Edward Everett (1794-1865)

Edward Everett was one of America's foremost Hellenists and orators in the nineteenth century. He was elected to the House of Representatives and the United States Senate, became the Governor of Massachusetts, and then Secretary of State under Millard Fillmore, and was a failed vice-presidential candidate in 1860. He also served at President of Harvard University from 1846-1849.

After graduating from Harvard and preaching from the Brattle Street pulpit, he was invited to a professorship of Greek at Harvard, and allowed to study in Germany first, while receiving full salary. It is claimed that he was the first American to receive a Ph.D., which he took from Göttingen in 1817. Ralph Waldo Emerson studied in his classroom at Harvard, and said of him: "There was an influence on the young from the genius of Everett which was almost comparable to that of Pericles in Athens."

While he is clearly an interesting figure in American history for many reasons, it strikes me as remarkable that he had a relationship with both presidents Jefferson and Lincoln. He is well-known for his two-hour speech at Gettysburg which preceded Lincoln's famous address, and corresponded with the president. For Jefferson, he served as a book buyer while in Europe, and corresponded with him also. In one series of letters, when he was 80 years old, Jefferson attempts to argue that Greek did, in fact, possess an ablative case, which was only formally identical to the dative. He finally concedes to Everett, saying, "I acknowledge myself...not an adept in the metaphysical speculations of Grammar. By analyzing too minutely, we often reduce our subject to atoms of which the mind loses its hold."

Milton's Pindar

The Intellectual Development of John Milton by Harris Fletcher, 1961, in two volumes, is the most fascinating work on Milton that I've encountered so far. It contains extensive descriptions of the minute details which bring his experience to life, such as the long investigation as to the probable route of Milton from London to Cambridge as a student, and what the university town must have looked like to the arriving traveler. It outlines the general state of education in London in his day, including a survey of the available Greek grammars, and describes what we know in particular about his education. And it provides vivid accounts of daily and educational life at Cambridge in the seventeenth century.

Fletcher also describes Milton's copy of Pindar. He purchased it in 1629, and read it extensively during his vacation in 1630. In fact, it is the most heavily annotated of his books that we possess. It was the edition of Johannes Benedictus, King's Professor of Greek at Samur, published in 1620 as Pindari Olympia, Pythia, Nemea, Isthmia, a square quarto of 756 pages of text and 54 unnumbered pages of Index Rerum et Verborum. The book is now at Harvard.

The Greek is accompanied on the left by a Latin paraphrasis and a metaphrasis on the right. Milton left extensive notes on the blank sheets before the title page, and in the margins of the text. There is a description of the book in Library of Harvard University Bibliographical Contributions, n.6, edited by Justin Winsor, 1879, and in a subsequent edition many of his notes have been transcribed (but not all). His notes are often text critical, some attributed to other editors, while some seem to be his own emendations; there are also extensive quotations from other poets which he wished to compare or use to explain certain passages. There are attempts to date his notes, most substantially based on the evolution of his form of the epsilon. Fletcher's work contains a good introduction to the subject, which is just a beautiful wave in an ocean of learning about Milton's education and thought.

Note on ψυχή

I had never noticed before that ψυχή is used of the butterfly or moth. See Arist.HA.551a14, Thphr.HP.2.4.4, and Plu.2.636c.

Ambiguity

This is a principle as formulated by Anne Lebeck in The Oresteia: A Study in Language and Structure, 1971. It is not to say that every interpretation is correct, but simply that ambiguity is a powerful tool for a poet. Pindar scholars would do well to keep this in mind.

"It should be a basic principle in interpreting Aeschylus that when language and syntax are most difficult, the poet has compressed the greatest number of meanings into the smallest possible space. Pursuing the customary methods of classical scholarship one is sometimes tempted to treat ambiguity as if the author were at fault, as if the clarity of normal diction were beyond his grasp. Yet that ambiguity characteristic of Aeschylus is not easy to achieve; it comes about neither by accident nor inability, but by design. Commentaries on the Oresteia at times degenerate into arguments about the "right" interpretation of passages where wording is enigmatic and meaning multiple. The following approach is here pursued: when argument arises over meaning, the statement that claims to be exclusively right is categorically wrong. The philologist should not restrict himself to a single interpretation of such passages but should give free rein to all possibilities and associations, ultimately selecting as many as form part of a larger pattern and contribute to the meaning of the total work. The linguistic devices by which ambiguity is effected should be analyzed and the significance of the passage then interpreted in the light of its obscurity."

