Homer: Critical Assessments [4] 0415145317, 9780415145312

Citation preview

Routledge Critical Assessments o f Classical A uthors

Forthcoming: Virgil Edited by P.R. Hardie Greek Tragedy Edited by Katerina Zacharia

HOMER Critical Assessments Edited by Irene J.F. de Jong

VOLUME IV Homer’s Art

ROUTLEDGE

London and New York

First published 1999 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 © Selection and editorial material, 1999 Irene de Jong Typeset in Garamond by J&L Composition Ltd, Filey, North Yorkshire Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utiÜ2ed in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Homer: critical assessments/edited by Irene J.F. de Jong, p. cm. Essays in English, French, and German. Contents: v. 1. The creation of the poems - v. 2. The Homeric world V. 3. Literary interpretation —v. 4. Homer's art. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-415-14527-9 1. Homer —Criticism and interpretation. 2. Epic poetry, Greek —History and criticism. 3. Oral-formulaic analysis. 4. Oral tradition —Greece. 5. Civilization, Homeric. 6. Greece —In literature. I. Jong, Irene J.F. de PA4037.H7747 1998 883/.01-dc21 98-11375 CIP ISBN ISBN ISBN ISBN ISBN

0-415-14527-9 0^415-14528-7 0-415-14529-5 0-415-14530-9 0-415-14531-7

(set) (vol. (vol. (voi. (vol.

I) II) Ill) IV)

Contents

Acknowledgements

A. The Singer and his Muse 71. 72. 7374.

Übet naive und sentimentalische Dichtung F. Schiller The Singer in the Odyssey H, Maehler Poetic Inspiration in Early Greece P. Murray Homer on Poetry and the Poetry of Homer C.W. Macleod 75- The Genre of Epic Poetry A. Ford

B. Style and Structure 76. Preface de la traduction d’Homère A. Dacier 77. On Translating Homer M. Arnold 78. Parataxis in Homer: A New Approach to Homeric Literary Criticism J.A. Notopoulos 79- The Homeric Epithets are Significantly True to Individual Character W. Wballon 80. Homer Against his Tradition J.A. Russo 81. Die größeren Aristien der Ilias T. Krischer 82. Artistry and Craftmanship in the Homeric Epics H. Patzer

C. Characters 83. Preface to his Translation of the Iliad A. Pope 84. The Untypical Hero W.B. Stanford 85. Agamemnon in the Iliad A.M. van Erp Taalman Kip

vii

1 3 6 21 42 57

79 81 85 94 113 125 142 155

185 187 190 206

vi

Contents 86. Die Begegnung zwischen Diomedes und Glaukos (Z) Oe. Andersen 87. Speech as a Personality Symbol: The Case of Achilles P. Friedrich andJ. Redfield 88. Elpenor H. Rohdich 89. The Philosophy of the Odyssey R.B. Rutherford

D.

N arrative Techniques

218 231 262 271 299

90. Laocoön F. Lessing 91. The Treatment of Simultaneous Events in Ancient Epic T. Zielinski 92. The Forecasting of Events within the Epic and its Effect upon Suspense I: Events Forecast to the Reader, but not to the Characters G. Duckworth 93. The Poet and his Audience S.E.Bassett 94. Primitive Narrative T. Todorov 95. Homer’s Trojan Plain A . Thornton 96. Explicit and Implicit Embedded Focalisation IJ.F. de Jong 97. Reading Differences: The Odyssey and Juxtaposition S. Goldhill 98. Special Abilities S. Richardson 99. The Development of the Theme in the Iliad: The Plan of Action J. Latacz

301

462

Select Bibliography

477

317

328 339 347 357 370 396 432

Acknowledgements

The editor gratefully acknowledges the following who have kindly given permission to reprint articles in this volume: Vandenhoeck&Ruprecht GmbH & Co. KG, Gottingen, 72 and 95; Society for the Promotion of Hellenic Studies, 73 and 89; Oxford University Press, 74; Cornell University Press, 75 and 94; Center for Hellenic Studies, 79; C.H. Beck’sche Verlagbuchhandlung, München, 81; H. Patzer, 82; A.Μ. van Erp Taalman Kip, 85; Univers ite tsforlaget AC/Scandinavian University Press, Oslo, 86; Linguistic Society of America, P. Friedrich and J. Redfield, 87; H. Rohdich, 88; Princeton University Press, 92; University of Califor­ nia Press, 93; John Benjamins, Amsterdam, 96; Aureal Publications, Victoria, 97; S. Richardson, 98; Michigan University Press, 99« While every effort has been made to contact copyright holders of material used in this volume, the editor and publisher would be grateful to hear from any they were unable to contact.

A. The Singer and his Muse

71_____________________________________________________ Über naive und sentimentalische Dichtung* F. Schiller *Source: Friedrich Schillw: dtv-Gesamtamgabe, mit allen Textvarianten, Buhnenfassungen und Fragmenten, nach der 3. Auflage der Gesam tausgabe des Carl-Hanser Verlags, auf Grund der Originaldrucke hersg. und kommentiert von G. Fricke und H.G. Goepfert, in Verbindung mit H. Stubenrauch, Band 19/ Deutsche Taschenbuch Verlag, Munich, 1966, pp. 134-7.

Die Dichter sind überall, schon ihrem Begriffe nach, die Bewahrer der Natur. Wo sie dieses nicht ganz mehr sein können und schon in sich selbst den zerstörenden Einfluß willkürlicher und künstlicher Formen erfahren oder doch m it demselben zu kämpfen gehabt haben, da werden sie als die Zeugen und als die Rächer der Natur auftreten. Sie werden entweder Natur sein y oder sie werden die verlorene suchen. Daraus entspringen zwei ganz verschiedene Dichtungsweisen, durch welche das ganze Gebiet der Poesie erschöpft und ausgemessen wird. Alle Dichter, die es wirklich sind, werden, je nachdem die Zeit beschaffen ist, in der sie blühen, oder zufälligeUmstände auf ihre allgemeine Bildung und auf ihre vorübergehende Gemütsstimmung Einfluß haben, entweder zu den naiven oder zu den sentimentalischen gehören. Der Dichter einer naiven und geistreichen Jugendwelt, sowie derjenige, der in den Zeitaltern künstlicher Kultur ihm am nächsten kommt, ist streng und spröde, wie die jungfräuliche Diana in ihren Wäldern, ohne alle Vertraulichkeit entflieht er dem Herzen, das ihn sucht, dem Verlangen, das ihn umfassen will. Die trockne Wahrheit, womit er den Gegenstand behandelt, erscheint nicht selten als Unempfindlichkeit. Das Objekt besitzt ihn gänzlich, sein Herz liegt nicht wie ein schlechtes Metall gleich unter der Oberfläche, sondern will wie das Gold in der Tiefe gesucht sein. Wie die Gottheit hinter dem Weltgebäude, so steht er hinter seinem Werk; er ist das Werk, und das Werk ist er; man muß des erstem schon nicht wert oder nicht mächtig oder schon satt sein, um nach ihm nur zu fragen. So zeigt sich z. B. Homer unter den Alten und Shakespeare unter den Neuern; zwei höchst verschiedene, durch den unermeßlichen Abstand der Zeitalter getrennte Naturen, aber gerade in diesem Charakterzuge völlig eins. Als ich in einem sehr frühen Alter den letztem Dichter zuerst ken­ nenlernte, empörte mich seine Kälte, seine Unempfindlichkeit, die ihm erlaubte, im höchsten Pathos zu scherzen, die herzzerschneidenden Auftritte

4

Homer's A r t

im »Hamlet«, im »König Lear«, im »Macbeth« usf. durch einen Narren zu stören, die ihn bald da festhielt, wo meine Empfindung forteilte, bald da kaltherzig fortriß, wo das Herz so gern stiligestanden wäre. Durch die Bekanntschaft mit neuern Poeten verleitet, in dem Werke den Dichter zuerst aufzusuchen, seinem Herzen zu begegnen, mit ihm gemeinschaftlich über seinen Gegenstand zu reflektieren; kurz, das Objekt in dem Subjekt anzuschauen, war es mir unerträglich, daß der Poet sich hier gar nirgends fassen ließ und mir nirgends Rede stehen wollte. Mehrere Jahre hatte er schon meine ganze Verehrung und war mein Studium, ehe ich sein Indi­ viduum liebgewinnen lernte. Ich war noch nicht fähig, die Natur aus der ersten Hand zu verstehen. N ur ihr durch den Verstand reflektiertes und durch die Regel zurechtgelegtes Bild konnte ich ertragen, und dazu waren die sentimentalischen Dichter der Franzosen und auch der Deutschen, von den Jahren 1750 bis etwa 1780, gerade die rechten Subjekte. Übrigens schäme ich mich dieses Kinderurteils nicht, da die bejahrte Kritik ein ähnliches fällte und naiv genug war, es in die W elt hineinzuschreiben. Dasselbe ist mir auch mit dem Homer begegnet, den ich in einer noch spätem Periode kennenlernte. Ich erinnere mich jetzt der merkwürdigen Stelle im sechsten Buch der Ilias, wo Glaukus und Diomed im Gefecht aufeinanderstoßen und, nachdem sie sich als Gastfreunde erkannt, einander Geschenke geben. Diesem rührenden Gemälde der Pietät, mit der die Gesetze des Gastrechts selbst im Kriege beobachtet wurden, kann eine Schilderung des ritterlichen Edelmuts im Ariost an die Seite gestellt werden, wo zwei Ritter und Nebenbuhler, Ferrau und Rinald, dieser ein Christ, jener ein Sarazene, nach einem heftigen Kampf und mit Wunden bedeckt, Friede machen und, um die flüchtige Angelika einzuholen, das nämliche Pferd besteigen. Beide Beispiele, so verschieden sie übrigens sein mögen, kommen einander in der Wirkung auf unser Herz beinahe gleich, weil beide den schönen Sieg der Sitten über die Leidenschaft malen und uns durch Naivetät der Gesinnungen rühren. Aber wie ganz verschieden neh­ men sich die Dichter bei Beschreibung dieser ähnlichen Handlung. Ariost, der Bürger einer spätem und von der Einfalt der Sitten abgekommenen W elt, kann bei der Erzählung dieses Vorfalls seine eigene Verwunderung, seine Rührung nicht verbergen. Das Gefühl des Abstandes jener Sitten von denjenigen, die sein Zeitalter charakterisieren, überwältigt ihn. Er verläßt auf einmal das Gemälde des Gegenstandes und erscheint in eigener Person. Man kennt die schöne Stanze und hat sie immer vorzüglich bewundert: O Edelmut der alten Rittersitten! Die Nebenbuhler waren, die entzweit Im Glauben waren, bittern Schmerz noch litten Am ganzen Leib vom feindlich wilden Streit, Frei von Verdacht und in Gemeinschaft ritten Sie durch des krummen Pfades Dunkelheit.

The Singer a n d his Muse

5

Das Roß, getrieben von vier Sporen, eilte, Bis wo der Weg sich in zwei Straßen teilte.1 Und nun der alte Homer! Kaum erfährt Diomed aus Glaukus, seines Gegners, Erzählung, daß dieser von Väterzeiten her ein Gastfreund seines Geschlechts ist, so steckt er die Lanze in die Erde, redet freundlich mit ihm und macht mit ihm aus, daß sie einander im Gefechte künftig ausweichen wollen. Doch man höre den Homer selbst: Also bin ich nunmehr dein Gastfreund mitten in Argos, Du in Lykia mir, wenn jenes Land ich besuche. Drum mit unsern Lanzen'vermeiden wir uns im Getümmel. Viel ja sind der Troer mir selbst und der rühmlichen Helfer, Daß ich töte, wen Gott mir gewährt und die Schenkel erreichen; Viel auch dir der Achaier, daß, welchen du kannst, du erlegest. Aber die Rüstungen beide vertauschen wir, daß auch die andern Schaun, wie wir Gäste zu sein aus Väterzeiten uns rühmen. Also redeten jene, herab von den Wagen sich schwingend, Faßten sie beide einander die Hand und gelobten sich Freundschaft. Schwerlich dürfte ein moderner Dichter (wenigstens schwerlich einer, der es in der moralischen Bedeutung dieses Worts ist) auch nur bis hieher gewartet haben, um seine Freude an dieser Handlung zu bezeugen. W ir würden es ihm um so leichter verzeihen, da auch unser Herz beim Lesen einen Stillstand macht und sich von dem Objekte gern entfernt, um in sich selbst zu schauen. Aber von allem diesem keine Spur im Homer; als ob er etwas Alltägliches berichtet hätte, ja als ob er selbst kein Herz im Busen trüge, fährt er in seiner trockenen Wahrhaftigkeit fort: Doch den Glaukus erregete Zeus, daß er ohne Besinnung Gegen den Held Diomedes die Rüstungen, goldne mit ehrnen, Wechselte, hundert Farren wert, neun Farren die andern. 2

Anmerkung 1. Der rasende Roland, Erster Gesang, Stanze 32. 2. Ilias, Voßische Übersetzung, Erster Band, Seite 153.

72

__________________

The Singer in the Odyssey * H. Maehler, translated by the author ^Source: Die Auffassung des Dichterberufs im frühen Griechentum bis zur Zeit Pindars. Vandenhoeck&Ruprecht, Göttingen, 1963, pp. 21-34.

The Odyssey represents a rather different world.1 The differences between the Iliad and Odyssey cannot be accounted for by the différence in subject matter alone, because the very choice of subject, that is, the fact that the poet of the Odyssey combined the theme of the homecoming hero with sailors’ tales and adventure stories, implies an interest in such stories not found in the Iliad. If we may interpret the new spirit of the Odyssey as a manifestation of a new era, it was bound to influence the poet’s idea of his rôle and his concept of poetry. It is only in rather general terms that one can assume a 'unity of the world of epic';2 looking more closely, we can see the differences so clearly that we can neither apply the Iliads notion of the poet’s rôle to the Odyssey, nor assume that ideas found in the younger poem are already applicable to the Iliad? Seeing that already in the description of Achilles’ Shield (Σ 604) the singer is called ‘divine’ (θειος), we may believe that his craft had for a long time been highly respected and honoured in accordance with his rôle in society. His social standing cannot have changed much, for in the Odyssey, too, singers are highly respected. When Agamemnon left for Troy, he entrusted Klytaimestra to the care of a bard (γ 267), and the singer who performs at the wedding of Menelaos’ children is called ‘divine’ (δ 17), as are Phemios (π 252, ψ 133, 143), and Demodokos (Θ 43, V 27). Demodokos in particular is honoured among the Phaiacians (Θ 472); at table he is given a large piece of meat at Odysseus’ request, who explains: For with all peoples upon the earth singers are entitled to be cherished and to their share of respect, since the Muse has taught them her own way, and since she loves all· the company of singers. πασι γάρ άνθρώ ποισ ιν επ ιχ θ ο ν ίο ισ ιν αοιδοί τιμής εμμοροί είσ ι καί αίδοϋς, οΰνεκ άρα σ φ εας οϊμας Μ ουσ έδίδα ξε, φ ίλ η σ ε δε φυλον άοιδών. (θ 479-81)

The Singer a n d his Muse

1

Yec as the Phaiacians are a blessed fairy-tale tribe, their bard is also an idealized figure; several hints in the Odyssey suggest that in reality the bards often had to struggle with bitter hardship.4 Phemios - the only other bard whose name we are told: a telling name, like that of his father, Terpios (X 330) - is much worse off than Demodokos; he sings for the suitors only under compulsion (χ 35Iff., a 154), and he escapes Odysseus5 wrath only through Telemachos5 intervention. That is, of course, an exceptional situa­ tion. More characteristic of the bards5 social prestige is Eumaios5 statement (p 38Iff.) that they are δ η μ ιο ερ γο ί (‘professionals’) like seers, doctors, builders, in other words ail those not normally represented in the selfsufficient Homeric household and therefore κ λ η το ί (Tor hire5), that is, whose services could be hired publicly and for payment when required.5 More important than the bards’ social conditions is the question why the Odyssey, unlike the Iliad, speaks so much about them. One factor may be that in the more ‘bourgeois’ world of the Odysseyy it is not only the aristo­ crats but also the common people such as shepherds and servants who come into focus. But that would not fully account for the difference. Rather, the author presents what matters to him personally.6 To him, his own social position and his craft matter much more than they did to the author of the Iliad. He sees himself even less than the latter as a mere instrument of the Muses; in the Odyssey, poetic composition is beginning to be seen as an autonomous intellectual activity. This is suggested, for one thing, by the absence of invocations to the Muses, apart from the conventional proem. The Ilias parva goes even further: Ί sing Ilion and Dardanos5 land of fine horses5 ("Ιλιον αείδω κ α ι Δ αρδανίην έύπωλον). Although the poet’s talent is granted by god (Θ 44, 498), by the Muses or Apollon who have ‘taught’ him (Θ 481, 488), and the Muse ‘urges’ him (άνήκεν, Θ 73) to sing, yet his song itself no longer needs their help, he sings ‘as the thought drives him5 (οππη οί νόος ορνυται, α 347), as the spirit moves him to singing5(οππη θυμός έπο τρ ύ νη σ ιν ά είδ ειν, θ 45). In the Odyssey we also find people who speak with real pride of their own achievements and show awareness of their own abilities. Thus Phemios is equally proud of having been ‘self-taught’ (αυτοδίδακτος) and of having had various ‘ways’ of song (Οίμας, x 347) implanted in his mind by a god. For him, there is no contradiction between the divine gift and his own ability,7 since the latter presupposes the former, the talented minstrel sings ‘from the gods5 (θεών εξ, p 518). On the other hand, he is evidently proud of his own creative power.8 This idea, which was to find such magnificent expression later in choral lyric poetry, appears first in the Odyssey. It is very telling because in other respects, too, there is much more emphasis on personal achievement as well as on personal failure. Odysseus5 companions perish ‘by their own wild recklessness’'(αύτών . . . σ φ ετέρ η σ ιν ά τα σ θα λίη σ ιν, α 7) - not through the ‘will of Zeus5 (Δίός βουλή), as the proem to the Iliad had said.

8

Homer's A r t

Accordingly, Zeus says in the gods’ first meeting: O h for shame, how the mortals put the blame upon us gods! For they say evils come from us, but it is they, rather, who by their own recklessness win sorrow beyond what was given’ (oi δέ και αυτοί σφήσιν άτασθαλχησιν υπέρ μόρον αλγε3 εχουσ ιν, α 32ffi). The suitors, too, perish because of their own transgres­ sions and misdeeds - as Penelope says: ‘So they suffered for their own recklessness’ (τφ δι ατασθαλίας επαθον κακόν, ψ 67). However, it is not only their mistakes that mortals are accountable for; while in general it is true in the Odyssey as well as in the Iliad that decisive motivations and ideas are inspired by gods, yet on occasion there can be a notion that an idea may come from one’s own ‘m ind’ (θυμός). Thus, when Penelope asks why Telemachos went to Pylos, Medon replies: Ί do not know whether some god moved him, or whether his own mind had the impulse to go’ (Ô 712f.).9 In addition to a greater awareness of the individual’s intellectual activity and achievement, there is also a new appreciation of intellectual abilities which seem responsible for the Odyssey %stronger interest in bards and their craft. While in the Iliady too, good advice and a fitting comment are acclaimed (for instance, Nestor is highly respected on account of both and Odysseus’ standing epithet is ‘equal of Zeus in counsel’, Διί μήτιν ατάλαντος, B 169, 407, 636, K 137 - cp. v 89 - , Γ 2Û0ff. and 2l6ff.), these phrases refer nearly always10 to battles: a clever idea is significant only insofar as it proves useful for the fight. By contrast, in the Odyssey cleverness is seen as an independent value in its own right. Odysseus himself, the versatile’,11 is the most telling example of this. Even Kalypso admires his cleverness: You are so naughty, and you will have your own way in all things. See how you have spoken to me and reason with me.

ή δή άλιτρός γ3έσσι και ούκ άποφώλια ειδώς* οΐον δή τον μύθον επεφράσθης αγορεύσαχ. (ε 182-3) as do Helen (δ 240ff.) and Menelaos (δ 266ff.). Odysseus himself boasts proudly how cleverly he has tricked the Cyclops (l 445), and when he finally reveals his identity to the Phaiacians he says in proud self-praise: I am Odysseus son of Laertes, known before all men for the study of crafty designs, and my fame goes up to the heavens.

εϊμ3Όδυσεύς Λαερτιάδης, ος πάσι δόλοισιν άνθρώποισι μέλω, καί μευ κλέος ουρανόν ικει. (ί 19-20)

The Singer a n d his Muse

9

His pride and his fame rest on his devious cleverness. When he is ship­ wrecked and tossed about in the waves, Athena gives him not μένος (strength and energy) but επί φροσόνη (forethought, 8 437). It is the wise, bright-eyed goddess herself who tells Odysseus most clearly what they both have in common: he possesses ‘intimately’, πεδόθεν, dissimulation and trickery, and as he is the best among men ‘in counsel and words’ (βουλή και μύθοχσιν), so is she among the gods (v 291ff). It is because Odysseus is so clever that she helps him: Therefore I cannot abandon you when you are unhappy, because you are fluent, and reason closely, and keep your head always.

τφ σε καί ού δύναμαι προλχπεχν δύστηνον έόντα, οϋνεκ έπητής έσσχ και άγχίνοος καί έχέφρων. (v 331-2) Athena’s achievement and protection is here motivated in a new way, unknown to the Iliad. Other figures in the Odyssey are singled out for their cleverness; thus, έχέφρων is also a standing epithet of Penelope (δ 111, π 130, ω 198, περίφρων π 409, 435, ρ 100, etc.), she is more intelligent than all Achaian women before her time, Tor none of these knew thoughts so wise as those Penelope knew’ (τάων ουτχς όμοια νοήματα Πηνελοπείη ήδη, β 121), and Odysseus is pleased to see how cleverly she elicits gifts from the suitors (σ 158-301). Telemachos prides himself on having become reasonable and knowledge­ able of all things, ‘better and worse alike’ (έσθλά τε και τα χέρηα, σ 228—9). For here, what counts is no longer only what is ‘noble’, έσθλόν values have changed. It now matters To look ahead as well as back’, that is, to see the connections, as does Halitherses who has understood that the suitors’ own misdeeds have plunged them into disaster (ω 45 Iff.). Those who know ‘numerous and ancient things’, as Echeneos does among the Phaiacians (η 157), are respected; the poet praises him for exactly the same qualities that he himself possesses! Given that values such as intelligence, experience, knowledge of manifold and ancient’ things are here so much focused upon, in other words values that characterize the epic poet himself and are essential to his art, one cannot help feeling that the poet sees himself as a representative of intellectual qualities.12 At one point this is stated quite explicitly: Odysseus has not lied to the Phaiacians but told his story with expert knowledge like a bard’ (ώς οτ αοιδός έπισταμένως), for he has ‘a sound m ind’ (φρένες έσθλαί) and the ‘shape of words’ (μορφή επέων, λ 3ó7f.).13 Knowledge (έπίστασθαι), a sound mind (φρένες έσθλαί) and the ‘shape’ or ‘grace’ of words (μορφή έπέων) are the particular qualities of the bard. In this context, Odysseus’ reply to Euryalos’ challenge is particularly

10

Homer’s A r t

relevant. N ot to all men had god given the gifts of charm5, χαρίεντα, such as ‘stature, brains or eloquence5 (φυή, φρένες, άγορητύς). For one man may be inconspicuous to look at,

but the god puts comeliness on his words, and they who look toward him are filled with joy at the sight, and he speaks to them without faltering in winning modesty, and shines among those who are gathered, and people look on him as on a god when he walks in the city.

άλλα θεός μορφήν επεσι στέφει, οί δέ τ ές αυτόν τερπόμενοι λευσσουσιν* ο δ'άσφαλέως αγορεύει αιδοί μειλιχίη, μετά δέ πρέπει άγρομένοισιν, ερχόμενον δ* άνά άστυ θεόν ώς εισορόωσιν. (θ 170-73) Another may be good-looking, ‘but upon his words there is no grace distilled5 (άλλ5 οΰ oi χάρις άμφί περιστέφεται επέεσσιν), just like Euryalos who is handsome to look at, but ‘in thinking is worthless5 (VÓOV άποφώλιος), and who has spoken ‘not as is right' (ού κατά κόσμον, θ 174-9). While the idea that Zeus has distributed talents in different ways is found in the Iliad (N 730-4), the Odyssey passage introduces an innovation which is very significant in this context, although it has not yet been fully appreciated. Here, the type of the clever, the articulate, in short, the ‘intellectual5 man is distinguished from and seen as superior to others. Odysseus sees himself quite clearly as a representative of this new type of individual which is so strikingly characteristic of the Odyssey, and in this he is confirmed by Alkinoos (λ 367). To a man who possesses these intellectual qualities (χαρίεντα), everyone looks as to a god: this is the clearest indication of the esteem that is here shown for the new ‘intellectual5 man, and we may assume that Odysseus is here giving voice to the poet’s own ideal. The new emphasis on intellectual qualities is another important reason why in the Odyssey so much more attention is paid to the figure of the poet than in the Iliad. The Odyssey has a different set of values. It does preserve the old esteem for fame (κλέος) which is so typical of aristocratic ‘shame-cultures5; Athena appeals to Telemachos5sense of honour by reminding him of the importance of fame and citing the example of Orestes: he must prove his valour, ‘so that he is praised by future generations' (a 298-302), and in γ 204 Telemachos refers back to her words.14 Actions are determined by consideration of good reputation and what people will say (φάτίς, δήμου φήμις), at any rate in an aristocratic setting: cp. Odysseus (ξ 239), Penelope (π 75) and Nausikaa (ζ 29)· When Eurymachos fails to string the bow, he is annoyed less because he has lost the prospect of marrying Penelope than because he and the other suitors are so much inferior in strength to Odysseus — that is a ‘shame'

The Singer a n d his Muse

11

(ελεγχείη) which will be transmitted to posterity (φ 246-55); particularly galling is the thought that people will say that they have been defeated by a vagabond beggar (φ 321-9). For the Odyssey as for the Iliad,, this is the essential function of poetry; only in song will the praiseworthy and the less praiseworthy deeds of men live on, only song will preserve and spread fame. As Agamemnons’ shadow puts it: never will the repute of Penelope’s loyalty be lost, ‘but the immortals will make for the people of earth a thing of grace in the song for prudent Penelope’ (τεύξουσι δ' έπιχθονίοισιν άοίδήν αθάνατοι χαρίεσσαν εχέφρονι Πηνελοπείη); Klytaimestra will have a ‘hateful song’ (στυγερή άοίδή) among men on account of her crime, and she will bring ‘bad repute’ (χαλεπή φήμις) to the whole female sex (CO 196 202).15 However, when Menelaos erects an empty tomb for his murdered brother ‘so that his fame might be ever-lasting’ (ιν’άσβεστον κλέος εϊη, δ 584), or when the shadow of the quite insignificant Elpenor asks for the same favour ‘so that those to come will know of me’ (καί έσσομένοισι πυθέσθαΐ, λ 76), this could be seen as an indication that the concept of ‘fame’ is beginning to fade.16 Also, what is praised is no longer the old war-like valour. Odysseus himself takes pride in his ‘tricks’ (δόλοΐ), and his fame reaches the sky (l 20, cp. i 281, τ 203, Autolykos τ 396). He is so proud of them that he asks the bard to sing to the Phaiacians his trick with the Wooden Horse (Θ 492ff.). Another ‘trick’ is Hephaistos’ net in the tale of Ares and Aphrodite, which Demodokos had recited before. Such are now the contents of songs and the objects of praise (κλείειν), this is what the audience enjoy (Θ 367ffi). Glory that reaches the sky is earned not only by the bravery or intelligence of heroes, but even by the song itself, which is another indica­ tion of the poet’s self-esteem: in Demodokos’ first appearance (Θ 73ff), the Muse drives him -

to sing the famous actions of men on that venture, whose fame goes up into the wide heaven, the quarrel between Odysseus and Peleus’ son, Achilleus.

άειδέμεναι κλέα άνδρών, οϊμης τής τότ’ άρα κλέος ουρανόν ευρύν Ικάνεν, νείκος Όδυσσήος και Πηλείδεω Άχιλήος. (cp. α 351)17 Another indication of the importance of song is the eagerness of its audience. Telemachos bids the noisy suitors be quiet, since it is a splendid thing to listen to a singer who is such a singer as this man is, with a voice such as gods have.

12

Homer's A r t

έπει τόδε καλόν άκουέμεν έστίν άοιδου τοιοϋδ5, οιος οδ’ έστί, θεοίς εναλίγκιος αύδήν. (α 370-1) The same words are addressed to Alkinoos by Odysseus who adds that he cannot think of anything more pleasant than to listen to a bard during a banquet (l 3—11)-1 In the Iliad, too, the song to entertain the guests was a regular part of a banquet. W hat is new in the Odyssey is the exuberant joy expressed again and again by the listeners, on hearing nor only festive songs but stories generally, and this may well be a characteristic feature of the younger poem. Thus, Telemachos says to Menelaos who had told him about his journeys, that he could easily stay and go on listening for a whole year without feeling homesick. such strange pleasure do I take listening to your stories and sayings,

αίνώς γαρ μύθοισιν επεσσί τε σοχσιν άκούων τέρπομαχ. (δ 597-8) Alkinoos is eager to listen to the sequel of Odysseus' account of the Greeks' vicissitudes at Troy and their journey home: This night is very long, it is endless. It is not time yet to sleep in the palace. But go on telling your wonderful story. I myself could hold out until the bright dawn, if only you could bear to tell me, here in the palace, of your sufferings.

