the Theognidea. But because the sphragis
poem explicitly names one Theognis from Megara, scholars have debated who this
Theognis is.13 Many scholars have clung onto the notion of a “biographical” Theognis.
Instead of treating the corpus as a whole, they have argued that by carefully scrutinizing
the text we can identify the sections written by a historical Theognis and divide the text
into parts accordingly. The most influential proponent of this model is Martin West. In
the companion study to his edition of elegiac and iambic poetry, he argued that the
Theognidea has a three-part origin. Different parts of the corpus have different degrees of
fidelity to the poems that a historical Theognis wrote.14 Even though later scholars have
fine-tuned Martin West’s ideas about the text, the divisions he marked between books
have mostly been left intact by his followers.15
12
For scholars who believe the sphragis is Cyrnus’ name, see Bowie (1997): 63; Fox (2002): 36-7; for
scholars who believe the sphragis is Theognis’ own name, see Jaeger (1945): 190-1; Woodbury (1952): 28;
Lesky (1966): 170. For scholars that believe this poem is a written product, see Scodel (1992): 75; Pratt
(1995); Hubbard (2007). For good discussions of possible ways that the seal “prevents” stealing, see
Woodbury (1952): 23-4; Ford (1985): 85-6. Ford (1985): 85-6 and Edmunds (1997): 43-45 both see the
sphragis as an assertion of “authority.”
13
Even what Megara Theognis is from has been disputed. Plato in his Laws, one of the earliest witnesses to
the Theognidea, mysteriously states that Theognis is not from the mainland Megara, but Megara Hyblaea in
Sicily (Θέογνιν, πολίτην τῶν ἐν Σικελίᾳ Μεγαρέων) (Leg. 630a). However, as I will discuss at the end of
the chapter, there are stronger reasons for seeing mainland Megara as the primary locale in Theognis’
poetry. It is likely that Plato made a mistake (as recognized by the ancients, see T3-4 Gerber). I will discuss
the reasons for this mistake in more detail at the end of the chapter.
14
See West (1974): 45-59. The chart at page 59 is enormously helpful in scrutinizing West’s hypothesized
textual divisions.
15
Bowie (1997) has argued that much of the poems in the collection must be excerpts, rather than poems in
their own right. Fox (2002), van Wees (2002), Hubbard (2007) all rely on West’s textual divisions.
191 A more radical solution has been proposed by Nagy and Figueira. In their coedited volume of essays Theognis of Megara: Poetry and Polis they outline a new picture
of Theognis. The collection, both Nagy and Figueira argue, represents a local body of
specifically Megarian poetry through the ages. Using a set of chronological arguments,
they argue that the poetry spans too long of a stretch of time to be attributed to a single
author.16 Rather than being a historical figure, Theognis exists as an authorial persona in
the work, whose presence legitimizes and authorizes this collection of traditional poetry.
The Theognidea, therefore, is a cumulative synthesis of Megarian poetry, with the
persona of Theognis as the glue holding it together.17 The collection becomes not the
work of just one man, but the result of a broad tradition of Megarian poetry.
I find Nagy and Figueira’s interpretation of the text to be the more plausible one.
It has the virtue of preserving the unity of the corpus without trying to attribute more or
less arbitrary parts of the corpus to a historical Theognis. The chief flaw of the Nagy
seminar, however, is its insistence that the persona of “Theognis” is consistent throughout
the Theognidea. In this regard, they are in many ways the same as previous scholars. As
early as Nietzsche, Theognis has been called “the mouthpiece” of the Greek nobility.18 It
has been the general assumption amongst most scholars that Theognis had both a unitary
personality and ideology. In this regard, the Nagy seminar’s own findings, by decoupling
the author’s persona from a single historical individual, has been critical in solidifying the
view of the corpus as unitary. As Nagy himself writes, “It is even true that the poetry
16
The chronological basis of their claims is laid out clearly in their introduction Figueira and Nagy (1985):
1.
17
The clearest explanation of their methodology comes in the introduction to the work- see Figueira and
Nagy (1985): 1-2. For the figure of the author and its consequences, see Nagy (1985): 33-4. For the
authorizing function of the poetry, see Ford (1985): 85-6, 89.
18
Nietzsche (1967): 5.
192 itself actually creates the integral and lively personality of one man- an extremely
versatile man-whose complex identity is perhaps the only constant in the changing world
of his beloved Megara.”19 In the same volume Ford also writes, “I maintain therefore that
the seal of Theognis had as its prime function the codification and authorization of a body
of gnomological poetry as representing the accepted standards and values of the agathoi.
The name of Theognis guarantees not the origin of these epē but their homogeneous
political character and their aristocratic provenience.”20 Figueira too in this same volume
finds a coherent ideology in the Theognidea. He in fact contrasts the oligarchic ideology
found in the elegiac Theognidea to the democratic ideology found in Megarian comedy
(what little of that remains). He finds that, while the elite ideology in elegy emphasizes
the symposium, the more rowdy and raucous Megarian comedy explores the possibility
of redistribution by an emphasis on foods and drink in communal dinners 21 All in all, the
Nagy seminar seems in agreement that “Theognis” represents both a personally and
politically consistent persona. One very recent article on Theognis has even argued that
this recognition of Theognis’ ideological consistency is the most valuable contribution of
Nagy’s volume!22
This approach, however, is problematic. It assumes that the various strata of the
Theognidea are unified not only by a singular persona, but a singular political
perspective. This is a troubling assumption; as we discussed above, the corpus of the
Theognidea, no matter which way we look at it, is too disjointed and sprawling to be the
work of a single man. If it is not the work of a single man, how can we expect a unitary
19
Nagy (1985): 34.
Ford (1985):89.
21
Figueira (1985b): 143.
22
Lear (2011): passim, but esp. 392-3.
20
193 persona or figure to emerge out of this chaos? And just as importantly, is this unity what
we find when we look at the corpus in detail?
Theognis, when we examine the evidence closely, reveals himself to be a series of
“Theognises” rather than a singular individual. This has not gone unnoticed by some
scholars. For instance, A.D. Morrison, for instance, writes, "There is considerable variety
in the identity of different Theognidean narrators.23 Even Figueira and Nagy themselves
point the way to new approach, even as they advocate a unitary perspective. As they
write, “Theognis is the self-representation of whoever chose to articulate the social values
contained in these traditions.”24 Even though this statement assumes that the social values
of the Theognidea are consistent, it reveals a critical insight about how Theognis would
have been performed in a sympotic context. Whenever one performs Theognidean poetry,
one takes up the persona of Theognis. Rather than being a character in his own right,
“Theognis” is a persona the symposiast inhabits within performance. One becomes
“Theognis” in performance of his poetry.
Leslie Kurke in an under-studied but absolutely brilliant summary of the
Theognidea manages to expand on this critical insight of Nagy and Figueira:
…the Theognidea represents the product of an ongoing tradition of
composition in performance in which “Theognis” is simply a persona, a
place from which to speak to the sympotic and civil audience. Given the
multiplicity of voices that speak as “Theognis,” we find also a multiplicity
of points of view- basically, a confusing spectrum of opinions that range
from middling to elitist.25
Kurke succinctly here points the way to a new understanding of the corpus of the
Theognidea. As she emphasizes, “Theognis” is a persona geared specifically towards
23
Morrison (2007a): 53.
Figueira and Nagy (1985): 2.
25
Kurke (1999): 27-8.
24
194 sympotic performance. Rather than being a specific personality or viewpoint, “Theognis”
is a character that one can use to address one’s fellow sympotic audience. By performing
as Theognis, one gives one’s own words and advice an air of traditionality and authority.
“Theognis” therefore becomes the voice of as many perspectives as there are people in
the traditional symposium. Not only can "Theognis" assume the personality and life story
of whoever he likes, but he can also adopt the political perspective and advice of
whatever persona he chooses to speak. "Theognis" is therefore not a unitary figure, but a
voice that people take on in a sympotic context.
An important consequence of these multiple personae arises if we examine more
closely the agonistic character of sympotic poetry. Even though the performance of
poetry in the symposium was a form of recreation, it was oftentimes recreation of a more
serious sort. As Collins has convincingly argued, symposiasts often used sympotic poetry
to express their own personalities, opinions, and ambitions. As he writes, “competitive
sympotic performance also lent itself to the expression of personal ambition and private
gain, at times with ruthless consequences.”26 Collins’s description helps us to remove
some of the preconceptions of the “private” character of the symposium described earlier.
Rather than being disconnected from social and political realities, the Theognidean
symposium was a locus for performance of one's own ambition. Here was a place where
debates about the city, friendship, tyranny, the aristocracy, and much more were staged.
The symposium was a place to discuss the sum total of social changes sweeping the
various Greek cities in the archaic period. Far from disconnected from the life of the polis
in general, the symposium played a vital role in disseminating debate within the polis.
26
Collins (2004): 63; see more generally 63-83.
195 This expanded role for the archaic symposium has important consequences for the
performance of Theognis’ poetry. If the symposium was a locus for debate, we should
view Theognis as a set of personae built for performing within these debates. “Theognis”
in any one of his personae is a role that one can inhabit to express one’s views to one’s
fellow symposiasts and citizens. It is worth repeating the words of Kurke again: Theognis
is above all “a place from which to speak to the sympotic and civil audience.” Theognis
therefore becomes a set of personae in which one addresses one’s fellow drinkers in the
symposium. But even in this instance, whatever Theognis that a symposiast chooses to
play is far from simple. When one performs “Theognis,” one does not completely
“become” Theognis. A dialectic emerges between the biographical realities of the person
playing Theognis, the particular context in which he plays Theognis, and the particular
Theognis he chooses to play. The relationship between person and persona is often
unclear and constantly changes from performance to performance. The slippery way in
which one’s opinions and that of Theognis’ may or may not overlap is the very reason
that the various personae of “Theognis” provide license to the performer. It can
communicate a clear message to one’s peers, yet provides plausible deniability if one is
pressed on it: “no, that’s not my opinion- it’s Theognis’.” In fact, a speaker can even
deploy Theognis’ poetry in an ironic or sarcastic manner, making it clear from the
performance that he means the opposite. A speaker can “misuse” Theognis’ words to an
effect opposite to what the words and language suggests. The character of “Theognis”
becomes subject to an unlimited variety of speech acts and effects depending on the
overall context of performance. What we see in the Theognidea, therefore, is a series of
196 scripts that take only particular significance within a specific performance by a specific
individual in a symposium.
Playing Theognis: His Various Roles
Because, as touched on briefly above, the general consensus within the
scholarship seems to be that “Theognis” is a unitary figure, it is important to discuss in
some detail some of the contradictory personae that performers of Theognis can inhabit.
In this section, I will briefly as possible discuss some of the various personae that
“Theognis” takes on. Primarily because of space, I focus on four discontinuities of
Theognis’ character: gender, age, his varying life stories as an exile and his roles vis-à-vis
poverty and profession. While this is far from exhausting all the possible personae that
Theognis inhabits in our extant corpus, these four issues nicely define some of the central
difficulties and contradictions posed by the performance of Theognis’ poetry. All of these
issues in their own way illustrate the central problem that faces the Theognidean
performer: the relationship between the biographical and historical person performing
Theognis, and the persona of Theognis he (or perhaps, she?) chooses to inhabit.
Furthermore, these issues (status as an exile, profession, and age) are all more or less
“falsifiable”: Theognis cannot both be a man and a woman, young and old, poor and rich,
an exile and a citizen at the same time. While many of these contradictions can be
“solved” if we put them into a diachronic biographical narrative (i.e. “Theognis was rich
and lost his family and farms, thus explaining why he portrays himself as sometimes rich
and sometimes poor in the poetry”), I hope that this overview makes this the less likely
option. There is simply too much variety within the Theognidean corpus for just the story
197 of a single man’s life to be narrated. Finally, and maybe most importantly for this
dissertation’s overall goals, a precise delineation of the different roles that Theognis plays
will allow us to examine his relationship to his community of Megara more closely at the
end of the chapter. As I will argue, what in fact the Theognidea creates is its own virtual
Megara, inhabited by the various personae that Theognis plays.
This analysis will by necessity be incomplete for another reason. As I argued
above, poems only gain specific meaning within a particular performance. No analysis,
no matter how complete, can comprehensively recount all the possible ways a particular
poem can be used. We can easily imagine scenarios where Theognidean poems are used
as pointed barbs, retorts, self-defenses, etc. by Theognidean performers, uses which only
make sense in a very specific context. The difficulty for a scholarly paper on the
Theognidea is that, while these performative possibilities must be kept in mind in order to
fully understand the context of the Theognidea, any description of these possibilities must
resort to speculation. While in the following discussion I try not to speculate too much on
how and by whom these poems could have been performed, readers will have to judge
how successful I am in this task. Part of the purpose of this analysis is after all to give a
sense of the diversity of ways Theognidean poetry can be “used.” In this regard, in the
following analysis I will also try to demarcate clearly between the personae of
“Theognis” and whatever ephemeral performers are taking up one of his variegated roles.
And as discussed earlier above, performers in the symposium can “misuse” the poems i.e.
performing poems in a fashion that clearly contradicts the language of the poem. Any
poem within the Theognidea can be subject to such ironic, sarcastic effects, as well as
other forms of “misinterpreting.” What this analysis tries to map out is the way that
198 poems would be used if the text of the poem is used accurately, i.e. with fidelity to the
overall meaning and connotations of the poem. In this case, “Theognis” can be used to
express some relationship between speaker and persona, or can be performed as a type of
role-playing, with no necessary relationship between persona and performer implied. This
analysis will not focus on instances when poems could be used by performers in senses
and contexts that contradict or in some way “misinterpret” the literal meanings of these
poems. I will therefore focus on the “uses” of Theognidean poetry, rather than its
“abuses.”
Maybe the most striking instance of discontinuity in the Theognidea is when
“Theognis” performs in the persona of a woman. Despite the gender-bending going on
here, there is actually precedent for this persona. Alcaeus, for instance, speaks as a
woman from the very beginning of one of his poems.27 Within the sometimes fantastical
confines of the symposium, it was possible for male poets to perform in a woman’s voice.
“Theognis” takes full advantage of this possibility, featuring women as first-person
narrators in three different poems. The first two of these poems specifically take the form
of riddles:
Ἵππος ἐγὼ καλὴ καὶ ἀεθλίη, ἀλλὰ κάκιστον
ἄνδρα φέρω, καί µοι τοῦτ’ ἀνιηρότατον.
πολλάκι δὴ ’µέλλησα διαρρήξασα χαλινὸν
φεύγειν ὠσαµένη τὸν κακὸν ἡνίοχον. (lns. 257-60)
I am a beautiful and prize-bearing horse, but I carry an utterly base man on
me, and this is very painful for me. Many times I was about to break the bit
and flee, throwing off my bad rider.
Οἵ µε φίλοι προδιδοῦσι καὶ οὐκ ἐθέλουσί τι δοῦναι
27
See Alcaeus 10 V. We know that the extant fragment is the beginning of the poem from an ancient
commentator (Heph. Poem. 3.5). However, it is unclear whether Alcaeus continued to speak as a woman
until the very end of the poem or at some point dropped the pretense and began speaking in his own voice.
In any case, this at least shows that Greek sympotic poets could mimetically imitate women in their poetry.
199 ἀνδρῶν φαινοµένων· ἀλλ’ ἐγὼ αὐτοµάτη
ἑσπερίη τ’ ἔξειµι καὶ ὀρθρίη αὖθις ἔσειµι,
ἦµος ἀλεκτρυόνων φθόγγος ἐγειροµένων. (lns. 861-4)
My companions betray me and they refuse to give me anything when men
appear; but I of my own will leave in the evening and come back again at
dawn, when there is the cry of roosters waking up.
As for the first poem, it most likely describes a woman unhappy with her union to some
base man. Who this woman is, and what her status is, is left to the imaginations of both
the performer and his audience.28 It is implied that the woman is noble, but this
description could easily be ironic.29 However, the meaning and the sense of the second
riddle is more problematic. Who exactly this feminine narrator is, and what she has to do
with this particular description, has been a subject of much contention amongst
scholars.30 But as Martin has convincingly argued, the woman referred to is likely
Poverty herself.31 Poverty (πενίη) is herself addressed in other poems (e.g. 351-4 and
649-52) and her opposite, Wealth, is addressed at 523-6. Moreover, “Poverty” in poem
351-4 is described virtually as a hetaira (I will discuss this poem in more detail below).
In this poem Poverty too probably is imagined as a hetaira, but as one that leaves when
the men come and the symposium gets under way. The joy of the symposium makes even
poor men forget about their poverty and thus drives her off.32 But in any case, no matter
28
For a listing the various interpretations of this poem, see van Groningen (1966): 105, who sees
specifically an aristocratic marriage as the best interpretation. It is also possible that this poem could have
been used allegorically to describe the need to “throw off” a tyrant, but the sexual overtones would likely
still remain the primary layer of signification.
29
It is interesting that the poem does not specifically describe the woman as noble; she is instead described
as “beautiful” and “prize-bearing” (ἀεθλίη). Even though the adjective “prize-bearing” has connotations of
nobility, the word ἀεθλίη may coyly suggest she wins her prizes in another way, i.e. as a hetaira.
30
Answers have ranged from a cat to a courtesan (or even, hedging their bets, a courtesan’s cat) to a stone
lamp flickering with an image of a woman. See Martin (2001): 60-1 for an apt overview of the rather
strange solutions to this poem.
31
Martin (2001): 63-70.
32
This connection between the joy of the symposium and the forgetting of cares is made explicit at lns.
1129-30 "I will drink, not worrying myself with my soul-devouring poverty or the men who are my
200 how we interpret the “solution” to this poem, like the first poem, this poem takes the form
of a riddle. In both of these instances, “Theognis” becomes a woman to perform a riddle.
The third and final instance where the narrator of the Theognidea plays a woman
takes the form of a dialogue. 33
Ἐχθαίρω κακὸν ἄνδρα, καλυψαµένη δὲ πάρειµι
σµικρῆς ὄρνιθος κοῦφον ἔχουσα νόον·
Ἐχθαίρω δὲ γυναῖκα περίδροµον, ἄνδρα τε µάργον,
ὃς τὴν ἀλλοτρίαν βούλετ’ ἄρουραν ἀροῦν. (lns. 579-82)
"I despise the base man, and I veil myself as I go, giving him the fleeting
attention of a small bird."
"And I hate the women who gets around and the gluttonous man, who desires
to plow a field that belongs to someone else."
This poem is a rare example in the Theognidea of a dialogue between multiple speakers
within the same poem. The clash of the genders seems to be staged in this exchange, and
the representatives of both genders end up name-calling each other. The “woman”
complains about how the men she encounters are base, while the “man” trashes women's
general promiscuity and the men they take as lovers well.34 The second couplet in fact
nicely attacks the presumed modesty presented in the first couplet, reinterpreting the
woman's "passing by veiled" (καλυψαµένη δὲ πάρειµι) as a more scandalous "getting
around" (περίδροµον). As for performance, the dialogue format of this poem presents a
number of interesting possible scenarios. As Collins writes in regards to this passage, "in
terms of the symposium, such matched responses would have allowed participants to
enemies, who slander me." (Ἐµπίοµαι, πενίης θυµοφθόρου οὐ µελεδαίνων / οὐδ’ ἀνδρῶν ἐχθρῶν, οἵ µε
λέγουσι κακῶ). For this connection, see Martin (2001): 64. I discuss this fragment in more detail below.
33
It should be noted that some scholars prefer to see these as two separate poems: see van Groningen
(1966): 228-30. However, West (1974): 156, and West and Gerber in their respective editions print these
two couplets as one poem.
34
Collins (2004): 123-4 sees the “man” as "capping" the contest by having a more comprehensive
"bisexual" worry over both women and men. While I agree that there is "capping" involved, Collins ignores
the way that the speaker's hatred of adulterers suggests that the “woman” too is an adulterer. The rant
against adulterers is more of a targeted attack on the “woman's” chastity than he allows.
201 improvise identities, and extemporaneously to project themselves into different personae
in a modest form of acting."35 This poem could be performed by a single symposiast who
imitates both genders in the course of his performance, or could have been an actual
dialogue between two participants in the symposium. Whether performed in monologue
or in dialogue, the performance of this poem would allow the performer(s) to act out the
battle of the sexes and in some instances, even to play another gender themselves.
All three of the instances where “Theognis” is not male, therefore, show signs of
being marked performance genres different from the other poems in the Theognidea. The
first two of these poems are riddles, the third a stylized battle of the sexes. Though these
examples prove that “Theognis” does not have to be male, these poems appear to be
exceptions to the rule. Elsewhere in the Theognidea, Theognis plays explicitly a male
role, and the personae he adopts are ones of males within the polis.
If Theognis is usually male, the next question we may ask is, what age is he? As it
turns out, Theognis plays both the young and the old in the corpus. Both of these roles
can partially be attributed to generic reasons. In archaic elegy the distinction between
youth and old age is particularly important. As early in elegiac tradition as Mimnermus
youth has been figured as a time of sexual pleasures, while old age as a grievous evil that
takes away those very same pleasures.36 The sense that the time to enjoy youthful
pleasures is short, and the twin evils of old age and death are long, motivates many of the
most hedonistic statements in archaic Greek poetry. Besides the joys of youth, in didactic
genres like the Theognidea age has an additional significance. From the very start of the
Theognidea, age defines the separate roles of teacher and student. For instance, near the
35
36
Collins (2004): 124.
See Mimnermus 1 West.
202 end of the sphragis poem Theognis writes: “and with kind thoughts for you I will give
you the advice, Cyrnus, that I learned as a child from good men” (σοὶ δ’ ἐγὼ εὖ φρονέων
ὑποθήσοµαι, οἷά περ αὐτός,/ Κύρν’, ἀπὸ τῶν ἀγαθῶν παῖς ἔτ’ ἐὼν ἔµαθον·)(27-8).
Here the differences in age between advisor and advisee become critical for Theognis’
persona. Because Theognis once learned these time-tested precepts from good men as a
child, he can suitably pass them on to a younger generation.37 Overlapping the distinction
between teacher / student and erastēs and eromenos therefore is a distinction in age.
Theognis’ age makes him the advisor as much as Cyrnus’ age makes him the advisee. As
we will see, as well as playing the hedonistic youth, Theognis can also play the didactic
old man as well.
Theognis explicitly takes on the hedonistic persona of youth in several poems in
the corpus. A representative example can be found late in the first book:
οὐδεὶς ἀνθρώπων, ὃν πρῶτ’ ἐπὶ γαῖα καλύψῃ
εἴς τ’ ἔρεβος καταβῇ, δώµατα Περσεφόνης,
τέρπεται οὔτε λύρης οὔτ’ αὐλητῆρος ἀκούων
οὔτε Διωνύσου δῶρ’ ἐπαειρόµενος.
ταῦτ’ ἐσορῶν κραδίῃ εὖ πείσοµαι, ὄφρα τ’ ἐλαφρά
γούνατα, καὶ κεφαλὴν ἀτρεµέως προφέρω. (lns. 973-78)
No man, whom the earth covers, and who goes down to the darkness, to the
house of Persephone, does not take pleasure in listening to the lyre or to the
pipe, nor does he raise to his mouth the gifts of Dionysius. In view of these
things, I will advise my heart well, as long as I carry knees that are nimble
and a head that doesn’t shake.
The details described in the last line of this poem make it clear that the performer is not
an old man. The specification here “as long as I carry knees that are nimble and a head
that doesn’t shake” does not preclude older narrators, but explicitly excludes speakers
37
It is significant that Alcaeus, in a near obliterated fragments also appeals to the precepts he learned from
his ancestors “we learn from our fathers” (ἂπ πατέρων µάθος) (371 V). Possibly Alcaeus too adopted this
didactic persona.
203 who have reached an old age. Other poems that stress the hedonistic pleasure of the
symposium similarly feature youthful narrators. At lns. 567-70 the narrator announces
quite clearly that “he is having fun, delighting in his youth” (ἥβῃ τερπόµενος παίζω). In
lns. 1129-32 the narrator pledges that he will forget his poverty and deceitful friends in
the midst of the symposium, but claims that instead “I mourn my lovely youth, which is
leaving me, and I mourn the onset of difficult old age” (ἀλλ’ ἥβην ἐρατὴν ὀλοφύροµαι,
ἥ µ’ ἐπιλείπει, / κλαίω δ’ ἀργαλέον γῆρας ἐπερχόµενον) (1131-2). In poem 1017-22, the
narrator’s heart is set all a-flutter by the sight of those who are his same age (πτοιῶµαι δ’
ἐσορῶν ἄνθος ὁµηλικίης) (1018).38 Finally in poem 1063-8, he begins by commenting
that “in youth you can sleep with someone your own age all night long” (ἐν δ’ ἥβῃ πάρα
µὲν ξὺν ὁµήλικι πάννυχον εὕδειν), and concludes by the end of the poem that the
pleasures of the symposium are the most valuable things for him (“What is wealth or
respect to me? Pleasure with festivity conquers all” (τί µοι πλοῦτός τε καὶ αἰδώς; /
τερπωλὴ νικᾷ πάντα σὺν εὐφροσύνῃ) (lns. 1063, 1067-8). All of these poems would be
most suitably performed by young attendees of the symposia, self-referentially singing of
the delights contained within. Even older attendees could also perform these poems and
take pleasure in role-playing a youth once again.
Although Theognis’ persona is fairly straightforward when he plays a youth,
when Theognis plays an old man, there is considerably more variety in his personae. On
the one hand, as an old man he too can enjoy the symposium, if only in a more
problematic way. In one poem in the second book, he appears to play a jealous old man:
“O child, don’t go partying, believe an old man. It’s not fitting for a young man to go
38
It should be noted that this poem shares some very similar lines with Mimnermus: lines 1020-22 are
variations of Mimnermus fr. 5.1-3.
204 partying” (Ὦ παῖ, µὴ κώµαζε, γέροντι δὲ πείθεο ἀνδρί / οὔτοι κωµάζειν σύµφορον ἀνδρὶ
νέῳ) (1351-2)). By all accounts, this is an odd piece of advice. Elsewhere in archaic
Greek literature, youth is considered precisely the time to participate in the kōmos.39 Most
likely we are supposed to sense a note of jealousy in his words: he doesn’t want his
favorite boy going out and picking out other lovers.