Hesiod W&D 721

εἰ δὲ κακὸν εἴποις, τάχα κ' αὐτὸς μεῖζον ἀκούσαις

But if you speak evil, soon you yourself shall hear worse.

Ancient variants

The LSJ lists στήτη or στήτα as a rare Doric word for γυνή. It appears in Theocritus Syrinx 14, and perhaps derives from a variant reading early in Homer's Iliad. The phrase διαστήτην ἐρίσαντε from Iliad 1.6, which means, "those two having quarreled, they stood apart", was sometimes read, according to Dickey 2007, as διὰ στήτην ἐρίσαντε, which would read, "those two having quarreled over a woman."

Truly holy is this abode

Oil-glistening, violet-crowned city, forever song praises you, my holy Athens, you, stronghold of the Hellenes: Home of the Gods.

About this fragment of Pindar, a young Wilamowitz wrote to his parents after seeing the Athenian acropolis in 1873:

"Pindar of Thebes sang this 2,350 years ago. A Theban, and two years after the Battle of Plataea. It would be like an Alsatian today praising Berlin. And really, when I climbed up the Acropolis between the marble fragments and cactus, Lüders cried out to me the phrase that Jehovah said to Moses when he appeared to him on Horeb in the burning bush: Remove the shoes from thy feet, for holy is the place where thou entereth. And when I entered the rocky plateau, and before me lay the great field of ruins, I stood upon the ancient slope where the islands of the sea came to give their tithe to the Goddess of Athens, where later the Spartan lords drew back before the holiness of the place, where the weapons fell from the hand of Alaric the Goth——there I now saw that everything lay in ruins, that the violence of time, human neglect, and human evil had been able to destroy even the walls of the gods' dwelling, but not to infect the holiness of their breath, which floats over the place. Then I too cried out: Truly holy is this abode, a Home of the Gods, as Pindar said. But I didn't take off my boots; I only lit a cigarette."

In Memoriam: William Harris

The world lost William Harris this past Sunday. His absence will be felt keenly by students of art and literature all across the world who read his essays and poems, and used the resources that he created to allow interested autodidacts to access the Greek and Latin languages.

I began a correspondence with Bill several years ago after reading his commentary on the fragments of Archilochus, and he was a constant force in my intellectual life. He shared new thoughts with me; he urged me to explore new areas and attempt difficult things; he expressed a confidence in me beyond what I deserved, and, most importantly, offered me at the same time the sort of blunt criticism that only a real friend gives, which is a terribly valuable gift, being so rare. When I expressed interest in returning to school, he offered without solicitation to write for me a letter of recommendation, which was overly generous, since, he said, "as faculty adviser I always felt like a lawyer, aim for a win."

Both his essays and our private correspondence contain lessons that I will keep with me throughout my life. He possessed a beautiful balance of traditional intellectual rigor and open-mindedness to fresh methods and ideas. He urged me to teach to the brightest students in each class, so as not to fail them, but in a manner that would challenge other students to rise above their typical work. He reminded me that the sounds I made in my head while reading poetry silently do not have the real potency of sound waves. He confirmed my belief that education is not restricted to schools, but, in fact, often flourishes more fully elsewhere, where determination and curiosity are not stifled by poor methods and dull people.

Much of what I could say about him can be found in his own words. I leave you with these two paragraphs, which end an autobiographical piece, the first of which is a touching reflection on his own life, and the second a meditation on life in general:

If in conclusion I would say that I have not had an easy life overall, living for those early years poor as a professor in a small college in bad times could possibly be, having several failed expectations with both marriage and friends, being a loner with gregarious penchants who ends being a content loner after all. But I have done as many things in my life as there was time to do. A friend remarked that I was "a jack of all trades" and he added with a thoughtful smile that I was a master of most. Like my Dad who died suddenly at age 93 never thinking of dying at all, I have no thoughts about either mortality or immortality. As to thinking about dying? I don't have the inclination, and above all, considering the pace of the work I am doing, I just don't have the time.