νύξ δ’ ήδε μάλα μακρή, αθέσφατος* ουδέ πω ώρη ευδειν εν μεγάρω, σύ δε μοι λέγε θέσκελα έργα, καί κεν ές ήώ δίαν άνασχοίμην, οτε μοι συ τλαίης έν μεγάρφ τα σά κήδεα μυθήσασθαι. (λ 373-6) He wants to hear ‘wondrous, amazing things’ (θέσκελα έργα)19 - these are no longer the warlike exploits (άριστεΐαΐ) of heroes but the adventur­ ous and fabulous journeys of Odysseus, so rich in miracles. Penelope, too, would like to continue listening with delight to the stranger, whom she has not yet recognized, without falling asleep, and she evidently resents the fact that human nature cannot quite go without sleep (x 589-93). However, after their recognition Odysseus does tell his whole story to her, and she listened to him with delight, nor did any sleep fall upon her eyes until he had told her everything.

The Singer a n d his Muse

13

ή δ3άρ3 ετέρπετ3άκουουσ3, ουδέ οι ύπνος πίπτεν έπι βλεφάροισι, πάρος καταλέξαι άπαντα. (ψ 308-9) When Odysseus enquires after Eumaios’ fate, he replies: ‘Stranger, since you are asking me, listen carefully, in silence, enjoy yourself and drink’: These nights are endless, and a man can sleep through them, or he can enjoy listening to stones, and you have no need to go to bed before it is time. Too much sleep is only a bore.

αϊδε δέ νύκτες άθέσφατον εστι μέν ευδειν, εστι δέ τερπομένοισιν άκοόειν ουδέ τί σε χρή, πριν ώρη, καταλέχθαν άνίη γάρ πολύς ύπνος. (ο 392-4) Let the others go to sleep if they wish, but we two, sitting here in the shelter, eating and drinking, shall entertain each other remembering and retelling our sad sorrows. For afterwards a man who has suffered much and wandered much has pleasure out;of his sorrows.

νώϊ δ3ενί κλισίη πίνοντέ τε δαινυμένφ τε κήδεσιν άλλήλων τερπώμεθα λευγαλέοισιν μνωομένω* μετά γάρ τε και άλγεσι τέρπεται άνήρ, ος τις δή μάλα πολλά πάθη καί πόλλ3έπαληθη. (ο 398-401) How deeply Eumaios had been impressed by Odysseus’ tales becomes clear when he later reports to Penelope about these nights: the stories that man is telling, her heart would be bewitched by them! He has hosted him for three days and three nights, and he still has not come to the end of his account: But as when a man looks to a singer, who has been given from the gods the skill with which he sings for delight of mortals, and they are impassioned and strain to hear it when he sings to them, so he enchanted me in the halls as he sat beside me.

ώς δ3όΥ άοιδον άνήρ ποτιδέρκεται, ος τε θεών εξ άείδη δεδαώς επε3ίμερόεντα βροτοισιν, του δ3άμοτον μεμάασιν άκουέμεν, οπποτ3άείδη, ώς έμε κείνος εθελγε παρήμενος εν μεγάροισιν. (ρ 518-21)

14

Homer’s Art

Here, too, as in λ 368, Odysseus is compared to a bard; this time the point of comparison is the effect of the ‘words’ (έπεα): it is ‘enchantment’ (θέλγειν). The listeners, spellbound, look at the bard, eager to continue listening, they are completely fascinated. This, too, is an entirely new concept, and peculiar to the Odyssey. According to the Iliad, song creates ‘enjoyment’, τέρπειν — there is no hint of ‘enchantment’. In the Iliade θέλγειν is always done by gods, and VÓOV θέλγειν means ‘to make unconscious’ (O 594, M 255).20 In Iliad Ξ 215, Aphrodite’s girdle is a ‘charm’ (θελκτήριον). In the Odyssey, by contrast, mortals, too, can ‘bewitch’; for example Aigisthos bewitched Klytaimestra (γ 264), Penelope the suitors (σ 212, 282); Eumaios does not wish to be beguiled by Odysseus’ lies (ξ 387) and Penelope calls Phemi os’ songs θελκτήρια - understandably, for she is so shaken by what Phemios has just sung that she can hardly control herself.21 The way in which several passages in the Odyssey (cp., in particular, T 204ff.) highlight the lively interest shown by the audience for a song is significant.22 Odysseus, like Penelope, is unable to conceal his emotion, he is in tears and hides his face (Θ 83—92), indeed he has been sobbing continuously during Demodokos’ performance (Θ 5 39—41), while the Phaiacians enjoy the song and urge the singer on (Θ 90—1). True, the reason why Penelope and Odysseus are so deeply upset by the songs about the Achaians’ homecoming is, naturally, because this subject is so closely linked to their own fate; yet it affects not only them: the Phaiacians, too, are captivated by Odysseus’ narrative, they listen in silence, spellbound, ‘bewitched’, as we are told twice: So he spoke, and all of them stayed stricken to silence, held in thrall by the story all through the shadowy chambers.

ώς εφατ’, ol δ3αρα πάντες άκήν εγένοντο σιωπή, κηληθμφ δ3εσχοντο κατά μέγαρα σκιόεντα. (λ 333-4, V 1-2) This implies that the song casts a spell over all those who are eagerly listening, and not just over those who are personally affected; as Archilochos later puts it: ‘Anyone who . . . is enchanted by songs’, κ η λ ε ιτ α ι (κηλω ται pap.: Kemke) δ’ οτις [ . . . ] ων α οιδα ΐς (fr. 253 W.). The close link between the enchanting effect of poetry and the passionate desire to listen to stories which characters in the Odyssey display on many occasions is impressively illustrated by the story of the Sirens. They bewitch all mortals with their ‘clear song’, they lure Odysseus by saying that nobody has been able to sail past them without listening to their ‘honey-sweet voices’,

The Singer a n d his Muse

15

‘then he goes on, well pleased, knowing more than ever he did; for we know everything that the Argives and Trojans did and suffered in wide Troy through the gods’ despite. Over all the generous earth we know everything that happens.’ So they sang, in sweet utterance, and the heart within me desired to listen.

άλλ3ο γε τερψάμενος νειται και πλείονα ειδώς* ιδμεν γάρ τοι πάνθ3οσ ένί Τροίη εύρειη Άργειοι Τρώες τε θεών ίότητι μόγησαν, ϊδμεν δ’ οσσα γένηται επί χθονχ πουλυβοτειρη. ώς φάσαν ίεΐσαι οπά κάλλιμον αύτάρ έμον κήρ ήθελ3άκου έμε ναι. (μ 188-93) Surprisingly, the power of their song is not based on magic; they do not promise Odysseus anything miraculous, nor any magic formula, but joy and greater knowledge. As the Muses in the Iliad (B 485), being present everywhere, know everything and pass it on to the poet, so here the Sirens know everything that happened at Troy and is happening on the vast earth - and this is what Odysseus wants to hear; he is so keen on it that his companions have to tighten his bonds even more strongly (μ 196). So it is knowledge that mortals so keenly desire,./though it is knowledge of a particular kind. For from the narrator’s viewpoint, it is knowledge of very recent events or even, as with the Sirens, of contemporary events. Whereas in the Iliad heroes sometimes relate episodes in their lives which had mostly happened quite some time before, the characters of the Odyssey want to hear of the most recent events. This is precisely why the suitors, to Penelope’s grief, demand the song of the homecoming (νόστος) of the Achaians: People, surely, always give more applause to that song which is the latest to circulate among the listeners.

τήν γάρ άοιδήν μάλλον έπικλείουσ3άνθρωποι, ή τις άκουόντεσσι νεωτάτη άμφιπέληται. (α 351-2) The audience wants the ‘newest song’; this evidently refers to the content alone: the epic poet is not concerned about the form. Just as keen on news as his audience is Odysseus himself, ‘who saw the cities of many peoples and learnt their way of thinking’ (a 3), who again and again wants to find out ‘what people may be like’ (οίτινες άνέρες εΐεν, ι 89, 174, K 101; cp. K 110, 147). So eager to know is he that he enters the Cyclops’ cave rashly, risking his companions’ lives and his own, deaf to their entreaties to turn back — just to see that brute himself, ‘and whether he

16

Homer's A r i

m ight give me presents’ (l 229), in other words, out of curiosity and greed. For the same reasons, his companions open Aiolos’ bag (K 44—5). W hen Odysseus meets Aias’ shadow in Hades, who keeps apart, silent in his proud resentment, he m ight yet have spoken to him ,

but the heart in my inward breast wanted still to see the souls of the other perished dead men.

αλλά μοι ήθελε θυμός svi στήθεσσι φίλοισιν των άλλων ψυχάς ίδέειν κατατεθνηώτων. (λ 566-7) O nly the curiosity of Odysseus, wishing to converse with other souls, prevented the continuation of the dialogue.’23 He stays put, waiting, and he would have loved to have seen the souls of men from even remoter times, but eventually he is overcome by fear of the crowds of shadows approaching him and the thought that Gorgo might be among them (λ 630ff.). This is another characteristic feature which Odysseus shares with the poet of the Odyssey who repeatedly displays his keen interest in ethnographical and geographical details, for instance in the description of Crete presented by Odysseus in τ 172ff. and in the comment on the Ethiopians in a 23f., and his interest in agriculture and cattle-breeding, for example in the digression on Libya in Menelaos’ account of his journey (δ 85ff ). In comparing the two εϊδω λο ν-scenes in Iliad ψ 99ff. and Odyssey λ 204ff., Jacoby has shown24 how the passage in the Odyssey tries to offer an explanation of this phenom­ enon which so much amazes Odysseus, using δίκη (daw’, λ 218) almost as a ‘scientific’ term. This is rather like Penelope’s attempt to explain the exis­ tence of truthful and deceitful dreams (τ 56Off.) —‘evidently intended as a solution to a problem’ (Jacoby) - and in particular her use of etymological connections. Similarly, Odysseus himself uses etymology to interpret his. name (τ 407—9), and Hesiod has a particular liking for it.25 Here are the roots from which Ionian science and ‘enlightenment’ was to develop. Accordingly, the poets’ claim to truthfulness, which is also shared by the author of the Odyssey, acquires a new dimension. While the poet of the Iliad relies on the Muses to vouch for the accurate recollection of the names of all the Greek heroes, in other words for a ‘truth’ that keeps entirely within the perimeters of the heroic concept of ‘fame’ (κλέος), the Odyssey sometimes emphasizes the reliability and authenticity of the narrative. Thus, Odysseus praises Demodokos as having been taught by the Muse or Apollon, for all too right following the tale you sing the Achaians’ venture, all they did and had done to them, all the sufferings of these Achaians, as if you had been there yourself or heard it from one who was.

The Singer a n d his Muse

17

λίην γαρ κατά κόσμον Αχαιών οίτον άείδεις, οσσ' ερξαν τ' επαθόν τε και δσσ5εμόγησαν Αχαιοί, ώς τέ που ή αυτός παρεών ή άλλου ακούσας. (θ 489-91) Demodokos has reported ‘in order’, κατά κόσμον, as if he had himself been present or heard from another (sc. who had been there, that is, from an eye­ witness).26 At one point, Odysseus explicitly names his source for some­ thing which he could not otherwise have known: All this I heard afterward from fair-haired Kalypso, and she told me she herself had heard it from the guide, Hermes.

ταυτα δ' έγών ήκουσα Καλυψους ήυκόμοιο* ή δ5εφη Έρμείαο διακτόρου αύτή ακουσαι. (μ 389-90)27 So, above all else the narrative has to be truthful, and its truth is of a quite pragmatic kind: ‘this is how it happened’. Whoever reports reliably, accu­ rately and objectively earns the highest praise, as Demodokos does, and we need not hesitate to attribute this view to the poet himself and his audience. To ask how this claim to truthfulness is to be reconciled with the fairy-tale narratives, or whether the poet expected his audience to accept the Kirke story or the visit to Hades at face-value, would; be anachronistically modern. Thé transitions from the sphere of ‘realistic’ travelogues to that of miracles and fairy-tales (and vice versa) are fluid and almost imperceptible. How closely these two spheres are interwoven can best be seen in the Sirens’ episode. These fantastic creatures, as fascinating as they are terrifying, promise very tangible knowledge; this means that the miraculous is still, up to a point, accepted as real, and reality appears, conversely, dressed up as fantasy. The critical spirit of enlightenment, its scepticism and rationalism have not yet stirred; as soon as it does, criticism of Homer’s lies’ is voiced, too. But the audience of the Odyssey still listens with equal fascination to fairy-tales and adventures as well as to historical, geographical and ethnographical accounts. Summing up the results of the individual interpretations and looking at the Homeric epics as a whole from the perspective of our investigation, we see a rather diverse picture. The Iliad ? on the one hand, mentions profes­ sional bards and their competitions, if only in passing, as performers at religious festivals and similar occasions; the Odyssey, on the other hand, pays much greater attention to the singer. The poet of the Iliad is absorbed with battles and the warlike qualities of his protagonists to such an extent that he himself remains almost completely invisible behind the events he narrates. He almost never speaks in his own person except when invoking the Muses, and there he is interested primarily in the accuracy of the report, and above

18

Homer’s A r t

ail in the accurate and complete account of the names; we have seen .how closely the name is linked to the concept of ‘fame'. This is still alive in the Odyssey, as κλέος, ‘reputation', remains the crucial criterion of values and actions in aristocratic society, but here fame is based not so much on purely martial qualities as on intellectual abilities. A new, intellectual type of man emerges, represented by Odysseus himself and also by the singer; they both have essential features in common. The high esteem of intellectual ability also accounts for the new-found assurance and authority of the bard who no longer invokes the Muse - except in the proem - but proudly asserts his own creative and intellectual abilities. The poet of the Odyssey describes not only his own ‘colleagues' (Demodokos, Phemios) but also projects some of his own characteristics on his protagonist, the great narrator of tales; in a way he forms him, as far as the traditional myth allows, after his own image. There is only one scene in the Iliad where a hero is portrayed singing and playing the lyre - Achilles singing of the ‘exploits of men' (κλέα άνδρών, I 189). The content of song is the heroic deed and the great personality. Themes of this kind are not unknown to the Odyssey, but here the interest in challenges met with cleverness and resourcefulness appears appreciably stronger. The characters in the Iliad are predominantly warlike, and even where their intelligence is emphasized, it refers to fighting. In the Odyssey, by contrast, they are, above all, intelligent, resourceful, even deceitful, and they are curious and inquisitive (qualities that the Iliad conspicuously lacks), they like telling of remote and strange peoples and countries, often blurring the distinction between reality and fairy-tale. Poetry aims to entertain, its effect is pleasure, according to the lliad\ there is no suggestion anywhere that it intends or produces anything else. In the Odyssey it does, too, but beyond that it can also enchant, its effect assumes a magical quality. 28 However, what is felt to be fascinating is something very rational, that is, pragmatic and empirical knowledge. This is connected with the listeners’ extraordinarily keen interest, their insatiable appetite for stories and new information. Both epics have in common that they may have been composed for aristocratic societies whose requirements they meet and whose views and preferences their respective poets share. The poet lives within his own society and with his public; he does not see himself isolated, speaking as an individual and in his own name and on his own behalf, as Hesiod does and, later, the lyric poets do even more explicitly.

Notes 1. See, above all, F. Jacoby, Antike 9 (1933) 159ff- ( =Kleine philologische Schriften Bd.l, Berlin (1961) 107f£); W. Nestle, Hermes 11 (1942) 46-77 and 113-39; H. Fränkel, Early Greek Poetry and Philosophy, Oxford (1975) lOff.

The Singer a n d his Muse

19

2. Nestle's reservations against this term, op. cit. 136, appear justified. 3. For a different view, see W. Schadewaidt, Ve?« Homers Welt und Werk, 2nd ed., Stuttgart (1951) 61. 4. See H. Frankel, op. dt. Uff. 5. See W. Kraus, Wiener Studien 68 (1955) 66ff. 6. Jacoby, Antike 9 (1933) 175ff. offers several examples illustrating how the poet of the Odyssey has his own personal interests and does not hesitate to include interesting facts simply because they are interesting to him and because he expects the same of his listeners. 7. As E.R. Dodds has pointed out, The Greeks and the Irrational, Berkeley-Los Angeles (1951) 10. 8. For this is the meaning of αύτοδίδακτος, ‘a tentative term for free and autonomous creativity5, as Schadewaidt put it, op. cit. 79- So Phemios can offer not only old songs which had been handed down from bard to bard; he can create out of his own mind a new song about a contemporary theme, such as the return of the Greeks (a 350-2). See H. Frankel, op. cit. 19f., n. 26.

9. Cp, γ 26f., η 263. 10. Γ 2l6ff. is an exception, as H. Erbse has pointed out to me. 11. πολύτροπος is the one who has many τρόποι (‘ways and means5) at his disposal, like Hermes (cp. h.Merc. 13 and 439) - not ‘much turned, much travelled5 (LSJ). 12. See H. Frankel, op. cit. 10-11, who has shown how much Odysseus himself has in common with the bard, including certain features that can only have been transferred from the poet's own experience. 13. Cp. p 518f£, on which see below.

14. Cp. τ 332ff., ω 94, ε 311. 15. Occasionally poets talk as if deeds were accomplished for the sake of song, not songs for the sake of deeds; so from the bard's perspective the original sequence seems reversed, and he instinctively applies this perspective to the characters of his poem; cp. Z 357fi, Θ 579f, and Eur. Troades 1240ff 16. See G. Steinkopf, ‘Untersuchungen zur Geschichte des Ruhmes bei den Griechen5, PhD thesis, Halle (1937) 15. 17. On this passage, see P. Von der Mühll in West-östliche Abhandlungen (Fes­ tschrift R. Tschudi), Wiesbaden (1954) 1-5. A different interpretation is suggested by W. Marg in Navicula Chilionensis (Festschrift F. Jacoby), Leiden (1956) 16—29; he states that even the Alexandrians had no other evidence for the quarrel between Odysseus and Achilles which he regards as an impromptu invention; he infers from a comparison between Θ 75-82, the proem to the Iliad, and A 255ff. that the ΟΪμη referred to in Θ 74 must be the Iliad itself, which would make this line a homage to the Iliad and the oldest testimony of its existence, op. cit. 27. This is not convin­ cing; the first point is an argumentum e silentio', we know too little about preHomeric songs of heroes to be sure that a song of a quarrel between Odysseus and Achilles never existed - such quarrels were a familiar subject of epic. The opposite conclusion seems more likely: as Marg himself rightly says, the story is told so briefly that it remains obscure - does it not follow that it is a summary of a song with which the poet's audience would have been familiar? As for the proem to the Iliad, its comparison with Θ 74, far from supporting Marg's conclusion, shows rather that the motifs are quite different; Achilles5 wrath and his quarrel with Agamemnon are disastrous for the Achaians (A 2) and a cause for Priam and the Trojans to rejoice (A 255), whereas here Odysseus' quarrel with Achilles gives joy to Agamemnon on account of an oracle. (Θ 490 proves nothing because it refers to the whole of the Trojan War, not just to the Iliadi) Marg's assumption implies that

20

Homer's A r t

the poet has coded his alleged 'allusion' to the Iliad by (1) substituting Odysseus for Agamemnon, (2) putting the quarrel »theme into a completely different context, and (3) invented an oracle for this purpose - this seems very far-fetched. 18. These lines became famous, cp. Certamen Homeri et Hesiodi 79—88. 19 For the meaning of θεσκελος, cp. Γ 130, λ 610. 20* Cp. Ω 343, N 435, O 322, Φ 276, 604. 21. This difference seems not to have been noticed so far. W. Kraus, Wiener Studien 68 (1955) 69 rightly points out that 'diese Beispiele zeigen, zu welcher Art von Dingen die Dichtung gehört, daß sie aufgefaßt wird als etwas irrational Wirkendes, das die Seele einer fremden Macht unterwirft’ - but this applies only to the Odyssey\ Cp. also έπαοιδή = ‘spell, incantation’, x 457. 22. This is expressed by the verb itself: φρεσι σύνθετο (α 328); cp. B. Snell, Die Ausdrücke für den Begriff des Wissens in der vorplatonischen Philosophie (Philolo­ gische Untersuchungen 29), Berlin (1924) 43. 23- H. Frankel, op. cit. 89. Odysseus is ‘struck’ by the new and unknown, it is a challenge to him; here we can see the roots of the Ionian ίστορίη of the fifth century. 24. F. Jacoby, Antike 9 (1933) 178. 25. Cp. Hes. Th. l44f., 195if., 281ff., Op. 81f., fr. 235 M.-W. For a more detailed discussion, see E. Risch, ‘Namensdeutungen und Worterklärungen bei den ältesten griechischen Dichtern7, in Eumusia, Festgabe fur Ernst Howald, Zürich (1947) 72ff.; cp. also L.Ph. Rank, ‘Etymologiseering en verwante verschijnselen bij Homerus’, PhD thesis, Utrecht (1951). 26. The same distinction is made by Thucydides I 22,2. 27. See on this passage K. Reinhardt, Von Werken und Formen 113. 28. It would be interesting to investigate how this may be linked to the preference for sphinxes and other fantastic demons on contemporary vases and to the beginnings of the ‘orientalizing’ style in vase-painting.

73 ______________________________________ Poetic Inspiration in Early Greece* P. Murray *Source: journal of Hellenic Studies, voi. 101, 1981, pp. 87-100.

It is generally agreed that the concept of inspiration is one of the most basic and persistent of Greek notions about poetry. Yet there appears to be a certain confusion on the significance of this observation. For instance, while most scholars consider that the idea is of very great antiquity in Greece, there is a recent tendency to regard the concept as a formulation of the fifth century B.c. E. A. Havelock, for example, describes the notion of poetic inspiration as an invention of fifth century philosophers,1 and G. S. Kirk states, without discussion, that poetic inspiration was ‘probably quite a new conception’ at the time Euripides was writing.2 This type of disagreement clearly relates to the more fundamental question of the meaning of the concept of inspiration itself. For although there is an apparent consensus that ancient notions of poetic inspiration correspond in some way to certain modern ideas about the nature of poetic creativity, little attention has been paid to these modern notions of inspiration. And unless such modern notions are investigated, the mere observation that there is a similarity is of little value.3 In this paper I consider the idea of poetic inspiration in early Greek literature from Homer to Pindar. Despite variations in the views of indivi­ dual poets (related, no doubt, to changes in the function and social status of the poet during this period)4 the early Greek poets share certain basic assumptions about the nature of poetic creativity, and can therefore be treated together as a group. My aim in what follows is to clarify these basic assumptions, and therefore the early Greek concept of poetic inspiration. It seems to me that there are in particular two theoretical issues in need of analysis, both fundamental to our understanding of ancient views of poetic creativity. The first is the frequent assumption that inspiration necessarily involves ecstasy or possession, and that the inspired poet takes no conscious part in the process of composition, but is merely the passive instrument of

22

Homer’s A r t

some overwhelming force. An important consequence of this assumption is that inspiration and craft or technique are seen as incompatible. All this is, of course, true of Plato’s concept of poetic inspiration as ενθουσιασμός or μανία: throughout his work Plato describes the inspired poet as a passive instrument who knows nothing of what he is saying and who cannot explain the source or the meaning of his poetry.5 But there is no evidence to suggest that the early Greek poets thought of inspiration in this way. In fact this concept of poetic inspiration as a kind of ecstatic madness—furor poeticus— appears to be no older than the fifth century.6 Nevertheless certain scholars persist in equating early Greek notions of inspiration with the Platonic concept οΐ furor poeticus. For example, E. Barmeyer7 refers to the traditional Greek notion ‘nach der der inspirierte Dichter seinen Standort verliert und im Enthusiasmus die Gottheit über ihn kommt’ and M. Fuhrmann8 speaks of the typically Greek concept of poetic creativity as ‘Verzückung, W ahn­ sinn, Entrückung oder Rausch, als ein Heraustreten des Dichters aus sich selbst (Ekstase), als ein Erfülltsein durch den Gott (Enthusiasmus)’. A particularly good example of confusion is provided by Havelock.9 He rightly notes that the notion of possession is absent from early Greek poetry, but consequently concludes that the notion of inspiration is equally absent. Before the fifth century, on his view, poetry was thought of as a craft; the ‘contrary conception’ of poetic inspiration was invented in the fifth century. In other words Havelock assumes both that inspiration and possession are identical and that inspiration and technique are incompatible. He does not recognise any concept of poetic inspiration other than Plato’s,10 nor does he appear to entertain the possibility that the concept was conceived of in different ways at different periods in antiquity. In fact modern studies of the creative process show that there are different kinds of inspiration, both in theory and in practice.11 The experience which gives rise to the concept has been described by many different poets at different periods. Obviously the experience differs from poet to poet, but an essential feature of it is the feeling that poetry comes from some source other than the conscious mind. In its most mild form inspiration is simply the moment when a thought or phrase spontaneously presents itself to the poet as the starting point of a poem.12 Although the initial inspiration appears to come to the poet as if from some source other than himself, the subsequent composition of the poem depends on conscious effort and hard work. At the other extreme inspiration can be a much more shattering experience, invol­ ving any one or more of the following features. The poet composes with great ease and fluency, sometimes with extreme speed. No subsequent revision is necessary. Composition may be accompanied by an unusually heightened state, variously described as frenzy, intoxication, enthusiasm or ecstasy. Such a state can only be temporary and does not depend on the will of the poet. When inspiration ceases, the poet is amazed at what he has written, and can only describe himself as the instrument of some higher power.13

The Singer a n d his Muse

23

The basic feature in ali these experiences of inspiration seems to be the feeling of dependence on some source other than the conscious mind. We might perhaps distinguish between two tyçes of inspiration, one of which involves ecstasy, the other of which does not,14 but these two types are merely the opposite ends of a spectrum, and within this spectrum there are many different kinds of inspiration. It is a mistake therefore to assume that inspira­ tion either in theory or in practice necessarily involves total abandonment of responsibility for his creation on the part of the poet. And it is certainly a mistake to impute such notions to the early Greek poets, as I shall show. The second issue which needs clarification concerns the definition of, and the distinction between,, the concepts of poetic inspiration and poetic genius. Inspiration can be broadly defined as the temporary impulse to poetic creation, and relates primarily to the poetic process. Genius is a permanent quality on which poetic creativity depends and relates primarily to the poetic personality. These ideas are similar in that they both account for the element in the poetic process which is felt to be inexplicable, and both can be contrasted with the technical aspects of composition. But they are basically distinct from each other. The one— poetic inspiration—accounts for poetic creativity in terms of a temporary visitation from some external, or seemingly external, force; the other in terms of permanent qualities inherent in the poet. The beginnings of both of these ideas are, I suggest, discernible as early as Homer, and failure to distinguish between them has clouded our understanding of anciënt views of poetic creativity.15

The Muses In early Greek poetry inspiration is, of course, characteristically expressed in terms of the Muses. I shall not discuss here the question of how the idea of the Muses originated,10 but I take it that whatever else the Muses stand for they symbolise the poet’s feeling of dependence on the external: they are the personification of his inspiration. The Muses inspire the bard in two main ways: (a) they give him permanent poetic ability; (b) they provide him with temporary aid in composition. Homer and the early Greek poets in general do not distinguish between these two ideas, neither do classical scholars. But they are nevertheless distinguishable. In fact they are the forerunners of the two concepts, outlined above, which account for the inexplicable element in poetic creation. The Muses’ gift of permanent poetic ability corresponds to the explanation of creativity in terms of the poetic personality; their temporary aid in composition corresponds to the explanation of creativity in terms of the poetic process. Homer expresses the first idea, permanent poetic ability, by saying that the Muses love bards, teach them and give them the gift of poetry. Typical of this attitude is the description of Demodocus at Od. viii 44-5:

24

Homer's A r t

τφ γάρ ρα θεός πέρι δώκεν άοιδήν τέρπειν, οππη θυμός εποτρύνησιν άείδειν. Homer does not tell us precisely what the gift of poetry entails, nor does he speculate as to the reasons for its bestowal. But evidently it is a permanent gift of poetic ability, rather than a temporary inspiration. Failure to recog­ nise this can be exemplified by Harriott’s discussion of the gift idiom: ‘the Greeks expressed the belief that poetry is in some mysterious way “given”, and that it comes from a source external to the poet and is other than he is. This view of inspiration is still current, although partly replaced by psychological theories in which poetry is held to emanate from the uncon­ scious m in d /17 There is a difference between lines of poetry being given’ to a poet and the ‘gift’ of poetic ability, which are here confused. I shall discuss elsewhere the full implications of the uses of the gift idiom to denote the bestowal of permanent poetic ability, and the relationship of the idea to the concept of poetic genius. For the purposes of this paper I wish merely to point out this difference between the temporary inspiration and the perma­ nent gift of poetry which the Muses grant, and the fact that we can discern here the beginnings of a distinction between the concepts of poetic inspira­ tion and poetic genius. W e gather that the Muse is believed to inspire the bard in a temporary sense from, for example, the description of Demodocus at Od. viii 73, where the Muse provides the immediate impulse to song: Μουσ’ αρ* άοΐδόν άνήκεν άειδέμεναι κλέα άνδρών. The invocations to the Muses— a traditional feature of early Greek poetry— also imply the notion of temporary inspiration. Sometimes the poet simply asks the Muse to help him begin, or to join in his song. But often the poet asks the Muse for something specific, such as knowledge of events, or sweetness in song.19 We can look at these invocations in two ways: (a) in pragmatic terms, that is, in terms of their significance for an audience, (b) in terms of the poet’s need for divine assistance. Undoubtedly ancient poets use invocations to establish their authority, to guarantee the truth of their words, and to focus the attention of the audience at strategic points. But the invocations also express the poet’s belief in divine inspiration. The point at which the appeal ceases to be genuine is, of course, problematic. But a comparison between the invoca­ tions of the early Greek poets and those of their literary successors strongly suggests that the former spring from a real, religious belief in the Muses.20