At other times, instead of erotic attachments with the younger members of the
symposia, the narrator’s words take on a paternal role. The first example of this appears
in the first couplet of lines 1049-54: “I myself will give you the same good advice that
my father gave me when I was a child: and you will stow these words in your heart and
mind” (σοὶ δ’ ἐγὼ οἷά τε παιδὶ πατὴρ ὑποθήσοµαι αὐτός /ἐσθλά· σὺ δ’ ἐν θυµῷ καὶ
φρεσὶ ταῦτα βάλευ) (1049-50). Here Theognis plays the role of an older man- how much
older, it is unclear. He is certainly past his boyhood and has had enough time to be
educated by the didactic precepts of his own father. Once again this persona does not
preclude older or even middle-aged narrators from speaking it. The thought here is very
much like the one in the sphragis poem, except that Theognis presents himself in a more
paternal role. Instead of learning his advice in an implicitly pederastic relationship from
other agathoi as in the sphragis poem (ἀπὸ τῶν ἀγαθῶν παῖς ἔτ’ ἐὼν ἔµαθον)(28), he
passes on the advice that he learned from his father. While this suddenly paternal turn
does not exclude “Cyrnus” from being an eromenos in this poem, it does make the
performance of it to figures that are not eromenoi more possible. The paternal role would
make this poem more appropriate than the sphragis poem to actual advice performed by
father or father-like figures to a younger member of the symposium.
39
A good overview of the kōmos can be found in Heath (1988): 180-2.
205 Elsewhere, this paternal role is fleshed out with a slightly richer back-story:
ἴσως τοι τὰ µὲν ἄλλα θεοὶ θνητοῖς ἀνθρώποις
γῆράς τ’ οὐλόµενον καὶ νεότητ’ ἔδοσαν.
τῶν πάντων δὲ κάκιστον ἐν ἀνθρώποις θανάτου τε
καὶ πασέων νούσων ἐστὶ πονηρότατον,
παῖδας ἐπεὶ θρέψαιο καὶ ἄρµενα πάντα παράσχοις,
χρήµατα δ’ ἐγκαταθῇς πόλλ’ ἀνιηρὰ παθών,
τὸν πατέρ’ ἐχθαίρουσι, καταρῶνται δ’ ἀπολέσθαι,
καὶ στυγέουσ’ ὥσπερ πτωχὸν ἐσερχόµενον. (lns. 271-8)
The gods have given other evils to mortal men, damnable old age and
youth, but the worst thing of all, even more painful than death and every
kind of disease, is when you raise children and provide them with
everything suitable, and you have stored up wealth for them while
suffering a great deal of trouble, then they despise their father and pray for
him to die, and they hate him like a beggar that has entered their house.
This poem strongly suggests that the speaker himself is an old man with children. While
his condemnation of children ungrateful to their father is mostly phrased in the secondperson (θρέψαιο, παράσχοις, ἐγκαταθῇς) and the third-person (ἐχθαίρουσι, καταρῶνται,
στυγέουσ’), it makes the most sense to see “Theognis” here as having actual children. It
is hard to imagine any other persona condemning ungrateful sons and daughters unless he
had children himself. Moreover, the flip-side of this advice, to respect your elderly
parents, is elsewhere recommended by Theognis in a small couplet: “for those who
dishonor their parents when they grow old, Cyrnus, there is very little esteem” (οἵ κ’
ἀπογηράσκοντας ἀτιµάζωσι τοκῆας, /τούτων τοι χώρη, Κύρν’, ὀλίγη τελέθει) (821-22).
The persona adopted here, therefore, is probably an older man whose ingratiate children
treat him badly. This role would naturally appeal to anyone in the symposium who did
have actual children or would have allowed play-acting of this role by other childless
participants in the symposium.
206 Finally, in one final poem where Theognis plays an old man, he reveals how age
separates the different roles of addressers and addressees in the symposium:
‘ῥῆον ἐξ ἀγαθοῦ θεῖναι κακὸν ἢ ’κ κακοῦ ἐσθλόν.’
-µή µε δίδασκ’· οὔ τοι τηλίκος εἰµὶ µαθεῖν. (577-8)
“It’s easier to make something bad from good rather than something good
from bad”: don’t teach me: I am too old to learn.
Some commentators have seen this as a rebuttal of a famous hexameter piece of advice,
but despite its alleged fame the first line is not known elsewhere, and there is no
indication within the poem that the first line is indeed a quotation.40 Furthermore, there is
no obvious reason why “Theognis” should dispute this advice. It is actually not that bad
of advice, and it accords well with the cynicism of other lines in the Theognidea.41
Rather, I would argue that these lines highlight the distinction between teacher and pupil.
Any advice, even good advice, given to one that is already too old will be rejected out of
hand. Being an old man, Theognis is not in the proper age grade to receive advice. He
therefore rejects what would otherwise be sound pieces of wisdom. The distinction
between advisor and advisee is one explicitly determined by age.
Besides gender and age, “Theognis of Megara” can also take on roles that
explicitly stage his, and by extension, the performer’s relationship to the city. In this light
it is paradoxical that one of his favorite personas to play shows him as an exile from the
very Megara that is his home. Indeed, the Theognidea frequently mentions exile. But
even though the role of an exile is a common role for Theognis to play, it is far from a
consistent one. At different times and at different places within the corpus, Theognis
40
This view is most recently advocated by Gerber (1999): ad loc; a good overview of previous scholarship
of the matter and some sensible, skeptical thoughts about this poem can be found in van Groningen (1966):
228.
41
As van Groningen (1966): 228 writes “cette conviction pessimiste s'accorde assez bien avec ce qu'on
croit savoir de Théognis.”
207 presents different versions and perspectives of exile. This probably reflects something of
the social milieu of an archaic and classical symposium: Bowie rightly notes that the
Theognidea provides evidence that exiles attended symposia where Theognis was
performed.42 Playing an exile would appeal to attendees of symposia because they
themselves could be exiles or as elites likely knew one. These exile personae,
furthermore, may even have some roots in Megarian history. Like many other archaic
Greek cities, Megara in the archaic period was rocked by several changes of government.
A tyrant Theagenes came into power by the last quarter of the seventh century at the
latest.43 His reign, however, appears to have been short-lived, and it was followed by
what ancient sources describe as a mild oligarchy followed by a raucous democracy.44
Theagenes came to power partially by seizing the property of the elites; the account of
Aristotle describes him slaughtering the cattle (and therefore the wealth) of the elites in
Megara (Arist. Pol. 1305a). And during the democratic period, apparently the democratic
leaders instituted a palintokia, a mandatory return of interest paid on loans back from the
42
Bowie (2007): 43-4.
While data about the precise beginning of Theagenes’ reign is not available, he must have been in power
by the time his son-in-law Cylon attempted an abortive coup in Athens. Unfortunately the date of Cyclon’s
coup is also problematic. We know his Olympic victory was in 640 B.C.; Thucydides writes that the revolt
occurred during an Olympic year (ἐπειδὴ ἐπῆλθεν Ὀλύµπια τὰ ἐν Πελοποννήσῳ) (1.126.5). The terminus
ante quem of Cyclon’s revolt is Draco’s legal reforms, dated to 621 B.C. Theoretically, any Olympic date
between these two poles would be possible, though most scholars prefer either the dates 636 or 632. For a
discussion of these problems, see Legon (1981): 93-4; Figueira (1985a): 276-7; Okin (1985): 9;
Hornblower (1991): 202-6.
44
Aristotle at Pol. 1315b discusses the duration of ancient tyrannies. Because he doesn’t mention
Theagenes specifically, it is assumed that Theagenes’ tyranny is one of the short-lived ones mentioned by
Aristotle only in passing: “but the majority of the tyrannies were all very short-lived (αἱ δὲ πολλαὶ τῶν
τυραννίδων ὀλιγοχρόνιαι πᾶσαι γεγόνασι παντελῶς) (1315b). This would make Theagenes’ reign less than
18 years, the duration Aristotle mentions for the short-lived tyrannies of Hiero and Gelo. For a discussion
of the dating, see West (1974): 67. As for the oligarchy and democracy that followed, Our most extant
source on this period, Plutarch, claims that this regime was marked with moderation: “the Megarians, when
they expelled the tyrant Theagenes for a little while ruled with a moderate political system” (Μεγαρεῖς
Θεαγένη τὸν τύραννον ἐκβαλόντες ὀλίγον χρόνον ἐσωφρόνησαν κατὰ τὴν πολιτείαν) (Quae. Graec. 18).
This “moderation” could itself be illusionary, since the moderation of the oligarchy is contrasted with the
raucous democracy that followed. Plutarch’s description of the regime probably itself derived from
aristocratic sources hostile to the democracy that follows. For these issues, see Legon (1981): 105-6;
Figueira (1985a): 277.
43
208 creditors to the debtors. Likely this was more than anything a justification for seizing the
property of the rich, as later writers in antiquity themselves emphasize.45 While this
historical background is certainly suggestive, it must be emphasized how Theognis’
complaints about exile and loss of money are framed in general terms. Even if some
historical events lie behind these poems, the poetry itself does not explicitly mention
them. Theognis’ statements about exile could be used by any elite exiled from his home
community, not just a Megarian.
Some poems about exile speak from the perspective of an exile’s friends, both
during and after his exile. For instance, in one poem Theognis advises “Cyrnus” never to
befriend an exile: “Never be a dear or trusted friend to an exile; and this is the most
painful part of exile” (Οὐκ ἔστιν φεύγοντι φίλος καὶ πιστὸς ἑταῖρος· / τῆς δὲ φυγῆς
ἐστιν τοῦτ’ ἀνιηρότατον) (332ab). In another fragment, he advises that one shouldn’t
expect good favors from an exile: “Don’t ever befriend a man in exile with a view
towards the future, Cyrnus, because even if he returns home, he is not the same
man”(µήποτε φεύγοντ’ ἄνδρα ἐπ’ ἐλπίδι, Κύρνε, φιλήσῃς· / οὐδὲ γὰρ οἴκαδε βὰς
γίνεται αὐτὸς ἔτι.) (333-4). Both of these poems suggest that the persona speaking here is
currently not an exile, though of course this does not preclude performance by somebody
that once himself was an exile.
By contrast, elsewhere Theognis speaks in the persona of one currently in or who
has returned from exile. In one poem, Theognis prays to the gods for revenge against
those who took his property:
45
For the palintokia, see Figueira (1985b): 147-51. As he reasonably argues, in an agrarian, mostly premonetary society like Megara, the way that interest and payments of goods was quantified into monetary
amounts could not but be arbitrary. There would likely be much leeway for inflicting exorbitant fines on
creditors (members of the elite). The palintokia was therefore deliberately aimed at the elite. For a
discussion of anti-democratic sources’ description of the palintokia as a seizure, see Figueira (1985b): 148.
209 ἀλλά, Ζεῦ, τέλεσόν µοι, Ὀλύµπιε, καίριον εὐχήν·
δὸς δέ µοι ἀντὶ κακῶν καί τι παθεῖν ἀγαθόν.
τεθναίην δ’, εἰ µή τι κακῶν ἄµπαυµα µεριµνέων
εὑροίµην. δοίην δ’ ἀντ’ ἀνιῶν ἀνίας·
αἶσα γὰρ οὕτως ἐστί, τίσις δ’ οὐ φαίνεται ἡµῖν
ἀνδρῶν οἳ τἀµὰ χρήµατ’ ἔχουσι βίῃ
συλήσαντες· ἐγὼ δὲ κύων ἐπέρησα χαράδρην
χειµάρρῳ ποταµῷ, πάντ’ ἀποσεισάµενος·
τῶν εἴη µέλαν αἷµα πιεῖν· ἐπί τ’ ἐσθλὸς ὄροιτο
δαίµων ὃς κατ’ ἐµὸν νοῦν τελέσειε τάδε. (341-50)
But Zeus, bring to complete my timely prayer. Allow me to experience some
good in exchange for the evils I have suffered. May I die, unless I find some
relief from evil worries. May I pile pain on pain: for this is my right. But no
punishment lays in sight for the men who now plundered and now control my
property by force. But I am a dog who has crossed the mountain stream in the
winter’s flood and shakes it all off. May I drink their dark blood! And may a
prosperous daemon who will bring these things to pass in accordance with
my plan.
Here Theognis prays for vengeance, pure and simple, against those that have stolen his
property and exiled him.46 Even though this poem does not specifically refer to him as an
exile, the descriptions of his property being seized and his complaints about his
unfortunate lot make it clear that these poems indeed are referring to exile. 47 This poem
also notably provides an unusually detailed back-story, describing how men took his
property by force (though without mentioning any names or specific political events). By
contrast, in another poem when Theognis plays the exile, it provides its performer a
chance to reenact a bittersweet return home from exile:
Πίστει χρήµατ’ ὄλεσσα, ἀπιστίῃ δ’ ἐσάωσα·
γνώµη δ’ ἀργαλέη γίνεται ἀµφοτέρων. (lns. 831-2)
Through trust I lost my possessions, through distrust I restored them; the
knowledge of both grows painful.
46
These very same themes, prayer for revenge with some vague senses of cannibalism, can be paralleled in
Alcaeus’ own exile poetry. In poem 129 V he prays for the Furies to pursue the traitor Pittacus (τὸν
Υ̓́ρραον δὲ πα[ῖδ]α πεδελθέ̣τ̣ω̣ / κήνων Ἐ[ρίννυ]ς ὤς…) (lns. 13-4) and describes Pittacus himself as
“devouring the city” (δάπτει /τὰν πόλιν) (lns. 23-4).
47
van Groningen (1966): 140 writes, "c'est presque certainement un aristocrate exilé."
210 Here we see exile contemplated from the perspective of a man who has returned from it.
As in the last poem discussed, the mention of “losing” (ὄλεσσα) and “saving” (ἐσάωσα)
his property (χρήµατ’) strongly suggests the persona of an exile. While this poem could
be used to stage other forms of losing and regaining one’s property, the most natural
context for it is exile.
Related to the role of the exile above, Theognis sometimes plays a poor man.
Unlike the poems surveyed above, however, there are no indications, either explicit or
implicit, that exile is the primary cause of his poverty. While in performance these poems
could be used to refer to exile, they could without sarcasm or irony be used to describe
other forms of financial loss. For instance, at the beginning of the famous “ship of state
poem,” Theognis clearly states that he once was wealthy:
Εἰ µὲν χρήµατ’ ἔχοιµι, Σιµωνίδη, οἷά περ ἤδη
οὐκ ἂν ἀνιῴµην τοῖσ’ ἀγαθοῖσι συνών.
νῦν δέ µε γινώσκοντα παρέρχεται, εἰµὶ δ’ ἄφωνος
χρηµοσύνηι… (667-70)
If I had the wealth, such as I had once, I would not be pained to associate
with the noble; but now I am aware it passes me by, I am without voice
because of need…
Here Theognis has clearly lost his money, in one way or another-it is left to the
audience’s imagination exactly in what way he has.48 The remainder of the poem, where
48
Some scholars have been concerned that Simonides is named as an interlocutor rather than Cyrnus, and
have assigned these poems to Eueunus of Paros. See Bowra (1934); Bowie (1997): 66; Gerber (1999a): ad
loc. However, the identification of Euenus of Paros as author of these poems rests on very thin grounds:
Aristotle (Metaph. 4.5.1015a28) assigns a single line to him that is shared in common with another poem
addressed to “Simonides” (ln. 472). This is problematic, because the line attributed to Euenus by Aristotle
is itself a variant of a rather cliché Theognidean line (“everything that constrains is by nature painful” (πᾶν
γὰρ ἀναγκαῖον χρῆµ’ ἀνιηρὸν ἔφυ)). The version attributed to Euenus substitutes the word “deed” (πρῆγµ’)
for “thing” (χρῆµ). This line is particularly unremarkable, could easily be taken up and or referred to by
multiple poets, and that it was a helpfully flexible line is supported by the very presence of these variants.
We are probably seeing signs here of a common poetic repertoire, rather than evidence for Euenus’
211 he metaphorically describes the domestic turmoil in Megara in terms of a ship at sea,
suggests that his loss of money is somehow related to this social unrest. But the poem
does not provide any other hints as to how Theognis lost his money. Another set of
doublet poems where Theognis plays the poor man continues the nautical imagery of the
“ship of state” poem. The first couplet of poem 619-22 (“Often in helplessness I am
rolled around, pained in my heart: for I haven’t crossed over the crest of poverty (πόλλ’
ἐν ἀµηχανίῃσι κυλίνδοµαι ἀχνύµενος κῆρ· /ἄκρην γὰρ πενίην οὐχ ὑπερεδράµοµεν)
(lns. 619-22)) is repeated at line 1114ab with only the substitution of one word. There the
word ἀρχὴν (“beginning”) in 1114b is substituted for the word ἄκρην (“peak”) in 619.
The distinction between choosing to say he is running over the “beginning” or the “peak”
of poverty can depend on the persona that the speaker wants to project. A performer in
the symposia could possibly emphasize whether he was nearly out of a state of poverty
by passing over “the crest” or just recently fallen into that state by replacing that word
with “beginning.” A substitution of a single word can summon up slightly different
situations and roles for the performer.
At other times, “Theognis” plays the role of a self-aware poor man. No
explanation is given for his current poverty, only that the narrator resents it and the deeds
it forces him to do. This persona manifests itself as addresses to poverty in two instances:
ἆ δειλὴ Πενίη, τί µένεις προλιποῦσα παρ’ ἄλλον
ἄνδρ’ ἰέναι; µὴ δή µ’ οὐκ ἐθέλοντα φίλει,
ἀλλ’ ἴθι καὶ δόµον ἄλλον ἐποίχεο, µηδὲ µεθ’ ἡµέων
αἰεὶ δυστήνου τοῦδε βίου µέτεχε. (lns. 351-4)
inclusion in the Theognidea. For more discussions against seeing these and other “Simonides” poems as
written by Euenus, see van Groningen (1966): 267-9; Nagy (1985): 22 1n1.
212 Oh wretched poverty, why do you linger around instead of leaving me and
going to another man? Don’t love me as an unwilling partner! Go and make
your way to another’s house, and don’t share this miserable life with me.
ἆ δειλὴ Πενίη, τί ἐµοῖσ’ ἐπικειµένη ὤµοις
σῶµα καταισχύνεις καὶ νόον ἡµέτερον;
αἰσχρὰ δέ µ’ οὐκ ἐθέλοντα βίῃ καὶ πολλὰ διδάσκεις
ἐσθλὰ µετ’ ἀνθρώπων καὶ κάλ’ ἐπιστάµενον. (649-52)
Ah wretched poverty, why do you sit on my shoulders and deform my body
and my mind? You teach me by force and against my will things many and
shameful, although I do know what is noble and good amongst men.
Both poems bemoan the effects that poverty has on the speaker and express his selfawareness of the debasement he has fallen into. In the first poem, poverty is figured as
hetaira that just won't leave. This is made clear through a series of loaded descriptions:
he begs her "to leave and go to another man" (προλιποῦσα παρ’ ἄλλον / ἄνδρ’ ἰέναι), he
orders her not to love him when he doesn't want love (µὴ ὦν δὴν οὐκ ἐθέλοντα φίλει),
and finally ends the poem with a plea for her not to share this miserable life with him
(µηδὲ µεθ’ ἡµέων / αἰεὶ δυστήνου τοῦδε βίου µέτεχε). Poverty just won’t get up and go.
In the second poem, poverty physically deforms both the speaker’s body and soul,
forcing him to do things that he regrets. “Theognis” in both of these poems therefore is
presented as a self-aware poor man, lamenting his current state. This self-awareness
somewhat distinguishes him from the host of base people he criticizes throughout his
poetry. As they engage in their behavior with an almost joyous passion, Theognis
distinguishes himself by being more aware of the things that poverty is forcing him do.49
His self-awareness of his depravity distinguishes him from others.
49
See e.g. line 44, where he describes how the city will fall when “base men take delight in committing
hubris” (ἀλλ’ ὅταν ὑβρίζειν τοῖσι κακοῖσιν ἅδῃ). In the next poem, “Theognis” describes how “they
deceive one another and mock one another, not recognizing either the thoughts of the base or good”
(ἀλλήλους δ’ ἀπατῶσιν ἐπ’ ἀλλήλοισι γελῶντες, / οὔτε κακῶν γνώµας εἰδότες οὔτ’ ἀγαθῶν) (lns. 59-60).
For the anti-mercantile nature of the latter lines, see Kurke (1989).
213 This self-awareness can be translated into a sense of even moral superiority. In
one poem, he even obliquely claims that the gods have given him other things more
valuable than his poverty: “Because you have your property you mock me for my
poverty, but I have things of my own, and other things I’ll earn by praying to the gods”
(χρήµατ’ ἔχων πενίην µ’ ὠνείδισας· ἀλλὰ τὰ µέν µοι / ἔστι, τὰ δ’ ἐργάσοµαι θεοῖσιν
ἐπευξάµενος.) (lns. 1115-6) This poem seems to be a variation of the common
Theognidean theme that wealth earned unjustly is worse than poverty obtained without
injustice.50 This poem would naturally be an ideal “comeback” if indeed some
interlocutor in the symposium had thrown his poverty in the face of the speaker. But in
any case, all of these poems stage a “Theognis” that has a worthy soul, but that has fallen
on hard times.
Beyond a generic “poor” person or someone who has fallen on hard times,
sometimes “Theognis” presents himself as having a specific profession. Theognis, for
instance, at times speaks as a solider. In one couplet, “Theognis” urges his addressee to
sleep: “Let’s sleep. The guarding of the city, our fertile and lovely homeland, will be the
duty of the guards”(εὕδωµεν· φυλακὴ δὲ πόλευς φυλάκεσσι µελήσει / ἀστυφέλης ἐρατῆς
πατρίδος ἡµετέρης) (1043-4). Here Theognis appears to be guarding his hometown,
though there is no indication in what military capacity he is doing so. In two other poems,
however, Theognis plays an explicitly equestrian role in the military:
ἄγγελος ἄφθογγος πόλεµον πολύδακρυν ἐγείρει,
Κύρν’, ἀπὸ τηλαυγέος φαινόµενος σκοπιῆς.
ἀλλ’ ἵπποισ’ ἔµβαλλε ταχυπτέρνοισι χαλινούς·
δῄων γάρ σφ’ ἀνδρῶν ἀντιάσειν δοκέω.
οὐ πολλὸν τὸ µεσηγύ· διαπρήξουσι κέλευθον,
εἰ µὴ ἐµὴν γνώµην ἐξαπατῶσι θεοί. (lns. 549-54)
50
See e.g. lns. 145-8, 149-50, 197-208, 315-8.
214 The voiceless messenger awakes war with its many tears, Cyrnus, as it shines
from the far off lookout. But come and put the bits on the swift-heeled
horses- I think they’ll meet the enemy’s men. There is not far betweenthey’ll get through, unless the gods deceive my senses.
µηδὲ λίην κήρυκος ἀν’ οὖς ἔχε µακρὰ βοῶντος·
οὐ γὰρ πατρῴας γῆς πέρι µαρνάµεθα.
ἀλλ’ αἰσχρὸν παρεόντα καὶ ὠκυπόδων ἐπιβάντα
ἵππων µὴ πόλεµον δακρυόεντ’ ἐσιδεῖν. (lns. 887-90)
Don’t strain your ear too much for the herald’s call; we don’t fight for our
own fatherland; but it is shameful when one is present and mounted on swiftfooted horses not to behold tearful war.
In both of these poems, “Theognis” presents himself as a solider on the battlefield, about
to venture into the fray. Both poems vividly recreate the moment before a battle, when
the solider is contemplating whether to engage with the enemy or not. In the first poem,
Theognis sees the signal fire and tells Cyrnus (suddenly transformed into a squire!) to
prepare the horses for battle. Here the narrator is portrayed as eager to enter into the fray,
and very consciously scanning the battlefield for enemy’s movements (the broken
sentences here gives the impression of unfiltered visual stimuli, looking for any sign of
the enemy). The second poem, however, presents a different point of view towards battle.
Although many recent scholars treat lines 887-90 as two separate poems, I think it is
better to treat them as a single poem.51 As one unit, these two couplets form a sort of
rebuttal to the first poem. In contrast to Theognis’ eagerness to join battle at the earliest
notice in the first poem, in the second poem he urges “Cyrnus” to relax. It’s not their land
they are fighting for, and they should only fight when honor and courage absolutely
require it, that is, when the battle is right before their eyes. In this poem, Theognis
appears to explicitly play a mercenary solider or an allied solider fighting for a country
51
West, Gerber, and van Groningen (1966): 327-8 all treat these lines as two separate poems.
215 not his own.52 But despite the difference of perspective in both these poems, it is striking
that both present Theognis as an equestrian cavalry man, not a more egalitarian hoplite.
Both of these poems therefore specifically present Theognis as a member of the elite.
In other poems, Theognis portrays himself in a surprisingly mercantile light: it
appears in some poems that he is a merchant, or at least someone who engages in active
sea-trade. For instance, in one poem Theognis gives “Cyrnus” advice on sea-trade:
“Mingle with good men, and never accompany the base, whenever you set out towards
the end of your journey for the sake of trade” (τοῖς ἀγαθοῖς σύµµισγε, κακοῖσι δὲ µήποθ’
ὁµάρτει, / εὖτ’ ἂν ὁδοῦ στέλλῃ τέρµατ’ ἐπ’ ἐµπορίην) (lns. 1165-6) The first line of this
couplet offers nothing different than the common advice Theognis gives Cyrnus to
introduce yourself to other noble men.53 What is striking about this poem is the
qualification he adds in the pentameter: the goal of this schmoozing is not for some
strictly aristocratic pursuit, but for the unusually “base” pursuit of trade by sea.54
Theognis appears to be advising Cyrnus to do some “networking” before he sails out.
Since both elites and non-elites engaged in sea trade in the archaic period, “Theognis”
could be a member of the elite as well as a merchant in this poem. 55 In any case, it is
appears that “Theognis” can give some advice on shipping.
In a second but unfortunately fragmentary poem, Theognis may have lost all his
money at sea:
52
It is worth noting that Alcaeus’ own brother was a mercenary solider in ancient Israel, so this type of
sentiment would likely be welcomed at elite archaic symposia. See frag. 370 V; Burnett (1983): 142-3 does
an excellent job of putting this fragment into its historical context.