It is still winter for me here with lingering snowflakes, but soon it will be back to the carpentry and cabinetmaking in the woodshop, a lot of house windows to be repainted later, then firewood for next year to be got and stacked under the south shed overhang. But of course I will be waiting as deep snow melts away, thinking about Spring, that grateful time of the year when the tulips first push up their tentative heads, signaling that soon the world is to be reborn in a rush of verdant leafage once again. Then get out the tiller and turn over the garden, where two months later my wife will be kneeling almost hidden by corn and squash and tomatoes as she fills her basket with the goodness of the earth for our dinner. Such fare is not only good to the taste and good for the body, it is a witness that the earth itself is a good place and there is room for many of us to live a good life, as long as we learn how to use it. And above all, if we learn how to use it well!

ὅ τι τερπνὸν ἐφάμερον διώκων ἕκαλος ἐπῄειν γῆρας ἔς τε τὸν μόρσιμον αἰῶνα.

Hesiod W&D 361-362: The straw that broke the camel's back

εἰ γάρ κεν καὶ σμικρὸν ἐπὶ σμικρῷ καταθεῖο,
καὶ θαμὰ τοῦτ' ἔρδοις, τάχα κεν μέγα καὶ τὸ γένοιτο

For if you place a small thing upon a small thing, and you do this often, soon it will become large.

Picasso on Greek Art

To me there is no past or future in art. If a work of art cannot live always in the present it must not be considered at all. The art of the Greeks, of the Egyptians, of the great painters who lived in other times, is not an art of the past; perhaps it is more alive today than it ever was.

The Origins of the Center for Hellenic Studies

Last night I read a short book of that title written in 1990 by Eric Lindquist. The CHS sits on a few relatively secluded acres at the dead end of Whitehaven Street off of Massachusetts Avenue. It borders the huge green spot on maps of Washington, D.C., called Rock Creek Park, which separates Mass Ave from Georgetown. The Center is surrounded by the Dutch, Italian, British, and Brazilian embassies, as well as the Naval Observatory, which serves as the residence for the Vice President, and is directly across the street from the home of the Clintons. It consists of a central building, with an internal courtyard, which houses the library on the main floor and basement, offices for administrators and fellows on the main floor, a kitchen and dining room with outdoor patio on the basement floor, and a large gathering room with kitchenette, fireplaces, and piano on the main floor. Behind the main building is the director's residence. Just to the side is the "stoa" building, which has seven apartments for visitors and single fellows, with laundry room and gym. Lining the driveway are houses for married fellows, one of which has been converted to a high-tech seminar building.

The current director is Gregory Nagy, who still splits his time between the Center and his teaching duties at Harvard University. Before him, the position was shared by Deborah Boedecker and Kurt Raaflaub (1992-2000), Zeph Stewart (1985-1992), and the original director, Bernard Knox, who ran the Center from 1963 until he retired in 1985. Because Knox was previously scheduled for a sabbatical in Greece and tenure as Sather professor at Berkeley, Michael Putnam, from Brown University, was appointed as temporary director for the first year. During that year, the Center was run from the Tompkins House across the street, while construction was underway on the campus. The fellows were responsible for their own housing in Washington, but had studies there and were given lunch daily. There was no library until the Center acquired the private library of Werner Jaeger, who died in 1961, and portions of the libraries of Arthur Stanley Pease and Arthur Darby Nock, who also died around that time. According to Knox, some of the fellows from that first year saw an advantage in the lack of a library: it forced them to concentrate on writing.

The Center as it currently exists is quite different from its initial conception. Its origins are in Paul Mellon's desire for an institute that would focus on the study of the humanities in a world where education had become increasingly focused on sciences and technology. From the beginning he had Washington, D.C., in mind, believing that the United States capital had too few cultural institutes compared to other countries. His father had set up the National Gallery out of the same concern. The idea began to take shape when Huntington Cairns (a lawyer who was intimately involved with the National Gallery) suggested that the institute be dedicated to the promotion of Hellenism in the United States. He was convinced that it should not merely be a research center, but that it should be active in bringing back the humanistic ideals which he felt had faded from American society. He fiercely believed that it should not be associated with a university, since he felt the universities of America had failed in this regard, having become vocational centers. He referred to it as "the Residence" throughout his campaign.