Knowledge It has often been pointed out that the invocations in Homer are essentially requests for information, which the Muses, as daughters of Memory, pro­ vide. This is clear from the detailed invocation before the catalogue of ships:

The Singer a n d his Muse

25

Έσπετε νυν μοι, Μούσαι Όλύμπια δώματ5έχουσαι— υμείς γάρ θεαί έστε, πάρεστέ τε, ιστέ τε πάντα, ήμεις δε κλέος oîov άκούομεν ούδέ τι ϊδμεν— οι τινες ήγεμόνες Δαναών καί κοίρανοι ήσαν. πληθύν δ3ουκ αν εγώ μυθήσομαι ούδ* ονομήνω, ούδ3εϊ μοι δέκα μεν γλώσσαι, δέκα δε στόματ3ειεν, φωνή διαρρηκτός, χάλκεον δέ μοι ήτορ ένείη, ει μή Όλυμπιάδες Μουσαι, Διάς αίγιόχοιο θυγατέρες, μνησαίαθ’ όσοι υπό "Ιλιον ήλθον. (IL ii 484-92)21

Some scholars, however, evidently think that it is misleading to connect information with inspiration. Havelock, for example, says that the invoca­ tion quoted above 'shows how true it is that the Muses symbolise the minstrers need of memory and his power to preserve memory, not a spiritual inspiration, which would certainly be inappropriate to a m uster-list'.' And W. W. Minton observes that in the Homeric invoca­ tions 'the poet does not ask for help or guidance in "how" he shall tell his story; there is no suggestion of a plea for “inspiration"; only for informa­ tion’.23 Neither scholar makes it clear what he means by 'inspiration’: but whatever it is, they both agree that it is incompatible with factual content in poetry. But why should inspiration not include, or even consist of, information? In fact, as Minton himself .points out, the Chadwicks have shown that much early oral poetry associated with the 'poet-seer’ is informational in character, and that traces which suggest that such 'seer-poets’ once existed in Greece have been found in both Homer and Hesiod. W hat Minton does not note is the Chadwicks’ insistence on the widespread connexion between inspiration and information in such poetry, summarised thus by N. K. Chadwick: T he association of inspiration and knowledge of whatever kind acquired by supernatural means is ancient and widespread. Inspiration, in fact, relates to revealed knowledge.’24 It is not therefore a contradiction to say that the invocations in Homer are requests for inspiration— even though the inspiration m ight consist lar­ gely of information. The association of the Muses with knowledge of one sort or another continued throughout the early period. It was, amongst other things, Demodocus’ knowledge of the facts of the Achaean expedition which caused Odysseus to wonder at the bard: he must have been taught by the Muse or Apollo25 since he sang of the fate of the Achaeans as if he himself had been present, or as if he had heard from someone else (Od. viii 487—91). Hesiod depicted the Muses on Mount Olympus singing of past, present and future (Th. 36-40) and clearly the gift of poetry which the Muses bestowed on their chosen bards involved the power of true speech. W hen the Muses

26

Homer's A r t

made Hesiod a poet they told him that they could reveal the truth when they wished:

ϊδμεν ψεύδεα πολλά λέγειν ετύμοισιν όμοια, ϊδμεν δ \ εύτ9εθέλωμεν, άληθέα γηρύσασθαι. (Tb. 27-8) These ambiguous lines have been variously interpreted,26 but what cannot be disputed is the fact that the Muses are here represented as having the power to tell the truth. The chief difficulty is to determine the precise nature of the distinction drawn between truth (άληθέα) and plausible fiction (ψεύδεα - . . ετύμοισιν όμοια). The conventional, and I think the correct, interpretation is that Hesiod is here contrasting the true content of his own poetry with the plausible fiction of Homeric epic. West rejects this interpretation on the grounds that 'no Greek ever regarded the Homeric epics as substantially fiction’. But Homer was criticised for misrepresenting the truth.27 Harriott’s suggestion that in these lines Hesiod is faithfully reporting the Muses’ warning that if he were to offend he would be punished by being misled into recording a lying vision’28 seems to me to be singularly unlikely: Hesiod would hardly preface his work with a warning that what followed might be untrue; on the contrary, the proem to the Tbeogony is surely to be regarded as a plea for the infallibility of the poem as a whole. There is, of course, an important difference between the kinds of knowledge bestowed by the Muses in Homer and in Hesiod. The knowledge which Homer’s Muses grant is primarily knowledge of the past— that is, knowledge as opposed to ignorance. Hesiod’s Muses, on the other hand, are responsible for both truth and falsehood: what they give Hesiod is true knowledge as opposed to false. And the poet speaks with the authority of one who believes that his knowledge comes from divine revelation.29 Pindar too, often claims to have special knowledge from the Muses, as for example at Pa. vi 51-8:

ταυτα θεοΐσι [μ]έν πιθειν σοφού[ς] δυνατόν, βροτοισιν δ9άμάχανο[ν εύ]ρέμεν άλλα παρθένοι γάρ, ϊσθ9ότ[ι], Μο[ΐ]σαι, πάντα, κε[λαι]νεφει συν πατρί Μναμοσ[ύν]α τε τούτον έσχετ[ε τεθ]μόν, κλυτε ν υ ν 30 Like Hesiod, but more obsessively, Pindar insists on the truth of what he has to say31— an insistence which is all the stronger because he is acutely

The Singer a n d his Muse

27

aware of the power of poetry to perpetrate falsehood.32 Pindar sees it as part of his task to combat such falsehood, and he is able to do so because he, as prophet of the Muses, has access to knowledge which is hidden from ordinary mortals. In similar fashion Empedocles appeals to the Muses to give him knowledge which will set him apart from other mortals, and he evidently regards the supernatural origin of his poetry as a guarantee of its truth.33 In a more modest Homeric spirit, Plato trades on the traditional function of the Muses as purveyors of the truth when he remarks (albeit ironically) at Repub. 547a that the Hesiodic myth of the four ages of man must be true since it comes from the Muses. A. W. Allen has argued that from the first the Muses were not only the inspirers of poetry, but also the possessors of all knowledge. And he makes the pertinent point that as long as the range of poetry included all forms of knowledge, it fully corresponded to the range of the Muses' authority'.34 The frequent and recurrent associa­ tion of the Muses with knowledge in early Greek poetry suggests a close connection between poetic inspiration and knowledge during this period.

Memory The ancient tradition which made the Muses the daughters of Μνημοσύνη is further evidence of such a connexion. The goddess Μνημοσύνη first appears as mother of the Muses in Hesiod,35 but the connexion between memory and the Muses is already apparent in Homer's use of the verb, μιμνήσκομαι of the Muses' function at 1L ii 492.36 For Plato it was a commonplace that one of the tasks of the Muses was to remind the poet, as we can see from Socrates' words at Euthydemus 275c: he, like the poets, must invoke Memory and the Muses in order to remember a previous conversa­ tion. Several scholars have stressed the importance of this aspect of the Muses, pointing out that at times the Muses seem to be little more than a personification of memory.37 Havelock goes so far as to say that the Muses in Homer have nothing to do with inspiration because they ‘are connected with special feats of memory'.38 This dissociation of inspiration and memory is misguided: there is no inherent incompatibility between inspiration and information, as I have pointed out, and the fact that we might identify the source of the poet’s inspiration as an internal one does not mean that the poet or his audience feels it to be so. Furthermore Havelock’s contention that the Muses embody the bard’s powers of memorisation is highly dubious, as is his theory that Μνημοσύνη chiefly implies the notions of recall, record and memorisation.39 The precise nature of poetic memory in early Greece has been much discussed. J.-P. Vernant, in an article entitled ‘Aspects mythiques de la mémoire et du temps’40 argued that the psychological function of memory in early Greek poetry is not to reconstruct the past accurately, but to

28

Homer’s A r t

transport the poet into the past, to give him a direct vision of Tanden temps5. Memory of this type, to be distinguished from historical memory, is the privilege of poets and seers, who have in common un même don de ‘ voyance55\ As evidence for this latter statement Vernant cites the phrase τά τ' έόντα τά τ3εσσόμενα προ τ’ εόντα which is used in connexion with Calchas5 prophetic skill at 11. i 70 and of the Muses’ song at Hes. Tb. 38 (note that it is used of the Muses, not of Μνημοσύνη as Vernant states). In fact this phrase suggests that what poets and seers have in common is knowledge rather than vision. Of course the connexion between knowledge and sight is very close in early Greek literature— at IL ii 485, for example, the Muses know everything because they have seen everything41— but the ‘don de “voyance” 5, of which Vernant speaks appears to be something rather different from sight in the sense of knowledge. The poet’s knowledge, he says, is the result o f ‘une vision personelle directe. La mémoire transporte le poète au coeur des événements anciens, dans leur temps’, a contention which is supported by reference to Plato’s Ion 535b-c, where Socrates asks Ion about his mental state during his rhapsodic performances:

τότε πότερον εμφρων εΐ ή εξω σαυτοϋ γίγνη καί παρά τοίς πράγμασιν οϊεταί σου είναι ή ψυχή οίς λέγεις ένθουσιάζουσα, ή έν Τθάκη ουσιν ή έν Τροία ή όπως αν καί τά επη εχη; The experience here described by Socrates seems to me to be something quite different from that described by the bard at IL ii 484-92 (and, it may be added, has nothing much to do with memory). The rhapsode— and he is a rhapsode, not a poet— is transported into the scenes he evokes, but in the Iliad it is the Muses who see the events of the past, not the bard. Further­ more, the ecstatic state of the rhapsode has no parallel in Homer: we are simply told that the Muses were present and saw the events. The implica­ tion of the invocation, and in particular of 492, is that the Muses can communicate their knowledge to the bard, but there is no suggestion that they do so by transporting him into the past and giving him a direct vision of a bygone age. Both here and in the other references cited by Vernant42 the poet is envisaged as being in contact with the powers of the Muses rather than actually having these powers directly himself. Odysseus’ praise of Demodocus at Od. viii 489-91 might appear to provide better evidence for Vernant’s theory:

λίην γάρ κατά κόσμον 'Αχαιών οΐτον αείδεις, οσσ' ερξαν τ' επαθόν τε καί οσσ' έμόγησαν Αχαιοί, ώς τέ που ή αυτός παρεών ή άλλου άκούσας. But the possibility that the bard might have heard of the sufferings of the Achaeans from someone else is somewhat difficult to reconcile with the

The Singer a n d his Muse

29

notion that he was given a personal vision of them. He sings κατά κόσμον, a phrase which refers as much to the form as to the content of his song: it is both true and well structured.43 W hat amazes Odysseus is the reality and vividness of Demodocus’ account, but this does not imply that he has visionary powers. The first of the two alternative ways in which the bard might have acquired his knowledge would be compatible with vision (although it does not imply it), but the second renders this possibility highly unlikely since information from someone else can create the same vividness as the bard’s personal presence at the events. In fact it seems to me that Homer is here offering a formulation of the idea of poetic imagination as a form of visualisation, an idea which is found fully developed in A ristotlespoetics (l455a22) and in Longinus (15.1).44 One of the basic confusions in V ernanti argument is his failure to distinguish between ecstatic and non-ecstatic inspiration either in prophecy or in poetry. For example, the ‘don de voyance' of which Vernant speaks is highly appropriate to Cassandra as she is depicted in the Agamemnon. In her frenzy she does have a direct and personal vision of various episodes relating to the past, present and future of the house of Atreus. That she actually sees what she describes is clear from her words at, for example, 1125: ιδού ιδού.45 It has long been recognised, however, that, with the exception of Theoclymenus at Od. xx 351—7, prophecy of this visionary nature is absent from Homer. The μάντίς in Homer is largely concerned with the technique of interpreting omens, not with having visionary experiences of events inaccessible to ordinary human beings.40. Vernant’s remarks about poetry are similarly misleading. For example: Ta poésie constitue une des formes typiques de la possession et du délire divins, l’état d ’ “enthousiasme” au sens étymologique.’ This statement is certainly true of Plato, but one cannot use Plato as evidence for pre-Platonic views of poetry. The notion that memory is a power of poetic or prophetic vision is, I think, easier to reconcile with an ecstatic theory of inspiration in which the poet or prophet is literally taken out of himself than with the more intellectual concept of inspiration which we find in Homer and the early Greek poets. That is not to say that poetic memory during this period is simply a process of factual recall. The substantial implications of the ancient connexion between Memory and the Muses in oral poetry were first recognised by J. A. Notopoulos.47 He pointed out that there are at least three different ways in which memory is important in such poetry. First, memory serves to perpetuate and hence immortalise κλέα άνδρών. The immortalising power of poetry is recog­ nised from Homer onwards and is a central theme in Pindar’s poetry. The latter repeatedly emphasises the Muses’ function as bestowers of immortal­ ity.48 Second, memory conserves information— a point too obvious to need substantiation. Third, and most important, memory is the means by which oral poetry is created. Homeric epic is based on a vast and complex system of formulas and word groups, which the bard must retain in his mind to use as

30

Homer’s A r t

the building blocks of his composition: in oral composition of this type memory is a creative force, since the bard must not only memorise the oral diction out of which his poetry is made, but also create his song from it. Memory is thus at the heart of this type of oral poetry for without it composition is impossible. Memory and inspiration, far from being incom­ patible, are vitally connected: memory is virtually the source of the poet's inspiration.

Performance The widely held view that there are certain fundamental differences between oral and literary poetry has recently been challenged by R. Finnegan.49 She demonstrates that no one model will cover all types of oral literature and argues that there is no clear-cut differentiation between oral literature on the one hand and written literature on the other. Nevertheless it would clearly be false to say that oral poetry is exactly the same as written poetry in all respects. The one aspect in which oral poetry obviously does differ from literary poetry is in its performance— a point which Finnegan herself stresses. Indeed she describes performance as the ‘heart of the whole concept of oral literature’.50 In general classical scholarship has not seen that this important difference between oral and literary poetry has a direct bearing on the concept of poetic inspiration. One of the essential features of the Parry-Lord theory of oral formulaic composition is that oral poetry is composed and performed simultaneously. This is not to say that the bard is merely an illiterate improviser or to imply that hard work and thought may not go into the composition beforehand. But it is at the moment of performance that the poem is fully composed for the first tim e.51 Composition, therefore, does not depend on flashes of inspiration which mysteriously provide ideas or phrases to the poet, but on a steady flow of words. The oral poet is both a composer and a performer: he needs not only memory and a command of technique, but also fluency and confidence or presence’ as a performer. W hat must therefore be emphasised is that inspiration in oral epic poetry is inextricably connected with performance. The Muses in early Greek poetry do more than simply provide informa­ tion. Od. xvii 518—21, for example, shows that they also inspire the bard with the power to mesmerise his audience. W hen the Muses made Hesiod a poet, they inspired him with a wonderful voice: ένέπνευσαν δέ μοί αύδήν / θέσπίν (Tb. 31-2).52 The significance of these words is not generally stressed. Fluency of composition is a common characteristic of inspiration in all periods. To take one example from ancient literature, Cratinus describes the inspiring effects of wine in fr. 186: ‘Lord Apollo, what a flood of words! Streams splash, his mouth has twelve springs, Ilissus

The Singer a n d bis Muse

31

is in his throat. W hat more can I say? If someone doesn't srop him up, he'll swamp the whole place with his poems!’53 Harriott,54 amongst others, points out that the comparison of flowing speech to a river goes back to Homer. In the Iliad (i 249) Nestor's eloquence is described in the well known line: του καί από γλώσσης μέλιτος γλυκίων ρέεν αύδή. Hesiod emphasises the effortless flow of the Muses' voices in similar language (Th. 39-40), and those whom the Muses love have this gift of fluency (Th. 96-7, cf. 84). Harriott and others draw our attention to these passages, but fail to pin-point their significance. Surely the significance of the comparison of the poet’s utterance to a stream is that in oral poetry fluency is vital. Since composition and performance are simultaneous, without fluency composi­ tion breaks down. Even when Greek poetry ceased to be orally composed, there was still the association of inspiration with performance: throughout the classical period, poetry was always composed for some kind of audience; it was never simply a private expression. Hence performance was important and the Muses continued to provide inspiration in performance as well as in composition. The frequent invocations to the Muses to give sweetness in song should be interpreted with this in mind. For example, Aleman fr. 27: Μώσ" αγε

Καλλιόπα θύγατερ Διός / αρχ* έρατών έπέων, επί δ’ ίμερον / υμνώ καί χαρίεντα τίθη χορόν.55 Pindar begins Nem. iii with an invocation which is clearly a request for help in performance:

Ώ πότνια Μοίσα, μάτερ άμετέρα, λίσσομαι, τάν πολυξέναν εν ίερομηνία Νεμεάδι ϊκεο Λωρίδα νάσον Αίγιναν* υδατί γάρ μένοντ* έπ Ασωπίω μελιγαρύων τέκτονες κώμων νεανίαι, σέθεν οπα μαιόμενοι.56 The Choruses in Aristophanes also frequently invoke the Muse for help in performance, as, for example, at Peace 775-80: 'Muse, having driven away the war, join in the chorus with me, your friend, celebrating weddings of the gods, banquets of men and festivities of the blessed.’57 In the context of both victory celebration and dramatic competition, composition and per­ formance are united, and the Muse relates to both.

The Poet and his Muse W hat is the precise nature of the relationship between the Muse and the poet in early Greek poetry? Whatever it is, the poet is certainly not the unconscious instrument öf the divine, as some scholars have suggested. G. M. A. Grube, for example, says of the invocations in Homer: 'When Homer invokes the Muses on his own account, everything is inspiration and he

32

Homer's A r t

speaks as if the poet were but a passive instrum ent/58 The first three words of the Iliad (Μήνιν άείδε, θεά) might indeed be taken to suggest that the poet is nothing but the instrument of the goddess. But the request for specific information at 8 (Who then of the gods brought them together to contend in strife?) suggests that the poet is an active recipient of informa­ tion from the Muse rather than a passive mouthpiece. The same is true of all the other invocations in the Iliad?9 The proem of the Odyssey makes the poet’s active role even clearer:

’Άνδρα μοι εννεπε, Μούσα . . . των άμόθεν γε, θεά, θύγατερ Διός, εχπέ καί ήμίν. The relationship here envisaged between the poet and the Muse is an intellectual one— the Muse is asked to communicate with the bard, not to send him into a state of ecstasy— and it would be a mistake to interpret these invocations as evidence for the view that the bard takes no part in composition. The early Greek poets in general express their belief in their dependence on the Muse, but they also stress their part in composition. For example, at Od. viii 44-5, Alcinous says of Demodocus:

τφ γάρ ρα θεός πέρι δώκεν άοιδήν τέρπειν, οππη θυμός εποτρύνησιν άείδειν. These words make it clear that poetry is both god-given and the product of the bard’s own θυμός.60 There is a similar combination of human and divine elements in Phemius’ claim at Od. xxii 347—8:

αύτοδίδακτος δ’ ειμί, θεός δέ μοι έν φρεσίν οιμας παντοίας ενέφυσεν* It might be argued that the two halves of this statement are contradictory: because the gods have implanted the paths of song in him the bard cannot claim responsibility for his composition. But these lines, like the previous example quoted, must surely be understood in the context of Homer’s language. Dual motivation is, of course, a characteristic of Homeric epic and a god’s prompting does not exclude a personal motivation.61 The two halves of Phemius’ statement are therefore complementary rather than contradictory: he is both self taught and the recipient of divine aid. It has been suggested that αύτοδίδακτος refers to the technical aspects of composition (form, style etc.), whereas οιμας refers to the subject matter of his song,62 but this seems to me to be too precise a distinction. W hilst the word αύτοδίδακτος clearly implies a notion of skill or technique, the metaphor of the path or way of song should not be restricted to subject

The Singer a n d his Muse

33

matter.63 The general point of Phemius’ claim is that he does not simply repeat songs he has learnt from other bards, but composes his songs himself.64 The particular point which is relevant to the present discussion is that although Phemius stresses the divine origin of his poetry he is very much aware of his own part in composition. This attitude is typical of the early period of Greek literature as a whole in the way that poetry is described in both human and divine terms. One of the .conventional ways of describing a poet is to call him a Μουσών θεράπων, and θεράπων is a revealing word. It does not imply that the poet is passive or servile but rather suggests a close relationship between the Muse and the poet who attends here.65 Theognis specifies the nature of this relationship more precisely when he describes the poet as a messenger (άγγελος) of the Muses.66 The relationship between the poet and the Muse is described in a number of different ways by Pindar, as for example in fr. 150: μαντεύεο, Μοΐσα, προφατεύσω δ’ εγώ. This meta­ phor conveys Pindar s sense of dependence on the Muse, but also stresses his part as the προφητής (one who interprets and proclaims) of her message.67 As Dodds explains: ‘The words he uses are the technical terms of Delphi; implicit in them is the old analogy between poetry and divination. But observe that it is the Muse, and not the poet, who plays the part of the Pythia; the poet does not ask to be himself “possessed”, but only to act as the interpreter for the entranced Muse. And that seems to be the original relationship. Epic tradition represented the poet as deriving supernormal knowledge from the Muses, but not as falling into ecstasy or being possessed by them.’68 Dodds is clearly right in saying that ‘the Muse, and not the poet . . . plays the part of the Pythia’, but to infer from this that the Muse is actually possessed seems to me dubious. It is difficult to see who or what might be possessing the Muse, and Pindar nowhere makes any reference to possession. The emphasis in the fragment is on Pindar’s position as the intermediary between gods and men, not on the psychological state of the Muse. Pindar also emphasises his active role in poetic creation by his use of the term ευρίσκω, as at 0. iii 4-6:

Μοισα δ3ουτω ποι παρέστα μοι νεοσίγαλον εύρόντι τρόπον Δωρίφ φωνάν έναρμόξαι πεδίλω άγλαόκωμον69 And elsewhere he describes his poetry as simultaneously the gift of the Muses (Μοισάν δόσιν) and the product of his own mind (γλυκύν καρπόν φρενός).70 Poetic creativity depends both on inspiration and on conscious effort.

34

Homer's A r t

Craft Like Pindar the early Greek poets as a whole seem to have had a very balanced view of poetic creativity, more balanced than some scholars would allow. Havelock,71 as I have already said, maintains that in the early period poetry was thought of as a craft and that the ‘contrary conception’ of poetic inspiration was invented in the fifth century. Other scholars take the directly opposite view. Barmeyer,72 for example, suggests that the early Greek άοΐδός is to be regarded as inspired rather than as a craftsman. And Svenbro in his recent book argues that pour Homère et Hésiode l’aède tient sa parole “de la Muse", il n’apparaît nullement comme le “producteur" de son discours’73 and even that d’idée même de l’aède comme auteur du chant est en effet “systématiquement" rejetée par Homère’.74 The situation of the choral poet, on the other hand, is completely different: ‘toujours en quête de commissions . . . il doit insister sur le fait qu’il est le “producteur" de son poème afin d ’être rémunéré, et il le fait au moyen de nombreuses métaphores fondées sur l’analogie entre poète et artisan’.75 In his zeal to stress the importance of the different social situations of the Homeric άοΐδός and the choral poet Svenbro ignores the continuity in attitudes to poetry which exists between them. The notion that the poet receives his words from the Muse is not confined to Homer and Hesiod any more than the notion of the poet as craftsman is confined to Pindar and the choral poets. In the Odyssey the bard is included in a list of δημιοεργοί:

τις γάρ δή ξεΐνον καλει αλλοθεν αύτός έπελθών άλλον y \ ει μή των οϊ δημιοεργοί εασι, μάντιν ή ίητήρα κακών ή τέκτονα δούρων ή καί θέσπιν άοιδόν, ο κεν τέρπησιν άείδων; ('Od. xvii 382-5) Svenbro argues that this passage cannot be taken as evidence for the idea of the poet as craftsman, referring to Vernant’s observation that the word δημιοεργός ‘ne qualifie pas à l’origine l’artisan en tant que tel . . . il définit toutes les activités qui s’exercent en dehors de Γοΐκος, en faveur d ’un public’.76 Now it may be true that the word δημιοεργός in itself does ^ not imply the notion of craftsmanship, but the context in which the word occurs must surely be considered. The fact that the bard is included in a list of people who have specialised skills which can be of use to the community suggests that he too possesses a certain skill. When Phemius has to justify his existence to Odysseus he does so on the grounds that he is αύτοδίδακτος, a word which clearly implies that there is at least an element of skill in the poet’s activity. At Od. xi 368 Alcinous praises Odysseus for telling his story έπισταμένως (that is, skilfully) like a bard. And, as I have pointed out, the phrase κατά κόσμον used of

The Singer a n d his Muse

35

Demodocus’ song at Od. viii 489 refers as much to the construction as to the contents of the song.77 The importance of skill in poetry during the early period is also apparent from the frequency of references to the teaching and learning of poetry, and from the repeated use of skill words vis-à-vis poetry: οίδα, έπίσταμαί, σοφός, σοφία, τέχνη.78 Bruno Snell has shown that the word έπίσταμαί in the early period means primarily know (how).79 Similarly, οΐδα, τέχνη, σοφός and σοφία denote practical ability and knowledge rather than ‘wisdom’. Homer uses the word σοφία only once, and in connection with a carpenter (7/. xv 412). And Hesiod uses the word of skill in seaman­ ship (Op. 649) as well as pf Linus' musical skill (fr. 306). Craftsmen of many different varieties are described as σοφός— including poets.80 Snell points out that σοφός originally meant 'one who understands his craft’: the emergence of σοφ- words to mean ‘wisdom’ in a more intellectual sense was a gradual process. The use of the. word ποιητής to mean poet81 is evidently based on the notion of the poet as craftsman, but the evidence I have cited shows that this concept did not suddenly emerge from nowhere in the fifth century. In a fragment attributed to Hesiod (fr. dub. 357) poetic composition is likened to stitching:

έν Δήλφ τότε πρώτον εγώ καί Όμηρός άοιδοι μέλπομεν, έν νεαροις υμνοις ράψαντες αοιδήν. The etymology of the words ράπτειν,ί ραψωδειν, ραψφδός and their precise meaning when applied to poets is uncertain, but clearly they involve an idea of craft.82 Craft metaphors, as Svenbro rightly observes, become more frequent in the poetry of Bacchylides and Pindar— the poet is described not only as a stitcher and weaver of songs, but also a builder, carpenter or sculptor.83 Svenbro argues that this use of craft metaphors is to be under­ stood in terms of the professional poet’s economic dependence on his patrons. Since what he produces is not tangible, the poet is in a weaker position than the craftsman as regards payment: he must therefore empha­ size that his poetry is une merchandise’ and portray his activity ‘comme une activité artisanale afin d’être rémunéré’.84 This theory sheds more light on Svenbro’s own preoccupations than on Pindar. P. v. 72-6 indicate that Pindar was an aristocrat,85 and the tone in which he addresses, for example, Thorax at P. x 64-6 or Hiero at P. i 85-94 suggests that he was on equal terms with his patrons rather than an inferior subject.86 Pindar’s craft metaphors reflect his attitude to his art, they do not tell us about his social status. And whilst it is true that Pindar uses a large number of craft metaphors when speaking of his poetry, he says much more about his poetry in general than do his epic predecessors— a point not noted by Svenbro. He is more self-consciously articulate about his poetry— more self-conscious

36

Homer's A r t

about his inspiration and genius as well as about his craftsmanship. Svenbro is not the only scholar guilty of one-sidedness in discussing Pindar’s attitude to poetry. Grube, for example, claims that Pindar ‘despises tech­ nique and training; everything in poetry is natural talent’.87 This statement is misleading. W hilst Pindar does contrast the true poet who is a poet by nature (φοά) with the poet who has merely been taught his craft,88 he never denies the importance of technique in poetry. His frequent use of craft metaphors and his own evident concern with technique show that he regarded technique as a vital ingredient in poetry. But for the true poet mere technique is not enough.

Conclusions It was Plato who, so far as we know, first opposed the concepts of poetic inspiration and technique when he described inspiration as ενθουσιασμός. Even Democritus, who is often considered a precursor to Plato, evidently did not consider inspiration and technique as incompatible: 'Όμηρος

φύσεως λαχών θεαζούσης έπέων κόσμον ετεκτήνατο παντοίων (DK fr. 21). In fact throughout early Greek poetry there seems to be an equal emphasis on craft and inspiration. If we are unable to accept this fact, it must be because we have certain preconceived notions about the concept of poetic inspiration and its relation to the idea of poetry as a craft. Doubt­ less the notion of inspiration originated from the poet’s feeling of depen­ dence on the divine. And this feeling corresponds to the belief of many poets throughout history that, as Dodds put it, ‘creative thinking is not the work of the ego’.89 But the idea of poetic inspiration in early Greece differs in a number of important ways from subsequent conceptions. It was parti­ cularly associated with knowledge, with memory and with performance; it did not involve ecstasy or possession, and it was balanced by a belief in the importance of craft. But although it therefore laid far more emphasis on the technical aspects of poetic creativity, it was nevertheless an idea essentially connected with the phenomenon of inspiration as we know it.