53
For instance, at the end of the sphragis poem itself, Theognis advises Cyrnus, “don’t accompany bad
men, but always stick with the good. And eat and drink with these men, and sit with them, and please those
who have a great deal of power” (κακοῖσι δὲ µὴ προσοµίλει /ἀνδράσιν, ἀλλ’ αἰεὶ τῶν ἀγαθῶν ἔχεο·/καὶ
µετὰ τοῖσιν πῖνε καὶ ἔσθιε, καὶ µετὰ τοῖσιν / ἵζε, καὶ ἅνδανε τοῖσ’, ὧν µεγάλη δύναµις)(lns. 31-4).
54
The word ἐµπορία here strongly suggests sea trade. See LSJ s.v.
55
van Wees (2009) contains a useful overview of the role of sea trade in archaic Greece.
216 ὄρνιθος φωνήν, Πολυπαΐδη, ὀξὺ βοώσης
ἤκουσ’, ἥ τε βροτοῖς ἄγγελος ἦλθ’ ἀρότου
ὡραίου· καί µοι κραδίην ἐπάταξε µέλαιναν,
ὅττι µοι εὐανθεῖς ἄλλοι ἔχουσιν ἀγρούς,
οὐδέ µοι ἡµίονοι κυφὸν ἕλκουσιν ἄροτρον
†τῆς ἄλλης µνηστῆς † εἵνεκα ναυτιλίης. (lns. 1197-1202)
I hear, Polypaides, the sharp cry of the bird chirping: which comes to men as
a herald of the proper season for plowing. But it shakes my dark heart,
because other men control my well-flowered fields nor for my sake do the
mules draw a curved plow… because of sea faring.
The poem begins with a description of the beauty of one’s own lands during spring
(unparalleled elsewhere in the Theognidea). But as it is revealed, “Theognis” cannot
enjoy the coming of spring because his lands are controlled by others. Disappointingly
enough, the poem is severely damaged at exactly the point where he begins to fill out the
back-story. The final words of the poem, however, are clear enough: “because of seafaring”(εἵνεκα ναυτιλίης). The most straightforward interpretation of this poem was that
he lost all his money by sea-faring, leading to the forfeiture of his lands.56 However, there
is another possible interpretation: “shipwreck” is a frequent metaphor for political
disaster or exile. The most prominent example of this metaphor is in Isthmian 1, made
famous by the brilliant discussion of Elroy Bundy.57 In this epinician, Pindar describes
the father of the victor’s exile and return as a metaphor of a shipwreck: “and the fields of
his homeland of Orchomenos, which, when he was hard pressed by shipwrecks received
him from the boundless sea in his chilling misfortune”: (Ἐρχοµενοῖό τε πατρῴαν
ἄρουραν, / ἅ νιν ἐρειδόµενον ναυαγίαις /ἐξ ἀµετρήτας ἁλὸς ἐν κρυοέσσᾳ / δέξατο
56
This reading is endorsed by Gerber (1999a): ad loc. Van Groningen (1966): 434-5 unconvincingly sees
the sea voyage as “le ‘dernier voyage,’” concluding that therefore this is some form of epitaph. Nagy
(1985): 64-68 also believes that this poem refers to financial loss, but interprets this passage as being about
the “ship of state” as well as Theognis’ own misfortunes.
57
Bundy (2006): 68-72.
217 συντυχίᾳ·) (35-8). As Bundy convincingly argues, “shipwreck” here acts as a metaphor
for political troubles and exile. In fact, this passage nicely brings together several
elements we find in the Theognidean poem: farmlands, exile, and sea-faring. It is very
possible therefore that this poem should be classed as an “exile” poem instead of a poem
about financial loss.
To briefly summarize the results of our analysis, from this brief overview of some
of the different personae that Theognis takes on, we find a wealth of contradictory roles
and perspectives. Theognis can be a woman, a young man, an old man, an exile, a poor
man, a rich man, a soldier, and perhaps even a merchant. This analysis helps to prove our
assertion at the beginning of the chapter that Theognis is not a unitary persona. Rather, he
takes on a bewildering series of roles within his native Megara, and can perform under
multiple guises. Furthermore, as I hope my analysis has suggested, these roles can be put
to multiple performative uses. The various personae that Theognis can play allow him to
perform all these roles to all sorts of ends. A symposiast can cajole, argue, make a snappy
comeback, or lament his own troubles all within the confines of a Theognidean persona.
The above overview hopes to have suggested some of the ways that these personae could
have been translated into specific performances. Much of this is of course speculative,
but the very fluidity and multiple uses (and for that matter, abuses) of the Theognidea
forms a necessary background to understanding the corpus. Within the halls of Greek
symposia, there was a virtually unlimited ways that the persona of “Theognis” could be
used.
218 Theognis and Megara: A City and its Poet
As we argued in the last section, from the evidence of the Theognidea itself we
can see that Theognis takes on a variety of roles. He can be young or old, rich or poor,
and can sometimes even have a profession. One thing that unites these disparate
personae, however, is that the setting of the Theognidea seems to be consistently Megara.
There are several indications of this localization. For instance, in the sphragis poem the
narrator explicitly identifies himself as “Theognis of Megara” (Θεύγνιδός ἐστιν ἔπη /τοῦ
Μεγαρέως·)(22-3). Also in poem 773-82, “Theognis” explicitly describes the Medes
threatening Megara. The poem describes Apollo building a citadel “as a favor to Pelop’s
son Alcathous” (Ἀλκαθόῳ Πέλοπος παιδὶ χαριζόµενος)(774). Pausanias confirms that the
narrator here must be referring to Megara, writing “the Megarians have also a second
acropolis, its name derived from Alcathous” (ἔστι δὲ καὶ ἄλλη Μεγαρεῦσιν ἀκρόπολις
ἀπὸ Ἀλκάθου τὸ ὄνοµα ἔχουσα) (1.42.1). Pausanias a few lines below also mentions that
Apollo built these walls as well (Ἀπόλλωνα …Ἀλκάθῳ τὸ τεῖχος συνεργαζόµενον)
(1.2.1). Some of these details are even confirmed by Apollodorus as well.58 The
Megarian provenance of this poem is thus assured. In addition, the hymn to Artemis at
the beginning of the collection, where Theognis addresses Artemis as “Artemis, slayer of
wild beasts, daughter of Zeus, for whom Agamemnon set up a temple, when he sailed to
Troy in his swift ships” (Ἄρτεµι θηροφόνη, θύγατερ Διός, ἣν Ἀγαµέµνων / εἵσαθ’, ὅτ’ ἐς
Τροίην ἔπλεε νηυσὶ θοῆις) (11-12) has been reasonably attributed to a local cult of
Artemis in Megara.59 Pausanias again attests to the presence of a temple built by
Agamemnon in Megara: “and also there is a temple of Artemis which Agamemnon built,
58
59
Apollod. 3.12.7 and van Groningen (1966): 300.
See van Groningen (1966): 14-5; West (1974): 55-6; Nagy (1985): 63 51n.2; Bowie (1999): 115-6.
219 when he went to persuade Calchas, who lived in Megara, to accompany him to Troy”
(καὶ Ἀρτέµιδος ἱερὸν ὁ Ἀγαµέµνων ἐποίησεν, ἡνίκα ἦλθε Κάλχαντα οἰκοῦντα ἐν
Μεγάροις ἐς Ἴλιον ἕπεσθαι πείσων)(1.43.1-2).60 Again, we seem to be on fairly sure
ground that a specific Megarian localization occurs.
However, there is one instance in the corpus where “Theognis” is neither
Theognis nor from Megara:
Αἴθων µὲν γένος εἰµί, πόλιν δ’ εὐτείχεα Θήβην
οἰκῶ, πατρῴας γῆς ἀπερυκόµενος. (1209-10)
I am Aethon by birth, and I dwell in the well-walled city of Thebes, shut out
of my fatherland.
This is the only place in the Theognidea where a speaker that is explicitly not "Theognis"
acts as the narrator. Furthermore, it is the only instance in the corpus where the narrator
speaks from a setting that is explicitly not Megara.61 This poem is made even more
complicated by the fact that Odysseus in the Odyssey uses “Aethon” as an assumed name
during one of his "Cretan lies." In book 19 of the Odyssey, Odysseus in the guise of a
beggar announces to Penelope in one of his lies that "my famous name is Aethon,
younger by birth" (ἐµοὶ δ’ ὄνοµα κλυτὸν Αἴθων, / ὁπλότερος γενεῇ·) (193-4). The
phrase "famous name" (ὄνοµα κλυτὸν) occurs only one other time in the Odyssey and in
Homer more generally, in the famous instance where Odysseus gives the name of
"Nobody" to the Cyclops (9. 364). The use of this phrase here and in Odysseus’ most
famous assumed name must underscore the fact that “Aethon” was probably a stock
fictitious name in archaic Greek poetry. As Harrison nicely notes, the meaning in both
60
For an overview of other ancient sources on this temple, see van Groningen (1966): 14-15.
In the next poem in the collection, Theognis writes “but I have a city, a beautiful one that lies on the plain
of Lethe” (πόλις γε µέν ἐστι καὶ ἡµῖν/ καλή, Ληθαίῳ κεκλιµένη πεδίῳ). This could be another instance of
non-Megarian localization, but I consider it more likely that this reference to the underworld. For this
interpretation, see Nagy (1985): 77.
61
220 mentions of the name of Aethon must be "I am an Incognito by race…"62 The persona
then presented in this poem is likely one of an exile hiding their real identity.63 Obviously
this would be a useful persona for not only an exile, but anyone to employ in a sympotic
setting. Anybody who didn't want to call attention to their identity could just simply
claim they are "Aethon from Thebes" and leave it at that. In any case it is striking that the
one non-Theognidean poem in the corpus is the one where an explicitly fictitious identity
is employed. Both because Aethon is an assumed name and the narrator is explicitly an
exile, even this poem does not completely preclude performance by “Theognis of
Megara.” “Aethon of Thebes” could just be “Theognis of Megara” gone incognito.
“Aethon of Thebes” therefore appears to be the exception that proves the rule that
Theognis of Megara is generally the speaker of the poem.
Although “Theognis of Megara” appears to be the normal speaker in the
Theognidea, it is true that there remain very few instances of local color within the
corpus. 64 While the poems generally do not offer us any evidence that another city
besides Megara is being referred to, it rarely specifically points to Megara. If Megara
itself is not the city indicated, no city in particular seems to be indicated. How do we
explain this paradox, this strange mix of occasional specificity with a more generalized
outlook? I think that one key factor has been pointed out by Thomas Figueira and Nagy
in the introduction to their co-edited Theognis volume. Here they note that “Megara, on
the Isthmus of Corinth, was a relatively minor state situated between a potentially
62
Harrison (1902): 277.
Nagy (1985): 76-9 argues that the persona of this poem is that of "Theognis" after his death with a herocult in Thebes, but the verbal parallels that Nagy draws on to arrive at this conclusion are weak and
tenuous.
64
The lack of local specification has been commonly noted: As Figueira (1985b): 127 writes, “the corpus
of the Theognidea lacks a strong historical grounding in either Megara.” See also Hubbard (2007): 196-7.
63
221 dominant Athens to the east and an always vexatious Corinth to the west.”65 In other
words, throughout Greek history, Megara has remained a marginal city. I would like to
suggest that the rather weak “localization” within the Theognidea and the marginalization
of Megara throughout Greek history are not isolated phenomena. Megara by its very
marginality, can perhaps paradoxically come to represent the troubles that any Greek city
of the archaic and classical periods faced. The very fact that it was not one of the
traditional power centers such as Corinth, Athens, or Sparta makes Megara a suitable
place to represent the troubles and tribulations of any Greek city.66 This slippage between
Megara and an “Everycity” also helps to make sense of Plato’s odd assertion in the Laws
that Theognis was from Megara Hyblaea in Sicily (Leg. 630a). To a certain degree, it
65
Figueira and Nagy (1985): 2.
This discussion on the dialectic between being marginal and being paradigmatic were inspired by the
very recent comments of another creator of a virtual city, David Simon of the HBO series The Wire. In an
interview (Hornby (2007)), he discusses at length his inspiration for choosing Baltimore as the primary
locale. I quote his discussion at length because it nicely describes my views better than I myself can:
66
Early in the conception of the drama, Ed Burns and I—as well as the late Bob Colesberry, a
consummate filmmaker who served as the directorial producer and created the visual
template for The Wire—conceived of a show that would, with each season, slice off another
piece of the American city, so that by the end of the run, a simulated Baltimore would stand
in for urban America, and the fundamental problems of urbanity would be fully addressed.
Later on in the interview, he goes on:
One thing that I do feel is that by getting out of the traditionally dominant locales of New
York, Los Angeles, Washington, Chicago, writers stand a better chance of speaking to
conditions that are reflective of a lot of less-than-unique or less-than-grandiose second-tier
cities. New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Washington—these are unique places, by dint of
their size, their wealth, and unique aspects of their culture (New York as financial, fashion,
and theater capital, and as cultural icon, or Washington as the government city, or Los
Angeles as the film capital of the country). Baltimore is a postindustrial city, wedged
between D.C. and Philadelphia and struggling to find its future and reconcile its past.
I imagine, acknowledging my general ignorance, that a story set in London is de facto a
London story, applicable nowhere else in the U.K. in terms of environment. But a story set in
Manchester might more easily resonate in Leeds or Liverpool or Newcastle or wherever. We
play ourselves as unique, and, in truth, we value that which is genuine to Baltimore, but on
another level we come across as Everycity.
This is not to say that there are not huge differences between The Wire and the Theognidea. But it is
interesting that, in a series with a much more explicit and persuasive localization in a specific city,
Baltimore’s very marginality allows it to become a symbol of the problems facing any American city.
222 doesn’t matter which Megara Theognis is from: both are similarily an “Everycity.” While
it remains likely that Plato just made an error in this case, what this mistake reveals is the
slippery way Megara can be “everywhere” and “nowhere” at the same time. The choice
between Megara or “no particular city” therefore becomes a superfluous one: in the
Theognidea, Megara is transformed into a sort of “Everycity.”
In fact, this slippage between “Megara” and “Everycity” is visible from an early
poem in the corpus. Theognis, at the beginning of the second poem in the collection after
the set of hymnal poems at the beginning, declares ominously:
Κύρνε, κύει πόλις ἥδε, δέδοικα δὲ µὴ τέκῃ ἄνδρα
εὐθυντῆρα κακῆς ὕβριος ἡµετέρης.
ἀστοὶ µὲν γὰρ ἔθ’ οἵδε σαόφρονες, ἡγεµόνες δέ
τετράφαται πολλὴν εἰς κακότητα πεσεῖν.
οὐδεµίαν πω, Κύρν’, ἀγαθοὶ πόλιν ὤλεσαν ἄνδρες·
ἀλλ’ ὅταν ὑβρίζειν τοῖσι κακοῖσιν ἅδῃ
δῆµόν τε φθείρουσι δίκας τ’ ἀδίκοισι διδοῦσιν
οἰκείων κερδέων εἵνεκα καὶ κράτεος, (lns. 39-46)
Cyrnus, this city is pregnant, and I fear that it will give birth to a man who
will straighten our crimes. For these citizens are still sound of mind, but their
leaders have changed and fallen into a great deal of depravity. For good men,
Cyrnus, have never destroyed a city: but only when bad men take delight in
crime and destroy the people and give judgments in favor of the unjust.
In this early poem, we hear Theognis’ slightly paranoid fears about his city. He fears the
rise of a tyrant in the city, one that will straighten the crimes of the people. He then goes
on to note that a city has never been destroyed by good men. Faraone, in a clever
interpretation of this passage, notes that these two cities are not the same: “But by a
clever sleight of hand the poet has, in fact, tricked us: the framing verses of the stanza do
not, in fact, refer to the same city…he subtly but effectively contrasts ‘this city’… which
is presumably Megara or the city in which these verses are being sung, with a
223 hypothetical city, introduced at the very middle of the stanza…”67 “This city” (πόλις ἥδε)
therefore is not the same city as the one (οὐδεµίαν…πόλιν) which good men never have
destroyed. In this passage, we see an effective rhetorical slippage between “this city”
(Megara) and an “Every-city” (or more precisely, a “No-city”). It is striking in this regard
that in the very next poem in the collection, we see Theognis debating if “this city is still
a city” (πόλις µὲν ἔθ’ ἥδε πόλις) (53). Rather than a sleight-of-hand, I would therefore
suggest in this handy piece of rhetoric Theognis exploits the conceptual overlap between
“this city” (Megara) and an “Everycity.”68 In the Theognidea, “this city” always threatens
to become an “Everycity” or a “Nocity.”
Moreover, even as Megara operates as an “Every-city,” it is a city in crisis. As the
“city is pregnant” poem discussed in the last paragraph illustrates, early on in the
collection it is made clear that the general backdrop of the Theognidea is a city in a state
of stasis.69 Other examples of civil strife within the corpus can be multiplied.70 It is
striking in this regard that even the second Persian War is described in terms of
specifically strife amongst the Greek cities: ”the people-destroying stasis of the Greeks”
(καὶ στάσιν Ἑλλήνων λαοφθόρον) (781). While not every poem needs to be placed
specifically in a time of stasis (certainly, we can imagine many of the poems covered in
this chapter performed in peace time), the general impression one has from all the
mistrust and backstabbing is a very troubled time. So troubled that van Wees has even
67
Faraone (2008): 78.
It should be noted that I have found no other instances of this rhetorical technique within the Theognidea.
69
Many scholars have seen the general backdrop of the collection as a time of stasis: see See Nagy (1985):
42-6; Fox (2002): 40-1.
70
See e.g. lns. 53-68, 667-82.
68
224 argued that Theognis’ world is similar to that of Sicilian mobsters!71 More often than not,
the virtual city of Megara is described amidst civil turbulence.
This state of stasis, furthermore, can help to explain the poet’s knotty relationship
to the city. Because “Megara” is perpetually caught in a state of stasis, “Theognis”
relationship to the city is constantly problematized. Even though “Theognis” can play a
number of roles in this virtual city of Megara, when the city or its citizens are explicitly
or implicitly described in his poetry, the relationship between Theognis and the city
becomes troubled. Because the city itself is in disorder, and or its disorder has mistreated
Theognis, often times any mention of the city is used to express “Theognis’” own
alienation from it. We have seen many examples of this thorny relationship in the “exile”
and “poor person” personae discussed above. More often than not, when the city is
mentioned even implicitly, it sets up Theognis’ strained relationship with it.
The closest that Theognis can come to an “inclusive” stance is when he advises
Cyrnus to not be involved with the strife in the city. This happens in two different poems
in the corpus:72
Μηδὲν ἄγαν ἄσχαλλε ταρασσοµένων πολιητέων,
Κύρνε, µέσην δ’ ἔρχευ τὴν ὁδὸν ὥσπερ ἐγώ. (219-20)
Don’t be too much troubled when the citizens are in an uproar, Cyrnus, but
stick to the middle of the road like I do.
71
See van Wees (2000).
Lines 947-8 could be counted as a third example: “I will adorn my homeland, the lovely city, neither
turning it over to the people or being persuaded by unjust men”(πατρίδα κοσµήσω, λιπαρὴν πόλιν, οὔτ’ ἐπὶ
δήµῳ / τρέψας οὔτ’ ἀδίκοις ἀνδράσι πειθόµενος) (947-8). As van Groningen (1966): 360-1 and Gerber
(1999): ad loc note, there are distinct parallels here to Solon’s famous “shield” poem (frag. 5 West).
However, the political overtones of this poem are not clear to me; Theognis’ refusal to turn over
(presumably the city?) to the dēmos certainly sounds more sinister than Solon’s “for I gave to the dēmos as
much privilege as sufficient, neither adding to or taking away from their honor”(δήµῳ µὲν γὰρ ἔδωκα
τόσον γέρας ὅσσον ἐπαρκεῖν, /τιµῆς οὔτ’ ἀφελὼν οὔτ’ ἐπορεξάµενος·) (5.1 West). Possibly this poem
should be combined with the previous couplet (lns. 945-6): “I go along the path straight as a ruler, leaning
to neither side. For it is necessary that all my thoughts be fitting” (εἶµι παρὰ στάθµην ὀρθὴν ὁδόν,
οὐδετέρωσε /κλινόµενος· χρὴ γάρ µ’ ἄρτια πάντα νοεῖν). van Groningen (1966): 360-1 prefers this reading.
72
225 ἥσυχος ὥσπερ ἐγὼ µέσσην ὁδὸν ἔρχεο ποσσίν,
µηδ’ ἑτέροισι διδούς, Κύρνε, τὰ τῶν ἑτέρων. (lns. 331-2)
Keep quietly to the middle of the road as you walk on your feet, and give to
neither side, Cyrnus, what belongs to the other.
In both of these poems Theognis explicitly advises a “middle course,” staying away from
extreme partisanship on either side. The second poem especially uses similar language to
that of Solon’s famous “shield” poem, where he declares “I stood throwing around both
sides a mighty shield, not allowing either side to defeat the other unjustly” (ἔστην δ’
ἀµφιβαλὼν κρατερὸν σάκος ἀµφοτέροισι, /νικᾶν δ’ οὐκ εἴασ’ οὐδετέρους ἀδίκως)
(West 5.5-6). This parallel in diction and thought suggests that Theognis’ advice is
similar to that of Solon’s: don’t favor one side too much, but keep in the good graces of
both sides. It will be also noted that, unlike Solon’s “standing,” Theognis claims “to keep
to the road.” Rather than a fixed “middle” as the rhetoric of the Solon poem suggests,
Theognis’ metaphor of the road suggests a hurrying on by.73 Theognis advises keeping
out of harm’s way, rather than any fixed or proactive position. This general avoidance of
civil problems seems to be the most pro-polis advice Theognis offers.
Elsewhere in the Theognidea, Theognis shows a more fraught relationship with
his local community. Sometimes the people themselves are the problem: the local citizens
are frequently figured as voices of criticism. For instance, in the first line of poem 28792: “in a city so slanderous nothing pleases anyone” (ἐν γάρ τοι πόλει ὧδε κακοψόγωι
ἁνδάνει οὐδέν·) (287). Elsewhere “Theognis” advises “Cyrnus” that even blame helps to
preserve the noble’s memory: “One man strongly blames the noble, another praises him,
of the base there is no memory at all” (τοὺς ἀγαθοὺς ἄλλος µάλα µέµφεται, ἄλλος
73
I say “rhetoric” purposefully. Irwin (2006): 45 has argued that the Solon’s middle is hardly fixed.
226 ἐπαινεῖ, /τῶν δὲ κακῶν µνήµη γίνεται οὐδεµία) (lns. 797-8). In the previous couplet,
Theognis even advises Cyrnus to have fun, since people within the city will blame him
anyway: “delight your mind: one of the ill-speaking citizens will slander you, another
will speak better of you” (τὴν σαυτοῦ φρένα τέρπε· δυσηλεγέων δὲ πολιτῶν /ἄλλος τοί
σε κακῶς, ἄλλος ἄµεινον ἐρεῖ) (795-6). It is striking here that, despite the presence of
both praise and blame, the people are still labeled as “ill-speaking.”74 The slander of a
few citizens corrupts the whole bunch. At one point, Theognis even advices his
interlocutor to use force to keep the unruly citizens in their place: “Trample the emptyheaded people underfoot, goad them with a sharp point, and place a painful yoke around
their necks” (λὰξ ἐπίβα δήµῳ κενεόφρονι, τύπτε δὲ κέντρῳ /ὀξέι καὶ ζεύγλην δύσλοφον
ἀµφιτίθει·)(847-8). This anti-demotic rhetoric also appears at couplet 233-4, where
Theognis claims a noble man is the last defense for a city: “A good man is an acropolis
and a tower for the empty-headed people, Cyrnus, although he has a small share of
honor”(“Ἀκρόπολις καὶ πύργος ἐὼν κενεόφρονι δήµῳ, / Κύρν’, ὀλίγης τιµῆς ἔµµορεν
ἐσθλὸς ἀνήρ) (233-4).
At other times, the city itself is entirely corrupted. In one poem “Theognis” tells
Cyrnus that “we cannot regard ourselves as men who are saved, but as a city that is
wholly captured” (Οὐδὲν ἐπιπρέπει ἧµιν ἅτ’ ἀνδράσι σωιζοµένοισιν, / ἀλλ’ ὡς πάγχυ
πόλει, Κύρνε, ἁλωσοµένῃ) (235-6). In a performance context, this poem could be
performed to describe the literal occupation of a city, or its metaphorical occupation by
the base. Elsewhere Theognis continues the warnings of hubris familiar from the “city is
74
This elegiac line is also attributed to Mimnermus (frag. 7 West). In my interpretation, I assume that
ἄµεινον indicates the opposite of κακῶς… ἐρεῖ, that is praise. In this case, the ἄµεινον is purposefully
tepid-sounding (as van Groningen (1966): 306 notes, “la valeur comparative est très affaiblie,”) implying
that they don’t praise very much. Gerber (1999): 87 (on the same lines in Mimnermus) paraphrases
differently “All will be critical, differing only in the degree of criticism.”
227 pregnant” poem described above: “I fear that hubris will destroy this city, as it destroyed
the flesh-eating Centaurs” (δειµαίνω, µὴ τήνδε πόλιν, Πολυπαΐδη, ὕβρις / ἥ περ
Κενταύρους ὠµοφάγους ὄλεσεν (540-1). Elsewhere Theognis invokes historical
instances of hubris: “Such deeds and hubris destroyed Magnesia as now grip this holy
city” (Τοιάδε καὶ Μάγνητας ἀπώλεσεν ἔργα καὶ ὕβρις, / οἷα τὰ νῦν ἱερὴν τήνδε πόλιν
κατέχει)(603-4).75 Even Cyrnus himself becomes a representative of the debased elite in
another “Magnesia” poem: “Hubris destroyed Magnesia, Colophron, and Smyrna. And it
will certainly destroy you too, Cyrnus” (ὕβρις καὶ Μάγνητας ἀπώλεσε καὶ Κολοφῶνα /
καὶ Σµύρνην. πάντως, Κύρνε, καὶ ὔµµ’ ἀπολεῖ)(1103-4). The city’s problems can even
contaminate the persona of Cyrnus himself.76
Given this background of hostility and contention between Theognis and his polis,
it is maybe no wonder that when he talks about his poetry, he presents an “exclusive”
persona. This persona manifests itself early in the corpus, in the middle of the sphragis
poem:
ἀστοῖσιν δ’ οὔπω πᾶσιν ἁδεῖν δύναµαι·
οὔθ’ ὕων πάντεσσ’ ἁνδάνει οὔτ’ ἀνέχων
but everyone will say the following: “These verses are Theognis of Megara’s,
famous amongst all mankind.” But I am still not able to please all the
townsmen. Nor is it remarkable, Polypaïdes: not even Zeus pleases
everybody when he rains or holds back.