The idea took shape in the physical world when Marie Beale, a wealthy widow, and friend of Cairns, offered land on Whitehaven Street for such an institute. Only months after she signed papers to that effect, she died in Zurich, and the project entered a confused phase of realization. Beale's lawyers had encouraged her to incorporate stipulations that would protect her interests, and the task of sorting it all out was given to the Old Dominion Foundation. As happens with many idealistic ventures when it comes to realization, the process was taken over by administrators and lawyers, who had practical concerns, and the concept that Cairns had in mind slowly rotted in boardrooms. Harvard University was motivated to keep the project alive, because it stood to inherit money from Beale only if an institute was established on that location, even if it had no association with the university. In the end, the University, through then-president Nathan Pusey, and the board of the Old Dominion Foundation decided to create an institute to support the research of young scholars, who often found inadequate time for writing amid the demands of developing classes. The Center provides housing, stipends, and fellowship for twelve young scholars from across the world each year, where they can spend a full year doing research and writing with no other demands on their time.

Lindquist lays out the interesting history of the Center's history from conception to realization in more detail, of course, than I can offer here. Although I had known about the general structure and operations of the Center, I was fascinated to learn that it grew out of a very different idea of Huntington Cairns, as an idealistic society devoted not to academic work, which was being done in the universities, but to reestablishing the Hellenic and humanistic tradition as a vital part of society. He opened a last desperate presentation to the Old Dominion Foundation with a quote from Gilbert Murray: "The next generation must use all its strength, all its wisdom, to see that the main drift of the world is Hellenic and not barbarous." Cairns saw the project as no less than an effort to save civilization, but most of the other players did not share his sense of society's lapse into barbarism.

I will be valid and sound iff I work hard at it

X=I will be valid
Y=I will be sound
Z=I work hard at it

1. (X ∙ Y) ≡ Z

2. Z

3. ∴ (X ∙ Y)

Instead of writing, I am refreshing, while on vacation, my formal logic with a series of lectures put online by Rick Grush of UC San Diego, and with an old textbook that I still have. This was sparked by the purchase of a sharp-looking copy of The Development of Logic by William and Martha Kneale, which at this point is sharing with me all sorts of useful tidbits about Aristotle's technical vocabulary. I wish there were more lectures like this available openly.

Scribal fancies

There are lists of psychological and mechanical mistakes that can explain errors or omissions in our textual tradition, even assuming that the scribe was working diligently. I like to imagine, however, whenever I come across such a textual problem, a young monk tucked away in the corner of a stone monastery, at a wooden desk, bathed in dull candlelight, with a half-blank canvas under his pen, and a thick manuscript to the side. As he comes to a line on the delicate features of a beautiful woman, or the innocence of a flower, his mind quickly leaps to a pretty girl he saw in a field past which he had walked early that morning. Just as quickly he turns it again to the page before him, eager to push away that thought, but it is not gone: it lingers in a repeated word or a missed line. It remains to this day, that delicate thought, preserved through time, unbeknownst to him, hidden to us although it is right before our eyes.

Pindar's House

The great Emathian conqueror bidd spare
The house of Pindarus when temple and towre
Went to the ground.

These lines are from Milton's 8th sonnet. The "Emathian conqueror" is Alexander the Great, who, when his troops were about to destroy Thebes, gave orders that Pindar's house should be left intact. It is not really surprising that Alexander would admire Pindar. His poetry urges great men to accomplish great deeds, and chides those who would stay close to home and fade into oblivion. Alexander should have paid more attention, however, to Pindar's warning that men should not strive too far, lest they overreach human boundaries. Alexander's sights were set on no less than the entire world, and he only stopped because he did not have the necessary support from his men. What is even worse, he petitioned (or maybe paid) an oracle to declare that he was the son of Zeus and therefore partly divine. Pindar clearly warned men not to seek godly things: μὴ ματεύσῃ θεὸς γενέσθαι.

For more on the story of Alexander and Pindar's house, see Slater 1971, "Pindar's House," in Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies, and also Plutarch.Alex.11, Arrian.Hist.Alex.1.9.10, Pliny.Nat.Hist.7.29, and Dio Chrysostom.2.33.

Simonides and Horace

The line of Simonides, ὁ δ' αὖ θάνατος κίχε καὶ τὸν φυγόμαχον, was translated by Horace (3.2.14) as: mors et fugacem persequitur uirum. Oates 1939 argues further that this poem was based upon a poem of Simonides.