Notes 1. Preface to P la to (Oxford 1963) 156. This and the following works are cited by author’s name alone: E.R. Dodds, T he G reeks a n d the Ir ra tio n a l (Berkeley 1951); R. Harriott, Poetry a n d C riticism before P la to (London 1969); G. Lanata, Poetica p re P laton ica (Florence 1963); H. Maehler, D ie A u ffassu n g des D ichterberufs im frü hen G riechentum (Göttingen 1963). 2. The Bacchae (New Jersey 1970) 10. 3. Those scholars who have discussed the subject of poetic inspiration in general have confused rather than clarified the ancient position. C. M. Bowra, for example,

The Singer a n d his Muse

37

in his Rede Lecture on In spiration a n d Poetry ( L o n d o n 1955) discusses the writing habits of many modern poets and makes some interesting observations on poetic inspiration. But elsewhere he uses his knowledge of the creative processes of modern poets to make inferences about ancient poets which are purely speculative. See e.g. P in d a r (Oxford 1964) 8-10, 13. 4. See e.g. Maehler, p a ss im ; J. Svenbro, L a parole et le marbre, A u x origines de la poéûque grecque (Lund 1976). 5. The most important texts are: Ion passim ; A p . 22a-c; M e n . 99c-e; P h dr. 245; Leg. 682a, 719c-4. 6. Archil, fr. 120 W can be related to the idea of poetic μανία, as several scholars have rightly pointed out; but perhaps one should not press Archilochus too far towards a general fu r o r poeticus : it is the d ith yra m b he can create when lightningstruck by wine. The old analogy between poetry and prophecy, and in particular the use of verse as a medium for prophecy at Delphi, is also relevant to the origins of the notion of fu r o r poeticus . But the first firm evidence that we have for such a notion dates from the fifth century. See Dodds 82; E. N. Tigerstedt, 'Furor Poeticus: Poetic Inspiration in Greek Literature before Democritus and Plato7, Jtf/xxxi. 2 (1970) 163-78. 7. D ie M usen: E in B e itra g z u r Inspirationstheorie (München 1968) 102. 8. E in fü h ru n g in d ie a n tik e D ichtungstheorie (Darmstadt 1973) 73-4. 9 - 156 . 10. One reason for this concentration on Plato is, I suspect, that modern notions of inspiration (which are largely Romantic) bear more resemblance to the Platonic concept of inspiration than to anything which we find in the early Greek poets. Compare, for example, Socrates7 well-known words about the inability of the inspired poet to understand his own creations with the following statement of Thomas Carlyle: ‘Manufacture is intelligible, but trivial; Creation is great, but cannot be understood. Thus if the Debater and Demonstrator, whom we may rank as the lowest of true thinkers, knows what he has done, and how he did it, the Artist, whom we may rank as the highest, knows not; must speak of Inspiration, and in one or other dialect, call his work the gift of a divinity.7 (C haracteristics [1831] ed. R. A. Foakes, R om an tic C riticism : 1 8 0 0 - 1 8 5 0 [London 1968] 1.45). 11. See e.g. R. E. M. Harding, A n A n a to m y o f In spiration (Cambridge 1942); B. Ghiselin, The C rea tive Process (Berkeley 1952); J. Press, T he F ire a n d the F ou n tain (London 1966); P. E. Vernon (ed.), C r e a tiv ity (London 1970) 53—88; K. Dick (ed.), W riters a t W o rk (Penguin 1972). 12. See e.g. C. Day Lewis7account in T he L isten er , 28th April, 1966: ‘For me, at any rate, “inspiration” is the moment when some phrase comes to me out of the blue and offers itself as a seed from which a poem may grow. This seed, clue, donnée, whatever, as you call it, swims up into my mind, not usually as an idea, but in a form of words.7 13. See e.g. Rilke’s description of the way in which his Sonnets to Orpheus were written (B riefe [Wiesbaden 1950] ii 412): ‘Sie sind vielleicht das geheimste, mir selber, in ihrem Aufkommen und sich-mir-Auftragen, rätselhafteste Diktat, das ich je ausgehalten und geleistet habe; der ganze erste Teil ist, in einem einzigen atemlosen Gehorchen, zwischen dem 2. und dem 5. Februar 1922 nieder-geschrieben, ohne dass ein wort im zweifel oder zu ändern war.7Cf. Nietzsche’s comments on inspiration in Ecce Homo (1888) trans. W. Kaufmann (New York 1969) 300—1. Sceptics may like to note T. S. Eliot’s comment in Selected E ssays 3 (London 1951) 405. 14. A distinction between two types of inspiration is also made by Harding (n. 11) 65, and by Stephen Spender in Ghiselin (n. 11) 114-15.

38

Homer's A r t

15. See below, n. 17. 16. The etymology of the word μούσα is uncertain- See e.g. Maehler’s summary of the problem, 16-17, n. 5. For general information on the Muses see e.g. M. Mayer, R E xvi (1933) 680-757; W. Otto, D ie M usen (Darmstadt 1956); Harriott 10-33. 17. 50-1. For confusion over the concepts of inspiration and genius see e.g. E. E. Sikes, The Greek V iew o f P oetry (London 1931) 20; G. M. A. Grube, T he G reek a n d Rom an C ritics (Toronto 1965) 9; A. Sperduti, ‘The divine nature of poetry in antiquity', Τ Α Ρ Α Ixxxi (1950) 233. 18. The same idea may also be expressed at Od. viii 499: 6 6’ όρμηθείς θεού αρχετο, φαίνε δ’ άοιδήν. The problem is whether to take θεού with όρμηθείς or with αρχετο. See the discussions of e.g. O. Falter, D e r D ich ter u n d sein G o tt bei den Griechen u n d Römern (Würzburg 1934) 9; Harriott 42. And cf. Pi. fr. 151. 1 9 . On invocations in early Greek poetry see e.g. Falter (n. 18) 4—7, 12, 18-23, 34-50; Harriott 41-9, 72-7. 2Ô. On this see e.g. R. Haussier, ‘Der Tod der Musen’, A u A xix (1973) 117—45; S. Commager, T he Odes o f H orace (Indiana 1967) 2-16. 21. Harriott (40) appears to miss the point of these lines. The bard does not speak ‘as if his physical strength will not be equal to the long task of recounting the participants in the war', but rather stresses that, however great his physical strength, he will not be able to recall the necessary information without the prompting of the Muses. The contrast made here for the first time between divine knowledge and human ignorance is a persistent theme in early Greek literature. See e.g. lbyc. fr. 1. 23-6; Sol. fr. 17; Xenoph. ft. 34; Pi. N. vii 23-4, P a . vi 50-8, viib 15-20; B. Snell, T he Discovery o f the M i n d , trans. T. G. Rosenmeyer (New York I960) 136-52. Invocations in Homeric epic occur elsewhere at //. i I, ii 761, xi 218, xiv 508, xvi 112; Od. i I. Cf. also the quasi-invocations at IL v 703, vili 273, xi 299, xvi 692. For scholarship on Homeric invocations see Harriott 44. 22. 177. 23. 'Invocation and Catalogue in Hesiod and Homer’, Τ Α Ρ Α xciii (1962) 190. 24. P o etty a n d Prophecy (Cambridge 1942) 41. 25. As e.g. W. Marg points out, H om er über d ie D ich tu n g (Münster 1957) 10, the precise significance of this alternative is now lost to us. But the overlapping of the domains of Apollo and the Muses clearly stresses the importance of knowledge and truth in the poetry of this period. 26. See e.g. K. Latte, ‘Hesiods Dichterweihe’, A u A , ii (1946) 159—63; Lanata 24-5 and bibliography there; Maehler 4 l; A. Kambylis, D ie D ichterw eihe u n d ihre S ym bolik (Heidelberg 1965) 62— 3; West ad loc.; W. J. Verdenius, ‘Notes on the Proem of Hesiod’s Theogony’, M n m . xxv (1972) 234-5; P. Pucci, H esiod a n d the L anguage o f Poetry (Baltimore 1977) 9-16. 27. See e.g. Pi, N . vii 20-4; Heraclit. fr. 56, cf. fr. 42; Xenoph fr. 11; Pi. R ep . 377d, and in general F. Mehmel ‘Homer und die Griechen’ A u A iv (1954) 16-40. See also Maehler 4 l and Verdenius (n. 26) 234. 28. 113. 29. Cf. T h . 104-14; Op. 661-2. 30. Cf. e.g. Pi. 0. X 1—6, xiii 93—100; P a . viib 15-20; lbyc. fr. 1. 23-6; Bacch. XV 47. 31. See e.g. 0. iv 17-18, vi 20—1, vii 20-1, xiii 52 and P . i 86-7 on the importance of truth in general. Άλάθεΐα is invoked at 0. x 3-4 and at fr. 205. Pindar’s concern for truth is also evident in his characteristic use of arrow and javelin imagery as at e.g. 0. xiii 93-5, P . i 42-5, N . i 18, vi 26-7. See further Bowra, P in d a r 26-33; Harriott 69-70; Maehler 96-8.

The Singer a n d his Muse

39

32. See e.g. 0. i 28-32, N . vii 20-3. In general on this persuasive power of poetry see e.g. Harriott 117—20; J. de Romilly, ‘Gorgias et le pouvoir de la poésie', J U S xciii (1973) 155-62. 33. Frr. 3, 4, 23.11, 131. The view expressed by Falter (η. 18) 40 that Empedocles’ invocation to the Muse in fr. 3 is nothing but ‘poetische Einkleidung, Motiv, keineswegs aber aus wahrem Glauben erwachsen’ is rightly refuted by W. J. Verdenius, ‘The meaning of Πίστίς in Empedocles M n em .4 i (1948) 10—11. Cf. P. Boyancé, h e culte des M uses chez les philosophes grecs (Paris 1936) 241. Clearly the goddess in Parmenides’ proem fr. 1.22-32 also guarantees the truth of his message, but she is not identified as a Muse. See e.g. Harriott 65-7. 34. ‘Solon’s Prayer to the Muses’, T A P A lxxx (1949) 65. 35. T h . 53-61 with West ad loc. To the references there given add T h . 915-17; P M G fr. 941; Pi. P a . vi 54-6, viib 15-16; PI. T h eaet . 191d; Plut. M or. 9d, frr. 215h, 217j. See further e.g, B. Snell 'Mnemosyne in der frühgriechischen Dich­ tung’, A rc h iv f u r Begriffsgeschichte ix (1964) 19—21; A. Setti, ‘La Memoria e il canto’, Stud, l i a i . XXX (1958) 129— 71. 36. Cf. e.g. Certam en 98; Pi. N. i 12. 37. See e.g. J. Duchemin, P in d a re poète et prophète (Paris 1955) 26. 38. 163-4.

39. 100.

40. J o u r n a l de Psychologie (1959) 1-29 repr. in M y th e et pensée chez les Grecs (Paris 1974) 80-107. See also M. Detienne, Les m aîtres de v érité dan s la grèce arch aïqu e' (Paris 1973) 15, 24-7, 110. 41. See further Snell (η. 21).

42. 83 η. 9. 43. See Lanatas excellent discussion of this passage, 12-13. 44. I hope to discuss the history of this concept in a later article. 45. Cf. 1114, 1217. 46. See e.g. E. Rohde, Psyche, trans. W, B. Hillis (London 1925) 289; Dodds 70. 47. 'Mnemosyne in Oral Literature', Τ Α Ρ Α lxix (1938) 465—93. 48. See e.g. Horn. II. vi 358; Od. viii 73, 580; xxiv 196-7; h .A p . 298—9; Theog. 237-52; Sapph. fr. 55, cf. fr. 193; Bacch. iii 71, 90-8, ix 81-7, x 9-18; Pi. 0 . viii 70-80, x 86-96, P. i 93-100, iii 112-15, iv 293-9, v 45-9, vi 5-17, xi 55-64, N. vi 26—35, vii 11-16, ix 4 8 -5 5 , 1. v 53-7, vii 16-26, viii 56-63, fr. 121; PI. Sm p. 209d—e. 49. O ra l Poetry (Cambridge 1977). 50. Ibid. 28, cf. 133. 51. See M. Parry, ‘Studies in the Epic Technique of Oral Verse-Making’, H S C P xli (I 9 3 O) 77-8 = The M a k in g o f H omeric Verse , ed. A. Parry (Oxford 1971) 269-70; A. B. Lord, T he Singer o f T ales (Cambridge Mass. I960) 13—29; M. N. Nagler, S pon taneity a n d O ra l T r a d itio n (Berkeley 1974) xxi, xxiii, 20-1. On the whole topic of prior composition, memorisation and performance see Finnegan (n. 49) 73—87. 52. Cf. T h . 97; Horn. Od. i 371.

53. Άναξ Άπολλον, των επών των ρευμάτων, καναχούσι πηγαί, δωδεκάκρουνον το στόμα, Τλισσος έν τη φάρυγν τί άν εϊποιμ ετί; ει μή γάρ έπιβύσει τις αυτού το στόμα άπαντα ταύτα κατακλύσει ποιήμασιν. Cf. Ar. E q. 526-8; PI. Leg. 719c. 54. 88-9» 124. Cf. Kambylis (n. 26) 144-6. 55. Cf. e.g. Hes. T h . 104; Pi. fr. 75; Ar. A v . 737-50,

Ra.

675.

40

Homer’s A r t

56. Cf. e.g.

P-

iv 1-3, N. vi 28-9-

57. Μούσα, σύ μέν πολέμους απ-

ωσαμένη μετ’ εμού του φίλου χόρευσον, κλείουσα θεών τε γάμους άνδρών τε δαίτας καί θαλίας μακάρων* Cf A c h . 665-75. 58. Op. cit. (n. 17) 2. 59. See above, n. 21. 60. Cf Od. i 346-7. 61. See e.g. Doclds 1—18; A. Lesky, G öttlich e u n d menschliche M o tiva tio n im home­ rischen Epos (Heidelberg 1961). 62. See e.g. Lanata, 13-14. 63. See e.g. O. Becker, 'Das Bild des Weges’, Hermes E in zels. iv (Berlin 1937); Harriott 64-5. 64. See e.g. W. Schadewaldt, Von Homers W e lt u n d W e rk 3 (Stuttgart 1959) 78-9; Dodds 10; Maehler 22-3; Harriott 92 and bibliography there. 65. See Pi. P . iv 286-7 where the free attendant (θεράπων) is contrasted with the slave (δράστας). For θεράπων of the poet see e.g. Hes. T h . 100; h.H om . xxxii 20; Choeril. fr. 1; Ar. A v . 909- Cf' Bacch. v 192 (πρόπολος); Sapph. fr. 150

(μοισοπόλος). 66. See B. A. van Groningen, Theognis: Le prem ier liv re (Amsterdam 1966) ad. loc. and M. S. Silk, interaction in Poetic Im agery (Cambridge 1974)-89 who notes that ‘Μουσών θεράπων is an absolutely conventional periphrasis for the poet; Μουσών άγγελος is live metaphor’. 67. Cf Pi. P a , vi 6; Bacch. ix 3. On προφήτης see E. Fascher ΠΡΟΦΗΤΗΣ (Giessen 1927); H. W. Parke, C Q xxxiv (1940) 85; Fraenkel on Aesch. A g , 1099. 68. 82. 69. Cf 0. i 110, N . vi 54, viii 20, fr. 122.14; Bacch. fr. 5. Cf ερευνάν at P a . vii b 20. And in general see Becker (n. 62) 73; Maehler 96; Harriott 60-1. 70. 0. vii 7-8. Cf N. iv 6-8; Bacch. xii 1-3, xiii 220-971. 156. 72. Op. cit. (n. 7) 70. 73. Op. cit. (n. 4) 5. 74. Ibid. 193. Cf. 195. 75. Ibid. 6. 76. Ibid. 193-5. 77. On the notion of poetic skill in Homer see especially Schadewaldt (n. 64) 70-5. 78. For the teaching idiom see e.g. Horn. Od. viii 481, 488, xvii 519, xxii 347; Hes. T h . 22, Op. 662; Sol. fr. 13.51. Cf. the idea that man learnt to sing from the birds: Democr. fr. 154; Alcm. frr. 39, 40. For οιδα see e.g. Od. i 337; Alcm. fr. 40; Archil, fr. 120.2. For έπίσταμαι see e.g. Od. xi 368; Hes. Op. 107; Archil, fr. 1.2; Sol. fr. 13.52. 79· D ie A u sdru cke f ü r den B e g r iff des W issens in der vorplatonischen Philosophie (Berlin 1924) 81-3. 80. See Snell (n. 79) 5-7, where he gives a list of σοφοί including seers, generals, steersmen, doctors, coach drivers, wrestlers, cooks, and farmers. For σοφ- words of poets, see e.g. Sol fr. 13.52; Ibyc. fr. 1.23; Theog. 77Ö, 995; Pi. 0. ii 86 and other references cited by Lanata 83—5 (Pindar, of course, invests the

The Singer a n d his Muse

41

terms σοφός and σοφία with a new significance: in particular σοφός denotes for him a rare individual, set apart from his fellows both by his inborn nature and by his communion with the gods); Xenoph. fr. 2.12; Ar. N u . 547, P a x 797, L ys. 368. For a detailed study of the subject see B. Gladigow, Soph ia u n d Kosmos (Hildesheim 1965). 81. Hdt. ii 53; Ar. A ch . 654. See further e.g. Harriott 93-4. Similar terminology for the poet's craft occurs in Sanskrit and other LE. languages. See M. West, ‘Greek Poetry 2000-700 b . c . ’ C Q xxiii (1973) 179 and bibliography there. 82. For a sensible discussion see Harriott 94. 83· See e.g. Bacch. v 9-10, xiii 223, xix 8—10; Pi. 0. vi 1-4, 86-7, P . iii 113, vi 9, N. ii 1-2, iii 4-5, I. i 14, fr. 194. 84. Op. cit. (n. 4) 178-9, 187, 168-70. 85. See Wilamowitz P in d a ro s (Berlin 1922) 124; M. R. Lefkowitz, ‘τώ καί έγώ: The First Person in Pindar’, H S C P lxvii (1963) 229-32. 86. See the further criticisms of St. Fogelmark in his review of Svenbro, Gnomon 1 (1978) 13-24. 87. Op. cit. (n. 17) 9. 88. 0. ii 83-88. Cf. 0. ix 100-2, N. iii 40-2. 89. 81.

74 Homer on Poetry and the Poetry of Homer* C.W . Macleod ^Source: Collected Essays, edited by O. Taplin, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1983, 1-15.

'We pedants know better/1 These leaden and ironic words form part of A. Ë. Housman’s attempt to show that textual scholarship and literary criti­ cism are two very different, or even incompatible, skills. The immediate issue was Matthew Arnold’s translation of Iliad 24, line 506. As it happens, Housman was wrong on that point, and Arnold right; and this should give us pause over the larger question. In fact the spring of scholarship cannot and has not run on uncontaminated by the scum and garbage of criticism. So in 1981 we can expect more and more scholars, for good or ill, to consider Homer as a poet rather than a corpus vile of lays or motifs or formulae. Now it would not be surprising if, as a serious poet, Homer reflected on the nature and purpose of his work; and such reflections have indeed left their mark upon it. They make too a proper basis for the study of his poetry; for just as scholars have, as best they can, to learn to be critics, so critics have to learn what the poets they read can teach them about poetry. There have been good discussions of Homer’s poetics in recent years; and what I have to say owes much to them. If I venture to return to the topic, it is because I believe that there are still worthwhile conclusions to be drawn from it about Homer’s poetry. In particular, I shall consider one question which is a challenge to any who think of the Iliad as a significant whole, that is whether Book 24 is its true ending and a fitting conclusion. In this essay I shall refer almost more often to the Odyssey than to the Iliad. This calls for a word of explanation. For myself, I am content to believe that the author of both was the same man; and I do not think there is any real evidence to tell against that assumption. But it is hardly possible to prove it either. W hat is clear, however, is that the Iliad and Odyssey, despite their many differences, are both epic poems; and this is more than a matter of outward form. Both are slices of life from the age of heroes; both are principally concerned with suffering (cf. α λγεα in Iliad 1. 2, Odyssey 1. 4); and in both a divine dispensation, which extends beyond the limits of its

The Singer a n d his Muse

43

narrative, unfolds throughout the poem. There are also points where they are significantly related. I shall touch briefly now on one of them since it partly concerns I l i a d 24; another, from O d yssey 8, will be handled later. In O d yssey 11 Odysseus meets and converses with Achilles in the under­ world. He consoles his companion by contrasting their destinies: Achilles is 'most blessed’ because he was honoured in his lifetime by the Greeks dike a god’, and now rules among the dead, whereas he himself is suffering continually and still in search of his homeland. The whole I l i a d is the tale of how the honour due to Achilles was first denied and then, with tragic consequences, restored to him; and his coming death, the price he has to pay for winning glory, haunts the whole poem. Achilles, in reply to Odysseus, rejects this comfort, but asks after his father Peleus and his son Neoptolemus: for Peleus, he fears that men now 'dishonour’ him and wishes that he himself were alive to protect him, as he protected the Greeks at Troy. This recalls I l i a d 24 (488-9, 540-2), where Priam imagines Peleus harassed by his neighbours and Achilles regrets that because he is fighting at Troy he cannot tend his father’s old age; much the same motif occurs in I l i a d 19(321— 5) i n a passage where his thoughts also turn to Neoptolemus. Odysseus then goes on to tell Achilles about his son. In council, Neopto­ lemus distinguished himself at Troy, but the primacy went to Nestor and Odysseus, as it does in the I l i a d : in Book 1, when. Achilles yields to Nestor, and in Book 19, when he has to give in to Odysseus’ insistence that the army eat before fighting. But in battle Neoptolemus, again like his father, was supreme. This gives some solace to Achilles, whose shade strides off 'rejoicing because I told him that his son had excelled’ (540). In this passage the life and destiny of Achilles— the dominant subject of the I l i a d —is reworked. No amount of honour can compensate for the emptiness of death; yet an early death was what Achilles chose, to avenge Patroclus and redeem his own name. At the same time, the honour which his son and image wins brings him joy. The tension between the horror of death and the demand for glory is the tragedy of the whole I l i a d ’, it finds expression in Achilles’ mouth here, as it does more painfully and bitterly in I l i a d 9. The tragedy is heightened by the contrast with the fate of Odysseus: though he suffers more and longer than Achilles, he survives to save his family from ‘dishonour’, the depredations of the suitors; and though his sufferings will last beyond the end of the poem, the culmination of the O d y ssey is not like what the end of the I l i a d so emphatically envisages, the death of its hero and the destruction of a city, but the return of Odysseus, the reunion of the wife with the husband, and the restoration of the home and kingdom to their master. If, then, the O d yssey is the same sort of poem as the I l i a d , and if it refashions and reconsiders the central theme of the I l i a d , we may expect its reflections on poetry to be relevant to the earlier work. There is another matter on which a few preliminary words are called for.

44

Homer's A r t

There are two poets in the Odyssey, Phemius and Demodocus, but it is not only the places where they are concerned or where poetry is mentioned that are relevant to understanding Homer’s notion of his art. When Odysseus relates his adventures truly to the Phaeacians or falsely to Eumaeus, when Helen, Menelaus, and Nestor recall their experiences at Troy or afterwards, they are to all intents and purposes poets. Their tales are the one element in the poem as a whole, and they concern events which either belong to the stock of epic narrative or else deliberately simulate it; and the tellers perform, like poets, to a company of banqueters after dinner. Moreover, the reactions they evoke are the same as those which poets evoke. These reactions in their turn pose a further problem. More than once in the Odyssey we read of characters responding to poems which tell of their own life or the lives of their nearest and dearest. Now the Greeks were well aware that tragic poetry is necessarily, in Gorgias’ words (Helen 9) 'the fortunes and misfortunes of other lives and persons’. This recognition is neatly expressed in the story of Phrynichus (Herodotus 6. 21), who, after producing a tragedy on the capture of Miletus by the Persians, was heavily fined by the Athenians and had any future production of his play banned because he had ‘reminded them of their own troubles’. W hat Phrynichus did was to infringe the laws of tragedy, and so also those of the city. Again, Aristotle in the Rhetoric notes that when overcome with horror we cannot feel pity (1385 b 32-3); and such horror, he observes, recalling another story from Herodotus (3. 14), is likely to be caused by the suffering of those closest to us (1386 a 18 24). If, then, so sharp a line is drawn between feelings about our own and about others’ woes, can the reactions of people involved in the events narrated suggest what reactions poetry would nor­ mally be taken to elicit? The answer, I think, is yes’. The responses of the people concerned are distinguished from other responses; so we can see them for what they are. But they also cannot but affect our own responses; because they are there in the poem they come to form part of the hearer’s reaction to it. Further, if some measure of detachment is needed for tragedy to have its effect, so too, obviously, is some measure of involvement. To quote Gorgias again, what the poet’s account of others’ destinies calls forth is a feeling of our own’ (ϊδιόν τι πάθημα); and Aristotle’s discussion makes it plain in a number of ways how the pi tier must feel the pitied and his fate to be close to himself and his own. Indeed, Homer’s narrative, by indicating diverse reactions among the audience or within single hearers, forms a subtle account of the complex manner in which poetry works on the heart and mind. Let us now consider, then, the ‘poetics’ of Homer: first some notions concerning poetry, and then some passages in which we can see poetry at work, manifesting what it is conceived to be and achieving what it is thought to do. When the Greek envoys arrive at Achilles’ tent in Iliad 9, they find him, now that he is no longer himself winning glory in battle, singing ‘the

The Singer a n d his Muse

45

stories of famous men’ (189 κλέα άνδρών); the same phrase is used of Demodocus’ theme in O d yssey 8. 73—4, 'a tale whose fame was then reaching the sky': it is the story of a quarrel like that of I l i a d L And Odysseus in O d yssey 9 (19— 20) announces his identity thus: Ί am Odysseus, son of Laertes, who am known to all men for my wiles and whose fame reaches the sky’; this is the introduction to four books’ worth of his own adventures. The name of the poet Phemius is clearly a nom p a r l a n t (from φήμη, ‘report’): and he, like Demodocus, retails stories which they help to diffuse and whose characters thus acquire renown. If a tale brings fame it must be believed: and the stories told in the I l i a d and O d yssey are clearly all supposed to be true (with the obvious exception of Odysseus’ false accounts of his past in the latter half of the O d y ssey ). And the heroic tales are true not merely for the characters in the poem, but for the poet and his public. The Catalogue of Ships in Book 2 begins: Tell me, now, Muses, who have your home on Olympus— for you are gods, you are present and know everything, while we only hear a rumour and know nothing— who were the leaders and princes of the Greeks . . . The same opening line— εσπετε νυν μοι Μουσαι, Όλύμπια δώματ3 εχουσαί— recurs three times to introduce a particular item of narrative: who first encountered Agamemnon (11. 218), who was the first of the Greeks to slaughter Trojans after Poseidon'had turned the tide of battle (14. 508), and how the fire first fell on the Greek ships (16. 112). The huge amount of narrative detail in the I l i a d is offered not as tradition or inven­ tion, but as information. Indeed, the poet is distinguished from other raco n teu rs precisely by his veracity. Alcinous comments on Odysseus’ stories in O d yssey 11 (363-8): Odysseus, to judge by the look of you, you are not a deceiver like the many men scattered over the earth who compose false tales such that one cannot even see (that they are false): no, your speech is fine, your wits good, and you tell your story cunningly (επίσταμένως), like a poet, your own sufferings and those of all the Greeks. It is striking that the poetic quality of Odysseus’— or of Homer’s— narrative is not, as might seem natural to us or to later Greeks, a reason for suspecting it, but for thinking it true: it is the liar, not the poet, who can pass off a false tale for a true one. The word ‘cunningly’ (επίσταμένως), like ‘well’ (κατά κόσμον) in Odysseus’ praise of Demodocus (8.489; cf. 14.363 for the use of the term), refers to the truth rather than the artistry of what is told, or at least not to the artistry in isolation from the truth. So too the Sirens, who (like the Muses) in Homer represent the charms of poetry, know everything that happened at Troy and that happens on earth (12. 189-91)* they