75
For a discussion of the epithet “holy” when applied to a city, see Scully (1990): 16-40. Likely the epithet
“sacred” here is meant to echo Troy, and to suggest the doomed nature of the city.
76
Nagy (1985): 53-6 examines the evidence of the name Cyrnus in detail, and finds that he is indeed a
member of the debased elite in the corpus. I would qualify this statement that “Cyrnus’” persona can be
equally fluid as “Theognis” himself, and sometimes he represents a member of the base elite, sometimes
not.
228 To briefly reiterate what I said about this poem in the last chapter, here Theognis takes on
a paradigmatically “exclusive” stance. As Nagy writes about these lines: “The poetry
itself is setting up a dramatic tension between its own present and the future. In his own
here-and-now, the poet cannot be wholly accepted even by his own community; in the
future, he will be accepted not only by all Megarians but also by all Hellenes.”77 In
another famous poem, Theognis also claims he cannot get any satisfaction from his home
community:
Οὐ δύναµαι γνῶναι νόον ἀστῶν ὅντιν’ ἔχουσιν·
οὔτε γὰρ εὖ ἕρδων ἁνδάνω οὔτε κακῶς·
µωµεῦνται δέ µε πολλοί, ὁµῶς κακοὶ ἠδὲ καὶ ἐσθλοί·
µιµεῖσθαι δ’ οὐδεὶς τῶν ἀσόφων δύναται. (367-70)
I can’t understand what opinion the townsmen have: neither by treating them
well or badly do I please them. But many blame, both bad and good. But
nobody without skill can reenact me.
In this poem, Theognis explicitly acts out the tensions he has with “Megara.” Whether he
does good or bad by them, the townsmen (ἀστῶν) criticize and blame him (µωµεῦνται).
In the last pentameter, however, he shrugs off this criticism, describing the “many”
(πολλοί) that criticize him as “unskilled” (ἀσόφων) and claiming that they cannot
“reenact” him (µιµεῖσθαι). Here the label “unskilled” parallels Theognis’ own selfdescription in the sphragis poem as “skilled” σοφιζοµένῳ (19). Sophia in both instances
must indicate the performance of poetry. Also striking is the use of the verb µιµεῖσθαι
here. As Nagy has persuasively argued, we should translate µιµεῖσθαι not as “imitate,”
but as “re-enact”.78 As Nagy rightly notes, by describing himself in this way, Theognis
makes the claim “But no one who is not skilled [sophós] can re-enact my identity.” The
77
78
Nagy (1985): 35.
For the meaning of µιµεῖσθαι as “reenact,” see Nagy (1996b): 223-4.
229 mass of men within his own city do not have the poetical skill to reperform his poetry, or
in other words, to assume the mantle of one of the Theognidean personae described
above. Theognis, therefore, adopts mostly an exclusive persona, denying the majority of
his fellow citizens the ability to perform his poetry.
In summary, despite the fact that “Theognis” plays a variety of roles within the
city, when he mentions the city itself, it is often in a negative light. I have argued that this
“exclusive” persona is related to the state of stasis in Megara: because the collection is
consistiently localized as a city in a state of civic crisis, Theognis more often than not
performs his alienation from the city. “Theognis” therefore can be seen to oscillate
between two extreme poles: he can mimetically perform any role within the city, but
when the city itself is mentioned, he plays an “exclusive” persona that expresses his
problematic relationship with the city itself.
Conclusions: Megara as a Virtual City
To briefly summarize, as I have argued in this chapter, “Theognis,” rather than
being a unitary persona, functions as a set of personae. He can be a female, young or old,
rich or poor, and have a more or less rich backstory. What remains constant about
Theognis, however, is his localization in Megara. In this light, it is striking that when
Theognis mentions the city in his poetry, he expresses his alienation from it. I suggest
that this “exclusive” stance is specifically related to the state of the stasis in Megara. In
the closing of this chapter, I would like to offer a few words more about how the overall
effect of the number of personae we see in the corpus has on how we view “Megara”
(Everycity).
230 What the Theognidea does in effect is to recreate Megara as a sort of “virtual
city” in stasis. In performance each citizen’s home city becomes merged with Megara the
“Everycity.” Individual poems in the corpus become ways for citizens to perform within
this virtual city, exploring, playing with, and extending their own identities as citizens.
This virtual Megara, like the very Theognidean personae they assume, allows
symposiasts the cover to express their political views in a mediated fashion. They can
express their views on what a polis should do in crisis, which may or may not overlap
with their actual views. The role-playing of sympotic performance allows them to discuss
and disseminate and debate the role of their own city in their lives. In the role-playing of
the symposia, there is a new permissiveness to articulate their own views and explore
others.
This virtual city also has an effect on how we view these poems specifically as a
collection. While throughout this chapter I have emphasized how individual poems work
in a sympotic performance context, the fact remains that what has been passed down to us
is a collection of poems. Although individual poems display different perspectives, each
persona and voice is framed by the presence of other personae and voices. One cannot
take any single voice in complete isolation from the cacophony of other voices in the
Theognidea. In this context, the range of voices within the Theognidea we have
witnessed can be given a more precise formulation. The variety of personae we see in
Theognis, from the young to the old, from the poor to the rich can be seen as giving a
voice to the various citizens of the Greek city state. The Theognidea as a collection,
whether written or in some oral aggregate form, recreates an entire Greek city in stasis.
This virtual city of Megara becomes a place for each performer to discuss his roles within
231 his own polis. And as we have seen, often performers can express their own alienation
from the city itself. If Theognis is a persona from which to address one’s fellow
symposiasts, this virtual Megara becomes a space from which one addresses one’s peers,
and just as much, one’s alienation from one’s peers.
232 Chapter Five: Pindar in Thebes: Pythian 11, Gender, and Community
Introduction:
Pindar, more than any other poet extant in the scanty remains of archaic Greek
lyric, is representative of a period when poets became professional, international figures.
Pindar’s epinician odes are themselves a testament to his role as an international,
traveling poet. Since Pindar provides our clearest evidence for a poet that travelled
widely and performed widely in a variety of locales, he is naturally important for the
overall thesis of this dissertation. Can we detect a form of “local” rhetoric in Pindar?
This question has already been posed by G.B. D'Alessio in his influential 1994
article “First-Person Problems in Pindar.” There he writes, "In the victory odes composed
for his native city we would look in vain for all the features of the prominent praiser we
have met in other poems. In Thebes, where the ξεῖνος-figure does not find any place, he
is very careful not to to appear to as a personally outstanding figure."1 This chapter will
argue that Pindar’s voice in Pythian 11 is affected by the local audience he is performing
for. While an extensive analysis of Pythian 11 alone does not alone confirm D’Alessio’s
suggestion, we can possibly find reasons to substantiate it.
A Date with the Oresteia
Two questions have constantly haunted scholarship on Pythian 11: first, what is
its relationship to the Aeschylus’ Oresteia trilogy? And second, what is the significance
of the myth of Orestes that Pindar presents? The question of Aeschylus' influence is
highly tied up with the dating of the poem. The scholia give two possible dates for the
1
D'Alessio (1994): 130.
233 performance of Pythian 11: 474 B.C and 454 B.C. Since the performance of Aeschylus’
Oresteia can be securely dated to 458 BC, the choice between 474 and 454 becomes
highly significant for determining the relationship between these two works.2 If the later
date proves correct, Pindar’s ode could have been influenced by one of the most
important Greek tragedies of all time.3 Or, if we accept the earlier date of 474, could the
influence have gone in the other direction and Aeschylus himself was influenced by
Pindar?4 Or were both of these texts independent of each other, and can the common
themes and motifs be traced back to some Ur-text, like that of Steisichorus’ Oresteia?5
The possible dates for Pythian 11 are provided for us by two notices in the text:6
Γέγραπται ἡ ᾠδὴ Θρασυδαίῳ παιδὶ νικήσαντι κηʹ Πυθιάδα, καὶ λγʹ
δίαυλον ἢ στάδιον ἄνδρας. (Inscrp. A Drachmann)
The song for the boy Thrasydaeus was written when he won during the
28th Pythiad (474 BC) and at the 33rd Pythiad (454 BC), defeating men in
diaulos or stadion.
ἄλλως· Θρασυδαίῳ Θηβαίῳ σταδιεῖ: γέγραπται µὲν ἡ ᾠδὴ τῷ
προκειµένῳ νικήσαντι τὴν λγʹ Πυθιάδα διαύλῳ. οὐκ εἰς τὴν τοῦ διαύλου
δὲ νίκην γράφει, ἀλλ’ εἰς τὴν τοῦ σταδίου. (Inscrp. B Drachmann)
2
For the dating of the Oresteia, see recently the helpful introduction of Sommerstein (2008): ix-x.
Some scholars argue for the 454 date (thus making it likely that Pindar was influenced by Aeschylus). For
this date, see Farnell (1932): 223-4 (about Aeschylus’ influence on Pindar, he writes, “There is no parallel
elsewhere in his works to this method of handling an epic tale.... In fact, ll. 22-30 can be best explained if
we assume that Pindar wrote them under the strong impression made on him by the Agamemnon of
Aeschylus”); Bowra (1936): 135 (see also 140-1 for possible influence from Aeschylus); Finley (1955):
160; Hubbard (1990): 350-1, (2010): 190-2; Herington (1984): 145 puts it very strongly: “The possibility
that Aeschylus might have structured his greatest masterpiece around a couple of totally uncharacteristic
lines thrown out for some inexplicable reason by Pindar in or shortly after 474 B.C. seems, to put it
temperately, remote.”
4
For scholars who argue for the 474 date, see Young (1968):2n.3; Robbins (1986): 6; Gentili (1995): 184;
Finglass (2007): 5-27. These scholars provide different answers regarding the question of who influenced
who: some, like Young in the same footnote, claim that we cannot know the true relationship between
texts, because we lack Steisichorus' Oresteia. Finglass (2007): 15-17 suggests that Pythian 11 may have
influenced Aeschylus.
5
Many scholars who argue for an earlier date see possible Steisichorean influence on Pythian 11: see
Young (1968): 2n3; Finglass (2007): 16.
6
My discussion here is an all too brief summary of the results of Finglass (2007): 5-11 and Kurke (2011).
Naturally I have not touched on or discussed all the complexities of these issues.
3
234 Otherwise: for Thrasydaeus the Theban in the stadion; the song was
written for the aforementioned victor in the diaulos at the 33rd Pythiad
(454 BC). But he writes not for diaulos victory, but for a stadion.
Finglass, the author of the most recent commentary on Pythian 11, has argued that the
first notice must point to 474 BC. He emends the second clause of this text to <ἐνίκησε
δὲ> καὶ… (and he also won at the 33rd Pythiad (454 BC).7 This presumes that the victor
of our present ode, Thrasydaeus, won first as a boy in 474 BC and later as an adult in 454
BC. This would make dating this ode to 474 BC, sung to a young Thrasydaeus, an
inevitable conclusion. While this has the effect of making a clean, logical statement, it
also comes at the expense of serious tinkering with the preserved text. And as Kurke
notes, maybe a little too clean: if there was hard information dating the ode to 474 BC,
why would anybody (as they do in notice B) ever assert that the date was 454 BC in the
first place?8 Unlike the Olympian dating systems, even the ancients were particularly
hazy on the details of the Pythian victors.9 It seems evident from the confusion in these
notices that the ancient themselves lacked clear evidence about the date of this victory.10
As much as Finglass’s solution cleans up the mess, it leaves questions as to why there
was a mess in the first place. For Kurke’s part, she has thoroughly explored the issue, and
has suggested a number of other possible scenarios in her forthcoming article. While it is
true that none are quite as elegant as Finglass’s, her analysis at the very least indicates
that a performance in 454 BC should still be considered a possibility.
7
See Finglass (2007): 5-7. This emendation was first proposed by Bulle in 1971. Also in his text Finglass
deletes the word “stadion” (στάδιον). For his arguments for doing so, see Finglass (2007): 9-11.
8
Kurke (2011).
9
Finglass (2007): 19-27 has a good overview of the complexities of the Pythian dating system.
10
Farnell (1932): 221-2 has a good discussion on reasons for believing that the scholiasts had no hard
information about the date of this victory.
235 Furthermore, there are major problems in Finglass’s reconstruction. As Kurke
notes, and extensively discusses, he ignores Ilja Pfeijffer’s research into age grades at the
games. Pfeijffer has noted that, like their counterparts in inscriptions, victors’ lists, and
other material remains, epinician odes must somewhere specify if the victory was won in
the boy’s category (or in the case of the Nemean and Isthmian games, the third category,
the ageneioi). Otherwise, it must be assumed that the victor was an adult. This poses
problems for Pythian 11 because the ode never states Thrasydaeus’ age, (suggesting,
according to Pfeijffer's model, that Thrasydaeus was an adult). In the case of Pythian 11,
he argues that the scholiasts incorrectly assumed Thrasydaeus was a boy.11 If Pfeijffer is
correct, this throws Finglass’ theory into utter turmoil. If the victor was an adult, rather a
boy, we can account for the confusion in the dates by asserting that Thrasydaeus won first
as a boy in 474 BC and later as an adult in 454 BC. Pythian 11 in this model was the
victory ode performed when Thrasydaeus was an adult in 454 BC. Finglass’s
reconstruction of the text, therefore, becomes erroneous.
Several other reasons can be mustered in defense of the 454 date. The first is
literary. In particular, Düring in an important article has listed side by side a number of
parallels between Pythian 11 and Aeschylus’ Oresteia. Although he lacks a smoking gun,
and some of his parallels are more convincing than others, his list as a whole cannot be
dismissed.12 While, as critics of Düring's paper have noted, many of these parallels may
11
See Pfeijffer (1998): 36-7. He strangely enough, accounts for this error in lines 50-1 “May I desire fine
achievements from the gods, and seek what is possible at my age” (θεόθεν ἐραίµαν καλῶν, δυνατὰ
µαιόµενος ἐν ἁλικίᾳ). I would argue that the reference to Pythonicus at line 43, combined with the assorted
mentions of paternity both inside and outside the myth (e.g. “casting a crown on his paternal hearth”)
(ἑστίαν…στέφανον πατρῴαν βαλών) would have convinced the scholiasts that Thrasydaeus was a boy
victor.
12
See Düring (1943). My personal favorite “parallel” is his comments on line 30 of Pythian 11 “and the
man breathing lowly roars unseen” (ὁ δὲ χαµηλὰ πνέων ἄφαντον βρέµει ). On this passage, Düring writes
“πνεῖν followed by a qualifying accusative is typically Aeschylean usage” and then goes on to list several
236 be "false positives" and may be related to a common source or generic and topical
similarities rather specific intertextual allusions, the list remains striking.13 The literary
front, therefore, is provocative but far from definitive.
A more fruitful front lies in the political context. As multiple scholars have seen,
the political clime of 454 suits the poem much more than 474. As Bowra noted, the ode
seems to have an odd Spartan flavor: Orestes is called a "Laconian" (16), Agamemnon's
palace is placed in Amyclae in Laconia (ln. 32), and the Spartan heroes, Castor and
Pollux, end the ode (62-4). While Bowra and subsequent commentators who cite him
may go too far in calling this a "strong Spartan colouring," it does indicate at the very
least that his local Theban audience was not hostile to Sparta at this time.14 This is
decidedly problematic with the 474 date, because at this time Sparta and Thebes were
rivals, not friends. According to Plutarch, after the Persian Wars Sparta tried to oust
Thebes from the Amphictiony for its medizing. However, Themistocles intervened in the
name of Athenian interests. While this story is recounted only in Plutarch’s Themistocles,
as Frost notes at the very least it seems to reflect the actual balance of power in the
aftermath of the Persian Wars.15 Even if we distrust Plutarch on the specifics, this
anecdote seems to reflect the political alignments at the time. Sparta and Thebes seemed
to have hardly been on friendly terms and its future rival Athens seemed to have self examples. But µένεα πνείοντες is a standard Homeric formula (see Il. 2.536, 3.8, 11.508), and the other
tragedians use πνέω with an accusative as well (for the full range of uses in epic and tragedy respectively,
see Cunliffe (1923): s.v πνέω. and LSJ s.v.).
13
Many critics have (rightfully) been skeptical of Düring's supposed parallels: see Young (1968) 2n3;
Robbins (1986): 7; Finglass (2007): 15-6.
14
For an overall discussion of the Spartan elements, see Bowra (1936): 132-4; see 134 for the "strong
Spartan colouring" quotation. Hubbard (2010) goes too far in suggesting that this ode was composed with a
Spartan audience specifically in mind. I will discuss this in more detail below.
15
The source is Plut. Them. 20. Frost (1980): 179. Lewis (1992): 99-100 also concurs on the historical
plausibility of this episode: “Since we can, on the basis of later representation, calculate that about twothirds of the twenty-four Amphictyonic votes were held by medizers, the question will certainly have been
raised, but presumably it was decided that it would be sufficient if the actual representatives were more
respectable.” On this issue, see also Bowra (1936): 135-6.
237 interestingly allied itself with Thebes. This doesn’t seem to sit well with a poem
performed in Thebes that refers to Sparta several times.16
On the other hand, the 454 date corresponds well with the Spartan coloring of the
ode. After a successful victory over the Boeoetians in 457/6, the Athenians controlled the
better part of Boeotia and probably Thebes itself until sometime around 446.17 During
this time, they appeared to set up a number of dysfunctional and therefore unpopular
governments.18 The name of Athens would likely have been highly unpopular within
Thebes at the time Pindar was performing there. Sparta’s reputation, on account of being
Athen’s arch-rival, was on the other hand probably sky-rocketing. This probably better
accounts for the specific Spartan references in the ode, and helps to support the date of
454 BC.
I will therefore assume, like the majority of recent commentators on this poem,
that Pythian 11 was performed in 454 B.C. It was therefore influenced by Aeschylus’
Oresteia and is probably in some sense a response to it. This question of a possible
Aeschylean influence has bearing on the second question that has plagued scholars: what
is the relevance of the myth to the rest of the ode? More than any other mythic section in
Pindar, Pythian 11’s heady mix of sex and slaughter seems ill-suited to praise of the
16
For his part, Finglass (2007): 17-8 doesn’t address this incongruity in his advocacy of a 474 BC date.
Diodorus Siculus (11.83.1) reports that the Athenians controlled all of Boeotia except for Thebes:
“Myronides became master of all the cities in Boeotia except for Thebes”(ὁ Μυρωνίδης πασῶν τῶν κατὰ
τὴν Βοιωτίαν πόλεων ἐγκρατὴς ἐγένετο πλὴν Θηβῶν). This is implausible, because we know from other
sources that the Athenians set up some type of government in Thebes (more on that below). Most scholars
therefore reject Diodorus’ account: see Buck (1979): 147, who accounts for the error in Diodorus’
presumed source, Ephorus and his “reading back of parallels to contemporary situations”; see also Lewis
(1992): 116.
18
The sources give contradictory accounts on whether these governments where oligarchic or democratic.
Aristotle in his Politics (5.3, 1302b27-30) claims they were democratic, while the so-called “Old Oligarch”
3.11 seems to suggest that they were oligarchic. For discussions of these governments, see Bowra (1936):
138-9; Buck (1979): 148. As Buck (1979): 148 rightly notes, the Athenians probably didn’t care too much
whether the regimes were oligarchic or democratic as long as they pro-Athenian (Lewis (1992): 116 and
Kurke (2011) share similar opinions).
17
238 victor. The scholiasts themselves register this incongruity: they accuse Pindar in the
following lines making use of “an extremely unseeingly digression” (ἐν δὲ τοῖς ἑξῆς
σφόδρα ἀκαίρῳ παρεκβάσει ἐχρήσατο) (Σ 23a; cf. 58a Drachmann). Earlier interpreters
of the poem have taken the scholia and Pindar’s seemingly apologetic “break off” at lns.
38-40 at face value.19 Other scholars have sought to explain the myth’s strangeness in a
historical context, proposing a shifting kaleidoscope of various scenarios.20
It is David Young, however, who has proposed the most lasting interpretation of
this ode. As he convincingly argues, the myth itself is a sort of “negative exemplum.” As
he writes, “The relevance of the myth, then, I suggest, is precisely what has caused such
consternation: there is nothing in the myth which pertains to Thrasydaios or to his kind.
That is the point.”21 The myth simply acts as a foil to what follows it. This general
approach, treating the myth as an antitype to the praise at the end of the poem, has
become the dominant paradigm of discussions of this ode.22 Debate has now centered on
what exactly is being countered in this myth. For his part, Young considered this a
warning against the lifestyle of the rich and famous: “Since the paradigmatic purpose of
the myth is to illustrate the hatreds and woes which beset the lives of the politically high
and mighty, the myth focuses upon the problems of the central figure in the events of
Agamemnon’s house, Clytemnestra.”23 More recent scholars have argued that the myth
has more relevance to the victor than Young allowed. Kurke, for instance, argues “the
19
A good overview of older commentators’ statements on the difficulty of interpreting this ode can be
found in Norwood (1945): 119; see also Farnell (1932): 225. According to Gildersleeve (1890): 358 Pindar
stops because he doesn’t want to be misinterpreted: “Pindar does not carry out the story of Orestes, simply
because he feels that he might do what some of his commentators have done so often, and push the parallel
between the hero of the myth and the hero of the games too far.”
20
A good summary of these (often unconvincing) scenarios is found in Finglass (2007): 38-9.
21
Young (1968): 17.
22
See Kurke (1991): 214-5.
23
Young (1968): 19-20.
239 suspicion of tyrannical aspiration is…the specter that haunts the athletic successes of his
family until it is resolutely exorcised by the poet.”24 Others see the Orestes figure as very
closely tied to the figure of Thrasydaeus. Finglass sees Orestes as restoring the memory
of his father, as Thrasydaeus does with his victory.25 Others, like Slater and Hubbard, see
the myth exemplary in the limited sense that it illustrates the power of proper hospitality
which Orestes received from Strophius and Pylades.26 While we will be able to explicate
the “point” of the myth when we analyze it in more detail below, for now I will note that
I believe the myth is a negative exemplum and the way that the myth is constructed
denies us an easy way to see Orestes straightforwardly as a hero.
Pythian 11 As “Local” Poetry
However, before analyzing Pythian 11 in a local context, this approach needs
defending in light of a recent article by Thomas Hubbard. In this article, he suggests that
rather than being a purely local affair, Pythian 11 from the very beginning was written
with a view towards a specifically Spartan audience. 27 Citing Bowra’s old observation of
the “Spartan” character of the ode, he notes that it was likely that Thrasydeus’ father,
Pythonicus, had Spartan contacts and was linked by xenia to the Spartans because of his
Olympian chariot victory in Peloponnesian Elis.28 Dating the poem to 454 BC, Hubbard
also notes that in the context of the so-called “First Peloponnesian War” Theban
24
Kurke (1991): 215.
Finglass (2007): 44.
26
Slater (1979): 68; Hubbard (2010) sees this theme of friendship and xenia as so prevalent throughout the
ode that he postulates a Spartan audience. I will discuss his theories in more detail below.
27
It should be noted that Hubbard does not go so far as to claim that there were actual performances and
reperformances of the ode at Sparta (though the article throughout seems to toy with this idea). See
Hubbard (2010): 189-90 for his rejection of this scenario.
28
Hubbard (2010): 189-90.
25
240 aristocrats were probably anxious to remind their Spartan allies of their friendship in
order to serve as a possible counterweight to Athenian incursions into Boeotia.29
The difficulty of Hubbard’s argument of a specifically Spartan audience for the
ode is that he conflates two different hypothesis: 1.) that the victor and his family had
pro-Spartan feelings and 2.) that there was a specifically Spartan audience to the ode.
While these two statements are not mutually exclusive, one does not necessitate the other.
As he writes, “it is more likely that it was the aristocratic family of the victor that had
Spartan interests and expressed a wish to see Sparta, as well as Thebes, honored in the
poem.”30 But this is no proof for a specific Spartan audience addressed in the poem; it is
only proof for the specific political orientation of the victor’s family. Sparta, like Athens
itself, was itself a symbol of a certain style of life. We cannot assume that every mention
of Sparta had a Spartan audience any more than we can assume that every wave / burning
of an American flag around the world is addressed to a specifically American audience.
Rather, such actions might be interpreted to express solidarity within one’s own peer
group, whether or not the Spartan or American audience is watching. With a city-state so
prominent on the international scene as Sparta, mention cannot be immediately equated
with audience.
And even more problematic, there is no indication of what form this audience
would take. Hubbard seems to suggest at the beginning of the paper that there could have
been performances and reperformances within Sparta, but later wisely rejects that idea.31
29
Ibid., 195.
Ibid., 189.
31
Invoking Olympian 6 and Nemean 9 near the beginning of the article he asks “could the family of
Thrasydaeus have had close connections with Sparta and hoped to see the ode performed there as well as at
Thebes?” (Hubbard (2010): 189). There is no evidence (as Hubbard (2010): 189 recognizes) of Pindar
composing a poem for Sparta. Even Hornblower (2004), who is very sympathetic to the idea of lost Spartan
odes of Pindar, after examining the issue for several pages can only say: “the conclusion that Pindar wrote
30
241 By the end of the paper, he concludes “they [the victor and his family] wanted to send a
message to a second audience, consisting of their Spartan friends.”32 Where these Spartan
friends heard the ode is not clear. Even more confusingly, he also talks about how a
Spartan audience would view the reference to “the middle” (τὰ µέσα) at line 52
differently than a Theban audience.33 Where this audience is, and how they are supposed
to “get the message” is unclear. Were they there at the event? Or would they come to
sympotic reperformances of the ode? Or does Hubbard expect news to get around to
Sparta about the performance by other means? It is supremely unclear who this audience
is, where it is located, and what effect it may have on the ode. While I have no doubt that
Pythian 11 would have appealed to a Spartan audience, there is no reason to create this
audience as an addressed, internal audience within the ode.
Furthermore, the so-called “Spartan” coloring of the ode can be traced to local
sentiment, rather than specifically Spartan sentiment. Even though we can probably
safely assume that there were some Spartans (amongst other foreigners) in the audience,
we need not look further than the local Theban audience for such anti-Athenian and proSpartan sentiments.34 As we described above, during the period that this ode was
no victory ode for a Spartan does seem to be indicated by Pausanias and by various arguments from silence,
above all the fact that no such ode survives in whole or part. But at the same time there is no reason why
Pindar could not have written such a victory ode for Sparta” (243).