On the etymology of the word νίκη

Ἀπολλώνιος δὲ ὁ τοῦ Ἀρχιβίου φησὶν ὃ ἑνὶ εἴκει, τουτέστιν ἑνὶ ὑποχωρεῖ. γέγονε δὲ κατ' ἀφαίρεσιν τοῦ ε καὶ συγκοπῇ τοῦ ει διφθόγγου. ὁ γοῦν Σιμωνίδης παρετυμολογεῖ αὐτό, φησὶ γάρ· ἑνὶ δ' οἴῳ εἴκει θεὰ μέγαν ἐς δίφρον.

This etymology of the word νίκη from the Cyril-lexicon is, of course, nonsense, and it is even doubtful to me whether Simonides had this in mind, but I find ancient etymologies fascinating nonetheless. According to the author, the word νίκη comes from the phrase ὃ ἑνὶ εἴκει, "that which yields to one", with the first epsilon dropped and the syncope of the ει diphthong. He cites Simonides: "for one man only the goddess yields in her great chariot." The goddess Victory is commonly described as bringing the victor in her chariot (ἅρμα or δίφρος).

Incidentally, I think I've only just noticed this word τουτέστιν, which seems to be the equivalent of "i.e." (i.e., id est) or "that is".

Patron of the Arts

ἦσαν δὲ κύριοι μὲν τῶν πραγμάτων διὰ τὰ ἀξιώματα καὶ καὶ τὰς ἡλικίας Ἵππαρχος καὶ Ἱππίας, πρεσβύτερος δὲ ὢν ὁ Ἱππίας καὶ τῇ φύσει πολιτικὸς καὶ ἔμφρων ἐπεστάται τῆς ἀρχῆς. ὁ δὲ Ἵππαρχος παιδιώδης καὶ ἐρωτικὸς καὶ φιλόμουσος ἦν καὶ τοὺς περὶ Ἀνακρέοντα καὶ Σιμωνίδην καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους ποιητὰς οὗτος ἦν ὁ μεταπεμπόμενος...

This is from Aristotle's Athenian Constitution (18.1), in which he says that Hippias, as the older and more prudent (ἔμφρων) brother, was in charge of the government, while Hipparchos, the playful, amorous, and art loving one (παιδιώδης καὶ ἐρωτικὸς καὶ φιλόμουσος), sought out poets.

Ancient da Vinci?

καὶ τὴν μνημονικὴν δὲ τέχνην εὗρεν οὗτος· προσεξεῦρε δὲ καὶ τὰ μακρὰ τῶν στοιχείων καὶ διπλᾶ καὶ τῇ λύρᾳ τὸν τρίτον φθόγγον

According to the Suda, Simonides invented mnemonics, long vowels, double consonants, and the third note on the lyre.

Gildersleeve on Aelian

"Cobet is perfectly safe in sneering at his Atticism, and yet the unprejudiced modern must admit that he is not a bad story-teller. But many of the post-classic people are good story-tellers, perhaps because they have the bad taste to be so much like us..."

I adore Gildersleeve. Pick up a copy of his work in the library, and look at the photograph on the inside, and I'm willing to bet that, unlike so many other 19th c. scholars, he is smiling.

Girls, dolls, and pupils

ἐννενόηκας οὖν ὅτι τοῦ ἐμβλέποντος εἰς τὸν ὀφθαλμὸν τὸ πρόσωπον ἐμφαίνεται ἐν τῇ τοῦ καταντικρὺ ὄψει ὥσπερ ἐν κατόπτρῳ, ὃ δὴ καὶ κόρην καλοῦμεν, εἴδωλον ὄν τι τοῦ ἐμβλέποντος;

I have enjoyed very much explaining the Greek and Latin roots of medical terminology this semester, and was delighted to learn a new bit of Greek vocabulary this week. I thought it was curious that the word κόρη appeared in medical terminology for the "pupil" of the eye. There is no lack of strange usage in this field, but I couldn't make the connection no matter how hard I stretched. The textbook only informed us that this particular root for "pupil" comes from the Greek word for "girl", without any sort of explanation. One of my students made the clever, but incorrect, suggestion that it was the "core" of the eye.