46

Homer’s A r t

fascinate not merely because their voices are beautiful, but because they possess the knowledge typical of the poet in the highest possible degree. Elsewhere in the Odyssey there are references to wanderers who tell stories that they know will please their hearers in the hope of a reward (14. 124; 23. 216), and Odysseus himself fabricates stories for reasons of his own. No doubt the poet stood out, with pride, among all kinds of inferior story-tellers because his subject-matter was history, great events truly commemorated. This claim of veracity is not easy for us to understand; but it cannot be dismissed as mere convention. For Homer took the Muses seriously, as one can see from the story of Thamyris {Iliad 2. 594—600). He boasted that he would win a song contest even if the Muses were his opponents; as a punishment for his presumption they mutilated him and removed his power of song. This story in its immediate context is a quite gratuitous addition; where it does belong is with the invocation to the Muses a hundred lines earlier. It reminds us that they are truly goddesses and celebrates their power, as the Greeks often do by showing how they punish those who offend them. But what then do they mean to the poet? To us it might seem possible that Homer could believe all he sang to be true if it were all tradition; but we can see from the proem to the Catalogue of Ships that Homer was quite able to entertain doubts about the truth of the tradition: ‘We only hear a rumour, we know nothing/ This is in effect the same observation as Hesiod's when he says that Muses told him ‘We can retail many falsehoods which look like truths' (Tbeogony 27). Homer, it seems, would deny that a false song was inspired by the Muses: Hesiod, on the other hand, extends to them the notion familiar to the Greeks, includ­ ing Homer, that the gods are prone to deceive; but both are admitting that singers can lie. So Homer’s Muses cannot be simply equated with ‘the tradition’. It is also hard to imagine that of all the detail in the Homeric poems— particularly the Iliad with its mass of minor fighters and com­ bats— nothing was invented by the poet himself. But what the scholar naturally dissects the poet no less naturally feels to be a single whole. Tradition and invention are part of the same thing, the gift of song (άοίδή); and when the poet sings he simply creates, his business is not to sift the various factors which enable him to do so: in Hesiod’s language, the Muses teach him song (cf. Theogony 22). Thus Phemius says (Odyssey 22. 347—8): ‘I am self-taught and the god put all kinds of theme into my m ind.’ He does not mention any human teacher or tradition which has supplied him with either matter or techniques, though there must have been such; nor does he distinguish his own contribution from the god’s. Eskimo and Kirghiz minstrels too, we are told, 2 speak of their poems as purely ‘given’, whether from within or from god; and yet they are produced by hard work with recognizable formal conventions which have to be learnt. Likewise in Homer there is no sign of any attempt to separate tradition from originality,

The Singer a n d his Muse

47

or technique from inspiration. The singer, then, takes what he sings to be true in so far as he is sure of being inspired. The Muses’ work is not confined to supplying information. This is how Odysseus comments on the song of Demodocus in Odyssey 8 (487-9): Demodocus, I praise you above all men. Either the Muse, daughter of Zeus, or Apollo must have taught you. For you sing so well (κατά κόσμον) of the fate of the Greeks, all that they did and endured and toiled, as if you had been there yourself (ώς αυτός παρεών) or heard it from one who was. What makes Demodocus’ poem good is not only its truth but its authen­ ticity: it is as if it were an eyewitness account because it makes the events come alive in the hearer s imagination; and since Odysseus actually was present’, he is in a particularly good position to vouch for his judgement. And this is the gift of the Muses: as if you had been there’ recalls the address to the goddesses in Iliad 2, ‘You are there’ (πάρβστε). For Demo­ critus (B. 18.21), Homer and other poets were able to produce ‘beautiful’ (καλά) poems because they were divinely inspired; for Pindar (Olympian I. 29-32), the poet is able to persuade his hearers that what is incredible is true because of the ‘charm’ (χάρις) of his words. But for Homer beauty and truth are inseparably linked, and both given By the Muses, in the quality of authenticity. In later times this vividness— ένάργεία, in the language of literary criticism— was often thought proper to history. Thus Plutarch finds it in both Xenophon and Thucydides; or Duris criticizes Ephorus and Theopompus for falling short of the events they describe because they lacked ‘attractiveness’ and ‘vividness’ (ήδονής . . . μιμήσεως) and ‘were concerned only to give a bare record’ (αυτού δέ του γράφειν μόνον έπεμελήθησαν).3 Since both epic and history deal with what really happened, it is their business to be, as well as truthful, realistic. So it is that poetry not merely informs, but pleases: ηδονή and μίμησίς are connected, as in Duris, and the pleasure springs not only from the acquisition of knowledge, but from participation. The word τέρπειν (‘delight’) regularly describes the effect of poetry in Homer {Iliad 1. 474; 9. 189; Odyssey 1. 347, 422; 8. 91, 368, 429> 542; 12. 188; 17. 385, 606; 18. 304); and Phemius, whose name is as we saw an eloquent one, has also the ‘speaking’ patronymic, Terpiades (22. 330). This pleasure is sometimes called by an intenser term, ‘enchantment’ (θέλγειν). Thus Eumaeus describes the effect of Odysseus’ tale (17. 518-21): As when people gaze at a singer whom the gods have taught to sing tales men love to hear, and they are eager to listen to him when he sings: just so did he bewitch me. . . . ;

4.8

Homer's A r t

or when Odysseus addresses the Phaeacians it is said (11. 333-4 = 13. 1-2): Thus he spoke, and they were all silent; they were held enchanted in the shadowy hall. The Sirens represent this power of enchantment in an extreme and dangerous form. Similar language is commonly used in later Greek authors to denote what poetry or oratory can do to their audience; but in Homer there is perhaps a special force in this notion of poetry as a form of magic. For Homeric poetry embodies a paradox and a mystery, in that it gives pleasure though its subject is always painful: the stuff of epic is in Odysseus' words 'all that the Achaeans did and endured and toiled'. The proem to the Iliad itself makes this abundantly clear. There is no word here of honour and glory, only of human passion, death, and degradation, with behind it all the will of an allpowerful god: Sing, goddess, of the anger of Achilles, Peleus' son, that ruinous anger which caused ten thousand sorrows for the Greeks and sent many mighty souls down to Hades, making their bodies a prey for dogs and a meal for birds; and the plan of Zeus was accomplished . . . Certainly the Iliad tells of heroes whose chief concern is to win renown in battle and it celebrates their strength and courage; but they are also men who suffer far from their homes and families and who face death in every moment. Horror and weariness of war, expressed in the regular epithets for it (δακρυόεντα, στονόεντα, πολύδακρυν, etc.), pervade the whole poem: they are vividly present already in the mouths of Achilles and Agamemnon in Book X, or in the king's speech and the army's response to it in Book 2. This strain in the Iliad is summed up by Nestor’s words to Telemachus in Odyssey 3 (103-14): My friend, since you remind me of the sorrow we, the irresistible sons of the Achaeans, endured in that country, all we suffered in our ships wandering over the murky sea in search of plunder wherever Achilles led us, and all the fighting round the city of king Priam; there, in time, all our best men were killed. There lies warlike Ajax, there Achilles, there Patroclus, peerless counsellor, and there my own dear son, strong and noble, Antilochus, a swift runner and a brave fighter. And many other troubles we endured besides: what mortal man could tell them all? . . . And where there is most glory, doom is most present: the greatest victors of the poem— Patroclus, Hector, and Achilles— all not only take precious lives, but are fated to lose their own soon afterwards, as Homer reminds

The Singer a n d his Muse

49

us in their moments of triumph. In short, as the scholion on the first line of the poem succinctly puts it: ‘he invented a tragic proem for a series of tragedies.’ Homer, ‘the pathfinder of tragedy’, as Plato called him, is also the first to point to the paradox of tragedy, often discussed after him, that it gives pleasure by representing what is grim and sad. There are, moreover, hints in Homer about how this is possible. It is partly because the hearer is detached from what he hears: as Eumaeus says to Odysseus (15. 399—401): ‘Let us take pleasure in each other’s grim woes as we recall them; for a man who has suffered and wandered much takes pleasure even in sorrows when they are past.’ Likewise, Penelope in Book 23 (306-9) can take pleasure in the tale of Odysseus’ labours and sufferings now that it is all over. The distance from the events which time gives to the agents corresponds to the distance that separates the hearer from another's experience. Such detachment, as I indicated before, is a condition of a proper response to tragedy. But this negative condition demands a positive complement; and what this is is shown by another remark of Eumaeus’ to Odysseus (14. 361—2): ‘Poor stranger (ά δειλέ ξείνων) truly you moved my heart (θυμόν ορίνας) as you recounted all this, your many sufferings and wanderings.’ (This is the same story that Eumaeus describes as ‘enchanting’ him in Book 17.) The pleasure consists in the stirring of the emotions; and the emotion concerned is above all pity: θυμόν όρίνεΐν, ‘move his heart’, is what Priam aims to do and does to Achilles m I l i a d 24 (467); and α δειλέ are the words which begin his reply to thé old man’s appeal (518). Pity is identified by Aristotle in the P o etics as an emotion proper to tragedy; and what tragedy brings about is not, as Plato saw it in R e p u b lic 10, the satisfaction of starved feeling— still less in Aristotle’s unhappy and alltoo-successfui term, a catharsis— but a warm response to a fellow man. The truth or realism of poetry makes it possible for the hearers to react as Eumaeus does to what he believes is a true story. This is a fact which fascinated and appalled Augustine in the C on fession s (3. 2); and, as he saw, such pity is a pleasure, although its object is suffering, because it draws on ‘the spring of fellow-feeling’ {v e n a a m ic itia e ) . But now it is time to examine in more breadth some of the episodes which represent Homer’s conception of poetry, and in particular the per­ formances of Demodocus in O d y ssey 8. The first song of the Phaeacian singer (72-82) tells of a quarrel between Odysseus and Achilles. The dispute caused Agamemnon to rejoice, because of a prophecy Apollo had given him at Delphi just before the expedition left for Troy. W hat the god foretold must have been that Troy would fall soon after ‘the best of the Achaeans’ (79) had quarrelled. W hat Agamemnon did not know was that it was his own quarrel with Achilles ten years later which was meant. As Odysseus hears this tale, he secretly weeps and groans, while the Phaeacians are delighted by it (83—92). Here, then, are two important motifs from the I l i a d : the quarrel of the two ‘best men among the Greeks’ as

50

Homer’s A r t

the beginning of a series of troubles (Book 1), and the deception by a god of the Greek leader (Book 2)— or, more broadly, men’s unwitting fulfilment of a divinely determined train of events: Odyssey 8. 81-2, ‘the beginning of troubles for Trojans and Greeks was surging on through the plan of Zeus’, echoes Iliad 1. 2-5, ‘ten thousand sufferings for the Greeks . . . and the plan of Zeus was achieved’. (A similar set of motifs begins Nestor’s tale of the Greeks’ return home in Odyssey 3: there are quarrels among the Greek leaders (136, 161) caused by the gods, the angry Athena, or Zeus, Agamemnon fails to understand the goddess’s intentions (143—6), and Zeus plans woe for the army (152, 160), which then comes about.) Here too is the proper response of the audience: they are to be pleased like the Phaeacians, but also moved; for Odysseus’ tears reveal what a participant, and so also a fully sympathetic hearer of the Odyssey, would feel about such a tale. The second song of Demodocus (266-366) is in lighter vein. It is a story of the gods, whose doings, as we see throughout Homer, are as much the poet’s business— and as much part of his exceptional knowledge— as men’s: likewise Phemius’ repertoire in Odyssey 1. 338 is εργ* ανδρών τε θεών τε. This time Demodocus tells of the adultery of Aphrodite with Ares, and of how Hephaestus took his revenge and received his compensation, against a varied background of sententious disapproval and rumbustious humour on the part of the other gods. The theme of the song fits firmly into the Odyssey : the unfaithful wife on Olympus contrasts with Penelope, the faithful wife on earth, and the offended divine husband, like the offended human husband, employs guile to inflict a well-deserved punishment on the wrongdoers. The punishment for the man is a grisly death, whereas the gods are only made to look foolish: Hermes can even cheerfully envy Ares, for all his bonds, and Aphrodite finally goes off to be bathed and cosseted by the Graces at home in Cyprus. But that the divine action should echo in tones of fun what is deeply serious among men is also typical of the Iliad: perhaps the most striking example is the quarrel of Zeus with Hera which follows Agamemnon’s with Achilles in Book 1. The gods’ dispute returns to laughter (500)— it is not worth spoiling the pleasures of the banquet for men; but the human beings’ ends in increased resentment and brings ‘ten thousand sufferings’. Moreover, the story of Ares and Aphrodite is a close relative to the deception of Zeus in Iliad 14. Both gods and men feel sexual passion. But the loves of Zeus and Hera are pure pleasure: soft grasses grow spontaneously to cushion their embraces and a golden, dew-dripping cloud covers them around. Hera succeeds in deceiving Zeus; but the consequence is that he reasserts his authority the more firmly (though without violence), and in the meantime the Greeks have enjoyed some remission. Very differ­ ent is the parallel scene in Book 3 (cf. especially 3. 441 —6 with 14. 313-28) where Paris carries an embittered and reluctant Helen off to bed. Though this action in itself has no serious consequences, the narrative is shaped so as

The Singer a n d his Muse

51

to recall that a lover’s infatuation, and the goddess of love’s favour for him, were the cause of the whole war; and though Helen regrets what she did, she cannot now, if she ever could, resist the will of Aphrodite: she sees through the goddess’s deceit (399, 405), but remains none the less her pawn. In love, then, as in other things, the ease and gaiety of the Olympians sets in relief the compulsions and the painfulness of mortal existence: the two worlds in Demodocus are a poetic contrast, as throughout the Iliad. But the gods’ doings can also in themselves amuse and refresh the audience: this time both the Phaeacians and Odysseus are delighted by the song (367-9). The third song of Demodocus completes and culminates the series: it deals with the end of the Trojan War as the first one did with the beginning; similarly in the Iliade though the events which make up the main narrative are confined to a matter of days, the cause and the beginning of the war are recalled and the destruction of Troy constantly envisaged. This time Odys­ seus solicits a tale from the poet about what he openly names as one of his own triumphs, the Trojan horse (492—9). Demodocus complies, following the story through to the sack of the city and giving prominence to Odysseus' part in it (499-520). One might have expected that, having heard himself duly represented as an epic hero, Odysseus would rejoice in this performance too: here, if anywhere, poetry is the κ λ έα άνδρών, the celebration of great men and their deeds. But ip. fact his reaction is to weep, as he did after the bard's first song: Thus sang the famous singer; and Odysseus’ heart was melted. Tears dropped from his eyes and wetted his :.cheeks. As a woman weeps, falling to clasp her husband who has fallen ini defence of his city and his people, to keep off the pitiless day of doom from his town and his children: seeing him in his death throes, she clings to him., shrilly wailing; but the enemy, striking her back and shoulders from behind with their spears, lead her off to slavery, to have toil and groaning; and her cheeks melt with most pitiable grief—just so did Odysseus drop down pitiable tears from his eyes. (521-31) The simile is shaped so as to bring out the workings of pity in Odysseus' mind: he weeps like a woman whose husband has died in defence of his city and who is taken into captivity— like Andromache, in effect— because her suffering, through the poet’s art, has become his own. Homer in his characteristic manner— narrative and simile— expresses the same thought as Gorgias later did with antithesis and assonance: ‘as words tell of the fortunes and misfortunes of other men and lives; the soul feels a feeling all its own' (Helen 9). And just as Demodocus creates involvement, at the same time he exploits detachment: Odysseus can feel what he does because the passage of time allows him to look afresh at his own heroic achievements. So

52

Homer's A r t

the song which was to glorify the hero is felt by the hero himself as a moving record of the pain and sorrow he helped to cause. The first time that Odysseus had wept Alcinous had tactfully relieved and concealed his guest’s sorrow by starting the games (94-103). This time, however, he cannot forbear to discover who the stranger is and what causes his tears (577-80): Tell me why you are weeping and groaning in your heart as you hear of the fate of the Greeks and Troy. But it was the gods who brought it about: they spun destruction for those men, so that future generations might have a song. W ith these words, the Phaeacian king, who is not involved in the events concerned, tries to console Odysseus. They recall the words which Helen, a participant, speaks with chagrin in the Iliad (6. 357—8): . . . for whom (sc. Paris and herself) Zeus made an unhappy destiny, so that we m ight be a theme for song in future generations. This is a striking and significant contrast to the episode in Book 3 where Helen is weaving a tapestry of the battles she herself has caused (125-8): there she is detached enough to be the artist of her own fateful deeds. But here the perspective is different and complementary. For those who live out what poets retail, the suffering which is the stuff of poetry is merely bitter experience; and yet it is proper that men should have poetry to enjoy. Moreover, to listen to poetry is not only to find pleasure; it can also be to understand that suffering belongs to all men, and so too to learn to live with our own. In Odyssey 1 Penelope asks Phemius to stop singing of the return of the Greeks from Troy because that stirs up her longing for Odysseus: Phemius, you know many other tales of men and gods that poets sing which can charm and soothe (βροτών θελκτήρια) . . . (337-8) For her, poetry should be like Helen’s drug in Odyssey 4 (219—34): if poetry ‘enchants’, it also kills pain; and a similar notion of its purpose finds expression in Hesiod {Theogony 55, 92-8). In Odyssey 4 Helen administers her potion in order that her family and guests may then appreciate stories about Odysseus without being overcome by grief. In Book 1 the poetry seems again to deal with a subject which is too close and too painful to the hearers; but Telemachus answers his mother (353-5): Let your heart endure and listen. Odysseus was not the only one who lost his homecoming at Troy: many other men were undone too.

The Singer a n d his Muse

53

The story of Odysseus' labours is in the last analysis a typically human story; and in the O d yssey itself the homecomings of the other Greeks are included, and compared and contrasted with the hero's. Telemachus' words corre­ spond closely to a fragment of the Attic comedian Timocles (C Â F ii. 453 = Athenaeus 223 b) which says that tragedy is useful because it teaches us that someone has always suffered worse than ourselves; and Polybius makes a similar claim for history (1. 1. 2). Thus poetry can give a kind of comfort which is more than a 'drug' because it represents truth— not merely histor­ ical truth, but the realities of life; and because of its artistic realism it can convey with peculiar force the essential message of ancient consolations: non t i b i hoc so li and h u m a n a h u m a n e f e r e n d a (Cicero, T u s c u la n s , 3. 79, 34). I have tried to indicate as I went along a number of ways in which Homer on poetry illuminates the poetry of Homer, and especially the I l i a d as a whole. Let me now conclude by turning in particular to I l i a d 2 4 .1 shall take as headings three of the major themes of Homer's poetics: (1) glory, (2) pity, and (3) consolation. (1) Book 24, no less than the rest of the I l i a d , is the celebration of famous deeds. But here the glory is not that of the warrior. Achilles wins praise and renown by accepting Priam’s supplication and gifts and by renouncing his furious vengeance on Hector's body. As Zeus puts it to Thetis (108-19): The gods are urging Hermes to steal the body. But I mean to attach this glory (Κϋδος) to Achilles . . .Tell him the gods are angry with him, and I above ail, because in his madness he has not released Hector's corpse . . . and I will send Iris to Priam to make him go and ransom his son . . . bringing gifts to mollify Achilles' heart. And thus the hero wins an honour which is profoundly different from the honour he demanded in Book 1 and obtained in the rest of the poem. This is brought out very sharply by the contrast with Book 1. There Thetis goes from Achilles to Zeus and persuades the god to give Achilles honour by bringing destruction to his companions: here Thetis goes to Achilles from Zeus and persuades him to win honour himself by showing mercy to an enemy. Priam too wins renown. He bears 'what no other man on earth has ever borne, to reach to my mouth the hands of my son's killer' (505-6). ‘Endure' (τλήναι) is what, in Homer, heroes characteristically do in war (I l i a d 3. 157, 11. 317, 23. 607), as Nestor movingly observes in the passage I quoted from O d yssey 3; Priam finally appears as the supreme example of such endurance. This is what evokes the wonder of Achilles and his companions when he enters (480-4). His heroic status is also brought out by the parallel with Hector in Book 22. Both men go out ‘alone’ (22. 39; 24. 148 = 177, 203, 519) to meet Achilles; and Hecuba tries to prevent both their departures. But whereas Hector succumbs to him in battle, Priam

54

Homer’s A r t

persuades him as a suppliant; and where Hector failed, in begging him to let his body be ransomed Priam succeeds. So it is that Achilles and Priam, after eating together, sit wondering at each other (628-32); for they are equally godlike men and epic heroes, extraordinary in their nobility as in their grief. Thus Iliad 24 continues, but also transforms, the κλέα άνδρών. The glory here is won not by inflicting or accepting a pitiless death, but by evoking or offering pity; and Achilles, like Odysseus during Demodocus' last song, is so overcome by pity that he shows himself quite indifferent to his own fame and prowess: Ί do not care for Peleus' old age, since I sit idly here, far from my homeland, bringing grief to you and your children' (540-2). There are greater values in the Iliad than fame; and these emerge most magnificently at the end of the poem. This leads us on to the second heading. (2) The centre of Book 24 is the scene where Priam moves Achilles to compassion and the two men weep together sharing their griefs, for Peleus and Patroclus, and for Hector. By comparing himself to Peleus, Priam the orator does what the poet is doing throughout. The bulk of the Iliad is concerned with men who behave pitilessly, and Book 24 with men who inspire and feel pity. But it would be a gross mistake to conclude that the spirit of Book 24 was therefore different from that of the rest of the poem. For both kinds of action, in contrasting but complementary ways, arouse compassion in the poet's audience. W hat happens in Book 24 is that the pity implicit in all the battle scenes takes explicit form in the narrative. The sufferings of bereaved parents are in fact sometimes mentioned where heroes die, for example in 5. 152—7: He (Diomede) went after Xanthus and Thoon, sons of Phaenops, both precious children; for he was consumed by grim old age and begot no other son to put over his inheritance. Then Diomede killed them . . . and left groaning and grim sorrow to their father, who never welcomed them home alive from the war; and executors divided the inheritance among themselves. In Book 24 two such parents, Priam and Peleus, hold the stage, and the pathos of many passing references is massed into one great scene. Likewise, two features of war as Homer describes it in the Iliad are that supplication on the battlefield is always rejected and that warriors who die there can expect to receive no burial. These are facts which are meant to evoke pity and horror. They are not the mere routine of battle, because we know from the Iliad itself that lives can be spared and that burial can be allowed in war. In Book 24 the same concern for mercy and for burial finds expression in an episode where mercy is shown and burial is conceded. (3) Priam and Achilles do not only share their tears; they also see their destinies as part of a common human lot. W ithout that recognition there could be no pity; it is also the basis of consolation. Achilles helps Priam to

The Singer a n d his Muse

55

live with the loss of his son by showing him that trouble comes to all men, and has come to Peleus no less than to Priam: non tihi hoc soli and humana humane ferenda. Just as pity becomes overt in Book 24, so does consolation: the characters are described as feeling and seeing and thinking what the audience are meant to throughout. And without the seeing and thinking, the pity would be mere sentiment, and the poetry mere enchantment; as it is, Iliad 24 embodies a conception of poetry like Telemachus’— as a vehicle of truth. The trufh in question is that human life, whatever else it may contain, includes Shared suffering and inevitable death, and that human destinies are the gift of gods who do not always work with human notions of justice. This is also the heart of Homeric and archaic Greek morality. As Odysseus says to Amphinomus (Odyssey 18. 130-42): There is nothing feebler than man of all the things that breathe and walk on the earth. He never thinks he will fall into trouble when the gods give him prosperity and vigour; but when the blessed gods bring sorrows, then he bears them too, reluctantly, with an enduring heart . . . So let no man be a wrongdoer; let him keep the gods’ gifts quietly, whatever they give him. It is this sense of common weakness and suffering which gives men a reason to treat each other with respect. It also gives them a reason to pity each other, as Cyrus pities Croesus in Herodotus (l, 86) when he sees that ‘he, a man, was about to burn alive another man who had been no less fortunate than himself, or as Odysseus pities Ajax in Sophocles (Ajax 122-4): Ί pity him, for I see that we living men are nothing but phantoms or a bodiless shadow.’ Such understanding is, in fact, the cognitive and rational element in compassion. Schopenhauer4 was surely right to see this as a truer origin and a sounder basis of morality than Kant’s categorical imperative; and so Horace (Epistles 1. 2) or Matthew Arnold were also right to seek edification in Homer, because the poet’s work is, if not didactic in form, profoundly ethical in spirit.

Notes 1. ‘Introductory Lecture’ (1892) in Selected Erose, ed. J. Carter (Cambridge, 1961), 15. I have limited documentation to a minimum; for further references, see my commentary on Iliad 24 (Cambridge, 1982), especially pp. 1—8. 2. R. Finnegan, Oral Poetry (Cambridge, 1977), 193; An Anthology of Oral Poetry (London, 1978), 226-7. 3. Cf. F. W. Walbank, Historia 9 (I960), 216-34. 4. Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung., i. 4. 67.

56

Homer’s A r t

Appendix I owe the story which follows to Peter Levi: he had it from an anthropologist who had worked in the Mani and heard it from the grandson of the murdered man. It illustrates powerfully and economically some of my main themes. It also shows the vitality of the Homeric notion of poetry. A girl in the deep Manx was married in another village; her husband was shot in a quarrel, and she decided to come home. (So far her own family had no obligation of vengeance.) On the way she had to pass through the murderer's village, and there she was mocked. When she got home she told no one this, for fear of causing more bloodshed. But her youngest brother, who was close to her, saw she was upset beyond what was explained; he drew her outside and discovered why. He then went off and hid in a tree near the tower of the mocker’s family. There he waited days until the mocker sat opposite the window he com­ manded, playing with his young son. He shot the man dead in his chair. He escaped by passing through the centre of that village while the villagers were out looking for him. After many adventures he got away to Athens, where he joined the bodyguard of the Duchess of Piacenza, whose town house was high up on Penteli. (Since he was now in exile there was no obligation on anyone in the Mani to pursue him further.) Most of his life passed in Attica. One night he was caught out in the countryside in a thunderstorm, and took refuge in a police station. In Greece the police do not serve in their own area, and these policemen happened to come from the Mani. They gave him food and drink, and they sang songs of their own region. Someone sang the epic or ballad or lay of his own adventure. He wept when he heard it. They asked who he was and he told them. His return home was arranged. He was formally reconciled with the last inheritor of the obligation to vengeance, the child who had been on the murdered man’s knee, and who was now full-grown.

75 The Genre of Epic Poetry* A. Ford Source: Homer. Poet of the Past, © Cornell University Press, Ithaca NY-London, 1992, pp. 31-56.