32
Hubbard (2010): 199.
33
Ibid.,196-7
34
A performance of a Pindaric ode was likely to have been to some degree an international event, with the
family of the victor inviting their friends from all throughout Greece. This tension, between local and
international, is captured perfectly by Aristophanes in neighboring Athens, who in the Babylonians, was
fined by his arch-nemesis Cleon for slandering the city in front of foreigners at the Greater Dionysia. The
most direct reference to this incident is in the Acharnians: “Cleon can’t slander me, because I spoke badly
of [Athens] while foreigners were present. We are by ourselves, and it’s the competition at Lenaia, no
foreigners are here yet” (οὐ γάρ µε νῦν γε διαβαλεῖ Κλέων ὅτι /ξένων παρόντων τὴν πόλιν κακῶς λέγω.
/αὐτοὶ γάρ ἐσµεν οὑπὶ Ληναίῳ τ’ ἀγών, /κοὔπω ξένοι πάρεισιν…) (Ach. 502-5). The Lenaia was a local,
Athenians-only festival. While of course the performance of a Pindaric ode would not be on the scale of the
grand Greater Dionysia, it would no doubt attract the attention of any visiting foreigners (and invited
guests?) in town.
242 performed it was likely that Athens was none too popular in Thebes. The Athenians, after
all, had invaded their land and installed a series of corrupt and inept puppet governments.
In response Sparta (and maybe even hopes of Spartan intervention) would have been
viewed favorably by the Thebans. Praise of Sparta may have been less concerned with
being pro-Sparta than with being anti-Athenian. In fact, it could be argued that the
“tragic” coloring of this ode, which seems to somehow interrogate that quintessentially
Athenian art form, suggests a stronger concern with Athens rather than Sparta. There is
no need, therefore, for there to be a “message” to some vaguely defined Spartan
audience. The Thebans themselves would have harbored enough anti-Athenian, proSpartan sentiments to motivate an acute poet like Pindar to fashion the ode in a “Spartan”
manner. As Hubbard himself admits even in his interpretation, the Theban audience must
have been primary.35 Why then look beyond it for pro-Spartan sentiment?
And finally, the textual cruces that Hubbard’s interpretation claims to explain can
be more convincingly explained by recognizing the primarily local context of the ode.
Hubbard’s interpretation is based on two oddities in the poem: first, that it helps to
explain the puzzling declamation of tyranny and Pindar’s support for the middle.
However, my interpretation below will show that this condemnation of tyranny is better
understood as an expression of an idealized citizen within Thebes. As other examples of
this literary trope show, decrying the tyranny forms part of an idealized image of the
polis-dwelling “everyman” and should be understood as a way for Pindar to assimilate
himself with his fellow Thebans. It is better, as I argue, to understand this declaration in a
Theban, rather than a Spartan context.
35
Hubbard (2010): 198.
243 The second thing that Hubbard’s interpretation claims to explain is the repetition
of the word ξένος at lines 15 and 34, both at the beginning and end of the myth. Hubbard
claims that this reflects historical relationships of xenia between Sparta and Thebes,
which the victor wants a Spartan audience to recall.36 However, other reasons for
repetition can be found without positing a specific Spartan audience. Kurke provocatively
describes this focus on xenia in intertextual and intergeneric terms: just as the Oresteia
tries hard to create a cultic network between Delphi and Athens, here too “Pythian 11
seems to be working equally hard to assert a competing cult network of Thebes, Sparta,
and Delphi.”37 I would add, as I argued in the first chapter, that the words ξένος and ξενία
are the conceptual opposites of the “local” (ἐπιχώριος). Since the myth (as I will discuss
further below) is antithetical to the rest of the ode, it is likely that Pindar desires us to feel
the contrast between friendship expressed through ξενία and the friendship expressed
through ties with one’s own peers and community members. As Hubbard rightly notes
concerning the catalogue of male heroes at the poem’s close, “all three heroes are known
especially for friendship, just like Orestes and Pylades in the poem’s myth.”38 Hubbard
interprets this as proof for a Spartan audience and the importance of xenia, but I would
argue the opposite happens. Pindar’s break-off address to his fellow citizens (“O friends”
(ὦ φίλοι)) creates an audience of fellow citizens linked together by bonds of friendship
(φιλότης). The poem in general progresses from friendship as expressed through xenia
towards foreign friends to friendship expressed through philotēs towards one’s own local
community members.
36
Ibid., 195-6.
Kurke (forthcoming).
38
Hubbard (2010): 199
37
244 Myth and Gender: Tragedy in Pythian 11
What Hubbard’s article effectively highlights, however, is the oddness of the
Spartan coloring of this ode. And assuming the intertext with the Oresteia discussed
above, why give this poem a Spartan coloring in the first place? What reason can we find
for this strange melding of Athenian tragedy and Spartan sentiment? Kurke in a recent
article helps us with an answer. Accepting the date of 454 BC she discusses the possible
connections this ode has with Greek tragedy. She provocatively frames her discussion in
terms of Froma Zeitlin’s famous interpretation of Thebes as the “anti-Athens” in Greek
tragedy: “I would like here to invert the terms and consider a possible Theban response to
Athens and specifically to Athenian tragedy in one epinikian ode of Pindar. What might
Attic tragedy look like from the other side— from the perspective of the more traditional
choral milieu of Pindar’s Thebes?”39 The choice of a “Spartan coloring” therefore has a
political edge. By giving a Spartan twist to a familiar tragic story, Pindar throws its own
traditional art form, tragedy, back into Athens’s face.40
I wish to push Kurke’s thesis even further, and argue that this intertextual and
generic antagonism between Pythian 11 and Aeschylus’ Oresteia extends also to the
issue of gender. The Oresteia itself of course is a play that extensively foregrounds the
issue of gender. As Laura McClure notes, “the drama depicts a movement from the
feminine, figurative, and false speech of the first play to the ideal of a masculine,
39
Kurke (2011) (unpublished, personal communication). See Zeitilin (1990) for the foundational discussion
of Thebes as an “anti-Athens.”
40
For his part, Hubbard (2010): 192 has a very unsatisfactory answer as to why a “tragic” myth of
Aeschylus ended up in a poem that he claims was intended for a Spartan audience: “Whatever his attitude
toward Athenian policy at the time, Pindar was a brilliant enough poet to recognize sublime lyric
storytelling in the work of a fellow poet, close to his own age, recently deceased.” This does not explain
why in an obviously politically charged ode Pindar chooses to mix what appears to be an Athenian tragic
story with references to Sparta.
245 unambiguous, and divinely sanctioned speech of the law court in the third.”41 Or to put it
differently, the trilogy progresses from a female-controlled polis (with Clytemnestra’s
sole rule of Argos) to a polis where the wild female elements (represented by the Furies)
are assimilated and become controlled by the male-dominated polis.42 I would suggest
that Pythian 11 itself follows the same movement. The poem begins with an invocation
of Theban heroines, and ends with male exemplars of friendship.43 To briefly summarize
the interpretation of this ode I offer, the myth presents a world where women play a
prominent role, a largely destructive one. It is only through male-bonding via xenia that
Orestes prevails. When this mythic world is emphatically rejected by Pindar, the vision of
friendship through xenia is reinterpreted as friendship through philotēs in the here and
now of performance. It is in this local context that the myth as a whole can only be
understood.
Scholars have generally noted the peculiarity of the opening of Pythian 11, where
a series of epichoric female figures is summoned to celebrate the ode.44 Here the ancient
Theban heroines are described in language that emphasizes their proximity and kinship to
the gods. Semele is described as “a neighbor of the Olympian goddesses” (Ὀλυµπιάδων
ἀγυιᾶτι) (1), Ino as “bedmate of the Nereids of the sea” (ποντιᾶν ὁµοθάλαµε Νηρηΐδων)
(2), and Alcmene is addressed periphrastically as the “nobly born mother of Hercules”
(Ἡρακλέος ἀριστογόνῳ µατρὶ) (3-4). The language underscores their passive roles as
41
McClure (1999): 71.
This is hardly a new interpretation of the Oresteia. Goldhill (1986): 53-5 has a fascinating discussion
tracing this scholarly tradition to Bachofen and his theories of a primordial matriarchy amongst mankind.
For Bachofen, the Oresteia trilogy traces the transition from a matriarchal society to a patriarchal one.
43
For the symmetry and ring composition of this ode, see Greengard (1980): 82-3; Finglass (2007): 74.
44
See Bowra (1936): 132; see also Bowra (1964): 325, where he believes the heroines are essential for “the
conception of divine justice which runs through the poem.” Young (1968): 19n2 considers this whole line
of inquiry silly: “I cannot understand why scholars…busy themselves with Wilamowitz’s question,
“Warum kommem nur die Heroine, nicht die Heroen?”…nor why Py. 11 is supposed to have some especial
feminine interest and significance.
42
246 immortalized neighbors, sisters, and mothers -even the periphrastic address of Alcmene
serves to diminish the traditional “labor” of birth. These women’s easy familiarity with
divinity is emphasized in the language here.
These Theban heroines are then invited to the Theban Ismenion with Melia to join
the current festivities. The address that follows contains important elements that
transition to the myth:
ὦ παῖδες Ἁρµονίας,
ἔνθα καί νυν ἐπίνοµον ἡρωΐδων
στρατὸν ὁµαγερέα καλεῖ συνίµεν̄,
ὄφρα θέµιν ἱερὰν Πυθῶνά τε καὶ̆ ὀρθοδίκαν
γᾶς ὀµφαλὸν κελαδήσετ’ ἄκρᾳ σὺν ἑσπέρᾳ (lns. 7-10)
O children of Harmonia, there he [Loxias Apollo] invites the entire local
throng of heroines to gather, in order to celebrate holy Themis, Pytho, and
the uprightly just center of the earth at the tip of nightfall.
By this address, Pindar seems to give us the place and time of his performance: the
Theban Ismenion at nightfall. Some scholars have concluded that the performance of this
ode was “tacked” on during the usual festival held at the Ismenion, but the evidence of
this is scanty.45 The space could just as well have been “rented out” by the family for
performance, and does not necessarily indicate that this ode was performed directly at the
festival itself.46 But in any case, what is particularly significant for our purposes is that
this description continues the female focus of the poem. In fact, the word Pindar uses to
describe the crowd of women here contains a significant intertext with Aeschylus’
45
Burton (1962): 61-2; Gentili (1995): ad loc; Kurke (2011). All see the καί νυν as proving that this was a
reoccurring festival, but I doubt if the phrase can carry the weight. While indeed καί νυν in Pindar always
seems to motion towards the present festivities, it is questionable whether it always indicates that the
festivities were reoccurring. At times this seems to be the case, as in the theoxenia in Ol. 3.34. But Pindar
uses καί νυν for other purposes, such as the “arrival” motif at Ol. 7.13, to introduce and highlight his own
praise at Ol. 10.78, and even to highlight his absence in the “epistolary” Pyth. 3.66. As Finglass (2007): ad
loc suggests, this καί is better interpreted as a “particularizing” καί that singles out this event from the
other, usual ritual activities at the shrine. In any case, we should be cautious with viewing this ode as
integrated with a preexisting ritual.
46
For a discussion of spaces “rented out” for the training of a chorus, see Wilson (2000): 71-3.
247 Oresteia, one that to my knowledge has not been noted before. Just before the parodos of
the chorus in the Choephoroe, Orestes exclaims, “What’s this I see?” Who is this crowd
of women who approach, conspicuous in their black garments?” (τί χρῆµα λεύσσω; τίς
ποθ’ ἥδ’ ὁµήγυρις / στείχει γυναικῶν φάρεσιν µελαγχίµοις / πρέπουσα;)(Choe. 10-12).
Pindar’s use of the adjective ὁµαγερέα, a hapax in Pindar’s poetry, should be considered
a reference to the ὁµήγυρις of women that Aeschylus describes, thus recalling this
striking visual entrance within the epinician ode itself.47 Also the use of the rare adjective
ὀρθοδίκαν also points to the myth that follows, transforming Orestes into an agent of
Delphic justice before the myth has even begun.48 This entire description, therefore,
continues the gender dynamics set up in the opening of the ode, while simultaneously
preparing us for the myth to come.
The myth, as it turns out, continues with a preoccupation with females. While
scholars have generally recognized the importance of women at the beginning of the ode,
they have neglected the number of women within the myth itself.49 Scholars have
generally assumed that Orestes, the antecedent of the transformative relative pronoun
(τὸν line 10) that signals the ode’s transition to the myth, is the protagonist and true
47
The manuscripts themselves present alternate spellings of this word, some of which strengthen the
connection between this and the Oresteia passage. The manuscripts contain the spellings ὁµηγερέα,
ὁµηγυρέα, and ὁµυγερέα. ὁµυ- obviously does not make sense, but the ὁµη- versions of this word should be
considered real possibilities. In that case, it would be less an archaizing epicism as previously claimed, but
a deliberate tragic reference to Aeschylus’ Oresteia. For a discussion of this textual issue, see Finglass
(2007): ad loc. As Garvie (1986): ad loc notes, actors in Aeschylus often use collective nouns to describe
the sight of the chorus. This suggests that Pindar too, imagines these epichoric women as a chorus.
48
This was noted by Egan (1983). However, he goes too far in interpreting the “point” of the myth as
Delphic justice. Despite being an agent of justice, as we will see in the discussion below, in the way that
Pindar tells the tale Orestes is nothing but a bit player.
49
The scholar that comes the closest is Finley (1955): 160, who notes, “The ode concerns women more
than any other except P. 9 and O. 6.” However, he concentrates on Clytemnestra’s contrast with the
heroines at the start of the ode, not on the overall presence of women in the mythic portion of the ode (1612). Young (1968): 19n2 argues against focusing on the “feminine” aspect of the opening (and criticizing
Finley in this regard), then admits, “Apart from the invocation (where Apollo is present too) Py.
11”concerns women” only in the myth.” This conceals a key insight into the structure and “meaning” of the
poem, I would argue.
248 subject of this ode.50 If not Orestes, scholars have then focused on Clytemnestra as the
chief protagonist of this myth.51 Both of these approaches neglect the peculiar way that
Pindar tells the myth, which focuses not on a single figure, but the actions and
consequences of a whole series of female figures.52 Orestes himself is only anything
resembling an active agent for one and half lines (36-7), when he completes the
mythically predetermined slaughter of his mother and Aegisthus (“But he in time with
Ares’ help killed his mother and laid Aegisthus in gore”) (ἀλλὰ χρονίῳ σὺν Ἄρει
/πέφνεν τε µατέρα θῆκέ τ’ Αἴγισθον ἐν φοναῖς).53 Even though the myth seems on the
surface to be about Orestes, in Pindar’s telling it focuses on every other detail but
Orestes.
For the rest of the myth, the sordid tale of the Atreidae is dominated by women.
First introduced is Arsinoe, who rescues the young Orestes from Clytemnestra: “when his
father was murdered under Clytemnestra’s powerful hands, his nurse Arsinoe saved him
from her grievous treachery”(φονευοµένου πατρὸς Ἀρσινόα Κλυταιµήστρας /χειρῶν ὕπο
κρατερᾶν ἐκ δόλου τροφὸς ἄνελε δυσπενθέος) (lns. 17-18).54 Next on the list is the
50
Bowra (1964):154; Egan (1983); Hubbard (2010): 188. Instone (1986): 87 also sees the renewal of a
father’s memory and hearth as the connecting thought between the myth and what precedes. He writes, “Up
to line 22 νηλὴς γυνά all Pindar is giving is a very succinct lyric version of a well-known epic myth” (sic).
The details that Pindar concentrates on, however, are hardly ordinary in any sense.
51
See Finley (1955): 161-2; van Groningen (1960): 359; Burton (1962): 63; Young (1968): 19-20; Finglass
(2007): 36.
52
Herington (1984): 139 describes the effect of this description the best: “One by one, beginning with the
infant Orestes, the chief characters in the drama loom out of a fog of slaughter. Little is clear cut; only at
three points does the camera-eye home in on a fearful detail, the powerful hands, the flicker of a weapon,
the thick shadows along the bank of the Acheron.”
53
Norwood (1945): 120 notes that in this line, “Detachment could not be more complete.”
54
There is debate about how to read and translate this sentence. I follow Finglass (2007): ad loc, who
construes the phrase χειρῶν ὕπο κρατερᾶν with the genitive absolute of φονευοµένου πατρὸς and assigns
only the phrase ἐκ δόλου… δυσπενθέος to Arsinoe. This solution seems to make more sense of the word
κρατερός (“powerful”), which must indicate Clytemnestra’s “masculinized” murder of Agamemnon. Race
(1997): ad loc, on the other hand, takes the ὑπό clause with the nurse Arsinoe also, making it a parallel
clause with the ἐκ δόλου… δυσπενθέος clause in asyndeton, translating “at the slaughter of his father.
249 unfortunate Cassandra, who is described as being conveyed to the Acheron at the same
time as Agamemnon: “when she sent the Dardanian daughter of Priam to the shadowy
shore of the Acheron with her grey steel, along with the soul of Agamemnon” (ὁπότε
Δαρδανίδα κόραν Πριάµου /Κασσάνδραν πολιῷ χαλκῷ σὺν Ἀγαµεµνονίᾳ /ψυχᾷ πόρευ’
Ἀχέροντος ἀκτὰν παρ’ εὔσκιον) (lns. 19-21). This first long sentence ends climatically
with the words “that wicked woman” (νηλὴς γυνά) emphasizing Clytemnestra’s evil.55
Even when Pindar pauses to contemplate Clytemnestra’s motives, he introduces yet
another figure: Iphigeneia. Her sacrifice is presented as a possible motive for
Clytemnestra’s murderous vengeance: “was it Iphigeneia slaughtered far from her
homeland at Euripos that provoked her to rouse her heavy-handed anger?” (πότερόν νιν
ἄρ’ Ἰφιγένει’ ἐπ’ Εὐρίπῳ /σφαχθεῖσα τῆλε πάτρας / ἔκνισεν βαρυπάλαµον ὄρσαι χόλον)
(22-3).
And even when the perspective switches back to Agamemnon, the focus still
remains on the various women of the myth. There is a subtle difference, however: here
men begin to assume more agency. For instance, in his second reference to Cassandra this
time Pindar assigns the blame for her death to Agamemnon: “the hero, the son of Atreus
himself died, when he at last had arrived in renowned Amyclae, and he destroyed the
prophetic maiden” (θάνεν µὲν αὐτὸς ἥρως Ἀτρεΐδας /ἵκων χρόνῳ κλυταῖς ἐν Ἀµύκλαις,
/µάντιν τ’ ὄλεσσε κόραν) (30-3). And before concluding the myth, Pindar even mentions
the ultimate adulteress herself, Helen, whose infidelity began all these events: “when he
[Agamemnon] unloosened the homes of the Trojans, despoiled of their luxury, for the
sake of Helen” (ἐπεὶ ἀµφ’ Ἑλένᾳ πυρωθέντας /Τρώων ἔλυσε δόµους ἁβρότατος) (33-4).
[Orestes] was rescued by his nurse Arsinoe out from under the powerful hands of Klytaimestra and away
from her grievous treachery.”
55
See Finglass (2007): 94 for a good overview of this phrase.
250 Finally, in the last few lines of the myth, Orestes himself begins to play some role: first
by coming to the land of Strophius as a youth (ὁ δ’ ἄρα γέροντα ξένον / Στροφίον
ἐξίκετο)(34-5), and by killing his mother and Aegithus in vengeance (πέφνεν τε µατέρα
θῆκέ τ’ Αἴγισθον ἐν φοναῖς) when he grows up. It is in these lines where finally male
actions and agency become fully active, consummating in the flurry of blood and gore
that ends this myth. With the conclusion of the myth, we find a reassertion of male
authority and agency.
It is undeniable, therefore, that women play an unusually large role in this myth,
and Pindar goes out of his way to emphasize their role. The women’s role in the myth
contrasts pointedly with the opening of the poem, where women are described in filial
and neighborly terms and harmony between human and god are guaranteed (Pindar, after
all, addresses them as “children of Harmonia” (at line 7)). By contrast, the women in the
myth are perversions of these very ties: wives turn to murderers and adulterers, daughters
to sacrificial victims, nurses become more loyal than parents, seers sacred to the god
become violated and murdered.56 It is striking that when the poem finally turns it gaze
away from its throng of mythic females, it emphasizes the bonds of xenia that tie Orestes
to his hosts. As Slater first noticed, the repetition of the word ξένος both at the beginning
(ln. 16) and the end of the myth (ln. 34) is extremely significant.57 When the myth
concludes, the poem begins a subtle turn from ties that bind females to the ties of
friendship that bind male to male.
56
Kurke (forthcoming) intriguingly suggests that part of Pindar’s critique of the tragic genre is its focus on
interfamilial violence and incest.
57
Slater (1979): 65-7; Hubbard (2010): 194 follows him in this. Slater (1979): 68 concludes, “The myth of
P.11 is therefore an example of how proper ξενία operates.” This cannot be right: the complex web of
intrigue woven in this myth implicates far more relationships than that between host and stranger.
251 The “Break Off” and the Local Citizens
Pindar’s subsequent “break off,” where he addresses his fellow citizens, also
foregrounds the issue of friendship.
ἦρ’, ὦ φίλοι, κατ’ ἀµευσίπορον τρίοδον ἐδινάθην,
ὀρθὰν κέλευθον ἰὼν
τὸ πρίν· ἤ µέ τις ἄνεµος ἔξω πλόου
ἔβαλεν, ὡς ὅτ’ ἄκατον ἐνναλίαν; (lns. 38-40)
Did I, O friends, get turned around on the shifting path of the crossroads,
when before I was going along a straight path? Or did some wind cast me
from my voyage, like when it strikes a small boat on the ocean?
This “break-off” is unusual in several ways.58 As Leslie Kurke rightly notes, there are
two things unusual with the imagery of this passage. First, although the “road” of song is
a common epinician metaphor, nowhere else does Pindar mention specifically a
crossroad.59 Kurke convincingly argues that this image of a crossroad is a reference to
the most famous crossroad in Greek literature, the road to Thebes where Oedipus killed
his father Laertes. The reference to traveling along a crossroad, therefore, is a gesture
towards Greek tragedy. I would also add that, because Pindar himself is performing in
Thebes, this image of the crossroad has an additional significance. Pindar’s “mistake” (in
the form of his mythological digression) happens at exactly the spot where Oedipus killed
Laertes. He consequently returns to the here and now of praising the victor by the very
same road that Oedipus himself took when he returned to Thebes. This reference to a
“crossroad” therefore manages to be both a reference to Athenian tragedy and a localized
reference to Theban mythology. Second, the use of two consecutive metaphors, both the
58
For my use of the term “break-off” and a recent overview of this rhetorical device, see Mackie (2003): 9,
9-37. However, Mackie (2003): 9-10 oddly treats this particular “break off” as typical. As we will describe
below, this “break off” is far from typical.
59
For an overview and a good discussion of the metaphor of roads and paths in Pindar, see Steiner (1986):
76-86.
252 road and the following image of a small barge at sea is unparalleled. The image of a ship
lost at sea is a typical epinician metaphor, but its pairing with any image of a road is
remarkable.60
Just as striking as the imagery Pindar uses is his address. The address “O friends”
(ὦ φίλοι) is unparalleled in Pindar.61 The question is, to whom is it addressed? Some
scholars have assumed that these words are addressed specifically to Thrasydaeus and his
father.62 Other scholars have argued that these words are best taken as directed to the
entire Theban audience.63 This is a more plausible explanation, since it would seem that
his orders to the Muse a few lines down to “stir the song this way and that, now to his
father Pythonicus, now to Thrasydaeus” (ἄλλοτ’ ἄλλᾳ ταρασσέµεν /ἢ πατρὶ Πυθονίκῳ
/τό γέ νυν ἢ ΘρασυδΏῳ,) (42-44) would be unnecessary if he was addressing the victors
themselves We can therefore likely infer that these words are addressed to an audience
wider than the victors. In terms of tone, the address has an elevated and epic flavor: the
phrase ὦ φίλοι occurs almost exclusively in epic and tragedy.64 But given the ode’s
general “tragic” flavor, the use of the phrase in tragedy is especially interesting. In four
out of the five instances where it occurs in tragic texts, the words ὦ φίλοι are specifically
addressed to the chorus.65 Oftentimes the words prompt a response from the chorus.66
60
For the remarkableness of this pairing, see Kurke (forthcoming). For maritime imagery more generally in
the odes, see Steiner (1986): 66-75.
61
For the uniqueness of this address, see Finglass (2007): ad loc.
62
See Newman (1979): 193; Instone (1986): 89-90.
63
See Finley (1955): 164; van Groningen (1960): 361; Burton (1962): 69; Gentili (1995): ad loc.; Finglass
(2007): ad loc.
64
See Hom. Il. 2.79 = 9.17 =10.533 =11.587 = 17.248 = 22.378 = 23.457 (ὦ φίλοι Ἀργείων ἡγήτορες ἠδὲ
µέδοντες), 2.110 = 6.67 = 19.78 ( ὦ φίλοι ἥρωες Δαναοὶ θεράποντες Ἄρηος), 5.529, 5.601, 7.191, 10.204,
12.269, 15.561 = 661, 17.415, 17.421; Od. 9.408, 10.174, 10.190, 10.226, 11.334, 12.154, 12.208, 12.320,
16.346, 16.400, 18.36, 18.52, 18.414, 20.245, 20.322, 21.152, 22.132, 22.248, 22.262, 24.426.
65
See Aesch. Pers. 231, 619; Soph. Aj. 328, OT 1343. The exception is Soph. Trach. 1090 where Hercules
(somewhat bizarrely) addresses his own arms (ὦ φίλοι βραχίονες). It may be significant that in this passage
it is used as an adjective, while in the others listed here philos is used as a substantive. It is also interesting
253 Therefore, I would slightly modify the analysis of the scholars mentioned above: instead
of addressing his Theban audience directly, the chorus addresses each other in their roles
as citizens.67 Speaking in the voice of Pindar, the chorus composed of Pindar’s own peers
in Thebes say this address to each other. Since they themselves act as representatives of
Thebes, these words are meant to be taken to heart equally by his Theban audience. But
the address to the audience citizenry is mediated and aestheticized by a choral address to
each other.