The answer was spelled out clearly for me in the third LSJ entry: "pupil of the eye, because a little image appears therein". This usage must derive from the previous entry, in which we learn that the word was also used of "dolls" and "small votive images". The most informative passage is the one I've cited above, placed in the mouth of Socrates by Plato in Alcibiades.1.133a, in which he says: "Have you considered that the face of someone observing the eye appears in the eyeball of the one opposite him just as in a mirror, and which we call a pupil, an image of the observer?" Socrates goes on to claim that, just as the eye must look into the eye to see itself, so must the soul look into the soul if it wishes to see itself, and other things like that.

The word κόρη is also used of: "the long sleeve reaching over the hand" (I'm not sure what this means yet, see X.HG.2.1.8); "the Attic drachma", because it had the head of Athena on it; as a synonym for ὑπέρεικον, or St. John's Wort (beats me: see Hp.ap.Gal.19.113); and, finally, in architectural language for "female figures as supports", or Caryatids.

The word pupil itself seems to come through Old French from Latin pupilla, a diminutive form of pupa, "girl", although according to Lewis's dictionary, it was the form pupula that was used in Latin for the pupil of the eye. (I don't have the OLD at hand.) I imagine that this Latin usage is based on a Greek analogy.

For an English curiosity, see the obsolete term "baby" in OED for "small image of oneself in another's pupil", which manifested itself in a 17th c. expression "to look babies", meaning to stare lovingly into another's eyes. Fun.

Greek drinks

During a lecture last year on wine and the wine trade in ancient Greece, I suddenly developed a question that the lecturer wasn't able to answer, but which I haven't properly pursued. She noted that there were few drinking options for the ancient Greek compared to today, and that in the main, the choice seems to have been between wine and water. My questions is this: if the Greeks were making wine, can we assume that they were also drinking fresh grape juice?

At 115a of his Critias, Plato says: ἔτι δὲ τὸν ἥμερον καρπόν, τόν τε ξηρόν, ὃς ἡμῖν τῆς τροφῆς ἕνεκά ἐστιν, καὶ ὅσοις χάριν τοῦ σίτου προσχρώμεθα – καλοῦμεν δὲ αὐτοῦ τὰ μέρη σύμπαντα ὄσπρια – καὶ τὸν ὅσος ξύλινος, πώματα καὶ βρώματα καὶ ἀλείμματα φέρων.

I've complied a few other references that I need to look over, but it seems from this reference that fruits were used to make drinks, and, presumably, these weren't all alcoholic. I'd specifically like to find a reference to using the grape for juice not intended to make wine.

Pindar, Isthmian 7.40-43

ὅ τι τερπνὸν ἐφάμερον διώκων
ἕκαλοσ ἔπειμι γῆρας ἔς τε τὸν μόρσιμον
αἰῶνα· θνᾴσκομεν γὰρ ὁμῶς ἅπαντες,
δαίμων δ' ἄϊσος.

Pindar on War

γλυκὺ δὲ πόλεμος ἀπείροισιν

A Vagina in Search of an Author

That is the title of a new article by Martin West in Classical Quarterly, 2008, 58: 370-375. He deals with this hexameter fragment, which is quoted in the Refutation of All Heresies (possibly) by the bishop Hippolytus:

αὐτὰρ ὑπ' αὐτὴν ἐστιν ἀταρπιτὸς ὀκριόεσσα
κοίλη, πηλώδης, ἥ θ' ἡγήσασθαι ἀρίστη
ἄλσος ἐς ἱμερόεν πολυτιμήτου Ἀφροδίτης

The bishop seems to think that it refers to the mystery religions and a spiritual "path", but, as West claims, it is a reference to the vagina. Hippolytus compares a (poorly remembered) passage from Matt.7.13-14:

στενὴ καὶ τεθλιμμένη ἐστὶν ἡ ὁδὸς ἡ ἀπάγουσα εἰς τὴν ζωήν, καὶ ὀλίγοι εἰσὶν οἱ εἰσερχόμενοι εἰς αὐτήν, πλατεῖα δὲ καὶ εὐρύχωρος ἡ ὁδὸς ἡ ἀπάγουσα εἰς τὴν ἀπώλειαν, καὶ πολλοί εἰσιν οἱ διερχόμενοι δι' αὐτῆς

West then spends some time trying to determine the original author of the hexameter fragment, whom Hippolytus calls ὁ ποιητής. It is comical to think that a bishop would have obliviously quoted this passage. Perhaps it had already been quoted out of context in connection with the mysteries, and he merely took it from that source. It is not any less funny to me in that case. Modern scholars, according to West, have understood the quote in the bishop's context too. He provides classical parallels for his thesis, and raises some concerns about its context in the bishop's work (such as the questionable association of the "grove of Aphrodite" with the afterlife).