Art and the Muse The appeal to the Muses is so conventional by now that we may forget that they are uniquely Greek. No other traditional heroic poetry gets its topics from similar transmitting deities. Germanic heroic poetry, for example, treats past glories under such introductions as “so it is said” or “the world has heard.”1 But Greek epic cannot dispense with the Muses; they ground the definition of epic. In fact, as we have seen, the simplest definition of aoidê in epos is that it is the particular singing of the aoidos. But who then merits the title of “singer,” aoidos? The short answer is the one whom the Muses have favored; hence the epithet restricted to singers, their songs, and their voice is thespis, “speaking like a god” and one of their characteristic descriptions is tbeios, “godlike.”2 But it is not clear how the central role the Muses play here can be reconciled with all the poet’s artistry evident in the poems— their smooth and flexible meter, their elevated and cosmopolitan diction, their cunning ways with a story. How is the art of poetry accounted for under the sway of the Muses? This question may also be put: How literally are we to take the invocatory imperatives? If it is not the Muse herself who sings, for we hear the poet, what is it that the poet does? It is disagreeable to the romantic in us to see the poet as merely the “tool” or “passive instrument” of the Muses.3 Accordingly, some have read a division of labor into “tell me, Muse,” deducing that there is a human contribution too.4 Since the poetry is demonstrably traditional in its stories, the special work of the poet has been thought to be in his style, the way he handles traditional matter: the Muse tells the poet, he performs some operation on what he is told, and we get his poem as distinct from what another would give us.5 Often it is said that the Muse gives the poet the content and he puts the form on it.0 Some go so far as to speak of the poet’s “intellectual” relationship with the Muses,7 since, after all, Homer’s idea of

58

Homer’s A r t

inspiration does not imply being possessed or out of one's wits.8 In support of such views a speech of Phemius is often quoted: defending himself to Odysseus, he boasts, "I am self-taught, and the Muse has made stories / of every kind grow in my heart” {Od. 22.347-348). In various ways it has been asserted that Phemius distinguishes his own “original” or artistic work from the contribution of the god.9 But it is anachronistic to foist upon this oral art form a clear and significant distinction between form and content.10 To be sure, words {eped) are quite concrete entitles in the Homeric world: they may have “shape” and come forth fast and thick as winter snow {Od. 11.367; //. 3.222), but it is not clear that Homer would think of different styles of speaking as much as simply different speeches. Certainly there is no sense in Homer that there are different versions of the “Wrath of Achilles” or the “Quarrel of Achilles and Odysseus.” Such a distinction has been very little use in what we know of other traditional oral poetry, where stability of theme is prior to and more important than stability of form.11 The bards Lord studied did not claim to “compose” songs artfully; they actually repudiated originality and claimed (falsely of course) that they only repro­ duced them, the same way each tim e.12 These claims are intelligible in practical terms: while the singer learns the songs and performs them, the story and the way it is told are united; there is no benefit or intellectual reward for separating them. George Walsh puts it well: “W hat a modern reader conceives to be ‘knowledge of facts’ or ‘subject of song’ . . . Homer simply calls ‘song.’ . . . the facts presumably speak for themselves. Thus there is no occasion for a specifically human verbal art to make facts into poetry.”13 Thus the poet’s conception of his art as an impersonal telling and the way the oral verse technique was learned would not have contributed to any distinction, fundamental though it is for our rhetoric, between form and content, the poet’s polish and the Muse’s memory. Invocations may be read simply as the poet’s claim that he didn’t simply make up the stories he is about to sing. Hence in Phemius’s proclamation the two clauses are synon­ ymous: an inspired poet gets his song from the Muses and so is self-taught in the sense that he gets them from no one else.14 We should not then let a romantic interest in the creative artist distort the absolute dominance given to the Muses, and we must agree with Frankel that “Homeric epic arose under conditions under which one cannot speak of literary property in our sense.”15 Yet a different if equally fallacious romantic idea threatens if Homer’s indifference to verbal artistry is embraced as his sensitivity to the primeval power of language, working autonomously merely by being uttered, like magic spells. On this view, this impersonal poetic would represent a stage of thought before the fatal fall of form away from content, when the poet is still less an artist than a medicine man.16 It seems to be true that the origins of poets and seers lie close

The Singer a n d his Muse

59

together, and Homer certainly has faith in magical language, such as the "incantations" that can heal (Od. 19-457)* Yet, by Homer s time the poet’s role and name have been growing apart from that of the seer or magician, and the word for incantation (epaoidê) can be distinguished from that for song (aoidê). Alternatively, one might posit that the notion of the self is still inchoate, so that the poet’s minimal role in singing is explained by the early stage of a gradual evolution toward proud, self-conscious artistry, an evolu­ tion in which Hesiod’s boastful proem marks the next step and lyric (romantically conceived as self-expression) the culmination.17 But this kind of explanation mistakenly sees Homer as less self-reflexive than Hesiod just because his texts have no proem and hence none of the conventional self-advertisement. Finally, some speak of epic poetry as "society’s means of self-expression."18 It is true that early Greek literature generally does not value self-expression per se, but this is not to say that epic poets were unconscious or paradisiacally unconcerned for themselves; this idea is hardly credible for Greeks, who at one time or another made competitions out of virtually every form of poetry from high tragedy to singing over wine. And it is hard to square with the praise given within the poems to poets as performers; with the names given them, Phemius (‘ man of fame"), for example, and Demodocus (“received by the people"); and with the obvious pride in themselves and what they do which poets display in the proems. The point I would make is not that Homer is naïve about language or the self but, as Jesper Svenbro has shown in his study of early Greek poetics, that Homer goes out of his way to avoid speaking of the poet’s activity in terms of “art” or “skill" or “craft."19 Svenbro points out that Homer does have a stock of old, even Indo-European, words from the arts and crafts which can be applied metaphorically to intellectual and verbal contriving. Indeed, such metaphors often describe that pervasive and highly valued cunning summed up in the words metis20 Homer speaks of “constructing" a clever trick (rnetin . . . tektênaito [ƒ/. 17-19]), “fitting together a snare” (dolon . . . êrtue [Od. 13-439]), or “weaving" and “stitching together" evil plans (II. 6 .187, 18.637). But the masters of verbal cunning turn out not to include poets: it is Odysseus who “constructs a tale" (epos . . . paretektenaitd) to get a robe from Eumaeus (Od. 14.131—132), beggars who “fit together lies" (pseudea . . . artunontas [Od. 11-363—366]), and councillors who “weave speeches" (muthous . . . huphainein [II. 3-212]). As historians of archaic Greek thought, we might put the poet’s skill in the category of metis, a not quite scientific but highly effective ability to combine “all kinds of elements" (pantoios), especially to make a snare or trick. But in trying to define Homer’s conception or representation of the place of his art among human activities, we must note that his vocabulary for his art and its “product" is centered not on matter, making, and artifact but on a special singing sanctioned by divinity— thespis aoidê. Conceptions of poetry as performance allied to magic and religion dominate his self-presentation. If Homer tells

60

Homer’s A r t

us anything about a bard’s song beyond the mere fact that he was singing, he will tell us what the song is about; he may add that the song was pleasing or enchanting, but he takes little notice of concrete form or any other aspect of the text. This is in part an argument from silence, but it gains force if we contrast for a moment a quite artistic description of the working poet from Beowulf. At times the king’s thane a man with memory for songs of praise who stored in his mind a vast number of old stories, found word after word bound in truth; in his wisdom he began to sing in turn of Beowulf s exploit and skillfully related an apt tale, varying his words.21 We have here explicit recognition of various aspects of the poet’s personal excellence— his memory, creativity (“finding”), wisdom, skill, sense of aptness— and even references to poetic techniques specific to the scop— alliteration (so 871a may be read) and variation (874a). Search as we may, we find no comparable material in Homer, though two passages are often adduced to support a recognition of the poet’s ability as a kind of skill: Telemachus lists poets among the demiourgoi, “craftsmen” {0d. 17.382-385) and Odysseus is praised for telling his story like a singer, “skillfully” {epistamenos [Od. 11.368; cf. Works and Days 107]). But the interpretation of each passage is strained. A “demiurge” in Homer is far from being the craftsman that he would become in Plato; as the passage itself makes clear, the word applies to anyone who offers a special service not to a single household but to the community, the demos. Inasmuch as the ranks of demiurges mentioned by Telemachus include the prophet and the healer as well as the woodcutter any conception of an art they have in common must be very broad indeed. To call a singer a demiurge, then, only places him in a social class united by mobility rather than analogous skills.22 So too with epistamenos: it is tendentious and anachronistic to translate this adverb as “skillfully” or “according to the rules of his art”23 as if its root verb were already Aristotle’s word for scientific knowledge and Homer had a notion of art as a set of abstract rules wholly separable from the individual practitioner.24 In epic epistamai means “to know how” in the broadest sense, extending from special knowledge to a dancer’s dexterity. Used of poetry, it need not imply deliberative skill any more than when it is used of a herald’s penetrating call or of nimbly dancing feet; nothing more need be read into this line than that the singer sings “capably.”25 Svenbro, then, is right to draw attention to Homer’s reticence about his own artistry, but his explanation is along the lines of the primitivist. On his

The Singer a n d his Muse

61

view, Homer shies away from descriptions of his own skills because such self-assertion would be an impiety; for the same reason, he rejects signing his work.26 I would say, rather, that the idea of the poet as artist is not so much absent from Homer as sequestered from epic proper: it is not allowed in invocations or in representations of poets, but would have been welcome in a proem, as indeed the poet’s “signature” would have been.27 In fact, the one exception to Svenbro’s case shows that the skill that “fashions” heroic stories can be seen in Homer, but transposed onto the gods. In maintaining that the Homeric poet is too pious to claim the status of artist, Svenbro has to reckon with Agamemnon’s words about Penelope in the underworld: the fame [kleos] will never die, of her excellence, and a song [aoidê] for men on earth the gods will fashion [teuxousi] one pleasing to prudent Penelope. [Odyssey 24.197-198] Svenbro appeals to the lateness of book 24 and also tries to dilute the sense of teuxousi from “fashion” to a vaguer “furnish.”28 But I am trying to take the whole poems as we have them, and it is hard to wring out all sense of artistry from the verb. Teukhein is very often a word for building or crafting (e.g., IL 6.314; Od. 12.347) and is especially associated with the paragon of craftsmen, Hephaestus (//. 2.101; Od. 8.195; 276, 18.373). It seems indeed that Penelope’s song has been shaped by art, just as another artist intervened decisively in the Trojan War: the man who built the fatal ship that brought Paris to Greece is “Famebearer, the son of the builder / Fitterson, who knew how to fashion \teukhein] all intricate things with his hands” (IL 5.59—61). We cannot then deny that the singing about Penelope has been artfully contrived, but note that the contriving has been done by the gods, not by poets. The idea of epic plots as the product of divine artistry can also be found in Nestor’s account of the Greek returns: Zeus first “planned” (medeto) a baleful return for the Achaeans and then “fitted evil [kakon ertue] upon them”’ (Od. 3.132, 152). So Helen makes the gods the ultimate creators of the epic in which she and Paris will figure: “Zeus has made an evil fate for us, so that hereafter / we might be a subject of song for men to come” (//. 6.357-358).29 The thought must be that poets simply present stories of the past, which have been directed and shaped by greater powers. Epic, then, seems to have chosen to divert ideas of verbal artistry from its singers and to have transferred them onto gods as the ultimate shapers of events.30 Thus Homer discounts and even denies the significance of the poet in shaping and defining poetry. The work of the poet is not to tell a story in a certain way but simply to tell a certain story, and the figure of the aoidos is linked not with artisans but with itinerant specialists who can do things most people cannot. Homer’s depictions of poets present a poetry without

62

Homer's A r t

rhetoric, a pure presentation of the tale without embellishment or distortion from the teller. It seems that Homer would have the meter and dialect of his texts pass unnoticed in our conception of his art, for the form of a story is not of interest apart from the story. Genres of unsung poetry, then, are demarcated significantly by their ethos, and the invocation and the repre­ sentation of poets in epic are part of that genre which advertised itself as a tale told without rhetoric. We need not think that epic poets were purely selfless or that they yielded to some larger social voice; nor need we strike a fine balance between the “I” and “you'5 of invocations, primitivizing or historicizing the poet’s “I.” W hat we have is a convention: we are not in some period before the discovery of the self, but we are in a genre in which it was expected that the poet would remove himself from the text and speak not as an artisan of words but as transmitter of stories. These negative conclusions throw into more prominence those tales that are presumably told without art. To know more about the art of poetry, then, we should look more closely at these stories and at how they are classified. Of particular interest is a system of metaphors centrally impor­ tant to the poet in organizing his tradition in his mind and in relating himself to that tradition. We will find that just as Homer has projected poetic artistry onto the gods, he has projected narrative structure onto the deeds themselves.

A Topical Poetic Invocations tell us obvious things about epic tales— that they are large, that they are about sorrowful deeds of heroes, that the gods’ plans work through them. But the very care and consistency with which these things are repeated is significant, for as stories are a primary and constant interest of the poet, they are the one element in this fluid, variable art of performance that is given stability, identity, and a name. In its regularized way of defining and announcing particular stories, this oral art comes closest to establishing fixed, essential elements of the singer’s profession. To be sure, the “Wrath of Achilles” doesn’t fix the story into a single, unalterable verbal form like a written, titled work, but identifies only a flexible constant behind the oral performance. Certainly it could not be told so that it contradicted major events of accepted heroic history, but beyond that, it was little more than a flexible plan of events to be presented as the occasion demanded. 31 Nor is the distinction between one theme and the next or between a theme and a subtheme rigid and easy to demarcate: stories belonging to the same general area of mythic history may be shaded into one another or isolated for individual treatment.32 For example, in book 8 of the Odyssey Homer first calls what Demodocus sang the “Quarrel of Odysseus and Achilles, son of Peleus” {Od. 8.75); later Odysseus refers to

The Singer a n d his Muse

63

. this same song in more general terms as the ‘'destruction of the Achaeans, / all that they did and suffered and wrought at Troy” (8.489^490); yet later, Alcinous seems to subsume this song and Demodocus’s subsequent “Fash­ ioning of the Wooden Horse” (Od. 8.500-501) under the larger title of the “Destruction of the Argive Danaans and of Ilion” (Od. 8.578). The focus on painful action is constant, as is the awareness of just who’s getting the worst of it at each moment, but beyond that, the title gives no precise definition of the contents and limits of the story. Yet it is fair to think of varying performances as centering on a single, fixed story insofar as they recount determinate incidents that befell deter­ minate heroes, and thesç in a determinate sequence. In addition, these individual stories are also more abstractly “fixed” together, for invocations tell us that each tale must take a starting point in a larger frame of memorable acts. The basis for this genre of singing, then, is the fiction that behind the telling of each story exists one divinely superintended tale, one connected whole that never alters, though parts of it may be performed in this or that time and place. That Homer and Hesiod conceived of a larger realm of interconnected stories is clear from two technical terms or terms of the trade. One is the word for an individual theme, oimê, and the other the word for changing from one theme to another, metabaino (which occurs only once within epic, though is very well attested in proems). Takeri together, these quasi-technical terms suggest what W alter Ong calls a “topical poetic,” a poetic that identifies individual themes as having a determined place in relation to other themes along a road or path. The stability and continuity of indivi­ dual stories are metaphorically expressed as paths, and the tradition is figured as the great tract in which these stories may be joined end to end. How the poets imagined this total structure of stories is significant for defining epic, for the metaphorical shape the poets give that matter is a map of poetic genres within epos. We will see that the final shape of these tracts of song is the entire world of the past, the “deeds of gods and men to which bards give k l e o s including Homer’s poetry but also Hesiod’s theo­ gonie poetry as well. Both technical terms are found in Homer’s longest sustained portrait of a bardic performance. Early in book 8 Homer describes an after-dinner performance by Demodocus: After they had put aside the desire for food and drink, the Muse then stirred up the singer to sing the fames of men [klea andron] from that path [oime\ whose fame at that time reached broad heaven, the Quarrel of Odysseus and Achilles, son of Peleus. [Odyssey 8.72-75] The term here that has attracted most attention is the “fames of men,” the

64

Homer’s A r t

klea andron. But I will reserve an analysis of that phrase for the next chapter and first look at its constituent parts. An oime is an individual story within the heroic repertoire, which can in turn be conceived as a series of oimai (pL): “The Muse has made oimai l of every kind grow in my heart” {Od. 22.347—348). To be a traditional poet is to “have learned” from the Muses (i.e., to know by inspiration) many oimai: “For among all men on earth singers / have a share in honor and respect, because the Muse has taught them / oimai, for she loves the race of singers” {Od. 8.479—4SI). The way this word is used in early Greek indicates that it was a technical term for the individual themes of epic, and this sense of oimê is perhaps the source of the word “proem” (pro-oimion), meaning something like “the portion of the performance that comes before the main theme.”33 Appar­ ently, oimai meant “paths” to the poet, so that the relative fixity and stability of themes was figured in Homeric language by describing them as if they were tracks cut into some landscape.34 The process of singing was thus a progress, and Hesiod could sum up his election as poet by saying that the Heliconian Musés “made me walk upon [the path] of singing.”35 To proceed from one topic of heroic song to another was to “move along” the paths of song, expressed in another apparently technical word, metabaino, to pass from one place to another. After Demodocus's “Quarrel of Odysseus and Achilles,” Odysseus asks Demodocus for a different epic story: But come, move along [on the path of song] and sing the Fashioning of the Horse, the wooden one that Epeius made together with Athena, which godlike Odysseus once brought to the acropolis as a trick filling it with men who sacked Ilion. and he brought forth the song, taking it from that point when the Greeks embarked on their well-benched ships and sailed away. [Odyssey 8.492-495, 499-501] This is Homer's only use of metabaino, but it has the same sense it has in the conclusions of some hymns, where it signals their change of theme: “having begun with you I will move along to another hymn.” 36 Like oimê, metabaino metaphorically conceives of song as spatially extended, and it belongs to the same quasi-technical language of early epos.37 The choice of themes is therefore a choice of a place, as invocations choose where to start the story. When a singer selects a particular theme, he is said to be stirred within his heart or mind (his thumos or noos) to go in a particular direction: “The Muse has given aoidê to the singer / to give pleasure, in whatever direction

The Singer a n d his Muse

65

[hoppei] his heart moves” (Od. 8 . 44 - 45 ); “why do you begrudge the noble singer / to give pleasure wherever his mind is stirred to go” (Od. 1.346— 347).38 The moving of the poet’s mind is like a ranging over space; conversely, a god shooting speedily through space to Olympus “darts like the mind of a well-traveled man / whose mind {noos} flies . . . as he thinks, / Ί wish I were here, or there,’ and he thinks of many places.”39 W hat we have here is a “topical poetic.” This term from O ng’s useful discussion (1977) nicely allies the identification of particular subject matter, particular ‘‘topics,” with the figure of a theme as a particular place. The topics of epic are imagined as extending in space and their relation to each other is a matter of coming before οχ after. W ithin the “fames of men” the organization will appear to be genealogical-sequential: one tells a story straight through, the parent before the child, the first before the last, and so the Fashioning of the Horse before the Sack of Troy, but after Achilles’ stories. But on the basis of this topical poetic we may also identify the special place for heroic song as a whole in relation to other songs with the same ethos, for the ends of our texts indicate that the tales of heroines and heroes have their place after but continuous with the stories of cosmogony and the rise of the gods. Thalmann has shown particularly how the idea of “the poems and their larger unity” was more than an abstraction for poets, how it often resulted in individual “songs” being linked together when they were made into texts.40 This process is most evident in the later-named “epic cycle,” in which variously dated stories about the Trojan War were joined together to form a continuous history reaching from the origins of the war to its aftermath in the returns. But Thalmann notes too that the Theogony was linked (by Hesiod or another) with the Catalogue of Women, stories of gods’ pairing with mortal women and producing the great heroic lines. This seeming editorial violence was only realizing the vision such poetry had of itself, as can be seen from the Theogony s proem, when the Muses sing such a continuous tale: Sending forth their immortal voice, the God’s Revered Race they celebrate first in song from the beginning, whom Earth and broad Heaven begot, and the gods who arose from these, givers of good things, and next Zeus, the father of gods and men, as they begin and end their singing how he is mightiest of the gods and greatest in power, and next the Race of Men and of the Strong Giants they hymn, and they please the mind of Zeus on Olympus [Theogony 43-51] The titling syntax draws attention to the various themes the Muses perform: their first song is devoted to the birth of gods and goddesses; then they sing

66

Homer's A r t

a song devoted exclusively to Zeus; finally they proceed to tell of early generations of men. In this of course they anticipate the sequence of topics found in the Theogony and its sequel, the Catalogue of Women: gods from the beginning, Zeus’s exploits, then mortal matters.41 Logically then, the Iliade Odyssey, and all of what we call “epic’’ belonged further along on the same continuum. And so it appears if we gain a perspective outside of epic, from the Hymn to Apollo. It describes a Delian women’s chorus who begin '‘from the gods” before moving on to heroic matters: When they first hymn Apollo and next Leto and Artemis who delights in arrows, calling to mind the men and women of old, they sing their hymn and enchant the tribes of mortals. [Hymn to Apollo 158-161] The chorus’s proem (n.b., "first,” as in Theogony 44) acknowledges the presiding divinities on Delos; this proem may have included an extended narration of the birth of Apollo and Artemis, a favorite theme of such poetry. When they turn from proem to heroic tale, they are said to "call to mind” {mnesamenai) the men and women of old, that is, to invoke the Muses, daughters of Mnêmosunê. Though proem and heroic tale are mark­ edly distinct, they are also continuous along the path of song and belong to a single "hymning.” Pindar (Nemean 5.25ff.) represents the Muses obeying this protocol even in those early times when gods were not yet set apart from mortals: singing at the wedding of Peleus and Thetis, the Muses’ wedding song will perforce be a heroic song too, and needs a divine preface: "They, after first / beginning with Zeus [Dios arkhomenai], hymned Thetis / and Peleus, how Hippolyta wanted to ensnare him.” The paths of song are very extensive, but they do not go on forever: the continuum of stories pulls up at a time somewhat short of the present. As both texts make clear (Theog. 100; H. A p. 160), klea andròn are the "fames” only of men and women of old.42 The "epic” poet, then, is essentially a poet of the past, not a poet of heroes or gods in particular. For his past he may turn, as Homer does, to the noble heroes who fought beside gods at Troy, four dark centuries before his day; or he may move further back in time, to even earlier themes, to the women who, mating with gods, founded the great royal lines, as Hesiod does, in a Catalogue of Women.43 W hat defines this "heroic” poetry is time: these mortals are earlier and closer to the powerful origins of the world order. Finally, the poet of the past may, without changing "genre,” focus on the affairs of the gods themselves, the earliest born of all, in a theogony. Just as in performance the gods must be acknowledged before mortals, so in the abstract conception of the range of song any heroic tale implicitly

The Singer a n d his Muse

67

follows and continues the history of gods and earlier heroes. Though for some kinds of (chiefly stylistic) analyses it may be useful to distinguish Homer's poetry from Hesiod’s as epic from didactic, in the largest context the distinction between them is not generic but topical. In his Tbeogony Hesiod no less than Homer is a poet of the past, and he calls his Theogony by the same name, aoidê (e.g., 22, 104). Each attributes the same repertoire to the aoidos: in Hesiod he “chants the fames of men of former times / and the blessed gods who hold Olympus” ('Theog. 100-101); Homer’s Phemius sings "the deeds of gods and men” (Od. 1.338), and Demodocus performs both Trojan saga and the affair of Ares and Aphrodite. Hence in the imagination of the “epic” genre, the kka andron as a whole are after but connected with stories of the birth and deeds of the gods. Epic is not a secular story about men as opposed to a divine story about gods but a later story in a continuous sacred history. W ithin this continuum one certainly knows the difference between tales purely about the gods and tales of heroic men and gods, but the “line” between them is not a generic line inscribed by literary con­ siderations as much as one written across cosmic history. W ithin the poetry of the past Hesiod demands a special place by claiming that his is the first tale; Homer’s poetry cannot claim that place but does announce that each tale is set under the same Olympian skies. This whole is what I call the poetry of the past, a presentation of ancient but ever real and valid stories about gods and eirly mortals. The conventions of epic performance, the need for a prooimiofn before oimê, are not simply a matter of courtesy but define the place of. epic in the order of things. This order, at once spatial and chronological, ritualistic and narratological, is the canon against which to define Homeric epic. Hence it is in a literary, religious, and cosmological sense that Homer’s epic may be defined as poetry of the past. The metaphors that establish the topical poetic have led us into the dark region of how poets imagine their art. It may seem natural to picture changing poetic themes as moving through space, but the idea as applied to epic seems to have a particular, if obscure, history. Karl Meuli has linked the poet’s path of song to shamanistic ideas of journeying to hidden realms of knowledge.44 The widespread but elusive figure of the shaman, who combined the roles of sacred singer, seer, healer, and visitor to the under­ world, has more than once been adduced as the prototype of the poet, and similarities between poets and these inspired seers could be multiplied— as could differences. Such parallels are as tantalizing as our historical knowl­ edge of Greek shamans is scanty, so that to adduce them here would be to explain obscurum per obscurius.45 But it would be reductive to dismiss the magical notions near the heart of the ancient idea of epic, and an inspired figure who knows certain paths may be found closer to hand in the Homeric seer. It has long been noted that Homer’s description of Calchas’s god-given power to “know the things that are and will be and were” (II. 1.70) is close

68

Homer's A r t

to the Muses’ gift to Hesiod to sing 'w hat will be and what was” (Theog. 32 ).'46 Indeed, Homer himself seems to suggest the parallel between poet and prophet, for the first words Calchas speaks in the poem are "Achilles, you bid me to tell / the W rath of Apollo, the far-darting lord” (//. 1.74—75): the titling syntax in line 75 suggests that the W rath of Apollo is a seer’s account of events that are later reincorporated into the poet’s W rath of Achilles.47 And we may further note that the proto-poet Calchas is also a pathfinder: his gift of prophecy enables him not only to see deeply into the present and future but also to lead the Achaean ships to Troy (Z/. 1.71—72). It does seem as if special ways of knowing are also ways of navigating along seas whose measures can not be taken by human skill.48 Prophet and poet are seers of what is not apparent, and both know paths we do not.

T he Purpose of Poetry: Vividness The final question to answer in defining the poetry of the past is what all this was for: Why rehearse the past? Why rehearse it in this impersonal way? The answer would seem to be simple: Homer and Hesiod speak constantly of the pleasure of poetry and its enchantment. But pleasure has rarely been seen as a sufficient justification for poetry in the history of criticism, and so a promise of the truth or instructive value of poetry has often been found in these texts. Here, the central dilemma of classical and neoclassical criticism threatens like Scylla and Charybdis: Is the purpose of poetry to instruct or to delight, to give us truth or pleasure? For on the one hand, to say that the purpose of poetry is only to stimulate aesthetic contemplation seems highly anachronistic and implausibly to suggest that poetry was given and received as a recognized fiction and judged for the beauty and ingenuity of the artist’s transformation of his material. Yet, on the other hand, it is not easy to attribute a strict ideal of historical truth to an age without documentation from the past, and to say that poetry provides us with moral instruction may be to read more into the texts than is there. Yet it is possible to avoid either of these impositions and take Homer and Hesiod at their words when they describe the purpose of poetry as pleasure; it is necessary, however, to understand such pleasure not as aesthetic appreciation but as an experience of what I will call vividness, a sense that the past is somehow present before us. The only time epic mentions truth in connection with poetry is the notorious claim of Hesiod’s Muses: "We know how to tell many lies that are like what is really so [etumos\ and, when we will, to proclaim true things [alêthea]” {Theog. 27—28). Because Mnêmosunê, the mother of Hesiod’s Muses, is interpreted as memory, and because Homer prays that the Muses may "remind” him, or "bring to mind” (;mnesaiath’ [11. 2.492]) the names of those at Troy, some scholars would find in epic a claim that the art and

The Singer a n d his Muse

69

value of the poetry is to be '‘accurate/5 to convey “historical55 truth.49 Accordingly, invocations are taken essentially as appeals for “informa­ tion .”50 E. R. Dodds explains the reasoning behind such views: “But in an age which possessed no written documents, where should first-hand evidence be found? Just as the truth about the future would be attained only if man were in touch with a knowledge wider than his own, so the truth about the past could be preserved only on a like condition. 5551 This is well observed, but “truth55 of course has a history all its own. Our best guide to what the Muses mean when they claim to be able to say “true things55 may be A. T. Cole's important reconsideration of the concept of truth denoted by alêtheia (1983). Cole notes that in the archaic period this word names a different kind of truth from historical accuracy (a sense better expressed by etumos). In Homer, aletheie and its cognates are used only of accounts by human speakers about matters of which it is difficult to know the facts.52 Hence, as an evaluation of a speech, it is not a judgment on the reality of what is told as much as on how it is told. Literally, “unforgettin g /' a “true55 speech was one that reported precisely and in detail, with scrupulous attention to what one has said before and the consequences of what one is saying. Cole defines it in Homer as signaling “completeness, non-omission of any relevant, detail, whether through forgetting or ignorance. 5553 This sense of truth is strikingly close to the description an histor­ ian, M. I. Finley, has given of what he found in Homer: “Yet, whatever else it may have been, the epic was not history; It was narrative, detailed and precise, with minute descriptions of fighting and sailing, and feasting and burials and sacrifices, all very real and vivid; it may even contain, buried away, some kernels of historical fact— but it was not history/'54 Looking for historical truth as the primary virtue Homer claimed for his poetry, then, may be anachronistic. Alternatively, the mention of the “hateful song55 of Clytemnestra and the “pleasing song55 of prudent Pene­ lope in Odyssey 24.196—200 are cited for the belief that poetry provides moral instruction. If one adds Homer’s Sirens, who promise Odysseus that if he listens to their song he will return “knowing more and taking pleasure55 (Od. 12.188), one may read into Homer the neoclassical blend of duke with utile and say that his poems contain both truth and delight.55 Certainly there is nothing incongruous in taking pleasure from a true tale, as Thalmann notes, but it is a great inference to say with Walter Kraus that Hom ers pleasure refers to the satisfaction of “the human desire to know. 5556 Homer certainly became the moral educator of the Greeks, but that is an entirely separate issue from whether Homer himself saw his poetry as instructive. The evidence suggests that it was specifically in the fifth century that, in James Redfield’s words, the poet “lost the standing of a prophet and acquired the standing of a teacher,”57 and there is a Socratic ring to such questions as W hat does the poet know? and W hat can he teach? I at least do not sense that these stories are presented to point to some “higher” truth, to

70

Homer's A r t

reveal a moral or intellectual order underlying the appearance of things. Nevertheless, recent commentators have found Homer hinting at the moral uses of poetry and have even gone on to read into Odysseus’s tears at the Trojan songs in book 8 of the Odyssey an essay on what makes the ideal poetic auditor.58 But Kraus long ago raised telling objections to this line of thought: poetry is consistently portrayed in epic as a passing enchantment or momentary pleasure; its audience is rapt in silence. To interpret the tale for its moral lesson would break the spell, and there is no mention of anyone’s doing so.59 Just because Phoenix uses the heroic tale of Meleager to instruct Achilles in Iliad, book 9, does not mean that the singer presents his tales for the same reason. If we are compelled to allow that any poetry, whatever its claims for itself, cannot fail to teach us something, the truest and most profound teaching that epic poetry may have done in its time would appear to have been the very indirect and unconscious persuasion of its audiences to enjoy and admire a directly presented and unexplicated image of heroic life.60 At least there is no doubt among commentators that the one goal of poetry that Homer mentions, a dozen times at least, is pleasure (terpein), even enchantment.61 Our only insight into that emotion is a muchdiscussed passage from Hesiod: 62 Happy is he whom the Muses love sweet flows the voice from his mouth, for if someone has pain and fresh grief in his soul and his heart is withered by anguish, when the poet, the servant of the Muses, chants the fames of men of former times and the blessed gods who hold Olympus, then straightaway he forgets his sad thoughts and thinks not of his grief, but the gifts of the gods quickly turn him away from these. [Theogony 96-103] Hesiod implies that it is at least in part because the songs are from the past— that is, not about ourselves— that they have their assuaging power. To put our minds on the deeds of others (especially when these deeds, as usual, entail great suffering) is to turn our minds away from our own griefs. The experience, then, which Plato called “turning the mind elsewhere’’ and which he confined to impersonation actually belongs to the whole of epos.63 This is poetry that turns its listeners away from present cares to contemplate events of long ago: the happiness of the gods and the woe of other human beings are what turn us away from our own sorrows. It is in this connection that we should appreciate the sacred nature of memory as Jean-Pierre Vernant has expounded it.64 W hen Hesiod says the Muses are daughters of Memory, what mnemosune implies is less recollection or retrieval from storage than “mindfulness.” The function of this memory

The Singer a n d his Muse

71

is not simply preservation of the past but a psychological experience, to change the present frame of awareness.65 As the passage from Hesiod puts it, when the poet sings, a man forgets sad thoughts and doesn't remember his grief (oude . . . memnetai). Hence, when Hesiod describes the birth of the Muses from Zeus and Memory (mnemosune), he immediately riddles their name as “the forgetfulness [lêsmosunê] of woe and the cessation of worry" (Theog. 54-55). V ernanti insight is all the more comprehensible for a topical poetic in which time is space: sacred memory moves us not back in time but to another place, au delà, not “back" but elsewhere, along the tracks of memorable action. Given this special power of memory, the audience is interested in epic song not because it happened but because it happened to others. The delight in the tale is not the satisfaction of accuracy or the communication of some higher truth but the pleasurableness of a convincingly full picture. From the poet's point of view we call this epic objectivity; but it has an equally important effect on the audience, something that we would not want to define as a purely aesthetic pleasure.66 This effect has been variously named as a sense of “participation" or “Vergegenwärti­ gung," but I prefer to take a name out of Homer, via the Greek literary critics, to enarges, “vividness."67 In Homer the adjective enarges describes something or someone appearing convincingly and presently before one's eyes, especially a vision that others might not be able to see or that may not always be apparent to view. A dream may be vivid {Od. 4.841), but usually the word is used of the gods when they condescend to take on a form; visible to men {Od. 3.420, 7.199200, I 6. I 6I; //. 22.131).68 The Greek critics adopted this word to describe poetry that puts its incidents dearly before the audience's eyes.69 Aristotle says the poet can achieve vividness by composing with his plot “placed squarely before his eyes," and he finds it especially keen in drama, even when read and not performed.70 Longinus connects it with the poet's powers of visualization, phantasia {On the Sublime 15, 26). Again, I think that this is not pure theory on the part of these critics but the theorization of what was apparently a real psychological effect of epic performance, as can be seen in the testimony of Plato. His Socrates ventures that when a rhapsode performs Homer his soul is a little outside itself, and he “thinks that he is present at the events he is describing, whether they be in Ithaca or Troy or wherever" {Ion 535B). His interlocutor, a rhapsode, agrees with this “vivid point" and says that the audience “looks on me with awe and feels amazement together with me at what I say" {Ion 535E). The awe that the rhapsode provokes is neither instruction (though learning comes from wonder) nor pure delight. It is the uncanny effect of the power of language to represent a hidden world merely by the accumulation of statements.7” I rehearse these passages because it is important to stress that the back­

72

Homer’s A r i

ground of vividness is magical and epiphanic; we should not reduce it to an aesthetic notion, thinking of it, for example, as a compelling sensual impression as opposed to the clear and distinct ideas of logic. It is vividness as a feature of divine epiphanies that is involved in poetry’s power to make the invisible past appear to its hearers. The first words of each poem effect this appearance by calling on the Muses: because we are granted their perspective, when the great speeches are given we seem to be on the edge of the assembly, and when the heroic actions are performed we seem to be present as onlookers.72 Though epic is by definition poetry of the past, it is poetry that claims to transport us to an au delà, not a beyond buried in the vault of recollection but a place as present as our own, though elsewhere. According to Homeric eschatology, after death the heroes’ bodies are destroyed in one way or another, and their souls fly off to Hades, the realm of the unseen.73 The fundamental promise of his poetry is the paradox of restoring through mere voice these vanished heroes and rarely appearing gods to visibility. We may illustrate it simply by comparing again the power of Calchas with the power of the poet: Calchas reveals to the plaguestricken Greeks that what is really happening is that they have been beset by an angry Apollo; he can see and make known what they could not. But a similar skill also belongs to the poet himself, who in a few sublime lines has made Apollo, coming down from Olympus, appear to his audience, ‘"with his bow, and the arrows clanged in his quiver as he went like night” (11.