If we understand that this break-off is addressed by the chorus to each other, this
helps to understand the relationship of this address (ὦ φίλοι) to the rest of the ode. The
word φίλος denotes a complex network of associations between a person, others, and
society.68 In the case of male friends, the word φίλος and its noun form φιλότης denotes a
certain set of obligations towards your peers. One of the best discussions of the meaning
of these terms can be found in Gregory Nagy’s discussion of the famous Embassy scene
in Book 9 of the Iliad. Nagy argues that these issues of obligation associated with being a
φίλος are of central issue in this scene, where Achilles refuses to recognize the bonds of
φιλότης with his comrades. The gender politics here are especially relevant to the current
discussion: in choosing Briseis, Achilles rejects the male-oriented φιλότης he shares with
his fellow Achaeans. In the myth of Meleager that Phoenix tells in the same book, an
that Euripides, who oftentimes tries to problematize and or deflate the heroic ethos, does not use this
address at all.
66
Only at Aesch. Pers. 619 does this not prompt an immediate reply from the chorus.
67
Kurke (forthcoming) largely agrees with me on this, claiming that the address is directed at the victor and
his family, the chorus, and the citizens at once. I would emphasize that while the other Theban citizens are
indeed addressed, it is through the choral identity of citizens of Thebes that that they are addressed.
68
As Benveniste (1973): 288 urges at the conclusion of his discussion of the word: “The whole problem of
philos deserves a full examination. We must start from uses and contexts which reveal in this term a
complex network of associations, some with the institutions of hospitality, others with usages of the home,
still others with emotional behavior; we must do this in order to understand plainly the metaphorical
applications to which the term lent itself. All this wealth of concepts was smothered and lost to view once
philos was reduced to a vague notion of friendship or wrongly interpreted as a possessive adjective”.
254 exemplum that is meant for Achilles and directly parallels his situation, Meleager also
chooses a girl (Cleopatra) over the φιλότης of his companions.69 In both cases, φιλότης
with male companions is contrasted with love for a female, and the neglect of the bonds
of friendship is caused by an over-fondness for a female.
And furthermore, Nagy has also extensively argued in his works that being a
φίλος is one of the functions of a praise poet.70 He argues that the φίλοι have a unique
relationship to the poetry, one that offers them inside information about the “message”
that the poetry has. As Nagy writes, the φίλοι are “those who are ‘near and dear’ and who
are thereby interconnected to the poet and to each other, so that the message that is
encoded in the poetry may be transmitted to them and through them; communication
through community.”71 Denoting somebody as φίλος, therefore, creates an audience. Here
the chorus’ address to one another as φίλοι, and by implication, the rest of the citizenry,
constructs a male audience of fellow citizens and fellow friends. The bonds of xenia that
in the myth united Orestes with his hosts Strophius and Pylades are transformed into
bonds of philotēs that unite poet, victor, chorus, and community into one group. Coming
after a prelude and a myth that both prominently feature female characters, this turn to
one’s fellow philoi also shares some of the gender politics of the Iliadic example. A
female world is rejected, to be replaced with a male one united by φιλότης.
After extolling the victor’s accomplishment, Pindar a few lines down puts a
significant speech in the mouths of his newly-constructed philoi:
θεόθεν ἐραίµαν καλῶν,
δυνατὰ µαιόµενος ἐν ἁλικίᾳ.
τῶν γὰρ ἀνὰ πόλιν εὑρίσκων τὰ µέσα µακροτέρῳ
69
This is an all-too brief summary of Nagy’s (1979): 103-9 stimulating discussion.
See Nagy (1979): 241-5.
71
Nagy (1990): 148-9.
70
255 {σὺν} ὄλβῳ τεθαλότα, µέµφοµ’ αἶσαν τυραννίδων·
ξυναῖσι δ’ ἀµφ’ ἀρεταῖς τέταµαι· φθονεροὶ δ’ ἀµύνονται.
<ἀλλ’> εἴ τις ἄκρον ἑλὼν
ἡσυχᾷ τε νεµόµενος αἰνὰν ὕβριν
ἀπέφυγεν, µέλανος {δ’} ἂν ἐσχατιὰν
καλλίονα θανάτου <στείχοι> γλυκυτάτᾳ γενεᾷ
εὐώνυµον κτεάνων κρατίσταν χάριν πορών· (lns. 50-8)
May I desire fine achievements from the gods, and seek what is possible at
my age: because I find the middle blooming with greater wealth, and I
blame the lot of tyrants, and I strive for virtues that are common to all;
envious men are warded off. But if some one seizes the peak [of virtue],
and dwelling there peacefully flees dread hubris, he proceeds to a fairer
limit of black death, providing the grace of a good name, the most
powerful of possessions, for his most sweet descendants.
Lines 54-7 have the misfortune of being some of the most corrupt lines in the Pindaric
corpus. While there is not time to go over every detail, I will mention textual problems as
they arise in the course of my interpretation. This passage is a form of what is called a
“general” first person.72 As D’Alessio rightfully notes, the function of this type of first
person is exemplary.73 The poet speaks through the chorus, and presents himself as an
exemplary figure in the community. The chorus, the poet, and even the victor himself all
blend together and are presented as outstanding figures in the community.
In this passage, Pindar incorporates a familiar motif of denouncing tyrants. This
theme appears frequently in archaic Greek poetry and beyond.74 For instance, Anacreon
writes: “I would not want the horn of Amalthea or to rule over Tartessus for 150 years”
(ἐγὼ δ’ οὔτ’ ἂν Ἀµαλθίης / βουλοίµην κέρας οὔτ’ ἔτεα /πεντήκοντά τε κἀκατὸν
72
The term is originally Carey’s (1981): 56-7. Young (1968): 12-3 also discusses the “I” in these terms. For
a good overview of the scholarship on this type of first-person, see Finglass (2007): ad loc.
73
D’Alessio (1994): 128.
74
The most extended and insightful discussion of these parallels is in Young (1968): 13-19 (Young also
discusses some parallels in later Euripidean tragedy, which, for the sake of space, I skip over).
256 Ταρτησσοῦ βασιλεῦσαι,) (361 PMG).75 This brief fragment itself illustrates many of the
features of this trope: a declaration in the first-person that one does not desire the tyranny
and the tyrant’s lifestyle. As in this passage, the desire for tyranny is often implicitly
described as a hubristic desire for sensual pleasures, as seemed to be implied by the
mention of the “horn” here that traditionally flowed nectar and ambrosia.76 While the
overall context of Anacreon’s declaration is lost, Anacreon seems to present himself as
rejecting excessive desires. Whether this marks a turn in the lost parts of the poem to the
present moderate desires of the symposium, or a swearing off of all desires, or something
else completely, we cannot say.
However, the strongest parallel to Pythian 11’s declamation of tyranny comes
from Archilochus. In a fragment, the speaking figure appears to disassociate himself from
tyranny:
“οὔ µοι τὰ Γύγεω τοῦ πολυχρύσου µέλει,
οὐδ’ εἷλέ πώ µε ζῆλος, οὐδ’ ἀγαίοµαι
θεῶν ἔργα, µεγάλης δ’ οὐκ ἐρέω τυραννίδος·
ἀπόπροθεν γάρ ἐστιν ὀφθαλµῶν ἐµῶν.” (West 19)
I don’t care about the wealth of Gyges with much gold, nor has envy for it
ever seized me, nor do I begrudge the deeds of the gods, nor do I desire a
great tyranny; that is certainly far from my sights.
We are fortunate to have additional context to this poem: Aristotle in his Rhetoric, after
explaining the necessity of sometimes speaking in the voice of another (ἕτερον χρὴ
λέγοντα ποιεῖν), cites Archilochus as an example:
75
Finglass (2007): ad loc also lists Simonides 584 PMG as a parallel. But the exact wording there: “for
what life, what sort of tyranny is desirable without pleasure?” (τίς γὰρ ἁδονᾶς ἄτερ θνα-/τῶν βίος ποθεινὸς
ἢ ποί- /α τυραννίς) does not show a declamation of tyranny. Rather, it shows that tyranny is generally
desirable. See my further thoughts on this fragment below.
76
See Campbell (1982a): 322 for a discussion of the mythological reference here. This is actually the first
time in Greek literature that the horn of Amalthea is referenced.
257 καὶ ὡς Ἀρχίλοχος ψέγει· ποιεῖ γὰρ τὸν πατέρα λέγοντα περὶ τῆς
θυγατρὸς ἐν τῷ ἰάµβῳ ‘χρηµάτων δ’ ἄελπτον οὐδέν ἐστιν οὐδ’
ἀπώµοτον,’ καὶ τὸν Χάρωνα τὸν τέκτονα ἐν τῷ ἰάµβῳ οὗ ἀρχὴ ‘οὔ µοι
τὰ Γύγεω’….(1418b)
…and as Archilochus censures: for he represents the father discussing his
daughter in the iambic poem [that starts]: “nothing is impossible, nor can
it be sworn to be false”, and he represents Charon the carpenter in the
iambic poem where the beginning is “I don’t [care] about the riches of
Gyges”…
As Aristotle’s testimony definitively shows, Archilochus spoke in this poem in a persona,
that of an otherwise unknown Charon the carpenter.
While it is unclear why Archilochus took up this persona, it is certain that
Archilochus appeared to speak in the persona of specifically a humble citizen. A
carpenter in archaic Greece was considered to be a dēmiourgos, along with other iterant
professionals like doctors, seers, or even poets.77 Given this opening’s priamel-like
structure, it is likely that the true contrast and foil was something deflationary and
humorous.78 Charon the carpenter would then probably reveal his base and maybe even
envious character. Like somebody saying, “I don’t want to be rude but…” his
declarations that he is not envious may have been undercut by what followed.79 But for
our purposes he says all the right things in the extant text that remains. Charon claims
that he doesn’t care for wealth, (presumably) good fortune from the gods, or a tyranny. 80
Charon is presented as a solid, average citizen, who doesn’t want what is too far above
77
For a discussion of this, see Finley (1965): 36-7. A carpenter is specifically referred to as a demioergos at
Od. 17.384.
78
See Bundy (2006): 7-8 for a discussion of priamels and foils.
79
Frãnkel (1975): 138 also views the structure of the poem this way, and even kindly provides a tentative
supplement to our passage: “But when I see So-and-So pass me in the pride and power of his dirtily gained
money, then all I want is to throw my axe at his head. So spake Charon, a carpenter of Thasos.” I am not
entirely sure where Fränkel got the inspiration for the axe-throwing bit.
80
The cryptic phrase “works of the gods” (θεῶν ἔργα) has been subject to multiple interpretations: for
instance, Tarditi (1959): 114-7 argues that it refers to Gyges’ defeat of the Cimmerians in 660 BC. In any
case, it seems best to interpret the phrase as a reference to Gyges’ good fortune and wealth.
258 his sights.81 The points of similarity to our Pythian 11 passage are striking: both seek
divine approval (Pindar by wishing for god-sent fine deeds, Archilochus by claiming he
is not envious of the god’s actions); both claim to not be envious of others’ fortunes
(Pindar by praising the flourishing middle in the city, Archilochus by claiming that the
fortunes of Gyges are of no interest to him); both explicitly condemn tyrants. What we
see, therefore, in these two passages, is a portrayal of the ideal citizen, one who
remarkably does not feel envy when he sees the wealth of others.
The remarkableness and exemplariness of Charon’s and Pindar’s lack of envy can
be seen in other literary occurrences of tyrants. Elsewhere, tyranny generally is generally
seen as desirable. For instance, Simonides 584 PMG writes: “for what life, what sort of
tyranny is desirable without pleasure?” (τίς γὰρ ἁδονᾶς ἄτερ θνα-/τῶν βίος ποθεινὸς ἢ
ποί- /α τυραννίς). In fact, the “normal” view of tyranny is suggested by a fragment of
Solon, where he creates a figure of an average citizen as a foil:
οὐκ ἔφυ Σόλων βαθύφρων οὐδὲ βουλήεις ἀνήρ·
ἐσθλὰ γὰρ θεοῦ διδόντος αὐτὸς οὐκ ἐδέξατο·
περιβαλὼν δ’ ἄγρην ἀγασθεὶς οὐκ ἐπέσπασεν µέγα
δίκτυον, θυµοῦ θ’ ἁµαρτῆι καὶ φρενῶν ἀποσφαλείς·
ἤθελον γάρ κεν κρατήσας, πλοῦτον ἄφθονον λαβὼν (5)
καὶ τυραννεύσας Ἀθηνων µοῦνον ἡµέρην µίαν,
ἀσκὸς ὕστερον δεδάρθαι κἀπιτετρίφθαι γένος.”
Solon is not a very bright or thoughtful man, because when god gave him
fine things, he did not take them. Even though he caught his prey in a
great net, dumbstruck he did not tighten the strings, tripped up by both
spirit and sense at the same time. If I had gained power, seized unlimited
wealth, and was tyrant over Athens for just one day, I would be willing to
be flayed into a wineskin later on and my line to be wiped out.
81
For the exemplariness and “middling” character of Charon, see Morris (1996): 35.
259 This caricature that Solon summons up represents a sort of opposite to the “ideal” citizen
that both Pindar and Archilochus concoct. One could say it may be the “truer” in so far as
most people did want to be a tyrant. Like winning the lottery in our day, becoming tyrant
was considered the pinnacle of good fortune. What is striking, however, is that this
“base” citizen’s speech is undercut in the final lines, just as we postulated for the
Archilochus fragment. Instead of displaying a naive wish to be king, the speaker is
revealed to be nothing but a short-sighted hedonist, willing to sacrifice it all for a single
day of pleasure. As has been noted by commentators, the final line has a comedic
character, with the critic willing to be beaten into a wineskin, a symbol itself of the
excess that he so desires.82 We could even see this description of being beat into a
wineskin as a comic rewriting and perversion of Anacreon’s “horn of Amalthea” as
discussed above. In any case, such a passage helps to indicate that the tyranny was
generally desirable, and a citizen who claimed he wanted no part in the tyranny proved
himself to be an exceptional citizen.
We can therefore conclude that both Pindar and Archilochus (Charon) in their
rejection of the usually desirable tyranny portray themselves as exemplary citizens. And
in the case of Pindar, he here taps into a long tradition where denouncing the tyranny
associates one with a type of ideal citizen. This suggests that the description of tyranny in
this Pindar passage is more of a trope than an actual fact. Some scholars, on the other
hand, have seen traces of true tyrannical aspiration in the family of Thrasydeus. For
instance, Kurke notes with specific regard to Pythian 11: “the suspicion of tyrannical
aspiration is…the specter that haunts the athletic successes of his family until it is
82
Campbell (1982a): ad loc calls this a “a thoroughly Aristophanic line.”
260 resolutely exorcised by the poet.” 83 Finglass argues that Kurke’s assessment here is an
over-exaggeration, claiming that “such statements [rejections of tyranny] in Pindar
reaffirm the commitment of poet and victor to the values of their society by stressing that,
while the victor is glorified by his success, it does not lead him into the sort of excesses
which characterize the life of a tyrant.”84 I would argue that both of these assessments are
valid: by rejecting tyranny himself, Pindar assures his audience that the victor does not
harbor tyrannical aspirations. While no doubt a bit of a bogey-man at this stage of Greece
history, tyranny was still on people’s minds even into the fourth century, as Plato’s
Republic amply demonstrates. Rejecting tyranny and tyrannical aspirations, even if a
tyranny was unlikely to happen in actuality, was an expected way of expressing one’s
benevolent attitude towards one’s fellow citizens. At the same time, this poetic trope also
affirms that the victor will not live decadently, but instead will live modestly like his
fellow citizens. We are dealing with an intersection of political ideology and poetic topos
here, where by arguing against tyranny the victor demonstrates his status as a normal,
exemplary citizen.
This exemplary quality obviously has special bearing when voiced through the
mouths of a chorus, who have a few lines before constructed each other as philoi. This
theme of friendship is emphasized in the final lines of the poem:
ἅ τε τὸν Ἰφικλείδαν
διαφέρει Ἰόλαον (60)
ὑµνητὸν ἐόντα, καὶ Κάστορος βίαν,
σέ τε, ἄναξ Πολύδευκες, υἱοὶ θεῶν,
τὸ µὲν παρ’ ἆµαρ ἕδραισι Θεράπνας,
τὸ δ’ οἰκέοντας ἔνδον Ὀλύµπου. (59-64)
83
84
Kurke (1991): 215.
Finglass (2007): 118.
261 This [keeping the fame of a good name] is what makes Iolaus the son
Iphicles sung about, as well as the force of Castor, and you, master
Polydeuces, sons of gods, for one day dwelling in your sanctuaries in
Therapna, the next in Olympus.
In this address to the heroes, Pindar in fact achieves a ring composition. Here these male
heroes are addressed in language expressing their filial relations (“the son of
Iphicles”(τὸν Ἰφικλείδαν), (“the sons of the gods” (υἱοὶ θεῶν)) and their closeness to the
gods (“dwelling in Olympus” (οἰκέοντας ἔνδον Ὀλύµπου)) as the local throng of women
was described in the beginning.85 And as Hubbard has convincingly argued, the examples
of Iolaus and the Dioscuri are models of perfect friendship.86 The poem, which began
with female harmony between god and man, ends with a similar male harmony between
mortals and immortals. The transition from a female-centered world to a male-centered
one is now fully complete.
Theban Peers, Local Features
Understanding the local context of the ode, grounded in an address to his fellow
Theban citizens, can help us understand some of the peculiarities of this ode. During the
myth, Pindar speculates on the possible reasons for Clytemnestra’s murder of
Agamemnon:
πότερόν νιν ἄρ’ Ἰφιγένει’ ἐπ’ Εὐρίπῳ
σφαχθεῖσα τῆλε πάτρας
ἔκˈνισεν βαρυπάλαµον ὄρσαι χόλον;
ἢ ἑτέρῳ λέχεϊ δαµαζοµέναν
ἔννυχοι πάραγον κοῖται; τὸ δὲ νέαις ἀλόχοις
ἔχθιστον ἀµπλάκιον καλύψαι τ’ ἀµάχανον
ἀλλοτρίαισι γλώσσαις·
85
86
This ring composition has been noted by Greengard (1980): 82-3; Finglass (2007): 74, 123-4.
Hubbard (2010): 199-200.
262 κακολόγοι δὲ πολῖται.
ἴσχει τε γὰρ ὄλβος οὐ µείονα φθόνον·
ὁ δὲ χαµηλὰ πνέων ἄφαντον βρέµει. (22-30)
Was it Iphigeneia slaughtered far from her homeland at Euripos that
provoked her to rouse her heavy-handed anger? Or was it her nightime
dalliances that lead her astray, overcome in another’s bed? This is the
most hateful vice amongst young wives, and it is impossible to conceal
from the tongues of others. For the citizens are gossip-mongers, and good
fortune brings about a matching envy: the man breathing close to the
ground roars unseen.
This passage is exceptional for a number of reasons. First, the structure is extremely
unusual for Pindar. Nowhere else does Pindar include a plurality of motives for a single
action.87 Furthermore, the gnomic reflections that follow seem to be unusually disruptive
to the ode. Pindar elsewhere does state gnomes in the middle of myths-as Carey writes,
“Sometimes in the center of a mythic narrative, when the outlines of the tale have been
given and before the details are added, the poet places a gnome, a moral drawn from what
precedes and colouring what follows.”88
What is odd in the case of Pythian 11 is how irrelevant these considerations are to
the myth at hand.89 In most gnomic statements, the gnome expresses a general truth that
is equally applicable to the myth as well as the victor / poet / audience. For example, the
best comparandum to the gnome in Pythian 11 appears in Pythian 3. When Coronis, who
had previously slept with Apollo, has premarital sex with another man, Pindar expresses
these reflections:
…ἀλλά τοι
ἤρατο τῶν ἀπεόντων· οἷα καὶ πολλοὶ πάθον.
87
See Farnell (1932): 224.
Carey (1981): 36-7.
89
The strange irrelevance of the gnome has been noted by many commentators: Slater (1979): 65-6; Miller
(1993): 49 considers this to be the “the most notable and most extended example of logical drift in Pindar.”
Finglass (2007): 97-8 downplays the irrelevance of the gnome.
88
263 ἔστι δὲ φῦλον ἐν ἀνθρώποισι µαταιότατον,
ὅστις αἰσχύνων ἐπιχώρια παπταίνει τὰ πόρσω,
µεταµώνια θηρεύων ἀκράντοις ἐλπίσιν. (lns. 19-23)
But she was in love with things distant; indeed many people suffer such
problems. There is that most foolish breed of person amongst mankind,
who, scorning the local, seeks what is far away, and they hunt things in
vain with unfulfilled expectations…
Like Pythian 11, the sexual deviancy of a woman prompts a gnomic reflection from
Pindar. Rhetorically, these passages are also closely linked, with both stressing the
“otherness” of the lover’s bed and relationship.90 However, unlike the case of Pythian 11,
this gnomic reflection is tightly integrated into the myth that Pindar is telling. We learn,
for instance, that she couldn’t wait for marriage because she slept with a man from
Arcadia (ἐλθόντος γὰρ εὐνάσθη ξένου /λέκτροισιν ἀπ’ Ἀρκαδίας) (25-6). She literally
does desire distant things (παπταίνει τὰ πόρσω), and she “scorns” (or “dishonors”) her
local community (αἰσχύνων ἐπιχώρια) in not waiting for marriage after birthing Apollo’s
child. This desire directly leads to her downfall by Apollo.
What is striking, therefore, is that in Pythian 11 we are denied a clear relationship
between gnome and myth. It is hard to see how the envious tongues or the lowly
breathing of the envious explain her killing of Agamemnon in any concrete way. Rather,
the gnomic statements about envy matching prosperity seem to be more suited to
Agamemnon within the myth, or even Thrasydeus outside the myth.91 Even the details of
90
As nicely noted in regard to Pythian 11 by Bulman (1992): 20.
The scholia take this gnome as addressed to Agamemnon: Σ 45a “this [passage] [applies] to
Agamemnon, because being famous he was envied” (τοῦτο δὲ πρὸς τὸν Ἀγαµέµνονα, ὅτι ἐπιφανὴς ὢν
ἐφθονήθη). For the victor as possible addressee, see Miller (1993): 51.
91
264 the gnome are problematic to the myth: Pindar seems to forget that Clytemnestra is
hardly a young wife even at the time of Agamemnon’s departure to Troy.92
I would suggest, understanding the “local context” of the ode helps to make sense
of this rupture between myth and gnome. The gnome anticipates the break-off address to
his fellow citizens. What we witness in the unusual construction of this gnome is a
“bleeding through” of the local context of the ode to the myth. A gnome that is originally
addressed to the situation-at-hand of Clytemnestra’s adultery becomes a misogynistic
attack on against all young wives. The gnome is thus transformed into a statement about
the perils of envy, more pertinent to the victor and other males in the city. The multiple
shifts in perspective in this gnome can be explained in the light of the audience that is
constructed a few lines later, the audience of male philoi.
The local context of Pythian 11 help to account for another oddity of this ode: his
address to the Muse. After giving the famous “break-off” we have discussed above at
length, Pindar then directly addresses the Muse:
Μοῖσα, τὸ δὲ τεόν, εἰ µισθοῖο συνέθευ παρέχειν
φωνὰν ὑπάργυρον, ἄλλοτ’ ἄλλᾳ ταρασσέµεν
ἢ πατρὶ Πυθονίκῳ
τό γέ νυν ἢ ΘρασυδΏῳ, (lns. 41-4)
Muse, it’s your job, if you agree to provide your silver-lined voice for pay, to
stir it at different times in different directions, either to the father Pythonicus,
or now to Thrasydaeus.
This address is remarkable simply because it is so brazen about the underlying socialeconomic conditions dictating relations between poet and patron. To be sure, the theme
92
This oddity has long been noted: see Farnell (1932): 227; Norwood (1945): 247-8n.9 ; Burton (1962): 66;
Miller (1993): 50.
265 of a poet’s “duty” is an epinician commonplace.93 But this “duty” is usually disguised as
ties of friendship, xenia, etc. By contrast, Pindar seems to emphasize the negative
implications of this relationship here: the word ὑπάργυρον clearly suggests a prostitute.94
And even without this, Pindar pointedly uses the word the word “payment” (µισθός). The
word µισθός seems neutral with tone: with clarification, µισθός can become positive,
such as the recompense of a good name.95 But by itself, in a context that does not suggest
otherwise, it seems to simply suggest cold, hard cash.96 While recently some scholars
have suggested that the idea that poets accepted pay for their song is problematic, it will
be noted here that this is precisely the impression that Pindar leaves in this passage.97
Whatever the reality of the economic relationship between patron and Pindar, he in this
passage oddly seems to emphasize that compensation has been made. Although I will use
the language of payment and remuneration in my discussion of this passage, it should be
noted that this might be nothing more than a poetic motif.
This passage cannot be considered without reference to another famous instance
where Pindar refers to the Muse as a prostitute. At the beginning of Isthmian 2, he
describes the difference between poetry in the past and contemporary poetry:
Οἱ µὲν πάλαι, ὦ Θρασύβουλε,
φῶτες, οἳ χρυσαµπύκων
ἐς δίφρον Μοισᾶν ἔβαινον κλυτᾷ φόρµιγγι συναντόµενοι,
93
For the poet’s “obligation,” see Bundy (2006): 55-7. Hubbard (1985): 161 directly connects this passage
with this motif.
94
LSJ s.v ὑπάργυρος II.1 lists its meaning as “sold or hired for silver, mercenary, venal.” Kurke (1991):
241-3 and Finglass (2007): ad loc both have extensive discussions of this passage and the related passage in
Isthmian 2, which will be discussed below.
95
For example, see Nem. 7. 62-3 (“like streams of water I bring fame to my friend and will praise him
truly: that is proper misthos for good men” (ὕδατος ὥτε ῥοὰς φίλον ἐς ἄνδρ’ ἄγων /κλέος ἐτήτυµον αἰνέσω·
ποτίφορος δ’ ἀγαθοῖσι µισθὸς οὗτος).
96
As Woodbury (1968): 539 notes, “By contrast, pay (µισθὸς) and profit (κέρδος) are regarded more
coolly.”
97
For a critique of the commission / fee model, see Pelliccia (2009): 243-7.
266 ῥίµφα παιδείους ἐτόξευον µελιγάρυας ὕµνους,
ὅστις ἐὼν καλὸς εἶχεν Ἀφροδίτας
εὐθρόνου µνάστειραν ἁδίσταν ὀπώραν.