Sinaiticus goes online

On Thursday, sections of the Codex Sinaiticus will be available online.

Ancient Greek Summer Camp

I leave tomorrow morning for Washington DC to attend a summer seminar for graduate students at the Center for Hellenic Studies. We will be exploring homecoming themes (νόστοι) in Greek literature, especially the Odyssey, of course, but also in tragedies and beyond. I am particularly interested in comparing the homecoming of epic heroes to the homecoming that forms the nucleus of Pindar's victory songs for athletes, so I hope we touch on his poems to some degree. I look forward to meeting other Hellenists from around the country.

Odyssey 15.400

... μετὰ γάρ τε καὶ ἄλγεσι τέρπεται ἀνήρ,
ὅς τις δὴ μάλα πολλὰ πάθῃ καὶ πόλλ' ἐπαληθῇ

For even in troubles a man is delighting afterwards, whoever has suffered very much and wandered very far.

Either drink or leave

I came across this proverb today while doing research: ἣ πῖθι ἢ ἄπιθι. It comes from Cicero's Tusculanae Quaestiones, 5.41, where he attempts a Latin equivalent, aut bibat aut abeat, with rather good results. I think it means something like "shit or get off the pot", but directed at party goers. Without cultural context it sounds a lot like ancient peer pressure.

Sanskrit things

I finished the last Sanskrit reading assignment that I'm likely to ever have again. That's not to say that I'm finished reading Sanskrit, but now I get to read whatever I want! My first order of business is to read RV 1.32 for a class that I'm teaching this summer. After that I want to read some verses of the Bhagavad Gita, which I've long wanted to do. First, however, I still have that lingering business of a final exam.

In our final class I wondered why the the root vac becomes voc in the aorist forms. We consulted Whitney's grammar, which only said that "maturer" research was needed. One of my fellow students made a great suggestion, which turned out to be right after some searching. It is a secondary reduplication: *a-va-vc-at, where *av is treated like *au.

Going to Fiveness

I've come across an interesting phrase in Sanskrit for dying several times this semester. It involves the word pañcatva, which means fiveness, and the verbal element gam, meaning to go: so, going to fiveness. The sense is dying, or going to death, more fundamentally, the dissolution of the body into the five elements, earth, water, fire, air, ether (according to Lanman).

Streams

I really like the Sanskrit word sarga. I suppose the most fundamental meaning is that of letting loose or streaming. This manifests itself in several different ways. It can be used of an arrow being shot, or released. It can be used of a river or stream. It can be used of a chapter or section of a book. And it can also be used of herd of animals, presumably of a herd being let loose, and so moving together like a stream.

Lowell Edmunds on Max Ernst

Lowell Edmunds gave a lecture today on the painting Oedipus Rex by Max Ernst. After he made some observations on interpretation, it turned into a group discussion of the painting. The main question seemed to be in what degree Ernst was referring directly to the play by Sophocles or the work of Freud. There were some elements that seem to refer directly to the play, for instance, the arrow through the walnut. There are several things that suggest Hamlet, perhaps via Freud.

There were some interesting observations made. It is a left hand coming through the window, which might recall the name Laius. The device being used by the hand can be identified in other works of Ernst as a tool for piercing the feet of birds. The nut almost certainly refers to a problem, whether the riddle of the sphinx, or the murder investigation of Oedipus in the play. The horns on the the head in the background, again judging from other works of Ernst, refer to kingship. The rope attached to the horns leads into the sky, suggesting some divine control, and one member of the audience pointed out that the rope is not taut, perhaps indicating anticipation of the future, or that there remains an appearance of free will. Edmunds sees in the two heads the characters of Laius and Jocasta. Some wanted to see the horned figure as Oedipus himself. I think, in the framework of Freudian thought, there is no problem with something having two interpretations at the same time. I wondered about the how the bird might relate to augury, which is an important theme in the play. The eye on the bird in the foreground is inverted, which theme of sight is also another related theme in the play, since Tireseus is blind, and Oedipus is figuratively blind in the beginning, and later physically blinds himself, once he has seen. It was a great deal of fun, after spending a few months in a seminar on Oedipus Tyrannos, to add another interpretation to the discussion, and one that requires a good deal of detective work.