1.44— 47). The art of epic poetry which Homer inherited, then, was well defined in certain moments of the performance, even if not quite defined in a literary way. Proems situated these performances in a particular place and time and also defined the singer and audience. The invocations then moved from that occasion to a timeless and universal realm in which the stories subsist with ideal integrity. In this transcendent realm presided over by the Muses, the stories of men are made permanent and are fixed as sequels to the stories of gods. The Muses are tightly bound up with this kind of poetry; indeed, they are central and make the difference between poets and nonpoets, so that the “art” of poetry is finally to be favored by the Muses. In the notion of genre which Homer constructs out of the oppositions of past and present, presence and absence, his singing, like much of Hesiods, was a special presentation of the past, manifested in the effect I call vividness. In the next chapter we will see how this defining difference of the poetry of the past was rooted in a kind of seeing attributed to the Muses. Their seeing lies at the very heart of the difference between poetry and other tales of the past; a survey of celestial forms, it made the past appear in a way no other speech could. It is not surprising that we are permitted to hear such poetry only after prayer upon prayer.

The Singer a n d his Muse

73

Notes 1. Cf. Bowra (1952) 40-41; Niles (1983) 51. 2. E.g., Od. 17.385, 1.336. These terms will be discussed more fully in Chapter 5 [not reprinted here]. 3. Glosses, respectively, of Falter (1934) 5 and Grube (1965) 2. See Lanata (1963) 1-2. 4. For earlier views, see Lanata (1963) 9-10. 5. Lanata (1963) l4. 6. Marg (1957) 61-63; Dodds (1957) 80; Murray (1981) 90-91. 7. Murray (1981) 96; Maehler (1963) 19; cf. Tiegerstedt (1970). 8. Lanata (1963) 8-9; cf. Thalmann (1984) 127 with notes. 9. Lanata (1963) 14 says this passage shows that skill and inspiration are “co­ present”; cf. Murray (1981) 97. Schadewaldt (1965) 78-79 gives an avowedly Pindaric interpretation: the singer says that he has not merely “learned” his songs (like the lowly handworkers in his guild) but has adapted his art from the Muses. Frankel (1973) 19-20 interprets it as boasting that the poet not only can repeat what he has heard but can produce songs on a proposed topic. Walsh (1984) 11 takes it as “equivocally a claim also for the artistry of a god” (further references at his 137 n. 24). 10. Russo and Simon (1968) 493—497. Thalmann (1984) 230 n. 27 makes this point apropos of Hesiod. 11. Finnegan (1977) 58-69; Ong (1982) 60-62, 12. Lord (I960) 26-29, 101, (1954) esp. 240-241, 409-413; cf. Jensen (1980) 68 and Thalmann (1984) 128 and 171 n. 29. 13. Walsh (1984) 10-11. 14. The best recent discussion of these lines is Thaimann (1984) 126-127. 15. Frankel (1973) 7, and cf. 11, 15-16. 16. Marg (1957) 11-12; Maehler (1963) 9-10. For “medicine man,” see Schadewaldt (1965) 78—79. 17. Kranz (1924) 67; Sperdutti (1950); Maehler (1963) 17; Lanata (1963) 21. 18. E.g., Schadewaldt (1965) 75—79; Marg (1957) 12; the quoted formula is taken from Thalmann (1984) 113. 19. Svenbro (1976) 193-212. This provocative and insightful book has been controversial on some points but this is not one of them. Cf. Ritook (1989) 344-346. 20. Detienne and Vernant (1974) offer a rich study of m etis . 21. B e o w u lf 867-874a. Translation Niles (1983) 37, together with a discussion. Cf. B e o w u lf 2105—2114. 22. Noted by Stanford (1974) of Od. 17.383-38523. Murray (1981) 98; Schadewaldt (1965) 71 (“kunstgerecht”). 24. For the Homeric idea of teehne, see Kube (1969) 14-19. 25. See Snell (1924) 81-96. Cf. Walsh (1984) 135 n. 5- My “capably” is taken from the shrewd discussion of Jensen (1980) 73. 26. Svenbro (1976) 18-25. 27. I would add to the proemic vocabulary for “crafting” poetry noted in the previous section Pseudo-Hesiod ft. 357 M-W. In a fictitious proem Hesiod says that he and Homer “stitched song into new hymns.” 28. Svenbro (1976) 194, citing Od. 10.118, among other passages, 29- With “make” {tkeke kakon moron) cf. Od. 3-136: Athena “made strife” for the Atreidae on their return. One also thinks of II. 1.2 where the Wrath of Achilles “made” countless woes for the Greeks through the plan of Zeus. For the use of the

74

Homer’s A r t

verb (cognate with Latin feet) in divine creation, cf. W orks a n d D a y s 173d, with West’s (1978) note. 30. A further parallel can be found in Hesiod fr. 273 M-W if one reads the manuscript’s edeim an , used of house building (instead of eneimanp. “Sweet it is to find out all those things the gods have erected for mortals, as a clear mark distin­ guishing the coward and the brave.” 31. See Lord (I960) 68, 96-97, 119—120, and cf M. Parry’s definition of “theme”: “the groups of ideas regularly used in telling a tale in the formulaic style of traditional song” (Parry [1971]). 32. Excellent remarks on this in Finnegan (1977) 107. 33. So Chantraine (1977) defines prooim ion , s.v. oime: “That which is found before the development of the poem, prelude” (“ce qui se trouve avant le dével­ oppement du poème, prelude”). But an aspirated version of this word, pb ro im io n , makes Frisk (1960—70) s.v. oime judge this connection uncertain (“unklar”). See the next note. 34. The etymology and original meaning of oime are unclear, and it is not easily to be equated with hoimos, “path, road.” But if it was a “technical” term adopted by singers (as both Frisk and Chantraine recognize), they may have distorted or not known its original sense. I take it as meaning “path” to Homer because the many spatial metaphors adduced here suggest that the poet has already assimilated it to the very similar sounding (h)oim os aoidês , “path of song,” first attested in H ym n to Hermes 451; so Schadewaldt (1965) 74— 75; Svenbro (1976) 36 n. 103. The “path of song” is an Indo-European metaphor (Durante [1958]), and is consonant with many well-established Homeric metaphors for the path or “way” of speech. Cf. Becker (1937) 36-37, 68-69. The same evidence, and the fact that archaic lyric rings so many happy changes on the metaphor, make it unwise to pronounce oime a “dead metaphor” in Homer, meaning no more than “song,” as does Harriott (1969) 65. Pagliaro (1951) 25-30, followed by Lanata (1963) 11-12 and others, has read the metaphor as “the thread of narrative,” but his aim of distinguishing epic (as “connected story”) from lyric is misplaced and anachronistic. 35. W orks a n d D a y s 659: me . . . epebesan aoides\ cf. H . Hermes 464-465: “I do not begrudge you, Apollo, to walk upon [the path] of my art.” 36. E.g., H ym n 5.293, 9-9. See Weber (1934) 445-448. This formula may even be used at the end of “longer” hymns. See Richardson (1974) on H . Dem . 495, against Böhme (1937) 76 n. 78. 37. The same metaphor appears in lyric: Aleman 1.12 Page; cf. Pavese (1967). Xenophanes begins a song: “Now again I will enter on another story, and I will show the way” (a llo n epeimi logon , 7 Ï E G ). A similar metaphor is in what Aristotle quotes as the first line of Choerilus of Samos’s epic on the Persian War, but which is actually a transitional opening: hegeo a llo n logon , “lead for me another story, how from the land of Asia / a great war came to Europe” (fr. 316 LI-J-P). In prose similar metaphors mark a change of topic: Gorgias H elen 10, “Come now, I will move from one speech to another” (pros a llo n a p ' a llo u m etasto logon ); cf. Herodotus 2.382, 6.39-138. Cf. H . A p . 20: “In every direction [pantei] the range of your song extends, Phoebus.” Perhaps we should also give locative rather than instrumental force to p e l in such phrases as “there is no way [i.e., direction] in which to remember song if I forget you,” H ym n 1,17-18, cf. 7.58-59- The two adverbs are combined in Choerilus 317.4-5 LI-J-P (= 1 K), discussed in Chapter 2. 39* II - 15.80-82. Apollo can fly off to Olympus “quick as thought” (noema [H . A p . 186]). For further examples, see Allen, Halliday, and Sikes (1936) on H . Hermes 43.

The Singer a n d his Muse

75

40. Thalmann (1984) 75-77; on 77 he comes close to detaching, as I would, the and its “sequel,” the O rnith om anteia (“Bird Divination”), from his sense of epos. I would not follow him when he links this larger order to “the poem’s structure, the paratactic linking of discrete passages that conform in. shape to the traditional compositional patterns” (124). 41. Though the Theogony does not (now at any rate) give us the Muses’ Giants, it is supplemented with the matings of gods and mortals as announced in 963-968 and 1019ff. (fr. 1 M-W). See West (1966) on Theog. 44. 42. One might compare Bakhtin’s notion of epic's “absolute past” in his “Epic and Novel” (1981). 43- I presume that “the hymn of ancient men and women” in H . A p . 160 refers to such poetry as the C atalogu e o f W om en (cf. fr. 1.1 M-W). 44. Meuli (1938) moots the shamanistic origins of epic on 164—176 and adduces the path of song on 172-173. 45. For a cautious and informed assessment of Greek shamanism, see Burkert (1972) 162-165. 46. Dodds (1957) 81, 100 n. 118; cf. Thalmann (1984) 225 n. 53 for discussion. 47. We may note too that as Homer took up his tale in the ninth year of the war, Calchas intervenes in the plague after nine days. Martin (1989) 40 says of Calchas’s use of “tell” (;m uthesasthai ) that it introduces a “discourse that has a formal nature, often religious or legal; full detail is laid out for the audience, or is expected by the interlocutor in the poem,” 48. So Teiresias will reveal to Odysseus “the road and the measures of the path” toward home (O d. 4.389 = 10.539) and an Apolline oracle says it knows “the measures of the sea” (Herodotus 1.47.3). The poet Solon claims to know the “measure of lovely wisdom” (13.52 1EG). Cf. Spell (1924) 7. 49. The views, respectively, of Maehler (1963) 19 and Setti (1958) 144. 50. A very common view: Kranz (1924) 72; Minton (I960) 190; Lanata (1963) 13-14; Maehler (1963) 16-19, 190; Murray (1981) 91, 96-97; Thalmann (1984) 224, and cf. 128. 51. Dodds (1957) 81, who adds: “The gift, then, of the Muses, or one of their gifts, is the power of true speech . . . it was detailed factual truth that Hesiod sought from them.” 52. In fact, the only exception to this restricted use of alêthea in archaic epic is its use (instead of etumos) of the Muses’ divine discourse at Theog. 28, which Cole (1983) 21-22 simply notices as “un-Homeric”; but perhaps the word is used there to suggest that, for the human recipients of their song, its “truth” will still be of the human, problematic sort. This interpretation may be implied in the rare verb used here for “proclaim” (geruom ai), suggesting that the Muses are translating the truth for their human public, as when Justice sits beside Zeus and “proclaims” his inscrutable mind to mortals (W orks a n d D a y s 260; but cf. H . Herrn. 426). 53- Cole (1983) 10; cf. Krischer (1965) 167. Detienne (1967) offers an overview of the evolving concepts of truth in archaic society. 54. Finley (1975) 14-15. I think the Homeric phrase for such a style of narrative would be k a ta kosmon , which 1 will discuss in Chapter 3 [not reprinted here]. 55. Walsh (1984) 5-6, citing Maehler (1963) 33. Lanata (1963) 30 says, “If the end of poetry is delight its object is truth,” but makes the point against her case that none of the names traditionally given to the Muses (e.g., “Enchanting-voice,” “Radiance”) evokes truth. 56. Thalmann (1984) 129-130; Kraus (1955) 71. W orks a n d D a y s

76

H oìm r’s A r t

57. Redfield (1975) 42. Cf. Harriott (1969) 107 and Snell’s (1953) tenth chapter, ‘'Aristophanes and Aesthetic Criticism.” 58. So Walsh (1984) chap. 1. Thalmann (1984) 147-148 on the Theogony draws a distinction between the working of song and of anodyne drugs: “Poetry does work forgetfulness of the pain and sorrow that are part of being mortal, but it does so by turning its listeners toward a vision of ultimate truths that make their immediate pains seem trivial by comparison.” This sounds to me a better description of the poetics of Parmenides. 59. Kraus (1955) 69-70; cf. Walsh (1984) 13-14. 60. On this deep level Vernant (1982) has credibly read a lesson to the citizen in the epical image of the “beautiful death.” 61. References and discussion in Lanata (1963) 8-9. For enchantment, see O d . 1.337, 17.518-521; Hesiod fr. 27 M-W; cf. Od. 12.40, 44. 62. See Nagy (1974) 257-258 and Pucci (1977) 16-21 and 200 n. 25 for bibliography. 63- Pucci (1977) chap. 1 calls attention to Hesiod’s metaphors for the ability of language to “deflect” the mind. 64. Vernant (1959), discussed by Thalmann (1984) 147 and Detienne (1967) 9- 20 .

65. M im neskom ai is used of “being mindful of dinner” or “being mindful to defend your fellows”; cf. Snell (1964). Unlike Moran (1975), I would not separate from such uses a special “literary” sense of the verb for “remembering epic stories.” 66. As Setti (1958) 162 warns. Though I have profited much from Redfield’s discussion of the “epic distance” I think he goes too far in saying (1975) 38: “The kleos of the song is the mark that, in it, history has been transformed, into art. . . . A reversal then takes place. It seems that the event took place in order that a song could be made of it.” Rösler’s article (1980) reading a sense of “fictionality” into Hesiod’s duplicitous Muses seems to me to fall into this mistake. 67. Respectively Frankel (1973) 15; Latte (1946) 159. Cf. Walsh (1984) 13 and Macleod (1983) 6—7 who adduces the later uses of enargeia. 68. L frg E s.v. enarges takes its association with epiphanies for its original mean­ ing, translating “in splendor” (“ ‘im Glanz,’ sc. e Epiphanie”). 69. On “vividness” as a term in rhetorical criticism, see Ernesti (1962) 106 and Zänker (1981). 70. Poetics 17.l455a22-26, 24.l462al6-17. 71. Demetrius’s prescriptions for achieving rhetorical vividness are interestingly close to the fullness of “true” epic style: it arises from “exact narrations, omitting nothing and abbreviating nothing . . . from everything that happens being said and nothing omitted” (On S ty le 209). 72. Cf. Griffin (1980) 6: “The ancient commentators remark regularly on Homer’s graphic’ power, his skill at producing memorable scenes, and certainly this is a characteristic of Homeric writing that strikes the audience at once.” 73- The “helmet of Hades,” which bestows invisibility in 11. 5.845, shows that this disputed etymology of Hades was operant for the poet; see Burkett (1985) 462 n. 13.

References Allen, T. W., Halliday, W. R. and Sikés, E. E. (1936) T he H om eric H ym n s, Oxford. Bakhtin, M. M. (1981) T he D ia lo g ic Im a g in a tio n : Three E ssays , Austin. Becker, O. (1937) D a s B i l d des W eges , Berlin.

The Singer a nd his Muse

77

Böhme, R. (1937) D a s Prooim ion , Buhl. Bowra, C M. (1952) H eroic P oetry , London. Burkert, W. (1972) Lew a n d Science in A n cien t P yth agorean ism , Cambridge. .----- (1985) G reek R elig io n , Cambridge. ------ (1987) "The making of Homer in the Sixth Century B.C.: Rhapsodes versus Stesichoros”, in P apers on the A m a sis P a in te r a n d his W o r ld , Malibu, 43-62. Chantraine, P. (1977) D iction n aire étym ologique de la langue G recque , Paris. Cole, A. T. (1983) "Archaic Truth”, Q U C C 13, 7-28. Détienne, M. (1967) Les m aîtres de v érité dan s la Grece arch aïqu e , Paris. De tienne, M. and. Vernant, J.-P. (1974) Les ruses d'intelligence: L a m étis des grecs, Paris. Dodds, E. R. (1957) T he G reeks a n d the Ir ra tio n a l , Berkeley. Durante, M. (1958) "Epea pteroenta: La parole come ‘cammino' in immagini greche e vediche”, R en d.,A cc. Line. 15, 3—14. Ernesti, J. C. T. (1962) Lexicon technologiae Graecorum rhetoricae , Hildesheim. Falter, O. (1905) D e r D ich ter u n d sein G o tt hei den Griechen u n d Röm ern , Würzberg. Finley, Μ. I. (1975) T he Use a n d A bu se o f H isto ry, London. Finnegan, R. (1977) O ra l Poetry: Its N ature, Significance, a n d Social C ontext , Cambridge. Frankel, H. (1973) E a rly G reek P oetry a n d P h ilosoph y , New York. Frisk, H. (1960—70) Griechisches etymologisches W örterbuch , Heidelberg. Griffin, J. (1980) H om er on L ife a n d D e a th , Oxford. Grube, G. M. A. (1965) T he G reek a n d R om an C r itic s , Toronto. Harriott, R. (1969) P oetry a n d C riticism before P la to , London. Jensen, M. S. (1980) T he H om eric Question a n d the O ral-F orm u laic T heory , Copenhagen. Kranz, W. (1924) "Das Verhältnis des Schöpfers zu seinem Werk in der althellenischen Literatur”, N eue Jah rbü ch er 53, 65-86. / Kraus, W. (1955) Die Auffassung des Dichterberufs im frühen Griechentums’, W S 68, 65-87. Krischet, T. (1965) "Etumos und Alethes”, P hilologus 109, 161—74. Kube, J. (1969) ΤΕΧΝΗ u n d ΑΡΕΤΗ: Sophistisches u n d P latonisches T ugendw issen ,

Berlin. Lanata, G. (1963) Poetica P replaton ica , Florence. Latte, K. (1946) “Hesiod's Dichterweihe”, A u A 2, 152-63. Lord, A. B. (I960) T he Singer o f T a les, Cambridge. Macleod, C. (1983) "Homer on Poetry and the Poetry of Homer”, in C ollected E ssays , Oxford. Maehler, H. (1963) D ie A u ffassu n g des D ichtersberufs im- frü h en Griechentum bis z u r Z e i t P in d a r s , Göttingen. Marg, W. (1957) "Homer über die Dichtung”, O rbis A n tiq u u s 11, Münster. Martin, R. P. (1989) The L anguage o f Heroes, Ithaca NY. Meuli, K. (1938) "Scythica”, Hermes 70, 121-76. Minton, W. W. (I960) "Homer’s Invocations to the Muses: Traditional Patterns”, Τ Α Ρ Α 91, 292-309. Moran, W.S. (1975) "Mimneskomai and Remembering: Epic Stories in Homer and the Hymns”, Q U C C 20, 195-211. Murray, P. (1981) "Poetic Inspiration in Early Greece”, Y H S 101, 87—100. Nagy, G. (1974) C om parative Stu dies in G reek a n d In die M etre , Cambridge. Niles, J. D. (1983) Beow ulf: T he Poem a n d its T r a d itio n , Cambridge. Ong, W. J. (1982) Interfaces o f the W orld: Stu dies in the E volu tion o f Consciousness a n d C u ltu re , Ithaca NY. Pagliaro, A. (1951) "La terminologia poetica di Omero”, R ic m b e lin guistich e 2, 1-46. Parry, A. (1971) T he M a k in g o f H om eric Verse: T he C ollected P apers o f M ilm a n P a r r y , Oxford.

78

Homer's A r t

Pavese, C O. (1967) “Alcmane, il Partenio del Louvre", Q U C C 4, 113-33. Pucci, P. (1977) H esiod a n d the L anguage o f P oetry, Baltimore. Redfìeld, J. (1975) N a tu r e a n d C u ltu re in the I l i a d , Chicago. Richardson, N. J. (1974) T he H om eric H ym n to D em etery Oxford. Ritook, Zs. (1989) “The Views of Early Greek Epic on Poetry and Art”, Mnemosyne 42, 331-48. Rosier, W. (1980) “Die Entdeckung der Fiktionalicät in der Antike”, Poetica 12, 283-319. Russo, J. and Simon, B. (1968) “Homeric Psychology and the Oral Epic Tradi­ tion”, J H Ï 29, 483-98. Schadewaldt, W. (1965) Von Homers W e lt u n d W e rk , Stuttgart. Setti, A. (1958) “La memoria e il canto: Saggio di poetica arcaica greca”, S IF C 30, 129-71. Snell, B. (1924) D ie A usdrü cke f ü r den B e g riff des W issens in der vorplatonischen Philosophie , Berlin. ------ (1953) T h e D iscovery o f the M i n d , Cambridge. Sperdutti, A. (1950) “The Divine Nature of Poetry in Antiquity”, Τ Α Ρ Α 81. Stanford, W. B. (1974) The Odyssey o f H om er, London. Svenbro, J. (1.976) L a parole et le marbre: A u x origines de la poétique grecque , Lund. Thalmann, W. G. (1984) Conventions o f Form a n d T hough t in E a rly G reek P oetry, Baltimore. Tiegerstedt, E. N. (1970) “Furor Poeticus: Poetic Inspiration in Greek Literature before Democritus and Plato”, J H I 31, 163-78. Vernant, J.-P. (1959) “Aspects mythiques de la mémoire en G r e c e * , J o u r n a l de psychologie 56, 1-29------(1982) “La belle mort et le cadavre outragé” in G. Gnoii and J.-P. Vernant, L a mort: Les m orts d a m les sociétés anciennes , Cambridge, 45— 67. Walsh, G. B. (1984) T he V arieties o f Enchantm ent: E a rly Greek V iew s o f the N a tu r e a n d Function o f P oetry, Chapel Hill. Weber, L. (1934) “ALLE AOIDE”, P h i l W o c h 445-8. West, M. L. (1966) H esiod: Theogony, Oxford. ------ (1978) H esiod: W orks a n d D a y s , Oxford. Zänker, G. (1981) “Enargeia in the Ancient Criticism of Poetry”, R h M 124, 291-311.

B. Style and Structure

76__________________________________________ Préface de la traduction d’Homère* A. D ader *Source: Les oeuvres d’Homère, traduites en français par Madame Dader, avec un supplément, en sept volumes, Volume I, Amsterdam, 1731, pp. 1-6, 36, 38-41.