ἁ Μοῖσα γὰρ οὐ φιλοκερδής
πω τότ’ ἦν οὐδ’ ἐργάτις·
οὐδ’ ἐπέρναντο γλυκεῖαι µελιφθόγγου ποτὶ Τερψιχόρας
ἀργυρωθεῖσαι πρόσωπα µαλθακόφωνοι ἀοιδαί.
νῦν δ’ ἐφίητι <τὸ> τὠργείου φυλάξαι
ῥῆµ’ ἀλαθείας <⏑–> ἄγχιστα βαῖνον,
‘χρήµατα χρήµατ’ ἀνήρ’
ὃς φᾶ κτεάνων θ’ ἅµα λειφθεὶς καὶ φίλων.
ἐσσὶ γὰρ ὦν σοφός. (Isthm. 2.1-12)
The men of yore, O Thrasyboulus, who mounted the chariot of the goldenwreathed Muses playing the renowned lyre, freely shot honey-sung boysongs, who in their beauty had the sweetest bloom of late summer that
courts fair-throned Aphrodite. For the Muse did not yet love money, nor
was free for hire, nor were sweet, soft-voiced, songs with their silvered
faces put out for sale by honey-throated Terpsichore. But now she bids us
to heed the saying of the Argive, which comes very close to the truth:
“Money, money, makes a man,” said the one who lost his possessions as
well as his friends. But you know what I mean…
Here, once again, we have a strange portrait of the Muses as prostitutes. As noted first by
Wilamowitz, the word ἐργάτις strongly suggests a “working girl,” and the word
ἐπέρναντο (“put out for sale”) seems to contain a reference to a πόρνη, a lowly streetwalker.98 And like our passage in Pythian 11, we have a reference to silver (“with their
silvered faces” (ἀργυρωθεῖσαι πρόσωπα)) which seems to be “code” for a prostitute. We
are therefore left with a very strange picture: the Muse Terpisichore as the madam of the
98
Kurke (1991): 240-44 reminds us of this. Verdenius (1988): 123, 123n.14 dismisses any idea of a
reference to a streetwalker. For a discussion of the difference between a pornē and hetaira, see Kurke
(1999): 175-219.
267 other Muses, pimping them out for money.99 This Terpsichore goes on to narrate a lesson
to the audience, citing the saying of what the scholia tell us is Aristodemos the Spartan
that “money is what makes the man.” Again, we have a strange assertion of the
mercantile nature of Pindar’s trade.
Part of the oddness of this passage could simply be related to the odd
circumstances surrounding the ode. Even though nominally addressed to the victor
Xenocrates, from the past tenses used within the poem itself, he appears to have been
dead at the time of the performance.100 His son Thrasybulus is specifically addressed later
on in the ode.101 Still these extraordinary circumstances do little to explain the boldness
of this opening. Why bring into focus the monetary politics of epinician odes? One way
to unravel this problem is to focus attention from Pindar’s implied remuneration to the
implicit praise of the consumption that this description presents. Francis Cairns has
recently argued that rather than just simple remuneration, what is highlighted here is the
cost and expense of the present performance.102 This is a critical insight: while the
language of the passage does suggest remuneration, there is an implicit praise of the
99
I assume that the ἀοιδαί panhandled by Terpischore are themselves Muses. A few lines previous the
Muse (ἁ Μοῖσα) was described as a street-walker (ἐργάτις), and this description seems to build on it. The
assimilation between “Muse” and “song” is very easy to make: after all, Greek literature begins with the
phrase: “Rage, goddess, sing of the rage….”(Μῆνιν ἄειδε, θεὰ) (Il. 1.1). Another indication of this is that
the "songs" in Ishmian 2 are described with the same emphasis on voice and silver ("softvoiced"(µαλθακόφωνοι ) and "silver-faces" (ἀργυρωθεῖσαι πρόσωπα)) as the Muse is in Pythian 11
("silvered voice"( φωνὰν ὑπάργυρον)). This suggests that the "songs" are indeed themselves Muses.
100
See lns. 35-7 “…as far as Xenocrates surpassed other men with his sweet disposition, and he was
respectful in the company of his townsmen” (ὅσον ὀργάν / Ξεινοκράτης ὑπὲρ ἀνθρώπων γλυκεῖαν / ἔσχεν.
αἰδοῖος µὲν ἦν ἀστοῖς ὁµιλεῖν,). For the significance of these past verbs, and the probability that Xenocrates
was deceased at the time of the performance of the ode, see Woodbury (1968): 527-8n.2; Race (1997b):
144-5.
101
See lns. 44-45.
102
Cairns (2011): 31-33. However, I frankly am confused why he thinks the “boy-songs” were chorally
performed and why this assumption is needed to support his conclusion. The cost and expense of the
present chorus could just as easily be contrasted with the amateur performances in the symposium. There
does not need to be a direct comparison between two forms of choral poetry for this reference to primarily
indicate consumption.
268 victor’s (or in this case, his son’s) lavishness. In describing getting paid for his services,
Pindar emphasizes the outlay and generosity of the son Thrasybulus.103 This son even
gets (implicitly) metaphorically reconfigured by the transaction. It is not a hard reading to
see the reference to “hymns aimed at boys” (παιδείους…ὕµνους) as obliquely pertaining
to Thrasybulus himself, whom elsewhere Pindar wrote his own sympotic poetry for.104
The boy’s beauty is implicitly praised by the suggestion that he is worthy of pederastic
songs. But if Thrasybulus is the implied subject of this passage, by the end of he is
transformed into an adult. The Muse’s statement that “Money, money makes the man
(ἀνήρ)” suggests that by expenditure, the boy becomes a man. By the very giving of this
epinician performance, therefore, Thrasybulus grows in stature and becomes an adult.
The focus of this passage therefore is on the outlay and expenditure that Thrasybulus
engages in rather than Pindar’s own remuneration.
If Isthmian 2 focuses on the outlay of the victor, there seems to be a different
rhetoric operating in Pythian 11 with its deployment of the “mercantile Muse” motif.
While both passages focus on the intersection of conspicuous consumption and
prostitution, the focus is different. In Isthmian 2 it is Terpsichore who acts as the
"madam" of the house, and the victor really does nothing but pay for her services. While
Isthmian 2 no doubts calls attention to the poet's remuneration for his services, it also
obscures the money trail. Technically, it seems that the greedy Terpsischore is gobbling
up all the profits. Things are very different in Pythian 11. In fact, this is a good
illustration of D'Alessio's contention that Pindar within Thebes is more subdued. A poetic
idea that takes some 12 lines to develop in Isthmian 2 is reduced to some four lines in
103
For a discussion of athletic victory as a massive outlay, see Kurke (1991): 98-9.
For the encomium addressed to Thrasybulus, see 124 S-M.
104
269 Pythian 11. But there is also here a critical reconfiguration. The money that the poet
receives in Isthmian 2, while obviously hinted at, is only indirectly referred to. By
contrast, in Pythian 11, there appears to be no intermediaries: Pindar himself instructs the
Muse what her duty is, and how she is supposed to make money. Moreover, her explicit
duty, to stir her voice towards either the victor Thrasydaeus or his father Pythonicus
(φωνὰν ὑπάργυρον, ἄλλοτ’ ἄλλᾳ ταρασσέµεν ἢ πατρὶ Πυθονίκῳ /τό γέ νυν ἢ
ΘρασυδΏῳ) overlaps with the epinician poet’s goals. In fact at this point the Muse’s
voice and the poet’s become one, as this constitutes the first reference to Pythonicus and
only the second mention of Thrasydaeus in the poem. The prostituted Muse and poet
become explicitly associated in Pythian 11 in a way that happens only implicitly in
Isthmian 2. This shift in rhetoric focuses specifically on the poet’s remuneration rather
than the victor’s benefaction.
Why does Pindar invite us to associate him so closely with the female Muse who
he has just described as a prostitute? And why focus so brazenly on his own remuneration
and expense, even when, as we have seen from Isthmian 2, the poetic trope itself does not
demand it? Many scholars have taken this passage as an ironic, tongue-in-cheek joke or
as an unexpected moment of candidness.105 Both of these approaches fail to appreciate
how the “mercantile Muse” here acts as a piece of rhetoric. Since this description comes
at a highly charged moment in the ode where Pindar rejects the myth he has just
recounted, it seems likely that this trope of a mercantile Muse was chosen with care.
Pindar wants to remind the audience that he has been remunerated for his troubles, while
at the same time denigrating the Muse. What can account for this strange position?
105
For a joke, see Hubbard (1985): 161;for candidness, see Burton (1962): 69; Gildersleeve (1890): 361.
270 A helpful comparandum can be found in Josiah Ober’s stimulating discussion of
the fourth-century orators in Athens, where he examines the ambiguities of wealth in
public discourse. Unlike in the law courts, where rich defendants were expected to
pretend to be poor to win over the audience, in the Assembly speakers frequently referred
to their wealth. Wealth, as it turns out, was a guarantee against a corruption, specifically
bribery.106 Even in the radical democracy of Athens, wealth was expected of orators as a
means to prevent corruption by forces hostile to the overall polis. In this case, wealth
operated as a guarantee of freedom of speech. As we discussed last chapter, this same
theme also appears in the Theognidea. Theognis often complains how a lack of wealth
has deprived of freedom of speech and agency. For instance, at the beginning of the
famous “Ship of State” poem: “If I had the wealth, such as I had once, I would not be
pained to associate with the noble; but now I am aware it passes me by, I am without
voice because of need…”(Εἰ µὲν χρήµατ’ ἔχοιµι, Σιµωνίδη, οἷά περ ἤδη / οὐκ ἂν
ἀνιῴµην τοῖσ’ ἀγαθοῖσι συνών. / νῦν δέ µε γινώσκοντα παρέρχεται, εἰµὶ δ’ ἄφωνος /
χρηµοσύνηι… (667-70)). Wealth, in two entirely different discourses and genres,
becomes a guarantee of speech in front of one’s fellow citizens.
I would argue that this discourse of wealth as a guarantee of free speech is the
main reason Pindar invokes the mercenary Muse in this passage. By calling attention to
the remuneration he is getting, Pindar guarantees the authenticity of his praise within his
own community. Pindar assures his fellow citizens that he is in the delineated patronclient relationship of epinician.107 Pindar demonstrates that he has indeed gotten paid. In
106
This is an extremely condensed overview of Ober (1989): 192-247, and especially 233-36.
Kurke (forthcoming): 9n.15 provocatively suggests that Pindar here tries “to draw the contrast as sharply
as possible between tragedy (evoked by triodon) and epinikion.” I would add that, while this very well
could be part of the story, it still does not explain the pointed manner that Pindar tells this tale.
107
271 at least one another poem performed in Thebes, Pindar also focuses to an unusual degree
on the contractual nature of his epinican duties. For instance, at the very beginning of
Isthmian 1, he emphasizes the personal and contractual nature of his obligation:
Μᾶτερ ἐµά, τὸ τεόν, χρύσασπι Θήβα,
πρᾶγµα καὶ ἀσχολίας ὑπέρτερον
θήσοµαι…. Isthm. 1.1-3
My mother, golden-shielded Thebe, I will put your affairs above even my
obligations…
Here, in another Theban poem, Pindar explicitly focuses on the contractual underpinnings
of epinician. Although the rhetoric here is much less radical than that of what we see in
either Isthmian 2 or Pythian 11, focusing instead on Pindar’s own conflicting obligations
in preparing an epinician ode, the degree to which he openly discusses the contractual
nature of epinician is equally remarkable. While the twist and turns of the priamels and
focusing devices in this ode have been well analyzed by Bundy, it is less clear why they
take the form they do.108 Why does he here focus on his contractual obligations? I would
argue that both here and in Pythian 11, the local context influences Pindar’s choice of
motifs. In front of his local community, without resort to the traditional themes of xenia,
he has to be more open about the relationship between poet and patron. In fact, this very
contractual relationship becomes a source of authority. Not only does it assure a degree
of “professionalism,” but the patron-client relationship gives a clearly transparently frame
to interpret Pindar’s praise. His Theban audience knows he has been contracted as an
artist and praiser.
Returning to Pythian 11, his later denunciation of tyrants and praise of the middle
must interact with this “mercenary Muse” passage. It defends Pindar against the obvious
108
Bundy (2006): 56-7 remains the best summary of the theme of “obligation” in this passage. Kurke
(1988) places this passage in the context of the rhetoric of the entire ode.
272 charge that he is misusing his wealth. He, like the victor himself, “strives for virtues that
are common; and the envious are warded off” (ξυναῖσι δ’ ἀµφ’ ἀρεταῖς τέταµαι·
φθονεροὶ δ’ ἀµύνονται)(54).109 In this single line, his contractual obligation as well as the
victor’s own virtues are reconfigured as public goods.110 Though his poetry may be
contracted, Pindar here makes the suggestion that it is a gift for the city as a whole.
Indeed the audience of philoi that he had previously created suggest such a public, ready
to celebrate the virtues of the victor. And this public, conveniently enough, also excludes
any criticism of Pindar or the victor: the envious are kept away from this circle of good
citizens. This mention of envy, furthermore, explicitly recalls the envious man’s roar
from the mythic section. Those who would unjustly envy either the victor’s success or
Pindar’s wealth are metaphorically ostracized from the community of philoi that the ode
constructs.
Furthermore, this description nicely dovetails with the description of the gender
dynamics we have described throughout this ode. The denigration of the Muse here is
timed at precisely the moment in the ode when the transition is made from the femalecentered world of the myth to the male-centered world of civic duty emphasized at the
end of the ode. By claiming her to be a prostitute, Pindar makes an implicit claim to
control the female element. The “break off” and the rhetorical gestures he makes towards
109
For the very tricky textual issues of this line, Finglass (2007): 118-20 provides an excellent summary.
Most significantly for the purposes of my argument, I agree with him that it is unlikely that there is some
form of ἄτη (Doric: ἄτα) in this section, simply because I cannot find any other passage in archaic or
classical Greek where this word is associated with envy (φθόνος).
110
It is probably not a coincidence that a similar negotation takes place in Isthmian 1 also, where Pindar
reconfigures his own contractual obligation itself as a public good:
…ἐπεὶ κούφα δόσις ἀνδρὶ σοφῷ
ἀντὶ µόχθων παντοδαπῶν ἔπος εἰπόντ’ ἀγαθὸν ξυνὸν ὀρθῶσαι καλόν. (45-6)
since it is a light gift for a man who is wise in exchange for all sorts of troubles to speak a
good word that erects something noble shared by all.
For the connection between these two passages, see Finglass (2007): ad loc. For more information about
the poets’ contribution, see Bundy (2006): 88-9.
273 his fellow male citizens works an attempt to control the female element that, as the myth
indicates, has gotten a little out of hand. More than an “apology,” the invocation to the
Muses acts as a premeditated reassertion of masculine control over the direction of the
ode.
Conclusions
To briefly summarize, in my interpretation of the poem, the poem progresses from
a world dominated by women to one dominated by men. Given the likely date of 454
B.C. for the performance of this ode, these gender politics are likely influenced by the
similar gender politics of Aeschylus’ Oresteia trilogy. In the beginning of the poem and
throughout the mythic section of the poem, women dominate and act as agents, helpers,
and victims. The myth ends just when Orestes first becomes an active agent, killing his
mother and her lover. In the break-off that follows, it is this female world that Pindar
actively rejects, instead constructing a male audience of fellow citizen friends as philoi.
The address of ὦ φίλοι, likely addressed by the chorus to each other, constructs
themselves, the victor, and the poet as exemplary citizens united by bonds of friendship.
In this denunciation of tyranny that follows, Pindar (through his chorus) specifies more
clearly how exemplary citizens should keep to a moderate course. Furthermore, the local
context of the ode can help us
As for Pindar himself, we can see that in the break-off and in the speech that
follows, Pindar maintains an “inclusive” stance. As much as the chorus constructs itself
and the victor as exemplary citizens, this stance allows Pindar to similarly integrate and
assimilate himself into the community. The poet, too, is one of the philoi, and in his
274 declamation of tyranny, also allows himself to be constructed as a model citizen. The
overall rhetoric of the poem elides the differences between chorus, community, and even
victor. All become idealized citizens in temporary community that his epinician weaves
and binds together.
In our analysis, therefore, we have found evidence that supports D’Alessio’s
suggestion that the Pindaric voice differs in his hometown of Thebes rather than abroad.
As we have argued, certain specific features of the ode should be traced to the local
setting of Pythian 11. As I have argued it, the overall rhetoric and orientation of the ode
only makes sense in a specifically Theban context.
275 Conclusion: New Directions in Locality and Archaic Greek Literature
As I have argued extensively in this dissertation, locality is primarily a form of
rhetoric, and for that matter, a form of social grouping. In each of the case studies
presented above, I have stressed how locality creates its own forms of grouping. In
Sappho, her rivalries with other girl groups and the network of memory serve to
constitute the boundaries of her own group. In Theognis, locality allows performers in the
symposium to express their concerns and improvise their roles within their own polis by
means of the “Everycity” of Megara. In Pindar’s Pythian 11 he constructs an audience of
male “friends” in deliberate contrast to the female world presented at the beginning of the
ode. In all of these instances, interactions by the poet with his own local community
serve as a way to constitute relationships within the poetry itself.
As a result of this dissertation I hope that the binary between “panhellenic” and
“local” often used in contemporary scholarship will be reexamined. As I argued in the
opening chapter, this binary risks simplifying and caricaturing what is a more complex
relationship between “the local” and “translocal” forces. As I believe the three case
studies contained in this dissertation show, the relationship between the two is far too
complex to be described in the static opposition between the “local” and the
“panhellenic.” We need a new vocabulary to express this relationship, of which my use of
the word “translocal” is just a first step.
Second, I hope my research contributes to a reexamination of the figure of the
poet in general. While recent research has been very interested in the social context of the
ancient poet or his place within the secondary tradition, less attention has been paid to
how ancient ideas of authorship affect how we read poetic texts. As I have emphasized
276 throughout this work, a poem cannot be interpreted separately from the author who is
writing it. As I have specifically argued, a poet’s persona is necessarily related to his
hometown and its own epichoric traditions. The author’s identity as a person from a
specific community guides interpretation of his work. Understanding the contours of an
author’s persona, rather than being a merely peripheral part of the work, is a necessary
first step to intrepeting it.
277 Appendix A: Evidence for Naming Practices in Epigraphy
Methodology
The following overview of naming practices in epigraphy is based off of the
poems listed in the first volume of Hansen’s edition of Carmina Epigraphica Graeca,
spanning from the eighth to the fifth centuries B.C. I have chosen to use this as my data
set for several reasons. First, since these material texts are themselves poems and more
“literary,” this data provides a nice contrast to the naming practices we find in literature.
With these epigraphic poems, we are able to investigate poetry closer to material reality
without completely abandoning the influence of poetic genres and tropes. Second, the
CEG provides an excellent variety of texts and contexts. Not only does it span several
epigraphical genres (funerary, dedicatory, encomiastic epigram), it also covers a wide
range of locales. While the evidence in the CEG is by necessity Athenocentric, there are
many non-Athenian texts covered in Hansen’s edition, and I have found no real
difference between the Athenian and non-Athenian evidence. Naturally, in order for my
thesis to be completely proven, more epigraphical data will have to be queried. However,
this data set derived from the CEG can help orient us in the right direction.
The second set of methodological issues concerns our definitions of “name” and
“place.” As material items situated in a specific context, epigraphical poems express
“locality” in a fundamentally different way than oral / written “literary” poetry does.
Their monumental and concrete status, it could be argued, contextualizes an epigraphical
poem in a specific locality from the start. And just as problematic, the monuments present
relationships between both the dead and the living in multi-various ways, ones that don’t
necessarily conform to the tidier structures we find in literature.
278 To overcome both of these concerns, I have focused on the language of these
poems and their naming structures rather than try to capture the full range of how these
monuments express locality and identity. Specifically, I have focused on the instances
where the text of a monument explicitly names either a patronymic or a toponym. I have
excluded instances where a place is not named and only described in vague terms (e.g.
“far from home”). Second, I have tried to separate and classify the different ways in
which these texts represent familial relationships. One particularly problematic issue, for
example, arose in instances where a father dedicated a monument to his deceased son.
Should these be counted as instances of “patronymics” or not? On the one hand, the
regularity with which these epigrams give both the name of the father and the son are
striking, and suggest that this is merely a formalized way to describe the name +
patronymic structure we find elsewhere. On the other hand, these instances could also be
classed under “biographical data,” and therefore would have no place in my analysis. In
my discussion and conclusions, I therefore try to analyze the data in multiple ways to
overcome such objections. I conclude, however, that, whatever way we look at the data,
we find a multiplicity of naming structures in these epigraphical texts that markedly
contrasts with the naming structures in our literary evidence.
It should also be noted that I exclude from my calculations the Athenian casualty
lists included in the CEG (poems 1-10). Not only have these monuments been thoroughly
treated by others, but they clearly have a different function than the other individual
tombs and monuments surveyed here, commemorating a far larger citizen group than a
single individual. I also exclude place names that only indicate place of death, since they
279 are not a part of the deceased’s proper name.1
I. Name + patronymic (metronymic):
A. Name + patronymic:
1.) Names appear with patronymics: 40, 42, 68, 80, 110, 146, 149, 154,
162, 171, 172, 173, 176, 194, 195, 197, 201, 209, 237, 251, 254, 275.3,
278, 280.1, 302 (A), 305, 312, 315, 320, 322, 328, 346(ii), 349, 364, 392,
394, 395, 412, 417, 421, 428, 429, 439. (43 total)
2.) Patronymics are also sometimes used to name the sculptor or writer of
the monument: 193(ii), 205, 279(ii), 456. (4 total)
3.) The name of the son but not the patronymic is extant in poems 29, 60,
221, 228.3, 321a, 376. (6 total)
4.) The opposite, the patronymic is extant but not the first name, occurs in
poems 160, 203, 293, 369, 389. (5 total)
5.) Neither the name of the father or the son survive in 64, 114, 200, 211,
223, 236, 258, 277, 279a. (9 total)
6.) Some outliers: poem 51 mentions only the father’s name (the verses
here are extant unlike the instances in I.A.4 listed above.); poem 129
seems to display patronymics and family names of some sort, but the
names are otherwise unattested and their exact relation unclear; even
though neither the name or the patronymic remains, it is likely that 148
once had one; 210 has a first name and a mention of a father, but their
exact relationship is unclear; it is likely that 377.5 once contained a
patronymic. (5 total)
B.) Fathers and sons as dedicators:
1.) The father is named, along with the child he honors, at 14, 41, 46, 50,
53, 113, 122, 137, 152, 444. (10 total)
2.) In poems 32 and 55 only the name of the dedicating father is extant. (2
total)
3.) Some monuments mention that the dedicator’s father and son share the
same name: see 267, 269, 272. (3 total)
1
For an excellent recent discussion of the genre of the Athenian casualty list, see Arrington (2011).
280 4.) A father and his unnamed sons co-dedicate at 235 and 407; a father and
his named son co-dedicate at 240; a father and his son (apparently the
brother of the deceased) dedicate at 121 (no names remain extant). (4
total)
5.) Children dedicate to their dead father at 57 (without the names of the
children or father extant), 111 (where the dead father’s name is extant),
and 336 (each of the children’s names appears to be listed, as well as their
father’s name). In 343, and likely 165, the children of a particular father
all pitch in for a dedication. (5 total)
6.) Poems 20 and 151 mention a dead child, probably indicating that the
father was a dedicator. (2 total)
7.) Some outliers: in 71, the name of the deceased is only partially
preserved, and the name of the father is not extant or he wasn’t named at
all, though it is clear from the grammar he is the dedicator here; the father
remains nameless at 161; the father is the dedicator, but the name of the
son is missing in poem 193; in what appears to be a group tomb, two
different fathers’ children bury each one at 147; 233, 285, 311, 345 all
mention “children” and probably indicate a co-dedication by father and his
children; 386 mentions how (presumably the dedicator’s) father decorated
city before him- neither name survives (9 total)
(C.) Metronymics and mothers as dedicators
1.) Mothers make appearances as dedicators at 117, 138, 169, 342. (4
total)
2.) Although no longer extant, some fragmentary poems probably
contained a metronymic or a mention of the mother as dedicator: see 33,
35, 43.(3 total)
3.) Mother and child are buried together at 89 and 95. In 89 just the
mother is named by a first name alone; both mother and child are named
by their first names. (2 total)
4.) Some poems describe the grief that a death brings to the parents of the
deceased. 84 describes the grief that the death of a mother and child brings
to her own mother and father; 153 mentions how a woman’s death is a
grief to her mother. (2 total)
5.) Both mother and father act as dedicators in some poems. A father and
mother are named as dedicators of a memorial for their dead daughter at
54; poem 119 provides the name of both the father and the mother in a
281 monument for their dead son and daughter. (2 total)
6.) There are multiple outliers here: The name of both the child and the
parent (whether mother and father) does not survive at 18; at 25 the father
dedicates a monument to his child and the mother is mentioned, but the
relationship between them is highly unclear (both the names of the child
and the mother are not extant); at 61 the children of a particular mother
chip in for a monument; poem 144 mentions an unnamed mother in
regrards to her named son, though the context is not clear; at 156 there is a
mention of a daughter, which probably indicates a metronymic of sorts,
though the text is extremely fragmentary; at 157, the deceased is addressed
both by first name and patronymic, an aunt sets up a cenotaph for her
niece who died at sea at 166; apparently a husband’s new mistress sets up
a memorial for his dead wife at 167; at 273 a named mother prays on
behalf of herself and her unnamed children; at poem 323 a father and
daughter co-dedicate; a woman identifies herself both by the name of her
mother and her child at 413; at 457, somebody identifies himself by both
his father and his mother. (12 total)
II. Name + Place
A. Place names are most frequently used, not insignificantly, to describe the
sculptors and or authors of a particular monument or poem. Aristion of Paros is
thus described at 24, 36, 41(ii); other artists are thus described at 80(ii), 150,
198(i), 280.3, 325, 362, 380 (ii and iii) (three in all), 388(i), 399.2(ii), 393, 397,
413(ii), 419.3. (18 total)
B. More generally, non-artisans are described by name + place at 130, 175, 316.3,
321, 371, 372, 392, 410. (8 total)
C. Some poems found within Attica contain the structure first name + demotic:
72, 227 and 256. (3 total)
D.) In some cases larger groups are described: 179 and 225 mention the youth of
Athens; the demos of the Athenians is invoked at 301 and 431. (4 total)
E. Sometimes the citizens of a city bury a man or soldier that perished within their
borders: the local Megarians bury a man identified by only his first name at 133; a
warrior killed in battle against the Spartans is described only as an Argive and
buried by the Tanagreans at 135; in poem 155 the Parians bury another warrior
when he died in battle fighting for Eion in Thrace. (3 total)
F.) Several outliers persist: poem 66 (for a woman) indicates she is of nonAthenian origin, and some restorations give a place name to the dedicator
(presumably, her husband); 77 mourns the fact that the occupant died far away
from his home in Sparta; poem 101 is very fragmentary, but mentions the father
282 land of the deceased- a toponym could have once been there; poem 126 mentions
how the occupant is from Cnidos; poem 131 begins by describing how the
unnamed solidier used to live in Corinth; 140 mentions a philoxenia of a certain
man; and finally, a certain Aceratus brags that he held sole leadership over both
Thasos and Paros at 416; 452 describes the owner as leading a group of youths
from Pyrrha. (8 total)
III. Name + patronymic + place:
A.) Both a place name and patronymic are mentioned at 11, 12, 52, 58, 80, 85, 87,
93, 94 (twice), 143, 170, 177, 316.1, 341, 365, 381, 382, 383, 388(ii), 398, 399i,
(22 total)
B.) The co-writer of a tomb is specified by a patronymic and place name at
380(iii). (1 total)
C.) Women are dedicators at 108 (the named mother dedicates to her son,
identified by first name and place-name) and 403 (the dedicator is described by a
patronymic and is further specified as a sister and a wife; her sister and husband
are named). (2 total)
D.) Two surviving dedications are by the children of Thrasymachus the Malian at
poems 419 and 420. (2 total)
E.) Outliers: poem 91 probably indicated both father and city / race, but only the
patronymic remains fully extant; 96 identifies the occupant of the tomb as
Gortynian but also mentions that his children dedicated the tomb; 102 gives the
patronymic and place of origin of the deceased, but also mentions that he brings
grief to his mother and father; in 174 a woman is not named, but identified by her
patronymic and her father’s race; the person described by a patronymic in 380
was apparently quite a traveler, moving between Mantineia, Syracuse, and
Camarina; in 425, a named sculptor and his probably named (the text is highly
corrupt) design a monument, and both are identified as Chians. (6 total)
Conclusions:
By the most conservative of estimates, tallying up only the explicit mentions of
the structures name + patronymic (I.A.1) (43 total), name + place (II.A and B) (26 total),
and name + patronymic + place (III.A and B) (23), we see that there are nearly twice as
many references to patronymics as there are to place. Even from this very conservative
survey of the evidence, the naming structures we find in epigraphical poems seems to
283 contrast markedly to the naming structures we find in literature. The gap between the use
of the patronymic/metronymic and the toponym grows wider if we also include the data
of mothers and fathers as dedicators (I.B.1 and C.1), becoming 57 in total in contrast to
the 26 instances of name + place and the 23 instances of name + patronymic + place. In
the most liberal estimate, including fragmentary epigrams and unusual “outliers,” we
come to a total of 132 instances of reference to a mother or a father (I), 44 instances of
reference to a place (II), and 33 references to both a mother/father and a place (III). In all
of these tallies, the use of some form of the patronymic far outweighs the use of some
place name. Our results, however we slice the evidence, are consistent: in the
epigraphical poetry contained in the CEG, the patronymic is overwhelmingly favored
over the toponymic.