Lowell Edmunds

I had the pleasure of having lunch today with Lowell Edmunds of Rutgers University. We talked mostly about current politics and conservation of energy in daily life, but we also talked about some of his current work, which deals with minor Latin literature, or, more specifically, it deals with a definition of minor Latin literature. His work on Greek literature and mythology is more familiar to me, of course, but I also discovered that he wrote a book on the martini. Afterward, we had a small discussion with professors and graduate students on contemporary Athenian political themes in the Oedipus Tyrannos of Sophocles.

Gods and Demons

The Avestan word ahura, which refers to a group of deities, is cognate with the Sanskrit word asura, which is used of demons. When I first discovered this, I was surprised, because I had learned that the Sanskrit word sura was used of gods. It seems that the ancient Indians, at some point, thought that the word-initial "a" was privative, which it was not.

Gildersleeve and Classics in America

Gildersleeve is credited with introducing the German seminar into Classical studies in America. He was influential as an educator, and, from reading his letters, he often gives the impression that precisely this would be his legacy. In a letter of February 6th, 1884, to Daniel Gilman, he gives some brief ideas about what graduate study should entail. He discusses the nature of research by students: "The thesis must show an ability to investigate if not on the higher lines that lead to new results at least on the lines that lead to sharp, clear, systematic presentation of what is known. Original work is a much abused phrase, few men after all are capable of doing more than getting material together for the thinker who is to come."

On the importance of Latin for the Hellenist, he says: "Of every candidate for the degree of Dr. of Philosophy in the department of Greek, a knowledge of Latin is required. If Latin is the minor subject the examination is entrusted to the Latin department. If it is not, the candidate must show his knowledge of the language by translating a piece of prose Greek into Latin."

He describes a typical method of examination for students:

1. Translation from Greek into English of selections from the different departments and different ages of Greek literature. The selections are of average difficulty and are taken from less familiar authors, so that in the majority of cases this exercise shows the ability of the student to read Greek at sight.

2. A classic passage is given (with the critical apparatus)--or a selection of passages--on which the student is to write a commentary giving his views of the various readings with substantiations of that same.

3. As a test of grammatical and lexical familiarity with Greek the candidate is required to write without grammar or dictionary a Greek thesis, based on some familiar passage of Greek history or literature.

4. An examination on the history of Greek literature covering the Classical period, the portions studied in the university being treated with more details.

5. The examination before the Board, as has been agreed on is considered a test of general bearing, facility of expression, readiness of resource rather than a test of special knowledge.

It resembles the type of examinations typical in American universities today, with the exception of numbers two and three, which deal with textual criticism and composition, respectively. At the risk of being attacked as too conservative, I think it is unfortunate that these things aren't stressed for doctoral students. Textual criticism is perhaps the most important aspect of Classical studies, since it is by this discipline that we are given the texts from which all other work is ultimately done; with more accurate texts, the results of other studies can achieve greater accuracy. Besides that very practical point, I believe that the most enlightened approach to any study of literature is through stylistics and structure, and the textual critic, contrary to the common notion, is more than simply a master of handwriting, but also a master of his author's style. Composition in the ancient languages is often spurned, especially in America, but it provides a unique method of language learning, since the student is called upon to produce forms and phrases, rather than simply recognizing them passively. I will be required to do only a minimal amount of composition, but, luckily, I have professors who can offer more intensive practice in independent study. Of textual criticism, however, there is very little chance of serious study, partly because of the location of manuscripts around the world.

I have been labeled as a "linguist" by many people in my department (which is rich in archaeologists), sometimes jokingly and sometimes respectfully, because I am seeking from my professors as deep a knowledge of the languages as possible. In my years at university, I am more interested in tapping expertise in syntax and stylistics than in hearing personal impressions and responses to literary works. It is a matter of practicality: I think my time is better spent on things which are more difficult for an autodidact. This is often misconstrued as an end itself, rather than a means. As interested as I am in phonetics, inflection, and syntax, I am not a linguist in the pure sense: I wish to study stylistics, which cannot be accomplished without a thorough understanding the structure of language and its usage by artists.