In conclusion, the data surveyed here helps to confirm our assertion that multiple
other naming structures besides name + place were in use in the archaic and early
classical periods. The evidence of the CEG analyzed above seems to point to a wide
variety of such naming structures. In fact, in epigraphical poetry the use of the
patronymic predominates. This forms a marked contrast to the literature surveyed in this
article, where the structure name + place predominates. While a complete overview of all
the epigraphical evidence would be required to prove this point conclusively, nothing in
the data surveyed above contradicts our assessment that the structure name + place is a
marked one within literary texts. We can confidently conclude, therefore, that the
generally consistent and programmatic use of the structure name + place in poetic and
literary texts therefore is a marked structure.
284 Appendix B: Names of Authors in Archaic and Classical Greece
Methodology:
What follows here is an overview of authors (with a focus on the lyric poets
especially) named in archaic and classical Greek texts until the fourth century. In
organizing this data, I have separated “self-references” (where the narrator of a work
declares himself to be an author) from “citations” (where a work names another author in
his capacity as an author). I have, however, not used the ample remains of Greek tragedy
in my data set. This is mostly because it would not reveal many, if any “historical”
authors, but probably only a few “mythological” authors (like Orpheus) suitable to the
setting of the play. For the references in Greek comedy, I rely on the work of Theodora
Hadjimichael, whose excellent talk “What’s in a Name” I had the pleasure of viewing at
the conference. In Aristophanes, in accordance with my own interests, I mostly restrict
myself to mentions of lyric poets.
I. First Names
Self-References:
τίς σ’, ὦ
Ψά]πφ’, ἀδικήει; (1.19-20 Voigt)
Who wrongs you now, Sappho?
Sappho, I love you (probably spoken by
Aphrodite)…
Ψάπφοι, σὲ φίλ[ (65.5 Voigt)
Ψάπφ’, ἦ µάν σ’ ἀέκοισ’ ἀπυλιµπάνω.
(94.5 Voigt)
Sappho, I truly leave you against my will.
Ψάπφοι, τί τὰν πολύολβον Ἀφροδίταν ...;
(133.b Voigt)
Sappho, why do you (summon?) Aphrodite who
provides much happiness?
Ἄλκαος σάος †ἄροι ἐνθάδ ὀυκυτὸν ἁληκτορίν†
ἐς Γλαυκώπιον ἶρον ὀνεκρέµασσαν Ἄττικοις. (401
B Voigt)
Alcaeus is safe. But the residents of Attica took his
shield that was his protection (?) and hung it up at
the temple of the Grey-Eyed goddess.
Ἀκούσαθ’ Ἱππώνακτος· ⌊ο⌋ὐ γὰρ ἀλλ’ ἥκω…*
Listen to Hipponax: for I have come.
285 (1 West)
ἐµοὶ δὲ Πλοῦτος—ἔστι γὰρ λίην τυφλός—
ἐς τὠικί’ ἐλθὼν οὐδάµ’ εἶπεν “Ἱππῶναξ,
δίδωµί τοι µν<έα>ς ἀργύρου τριήκοντα
καὶ πόλλ’ ἔτ’ ἄλλα”· δείλαιος γὰρ τὰς φρένας.
(36 West)
Wealth- because he’s very blind, never came to my
place and said, “Hipponax, I’m giving you 30
minas of silver and much else in addition.” Because
he has a coward’s heart.
ἐκέλευε βάλλειν καὶ λεύειν Ἱππώνακτα…
(37 West)
He ordered that Hipponax be pelted and stoned…
And Hermes providing escort to the house of
Hipponax…
[ Ἑρµῆς δ’ ἐς Ἱππών⌋ακτος ἀκολουθήσας…
(79.9 West)
*If we consider Callimachus fragment 191.1
(Pfeiffer) to be lifted from Hipponax himself.
Solon is not a very bright or thoughtful man…
“οὐκ ἔφυ Σόλων βαθύφρων οὐδὲ βουλήεις ἀνήρ·
(frag. 33 West)
Καὶ τόδε Φωκυλίδου: (frag. 1, 2, and 3 West)
And here’s another one from Phocylides:
καὶ τόδε Δηµοδόκου: (frag. 2 West)
And here’s another one from Demodocus:
Ϝέπη τάδε καὶ µέλος Ἀλκµὰν
εὗρε γεγλωσσαµέναν
κακκαβίδων ὄπα συνθέµενος (39 PMG)
These words and melody Alcman invented when he
heard the warbling voice of partridges…
ἠράσθη χλιαρὸν πεδὰ τὰς τροπάς·
οὔτι γὰρ ἁδὺ τετυγµένον ἔσθει,
ζατεύει. (17 PMG)
And in the future I will give you a great tripod
bowl... It has not been over a fire yet, but soon it
will be full of pea-soup, the kind that Alcman, who
eats everything, loves hot after the solstice: he eats
no (sweet confections?) but seeks common fare just
like the people.
Citations:
Alcaeus frag. 384 L-P: ἰόπλοκ’ ἄγνα µελλιχόµειδε Σάπφοι (compare Voigt’s edition)
Aristophanes Av. 919: καὶ παρθένεια καὶ κατὰ τὰ Σιµωνίδου.
Aristophanes Av. 938-9: τὺ δὲ τεᾷ φρενὶ µάθε /Πινδάρειον ἔπος—
Aristophanes frag. 235 PCG: ᾆσον δή µοι σκόλιόν τι λαβὼν Ἀλκαίου κἈνακρέοντος.
Aristophanes Nub. 1355-6: πρῶτον µὲν αὐτὸν τὴν λύραν λαβόντ’ ἐγὼ ’κέλευσα / ᾆσαι Σιµωνίδου µέλος,
τὸν Κριόν, ὡς ἐπέχθη.
Aristophanes Nub. 1362: καὶ τὸν Σιµωνίδην ἔφασκ’ εἶναι κακὸν ποιητήν.
Aristophanes Pax. 697-8: [Τρ.]: ἐκ τοῦ Σοφοκλέους γίγνεται Σιµωνίδης. / [Ερ.] Σιµωνίδης; πῶς;
Aristophanes Thesm. 160-2: σκέψαι δ’ ὅτι /Ἴβυκος ἐκεῖνος κἀνακρέων ὁ Τήιος / κἀλκαῖος,
Aristophanes Vesp. 1410-1: Λᾶσός ποτ’ ἀντεδίδασκε καὶ Σιµωνίδης· / ἔπειθ’ ὁ Λᾶσος εἶπεν, “ὀλίγον µοι
µέλει.”
Corinna 664 PMG: µέµφοµη δὲ κὴ λιγουρὰν /Μουρτίδ’ ἱώνγ’ ὅτι βανὰ φοῦ- /σ’ ἔβα Πινδάροι πὸτ ἔριν.
Herodotus 2.23: …Ὅµηρον δὲ ἤ τινα τῶν πρότερον γενοµένων ποιητέων δοκέω τοὔνοµα εὑρόντα ἐς
286 ποίησιν ἐσενείκασθαι.
Herodotus 2.53: Ἡσίοδον γὰρ καὶ Ὅµηρον ἡλικίην τετρακοσίοισι ἔτεσι δοκέω µέο πρεσβυτέρους
γενέσθαι καὶ οὐ πλέοσι.
Herodotus 2.116: δοκέει δέ µοι καὶ Ὅµηρος τὸν λόγον τοῦτον πυθέσθαι·
Herodotus 3.38: …καὶ ὀρθῶς µοι δοκέει Πίνδαρος ποιῆσαι, «νόµον πάντων βασιλέα» φήσας εἶναι.
Herodotus 4.32: Ἀλλ’ Ἡσιόδῳ µέν ἐστι περὶ Ὑπερβορέων εἰρηµένα, ἔστι δὲ καὶ Ὁµήρῳ ἐν Ἐπιγόνοισι,
εἰ δὴ τῷ ἐόντι γε Ὅµηρος ταῦτα τὰ ἔπεα ἐποίησε.
Herodotus 5.95: …ἐν δὲ δὴ καὶ Ἀλκαῖος ὁ ποιητὴς συµβολῆς γενοµένης καὶ νικώντων Ἀθηναίων αὐτὸς
µὲν φεύγων ἐκφεύγει... Ταῦτα δὲ Ἀλκαῖος ἐν µέλεϊ ποιήσας ἐπιτιθεῖ ἐς Μυτιλήνην ἐξαγγελλόµενος τὸ
ἑωυτοῦ πάθος Μελανίππῳ ἀνδρὶ ἑταίρῳ.
Herodotus 7.161: τῶν καὶ Ὅµηρος ὁ ἐποποιὸς ἄνδρα ἄριστον ἔφησε ἐς Ἴλιον ἀπικέσθαι τάξαι τε καὶ
διακοσµῆσαι στρατόν.
Hesiod frag. 357: ἐν Δήλωι τότε πρῶτον ἐγὼ καὶ Ὅµηρος ἀοιδοὶ / µέλποµεν,
Homer Od. 1.153-4: κῆρυξ δ’ ἐν χερσὶν κίθαριν περικαλλέα θῆκε /Φηµίῳ,
Homer Od. 8.43: …καλέσασθε δὲ θεῖον ἀοιδόν, / Δηµόδοκον·
Pindar Ol. 9.1-2: Τὸ µὲν Ἀρχιλόχου µέλος /φωνᾶεν Ὀλυµπίᾳ,
Pindar Pyth. 2.54-6: εἶδον γὰρ ἑκὰς ἐὼν τὰ πόλλ’ ἐν ἀµαχανίᾳ/ ψογερὸν Ἀρχίλοχον βαρυλόγοις ἔχθεσιν
/ πιαινόµενον·
Pindar Nem. 7.21: ἐγὼ δὲ πλέον’ ἔλποµαι / λόγον Ὀδυσσέος ἢ πάθαν διὰ τὸν ἁδυεπῆ γενέσθ’ Ὅµηρον·
Pindar Isthm. 3/4.55: ἀλλ’ Ὅµηρός τοι τετίµακεν δι’ ἀνθρώπων,
Pindar Isthm. 6.66-7: Λάµπων δὲ µελέταν /ἔργοις ὀπάζων Ἡσιό-/ δου µάλα τιµᾷ τοῦτ’ ἔπος,
Pindar frag. 52h: Ὁµήρου [δὲ µὴ τρι]πτὸν κατ’ ἀµαξιτόν /ἰόντες, ἀ[λλ’ ἀλ]λοτρίαις ἀν’ ἵπποις,
Simonides frag. 542.11 PMG: οὐδέ µοι ἐµµελέως τὸ Πιττάκειον /νέµεται,
Simonides frag. 564.4 PMG: οὕτω γὰρ Ὅµηρος ἠδὲ Στασίχορος ἄεισε λαοῖς.
“Simonides” XXVII.1 Campbell: Ἓξ ἐπὶ πεντήκοντα, Σιµωνίδη, ἤραο ταύρους
Thucydides 1.3: …τεκµηριοῖ δὲ µάλιστα Ὅµηρος·
Thucydides 1.9: …ὡς Ὅµηρος τοῦτο δεδήλωκεν.
Thucydides 1.10: …τῇ Ὁµήρου αὖ ποιήσει εἴ τι χρὴ κἀνταῦθα πιστεύειν,
Thucydides 2.41: …καὶ οὐδὲν προσδεόµενοι οὔτε Ὁµήρου ἐπαινέτου οὔτε ὅστις
ἔπεσι µὲν τὸ αὐτίκα τέρψει,
Thucydides 3.104: δηλοῖ δὲ µάλιστα Ὅµηρος…τοσαῦτα µὲν Ὅµηρος ἐτεκµηρίωσεν…
II. Exceptions: Names of Authors with Patronymics:
Self-references:
Ἀλκµαίων Κροτωνιήτης τάδε ἔλεξε Πειρίθου υἱὸς Βροτίνωι
καὶ Λέοντι καὶ Βαθύλλωι· (DK 24B1)
Alcmaeon of Croton, the son of
Peirithous said the following to Brotinus,
Leon, and Bathyllus…
ἀκούετε λεώι· Σουσαρίων λέγει τάδε
υἱὸς Φιλίνου Μεγαρόθεν Τριποδίσκιος.
κακὸν γυναῖκες… (fr. 1 West )
Silence, people: Susarion the son of
Philinus, from Tripodeske in Megara,
says the following: women are a curse.
<ὧν> Κτησίας ὁ Κτησιόχου ὁ Κνίδιος, ὃς συνέγραψεν περὶ
2
τῆς Ἰνδῶν χώρας…
(Luc. Ver. hist. 1.3)
…like Ctesias the son of Ctesiochus
from Cnidos, who wrote about the lands
around India…
Ἀντίοχος Ξενοφάνεος τάδε συνέγραψε περὶ
Ἰταλίας… (FGrHist 555 F 2)
Antiochus the son of Xenophanes wrote
up the following about Italy…
You were blessed, Timotheus, when the
2
For a more detailed discussion of this fragment, see Marincola (1997): 273n. 9.
287 εἶπε· νικᾶι Τιµόθεος
herald said, “Timotheus the Milesian has
beaten the son of Camon,” that Ionian
melody-twister…
οἱ δὲ ἐναντίοι τοῖς προδιδοῦσι… πέµπουσι…ἐπὶ τὸν ἕτερον
στρατηγὸν τῶν ἐπὶ ΘρΏκης, Θουκυδίδην τὸν Ὀλόρου, ὃς
τάδε ξυνέγραψεν, ὄντα περὶ Θάσον…(4.104)
and the party opposing the rebels [inside
Amphipolis]…sent to the other
commander in Thrace, Thucydides the
son of Olorus, who wrote up these
3
events, when he was near Thasos”
Citations:
Homer Od. 22.330-1: Τερπιάδης δ’ ἔτ’ ἀοιδὸς ἀλύσκανε κῆρα µέλαιναν, / Φήµιος,
Herodotus 2.135: …ἐλύθη χρηµάτων µεγάλων ὑπὸ ἀνδρὸς Μυτιληναίου Χαράξου τοῦ
Σκαµανδρωνύµου παιδός, ἀδελφεοῦ δὲ Σαπφοῦς τῆς µουσοποιοῦ.
Herodotus 4.13: Ἔφη δὲ Ἀριστέης ὁ Καϋστροβίου ἀνὴρ Προκοννήσιος…
Herodotus 7.228: τὸ δὲ τοῦ µάντιος Μεγιστίεω Σιµωνίδης ὁ Λεωπρέπεός ἐστι κατὰ ξεινίην ὁ ἐπιγράψας.
II. Names of Authors with Place-Names:
Self-references:
Ἑκαταῖος Μιλήσιος ὧδε µυθεῖται· τάδε γράφω, ὥς µοι
δοκεῖ ἀληθέα εἶναι· οἱ γὰρ Ἑλλήνων λόγοι πολλοί τε
καὶ γελοῖοι… (FGrHist 1 F 1a)
Hecataeus the Milesian says the
following: what I write is in my opinion
the truth. For the stories of the Greeks are
both many and ridiculous.
Ἡροδότου Ἁλικαρνησσέος ἱστορίης ἀπόδεξις ἥδε… (Hdt.
1.1)
This is the performance of Herodotus of
Halicarnassus of his investigation…
Θουκυδίδης Ἀθηναῖος ξυνέγραψε τὸν πόλεµον τῶν
Πελοποννησίων καὶ Ἀθηναίων…(Thuc. 1.1)
Thucydides the Athenian wrote up the
war between the Peloponnesians and the
Athenians…
ὧδε δὲ πᾶς τις ἐρεῖ· ‘Θεόγνιδός ἐστιν ἔπη
(Thgn. 19-23).
Cyrnus, let a seal be placed on these verses
for me, a skilled and wise poet. Their theft
will never pass unnoticed, nor will anyone
take something worse in exchange when
that which is good is at hand. And
everyone will say “These are the lines of
Theognis of Megara: named throughout
all of mankind.”
αἵ νύ ποθ’ Ἡσίοδον καλὴν ἐδίδαξαν ἀοιδήν,
ἄρνας ποιµαίνονθ’ Ἑλικῶνος ὕπο ζαθέοιο. (Theog. 22-3)
They [the Muses] once upon a time taught
Hesiod a beautiful song, as he was tending
his lambs underneath holy Helicon.
Orpheus, knowing a variety of music, first
crafted the tortoise-shell lyre, the son of
Calliope… from Pieria. But Terpander
after him yoked his muse in ten harmonies:
3
Translation based off Robert B. Strassler’s in The Landmark Thucydides.
288 Τέρπανδρος δ’ ἐπὶ τῶι δέκα
ζεῦξε µοῦσαν ἐν ὠιδαῖς·
Λέσβος δ’ Αἰολία ν<ιν> Ἀντίσσαι γείνατο κλεινόν·
νῦν δὲ Τιµόθεος µέτροις
ῥυθµοῖς τ’ ἑνδεκακρουµάτοις
κίθαριν ἐξανατέλλει,
θησαυρὸν πολύυµνον οἴξας Μουσᾶν θαλαµευτόν·
Μίλητος δὲ πόλις νιν ἁ
θρέψασ’ ἁ | δυωδεκατειχέος
λαοῦ πρωτέος ἐξ Ἀχαιῶν. (791.221-36 PMG)
Aeolian Lesbos gave birth to him, a glory
to Antissa: but now Timotheus makes
spring up the kithara in meter and rhythm
striking out eleven notes, opening the
much hymned, chambered, store room of
the Muses: but the city of Miletus raised
him, a city of a people with twelve walls,
foremost amongst the Achaeans.
Μᾶτερ ἐµά, τὸ τεόν, χρύσασπι Θήβα,
πρᾶγµα καὶ ἀσχολίας ὑπέρτερον
θήσοµαι…. (Isthm. 1.1-3)
My mother, golden-shielded Thebe, I will
put your affairs above even my
obligations…
εἶπε· νικᾶι Τιµόθεος
You were blessed, Timotheus, when the
herald said, “Timotheus the Milesian has
beaten the son of Camon,” that Ionian
melody-twister…
Citations:
Aristophanes Av. 1073: ἢν ἀποκτείνῃ τις ὑµῶν Διαγόραν τὸν Μήλιον,
Aristophanes Pax 835-6: Ἴων ὁ Χῖος, ὅσπερ ἐποίησεν πάλαι /ἐνθάδε τὸν Ἀοῖόν ποθ’·
Aristophanes Thesm. 160-1: σκέψαι δ’ ὅτι /Ἴβυκος ἐκεῖνος κἀνακρέων ὁ Τήιος
Critias frag. 1 Gerber: τὸν δὲ γυναικείων µελέων πλέξαντά ποτ’ ὠιδάς / ἡδὺν Ἀνακρείοντα Τέως εἰς
Ἑλλάδ’ ἀνῆγεν,
Echembrotus. 1-2: Ἐχέµβροτος Ἀρκὰς /θῆκε τῷ Ἡρακλεῖ
Herodotus 1.12: …τοῦ καὶ Ἀρχίλοχος ὁ Πάριος, κατὰ τὸν αὐτὸν χρόνον γενόµενος, ἐν ἰάµβῳ τριµέτρῳ
ἐπεµνήσθη.
Herodotus: 1.23: … Ἀρίονα τὸν Μηθυµναῖον ἐπὶ δελφῖνος ἐξενειχθέντα ἐπὶ Ταίναρον,
Herodotus 1.29: …καὶ δὴ καὶ Σόλων ἀνὴρ Ἀθηναῖος,
Herodotus 2.177: Σόλων δὲ ὁ Ἀθηναῖος λαβὼν ἐξ Αἰγύπτου τοῦτον τὸν νόµον Ἀθηναίοισι ἔθετο·
Herodotus 3.121: παρεῖναι δέ οἱ καὶ Ἀνακρέοντα τὸν Τήιον·
Herodotus 5.102: …στεφανηφόρους τε ἀγῶνας ἀναραιρηκότα καὶ ὑπὸ Σιµωνίδεω τοῦ Κηίου πολλὰ
αἰνεθέντα…(cf. Hdt. 7.228 above)
Herodotus 5.113: …Φιλοκύπρου δὲ τούτου τὸν Σόλων ὁ Ἀθηναῖος ἀπικόµενος ἐς Κύπρον ἐν ἔπεσι
αἴνεσε τυράννων µάλιστα.
Pindar frag. 125 S-M: τόν ῥα Τέρπανδρός ποθ’ ὁ Λέσβιος εὗρεν/ πρῶτος,
Simonides 581 PMG: τίς κεν αἰνήσειε νόωι πίσυνος Λίνδου ναέταν Κλεόβουλον,
“Simonides” LXVI.3 Campbell: Τηίου ἡβήσειας Ἀνακρείοντος ἐπ’ ἄκρῃ
“Simonides” LXXXV.1 Campbell: Οὗτος ὁ τοῦ Κείοιο Σιµωνίδου ἐστὶ σαωτήρ,
III. Place Only:
Self-References:
πέρροχος, ὠς ὄτ’ ἄοιδος ὀ Λέσβιος ἀλλοδάποισιν
(Sappho 106 V)
Outstanding, like the Lesbian singer to foreigners
“after the Lesbian singer”
‘µετὰ Λέσβιον ᾠδόν’ (see Gostoli 60a-h)
289 τυφλὸς ἀνήρ, οἰκεῖ δὲ Χίῳ ἔνι παιπαλοέσσῃ…
(Hymn. Hom. Ap. 172)
A blind man, who dwells in rocky Chios…
σὺν δ’ ἀλαθ[είᾳ] καλῶν
καὶ µελιγλώσσου τις ὑµνήσει χάριν
Κηΐας ἀηδόνος. (3.95-6 Campbell )
And when a man calls out your name truthfully, he
will also sing of the grace of the honey-tongued
Cean nightingale…
εὐαίνετε Κηΐα µέριµνα… (19.11 Campbell)
Oh much-famed Cean cares….
πίσω σφε Δίρκας ἁγνὸν ὕδωρ (Isthm. 6.74)
I will give them a drink of the holy water of the
Dirce…
γνῶναί τ’ ἔπειτ’, ἀρχαῖον ὄνειδος ἀλαθέσιν
λόγοις εἰ φεύγοµεν, Βοιωτίαν ὗν. (Ol. 6.89-90)
..and to know whether we escape by our truthful
words the old insult “Boeotian pig.”
ὔµµιν τόδε τᾶν λιπαρᾶν ἀπὸ Θηβᾶν φέρων
µέλος ἔρχοµαι ἀγγελίαν τετραορίας ἐλελίχθονος,
(Pyth. 2.3-4)
καί κε µυθήσαιθ’, ὁποίαν, Ἀρκεσίλα,
εὗρε παγὰν ἀµβροσίων ἐπέων,
πρόσφατον Θήβᾳ ξενωθείς. (Pyth. 4. 298-99
For you I come from glorious Thebes, bringing this
song and the announcement of the four-horse
chariot that shakes the earth.
he would then say, Arcesilas, what a stream of
ambrosial words he found, when he was recently
entertained as a xenos at Thebes
Citations:
Simonides Eleg. 8.1: ἓν δὲ τὸ κάλλιστον Χῖος ἔειπεν ἀνήρ...
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