Depuis que je me suis amusée à écrire et que j'ai osé rendre publics mes amusements, j’ai toujours eu Γambition de pouvoir donner à notre siècle une traduction d ’Homère, qui, en conservant les principaux traits de ce grand poète, pût faire revenir la plupart des gens du monde du préjugé désavan­ tageux que leur ont donné des copies difformes qu’on en a faites. Mais j’y ai trouvé longtemps des difficultés qui me paraissent insurmontables et qui m ’ont rebuté bien des fois. Il n ’y a rien de plus difficile que de faire bien entrer les hommes dans le véritable goût du poème épique et de leur faire connaître son essence. L’art de ce poème a été si ignoré dans tous les temps que l’Antiquité ne nous fournit que deux poètes qui l’aient bien connu. Homère est le premier qui l’a montré aux hommes: car, comme dit Velleius Paterculus, "Il n’a eu personne avant lui qu’il ait pu imiter, ni personne après lui qui ait pu le suivre.” Neque ante illum, quem imitaretur, neque post illum, qui eum imitari posset, inventus est. Avant Homère il y avait des poètes comme il y avait des musiciens; mais c’étaient des poètes qui faisaient des histoires en vers, et qui mêlaient toutes sortes de vers dans leurs ouvrages. Il y en a eu aussi après lui; mais il n’y en a pas eu un seul, je ne dis pas qui se soit élevé à la hauteur d ’Homère, mais qui ait même connu son art. Par tout ce qui nous reste de l’Antiquité, nous voyons que cet art a souffert depuis ce poète une éclipse totale en Grèce et que les poèmes quelle a produits n ’en ont point suivi les règles. Dès que la Grèce vaincue eut captivé par ses attraits ses farouches vainqueurs, comme dit Horace, et porté les arts en Italie, les ébauches grossières de la poésie romaine commencèrent à s’embellir et, la génie croissant avec l’Empire, enfin l’art du poème épique fut ressuscité par Virgile près de neuf cents ans après Homère. Ce grand poète l’emporta encore avec lui dans le tombeau, car on ne voit point que les poètes qui l’ont suivi en aient eu la véritable idée. Cette seconde éclipse a duré et dure

82

Homer’s A r t

encore. Mais, comme on la remarqué avant moi, toutes les sciences et tous les arts produisent d ’ordinaire par la corruption et par l’ignorance des hommes de faux arts et de fausses sciences qui les contrefont; cela est arrivé à l’art du poème épique, il a produit un faux art, et de ce faux art il sont nés des poèmes épiques qui n ’ont que le nom de poèmes épiques, et certains ouvrages en prose qui, en voulant être épiques, s’éloignent entièrement de cette constitution. C’est de là que sont nées les grandes difficultés que j’ai d ’abord envisagées dans l’exécution de mon dessein, et qui m ’ont fait craindre pour le succès de mon ouvrage. La plupart des gens sont gâtés aujourd’hui par la lecture de quantité de livres vains et frivoles, et ne peuvent souffrir ce qui n’est pas dans le même goût. L’amour, après avoir corrompu les moeurs, a corrompu les ouvrages. C’est lam e de tous nos écrits. Les païens ont bien mieux jugé que nous de cette passion; ils ont parfaitement connu que ne venant que de faiblesse, elle ne pouvait jamais avoir rien de grand, ni contribuer au grand. Voilà pourquoi Homère, qui n ’a pas fait difficulté de la donner à ses Dieux, s’est bien gardé de la donner à ses héros. L’Iliade ne présente point Achille amoureux, et l’Odyssée n’offre à nos yeux qu’un amour conjugal très parfait. Ulysse, fidèlle à sa femme jusqu’à refuser l’immortalité, et une immortalité toujours jeune, est aimé de deux Déesses; il souffre leur amour sans y répondre qu’autant que l’y oblige la prudence, pour se ménager leur secours. Dans Virgile, Enée n’est pas plus amoureux qu’Achille et Ulysse ne le sont dans Homère. Ces païens, comme on l’a remarqué avant moi, n’ont point fouillé la majesté de leurs épopées par ces galanteries dangereuses; Ulysse est froid chez Circe et triste chez Calypso; Achille n’est sensible qu’à l’affront qu’on lui fait en lui enlevant Briséis; Camille n’a point d ’amants dans l’Enéide; à peine y parle-t-on de l’amour de Turnus, et toute la passion de Didon est moins rapportée comme un épisode amoureux que comme une infidélité criminelle dont cette malheureuse reine est cruellement punie. Toutes les difficultés que j’ai envisagées se réduisent à cinq. La première vient du fond des choses et la nature du poème en général, dont l’art est entièrement opposé à ce faux art dont je viens de parler. Comment se flatter de pouvoir faire goûter à notre siècle ces poèmes austères, qui, sous l’enve­ loppe d’une fable ingénieusement inventée, renferment des instructions utiles, et qui n ’offrent à notre curiosité aucune de ces aventures, que nous n’appelions touchantes et interessantes qu’autant qu’elles roulent sur l’amour. La seconde naît des allégories et des fables dont ces poèmes d ’Homère sont remplis, et qui, ne présentant le plus souvent qu’une écorce simple que nous n ’avons pas la force de pénétrer, nous empêchent de sentir les beautés de ce grand poète, et nous font même mal juger de son esprit. La troisième est tirée des moeurs et des caractères de ces temps héroïques, qui paraissent trop simples et souvent même méprisables à notre siècle. Achille, Patrocle, Agamemnon et Ulysse, occupés à des fonctions que nous

Style a n d Structure

83

appelions serviles, seront-ils soufferts aujourd’hui par des personnes accou­ tumées à nos héros de roman, à ces héros bourgeois, toujours si polis, si doucereux et si propres? La quatrième vient des fictions d ’Homère, qui paraissent aujourd’hui trop outrées et hors de la vraisemblance que nous demandons. Comment faire supporter à notre siècle des trépieds qui marchent seuls, et qui vont aux assemblées? des statues d’or, qui aident Vulcain dans son travail? des chevaux qui parjent, et plusieurs autres imaginations de cette nature? Et la cinquième enfin, qui est celle qui m ’a le plus effrayée, c’est la grandeur, la noblesse et l’harmonie de la diction, dont personne n’a approché, et qui est non «seulement au-dessus de mes forces, mais peutêtre même au-dessus de celles de notre langue. Mais voici pour moi l’endroit terrible, c’est la diction. J ’avoue que de ce côté-là je n’ai point de bonne apologie. Mon entreprise paraîtra avec raison la plus téméraire, ou plutôt la plus folle qu’on puisse faire en ce genre d’écrire. Plus un original est parfait dans le grand et dans le sublime, plus il perd dans les copies. Cela est certain; il n’y a donc point de poète qui perde autant qu’Homère dans une traduction, où il n’est pas possible de faire passer la force, l’harmonie, la noblesse et la majesté des ses expressions, et de conserver l’âme qui est répandue dans sa poésie, et qui fait de tout son poème comme un corps vivant et animé. La beauté de l’expression consiste dans la clarté et dans la noblesse; elle est claire par les mots propres, et noble par les mots empruntés. Pour être convaincu de la beauté que donnent à la diction ces expressions figurées, pourvue qu’elles soient convenables, bien placées et mises avec mesure, il ne faut que prendre les vers d’un poème épique ou d ’une tragédie et y changer les termes, si au lieu des métaphores, des mots étrangers et de toutes les autres figures, on y substitue les mots propres, on gatera tout, toute leur beauté sera perdue. Homère a encore deux grands avantages, qu’Aristote n’explique point; le premier, c’est que les mots propres, qui rendent la diction claire, lui donnent aussi très souvent autant de force et de noblesse que les mots figurés, je dis même les mots propres les plus simples, les plus communs et les moins agréables qu’il a été obligé d’employer en descendant, comme il fait quelquefois, dans le détail des plus petites choses. Dans ces occasions, il n’a pas été en son pouvoir de choisir les termes, car les noms propres ne se changent point. Qu’a-t-il donc fait pour empêcher sa poésie d’être désho­ norée par ces termes si capables de l’avilir? Il a su la relever par l’harmonie, en les mêlant ensemble avec art et en les soutenant par des particules sonores, et par des épithètes magnifiques ou gracieuses, qui cachent tout leur désagrément. C’est qu’il a merveilleusement pratiqué, surtout dans le dénombrement des vaisseaux, qui finit le second livre. Denys d’Halicarnasse

84

Homer’s A r t

a rendu cela sensible, en rapportant les huits premiers vers de ce dénombre­ ment comme un échantillon de tout le reste, et en faisant voir que tous ces noms de lieux n'ont ni beauté ni grâce, mais qu’Homère a trouvé le secret de les faire paraître très beaux et très magnifiques. Ainsi ayant reçu des mains de la nature des noms durs et désagréables, il a su les rendre doux, harmonieux et agréables par son art et par son esprit. On n'a qu’à lire ces vers dans l'original, on est étonné de leur magnificence. Il en est de la poésie d ’Homère comme de la musique, qui sait ranger sous ses loix et faire entrer dans son harmonie les sons les plus agréables et les moins harmonieux; tout lui obéit et vient faire l’effet qu'elle ordonne. Le second avantage d'Homère dans sa diction, c’est qu'en mêlant des termes durs, rudes et communs avec les termes les plus polis et les plus coulants, il a fait une composition moyenne, qui tient de l’austère ou de la rude, et de la gracieuse ou de la fleurie: et par ce moyen, il mêle admirable­ ment l’art et la nature, la passion et les moeurs.

77___________________________ On Translating Homer* M. Arnold Source: Essays by Matthew Arnold, now for the first time collected, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1914, pp. 303-12.

So essentially characteristic of Homer is his plainness and naturalness of thought, that to the preservation of this in his own version the translator must without scruple sacrifice, where it is necessary, verbal fidelity to his original, rather than run any risk of producing, by literalness, an odd and unnatural effect. The double. epithets so constantly occurring in Homer must be dealt with according to this rule: these epithets come quite naturally in Homer’s poetry; in English poetry they, in nine cases out of ten, come, when literally rendered, quite unnaturally. I will not now discuss why this is so, I assume it as an indisputable fact that it is so; that Homer's · μερόπων ανθρώπων comes to the reader as something perfectly natural, while Mr. Newman’s Voice-dividing mortals’ comes to him as something perfectly unnatural. W ell then, as it is Homer’s general effect which we are to reproduce, it is to be false to Homer to be so verbally faithful to him as that we lose this effect: and by the English translator Homer’s double epithets must be, in many places, renounced altogether; in all places where they are rendered, rendered by equivalents which come naturally. Instead of rendering Θέτι τανύπεπλε by Mr. Newman’s Thetis trailing-rob’d,’ which brings to one’s mind long petticoats sweeping a dirty pavement, the translator must render the Greek by English words which come as naturally to us as Milton’s words when he says, 'Let gorgeous Tragedy W ith sceptred pall come sweeping by.’ Instead of rendering μώνυχας ίππους by Chapman’s one-hoof d steeds,’ or Mr. Newman’s 'single-hoofed horses,’ he must speak of horses in a way which surprises us as little as Shakspeare surprises us when he says, 'Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds.’ Instead of rendering μελίηδέα θυμόν by life as honey pleasant,’ he must characterise life with the simple pathos of Gray’s ‘Warm precincts of the cheerful day.’ Instead of converting ποιόν σε έπος φύγεν ερκος όδόντων; into the portentous remonstrance, ‘Betwixt the outwork of thy teeth what word hath slipt?’ he must remonstrate in English as straightforward as this of

86

Homer’s A r t

St. Peter, ‘Be it far from thee, Lord, this shall not be unto thee;’ or as this of the disciples, ‘W hat is this that he saith, a little while? we cannot tell what he saith/ Homer’s Greek, in each of the places quoted, reads as naturally as any of those English passages: the expression no more calls away the attention from the sense in the Greek than in the English. But when, in order to render literally in English one of Homer’s double epithets, a strange unfamiliar adjective is invented— such as Voice-dividing’ for μέροψς— an improper share of the reader’s attention is necessarily diverted to this ancillary word, to this word which Homer never intended should receive so much notice; and a total effect quite different from Homer’s is thus produced. Therefore Mr. Newman, though he does not purposely import, like Chapman, conceits of his own into the Iliad, does actually import them; for the result of his singular diction is to raise ideas, and odd ideas, not raised by the corresponding diction in Homer; and Chapman himself does no more. Cowper says, Ί have cautiously avoided all terms of new invention, with an abundance of which persons of more ingenuity than judgment have not enriched our language but encumbered it;’ and this criticism so exactly hits the diction of Mr. Newman, that one is irresistibly led to imagine his present appearance in the flesh to be at least his second. A translator cannot well have a Homeric rapidity, style, diction, and quality of thought, without at the same time having what .is the result of these in Homer— nobleness. Therefore I do not attempt to lay down any rules for obtaining this effect of nobleness— the effect, too, of all others the most impalpable, the most irreducible to rule, and which most depends on the individual personality of the artist. So I proceed at once to give you, in conclusion, one or two passages in which I have tried to follow those principles of Homeric translation which I have laid down. I give them, it must be remembered, not as specimens of perfect translation, but as speci­ mens of an attempt to translate Homer on certain principles; specimens which may very aptly illustrate those principles by falling short, as well as by succeeding. I take first a passage of which I have already spoken, the comparison of the Trojan fires to the stars. The first part of that passage is, I have said, of splendid beauty; and to begin with a lame version of that, would be the height of imprudence in me. It is the last and more level part with which I shall concern myself. I have already quoted Cowper’s version of this part in order to show you how unlike his stiff and Miltonic manner of telling a plain story is to Homer’s easy and rapid manner: So numerous seem’d those fires the bank between O f Xanthus, blazing, and the fleet of Greece, In prospect all of Troy— I need not continue to the end. I have also quoted Pope’s version of it, to

Style a n d Structure

87

show you how unlike his ornate and artificial manner is to Homer's plain and natural manner: So many flames before proud Ilion blaze, And brighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays; The long reflections of the distant fires Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires— and much more of the same kind. I want to show you that it is possible, in a plain passage of this sort, to keep Homer’s simplicity without being heavy and dull; and to keep his dignity without bringing in pomp and ornament. ‘As numerous as are the stars on a clear night,’ says Homer, So shone forth, in front of Troy, by the bed of Xanthus, Between that and the ships, the Trojans’ numerous fires. In the plain there were kindled a thousand fires: by each one There sate fifty men, in the ruddy light of the fire: By their chariots stood the steeds, and champ’d the white barley While their masters sate by the fire, and waited for Morning.— Here, in order to keep Homer’s effect of perfect plainness and directness, I repeat the word ‘fires’ as he repeats πυρά, without scruple; although in a more elaborate and literary style of poetry this recurrence of the same word would be a fault to be avoided. I omit the epithet of Morning, and, whereas Homer says that the steeds ‘waited for Morning,’ I prefer to attribute this expectation of Morning to the master and not to the horse. Very likely in this particular, as in any other single particular, I may be wrong: what I wish you to remark is my endeavour after absolute plainness of speech, my care to avoid anything which may the least check or surprise the reader, whom Homer does not check or surprise. Homer’s lively personal familiarity with war, and with the war-horse as his master’s companion, is such that, as it seems to me, his attributing to the one the other’s feelings comes to us quite naturally; but, from a poet without this familiarity, the attribution strikes as a little unnatural; and therefore, as everything the least unnatural is un-Homeric, I avoid it. Again; in the address of Zeus to the horses of Achilles, Cowper has: Jove saw their grief with pity, and his brows Shaking, within himself thus, pensive, said. ‘Ah hapless pair! wherefore by gift divine Were ye to Peleus given, a mortal king, Yourselves immortal and from age exempt?’ There is no want of dignity here, as in the versions of Chapman and Mr.

88

Homer's A r t

Newman, which I have already quoted; but the whole effect is much too slow. Take Pope: Nor Jove disdained to cast a pitying look While thus relenting to the steeds he spoke. ‘Unhappy coursers of immortal strain! Exempt from age and deathless now in vain: Did we your race on mortal man bestow Only, alas! to share in mortal woe?’ Here there is no want either of dignity or rapidity, but all is too artificial. ‘Nor Jove disdained,’ for instance, is a very artificial and literary way of rendering Homer’s words, and so is, ‘coursers of immortal strain.’ Μ υρομένω 8 apa τώ γ ε ιδών, ελέη σ ε Κ ρ ονίω ν— And with pity the son of Saturn saw them bewailing, And he shook his head, and thus address’d his own bosom: ‘Ah, unhappy pair, to Peleus why did we give you, To a mortal? but ye are without old age and immortal. Was it that ye, with man, might have your thousands of sorrows? For than man, indeed, there breathes no wretcheder creature, Of all living things, that on earth are breathing and moving.’ Here I will observe that the use of ‘own,’ in the second line, for the last syllable of a dactyl, and the use of ‘To a,’ in the fourth, for a complete spondee, though they do not, I think, actually spoil the run of the hexameter, are yet undoubtedly instances of that over-reliance on accent, and too free disregard of quantity, which Lord Redesdale visits with just reprehension.1 I now take two longer passages in order to try my method more fully; but I still keep to passages which have already come under our notice. I quoted Chapman’s version of some passages in the speech of Hector at his parting with Andromache. One astounding conceit will probably still be in your remembrance: When sacred Troy shall shed her toiv’rs for tears of overthrow— as a translation of οτ* αν ποτ όλώλη Ί λ ιο ς ιρή. I will quote a few lines which may give you, also, the key-note to the Anglo-Augustan manner of rendering this passage, and to the Miltonic manner of rendering it. W hat Mr. Newman’s manner of rendering it would be, you can by this time sufficiently imagine for yourselves. Mr. W right— to quote for once from his meritorious version instead of Cowper’s, whose strong and weak points are

Style a n d Structure

89

those of Mr. W right also—Mr. W right begins his version of this passage iÿ thus: All these thy anxious cares are also mine, Partner belov’d; but how could I endure The scorn of Trojans and their long-rob’d wives, Should they behold their Hector shrink from war, And act the coward’s part! Nor doth my soul Prompt the base thought. ψΕχpede Herculem: you see just what the manner is. Mr. Sotheby, on the other y hand, (to take a disciple of Pope instead of Pope himself,) begins thus: ‘What moves thee, moves my m ind,’ brave Hector said, ‘Yet Troy’s upbraiding scorn I deeply dread, If, like a slave, where chiefs with chiefs engage, The warrior Hector fears the war to wage. Not thus my heart inclines.5 From that specimen, too, you can easily divine what, with such a manner, will become of the whole passage. But Homer has neither: W hat moves thee, moves my mind— nor has he: All these thy anxious cares are also mine.

Ή καί έμοί τάδε πάντα μέλει, γύναι* άλλα μάλ3αινώς— that is what Homer has, that is his style and movement, if one could but catch it. Andromache, as you know, has been entreating Hector to defend Troy from within the walls, instead of exposing his life, and, with his own life, the safety of all those dearest to him, by fighting in the open plain. Hector replies: Woman, I too take thought for this; but then I bethink me W hat the Trojan men and Trojan women might murmur, If like a coward I skulk’d behind, apart from the battle. Nor would my own heart let me; my heart, which has bid me be valiant Always, and always fighting among the first of the Trojans, Busy for Priam’s fame and my own, in spite of the future. For that day will come, my soul is assur’d of its coming, It will come, when sacred Troy shall go to destruction,

90

Homer’s A r t

Troy, and warlike Priam too, and the people of Priam. And yet not that grief, which then will be, of the Trojans, Moves me so much— not Hecuba's grief, nor Priam my father's, Nor my brethren’s, many and brave, who then will be lying In the bloody dust, beneath the feet of their foemen— As thy grief, when, in tears, some brazen-coated Achaian Shall transport thee away, and the day of thy freedom be ended. Then, perhaps, thou shalt work at the loom of another, in Argos, Or bear pails to the well of Messeïs, or Hypereia, Sorely against thy will, by strong Necessity’s order. And some man may say, as he looks and sees thy tears falling: See, the wife of Hector, that great pre-eminent captain Of the horsemen of Troy, in the day they fought for their city. So some man will say; and then thy grief will redouble At thy want of a man like me, to save thee from bondage. But let me be dead, and the earth be mounded above me, Ere I hear thy cries, and thy captivity told of. The main question, whether or no this version reproduces for him the movement and general effect of Homer better than other versions2 of the same passage, I leave for the judgment of the scholar. But the particular points, in which the operation of my own rules is manifested, are as follows. In the second line I leave out the epithet of the Trojan women έλκεσίπέπλους, altogether. In the sixth line I put in five words ‘in spite of the future,’ which are in the original by implication only, and are not there actually expressed. This I do, because Homer, as I have before said, is so remote from one who reads him in English, that the English translator must be even plainer, if possible, and more unambiguous than Homer himself; the connexion of meaning must be even more distinctly marked in the translation than in the original. For in the Greek language itself there is something which brings one nearer to Homer, which gives one a clue to his thought, which makes a hint enough; but in the English language this sense of nearness, this clue, is gone; hints are insufficient, everything must be stated with full distinctness. In the ninth line Homer’s epithet for Priam is έυμμελίω,— ‘armed with good ashen spear,' say the dictionaries; ‘ashenspeared,' translates Mr. Newman, following his own rule to ‘retain every peculiarity of his original’— I say, on the other hand, that ευμμελίω has not the effect of a peculiarity' in the original, while ashen-speared' has the effect of a ‘peculiarity' in English; and warlike’ is as marking an equivalent as I dare give for έϋμμελίω, for fear of disturbing the balance of expression in Homer’s sentence. In the fourteenth line, again, I translate χαλκόχιτώνων by ‘brazen-coated:’ Mr. Newman, meaning to be perfectly literal, translates it by ‘brazen-cloak'd,’ an expression which comes to the reader oddly and unnaturally, while Homer’s word comes to him quite naturally;

Style a n d StrucUire

91

but I venture to go as near to a literal rendering as ‘brazen-coated,’ because a ‘coat of brass’ is familiar to us all from the Bible, and familiar, too, as distinctly specified in connexion with the wearer. Finally, let me farther illustrate from the twentieth line the value which I attach, in a question of diction, to the authority of the Bible. The word pre-eminent’ occurs in that line; I was a little in doubt whether that was not too bookish an expression to be used in rendering Homer, as I can imagine Mr. Newman to have been a little in doubt whether his 'responsively accosted,’ for αμείβόμενος προσέφη, was not too bookish an expression. Let us both, I say, consult our Bibles: Mr. Newman will nowhere find it in his Bible that David, for instance, ‘responsively accosted Goliath;’ but I do find in mine that ‘the right hand of the Lord hath the pre-eminenceand forthwith I use pre-eminent’ without scruple. My Bibliolatry is perhaps excessive; and no doubt a true poetic feeling is the Homeric translator’s best guide in the use of words; but where this feeling does not exist, or is at fault, I think he cannot do better than take for a mechanical guide Cruden’s Concordance. To be sure, here as elsewhere, the consulter must know how to consult— must know how very slight a variation of word or circumstances makes the difference between an authority in his favour, and an authority which gives him no countenance at all; for instance, the ‘Great simpleton!’ (for μέγα νήπιος) of Mr. Newman, and the T hou fool!’ of the Bible, are something alike; but T hou fool!’ is very grand, and ‘Great simpleton!’ is an atrocity. So, too, Chapman’s ‘Poor wretched beasts’ is pitched many degrees too low; but Shakspeare’s ‘Poor venomous fool, Be angry and despatch!’ is. in· the grand stylt. One more piece of translation, and I have done. I will take the passage in which both Chapman and Mr. Newman have already so much excited our astonishment, the passage at the end of the nineteenth book of the Iliad, the dialogue between Achilles and his horse Xanthus, after the death of Patro­ clus. Achilles begins: ‘Xanthus and Balius both, ye far-fam’d seed of Podarga! See that ye bring your master home to the host of the Argives In some other sort than your last, when the battle is ended; And not leave him behind, a corpse on the plain, like Patroclus.’ Then, from beneath the yoke, the fleet horse Xanthus address’d him: Sudden he bow’d his head, and all his mane, as he bow’d it, Stream’d to the ground by the yoke, escaping from under the collar; And he was given a voice by the white-arm’d Goddess Hera. Truly, yet this time will we save thee, mighty Achilles! But thy day of death is at hand; nor shall we be the reason— No, but the will of Heaven, and Fate’s invincible power. For by no slow pace or want of swiftness of ours Did the Trojans obtain to strip the arms from Patroclus; But that prince among Gods, the son of the lovely-hair’d Leto,

92

Homer’s A r t

Slew him fighting in front of the fray, and glorified Hector. But, for us, we vie in speed with the breath of the West-Wind, Which, men say, is the fleetest of winds; ’tis thou who art fated To lie low in death, by the hand of a God and a Mortal.’ Thus far he; and here his voice was stopped by the Furies. Then, with a troubled heart, the swift Achilles address’d him: ‘Why dost thou prophesy so my death to me, Xanthus? It needs not. I of myself know well, that here I am destin’d to perish. Far from my father and mother dear: for all that, I will not Stay this hand from fight, till the Trojans are utterly routed.’ So he spake, and drove with a cry his steeds into battle. Here the only particular remark which I will make is, that in the fourth and eighth line the grammar is what I call a loose and idiomatic grammar; in writing a regular and literary style, one would in the fourth line have to repeat, before ‘leave’, the words ‘that ye’ from the second line, and to insert the word ‘do’; and in the eighth line one would not use such an expression as ‘he was given a voice.’ But I will make one general remark on the character of my own translations, as I have made so many on that of the translations of others. It is, that over the graver passages there is shed an air somewhat too strenuous and severe, by comparison with that lovely ease and sweetness which Homer, for all his noble and masculine way of thinking, never loses. Here I stop. I have said so much, because I think that the task of translating Homer into English verse both will be re-attempted, and may be re-attempted successfully. There are great works composed of parts so disparate, that one translator is not likely to have the requisite gifts for poetically rendering all of them. Such are the works of Shakspeare, and Goethe’s Faust\ and these it is best to attempt to render in prose only. People praise Tieck and Schlegel’s version of Shakspeare: I, for my part, would sooner read Shakspeare in the French prose translation, and that is saying a great deal; but in the German poets’ hands Shakspeare so often gets, especially where he is humorous, an air of what the French call niaiseriel and can anything be more un-Shakspearian than that? Again; Mr. Hayward’s prose translation of the first part of Faust— so good that it makes one regret Mr. Hayward should have abandoned the line of transla­ tion for a kind of literature which is, to say the least, somewhat slight— is not likely to be surpassed by any translation in verse. But poems like the Iliad, which, in the main, are in one manner, may hope to find a poetical translator so gifted and so trained as to be able to learn that one manner, and to reproduce it. Only, the poet who would reproduce this must cultivate in himself a Greek virtue by no means common among the moderns in general, and the English in particular— moderation. For Homer has not only the

Style a n d Structure

93

English vigour, he has the Greek grace; and when one observes the boisterous, rollicking way in which his English admirers— even men of genius, like the late Professor Wilson— love to talk of Homer and his poetry, one cannot help feeling that there is no very deep community of nature between them and the object of their enthusiasm. ‘It is very well, my good friends,’ I always imagine Homer saying to them, if he could hear them: ‘you do me a great deal of honour, but somehow or other you praise me too like barbar­ ians.’ For Homer’s grandeur is not the mixed and turbid grandeur of the great poets of the north, of the authors of Othello and Faust; it is a perfect, a lovely grandeur. Certainly his poetry has all the energy and power of the poetry of our ruder climates; but it has, besides, the pure lines of an Ionian horizon, the liquid clearness of an Ionian sky.

Notes 1. It must be remembered, however, that, if we disregard quantity too much in constructing English hexameters, we also disregard accent too much in reading Greek hexameters. We read every Greek dactyl so as to make a pure dactyl of it; but, to a Greek, the accent must have hindered many dactyls from sounding as pure dactyls. When we read αίόλος ίππος, for instance, or αίγιόχοίο, the dactyl in each of these cases is made by us as pure a dactyl as,‘Tityre,’ or ‘dignity’; but to a Greek it was not so. To him αίόλοζ must have been nearly as impure a dactyl as ‘death-destined’ is to us; and αίγιόχ nearly as impure as the ‘dress’d his own’ of my text. Nor, I think, does this right mode of pronouncing the two words at all spoil the tun of the line as a hexameter. The effect of αίολλος ίππος, (or something like that), though not our effect, is not a disagreeable one. On the other hand, κορυθαίόλος as a paroxytonon, although it has the respectable authority of Liddell and Scott’s Lexicon, (following Heyne,) is certainly wrong; for then the word cannot be pronounced without throwing an accent on the first syllable as well as the third, and μέγας κορρυθαιόλλοςΈκτωρ would have been to a Greek as intolerable an ending for an hexameter line, as “accurst orphanhood-destined houses’ would be to us. The best authorities, accordingly, accent κορυθαίολος as a proparoxytonon. 2. Dr. Hawtrey also has translated this passage; but here, he has not, I think, been so successful as in his ‘Helen on the walls of Troy.'

78 Parataxis in Homer: A New Approach to Homeric Literary Criticism* J.A. Notopoulos *Source: Transactions of the American Philological Association, voi. 80, 1949, pp. 1—23.

και γέρα τφ οξύτατα καθορώντι τα παριόντα, καί μνημονεόοντι μάλιστα οσα τε πρότερα αύτών και υστέρα, Republic 516c The first paragraph constitutes a summary of this paper.

This paper poses the question, do the same principles of literary criticism apply to both written and oral literature? The answer is no. Plato and Aristotle have fathered the concept of organic unity which ultimately arose in pre-Socratic philosophy and Hippocratic medicine. In view of the oral nature of the Homeric poetry is this criterion valid? A survey of the literature up to the middle of the fifth century reveals various degrees of unity involved, but indicates that the predominant type is a paratae tic and inorganic flexible unity as observed in the Homeric poems. Parataxis of style and of structure began with oral poetry and influenced the structure of postHomeric literature, even if it was a written literature. If this is the case Homeric scholarship must realize that the time has come to lay the founda­ tions of a literary criticism, non-Aristotelian in character and emanating mainly from the physiognomy of oral literature which differs in style and form from written literature. This paper is a prolegomenon to the formulation of such a non-Aristotelian Poetics, with an attempt to understand the grounds for parataxis in oral literature, the misunderstanding of which has led to Procrustean criticism of Homer in the past. Although the oral nature of the Homeric poems has been clearly estab­ lished by the late Milman Parry1 the implications of this new approach to Homer have not been fully realized with respect to the principles of artistic and literary criticism to be used in appreciating and evaluating the Homeric poems. Hitherto the literary criticism, as van Groningen has shown,2 has been based on the conception of literature as an organic unity which is admirably expressed in Michelangelo’s definition of art as “the purgation of the superfluous.” This criterion of literary criticism is strongly fixed in the

Style a n d Structure

95

mind of Western Europe because of such outstanding works of organic art as the Parthenon and Oedipus Rex, and because of Plato’s and Aristotle’s expression of its principles. But before the unfortunate consequences of this literary idée fixe on Homer are discussed it is well to consider the origin and development of the organic unity school of literary criticism. Van Groningen points out3 that although this doctrine of literary criti­ cism is first mentioned in Plato’s Phaedrus 264c, it received its initial impulse among the Sophists, as is shown in Alcidamas’ περί σοφιστών 27-8 and Gorgias’ Ελένης εγκώμιο ν 3. A study of the evidence, how­ ever, shows that the conception of organic unity is much older than the fifth century. Professor J. L. Myres has shown that the early Attic Geometric vases show “the first step toward the conception of an organic whole composed of mutually dependent parts.”4 The geometric style contains within it the first manifestation of the later Greek genius for the organic relation of the “Many and One.” The subordination of the secondary to the principal, and the progressive symmetry of the parts show that it was the Geometric potter who first stated in the language of plastic form and décoration the conception of organic unity in a work of art. The organic art of a Geometric vase in Athens is in sharp contrast to the inorganic art exhibited in Eastern vases,5 which embody the Homeric inorganic concep­ tion of art. The second manifestation of the concept ofiorganic unity is also found in Athens and finds expression in Solon’s conception of the state. The word συναρμόσασθαι in fr. 33 a6 is the key to Solon’s organic conception of the body-politics. In his conception of Justice and the rule of law as the foundation of the social cosmos7 Solon may be said to be the first to have given expression in politics of the concept of cosmos which was being developed by the Ionian philosophers of the sixth century. For it is to philosophy that we must go to find the full expression of the notion of cosmos which regulates through harmony the relation of the parts to the whole. The concept of organic unity arises from the philosophical attempts of Ionian science to see reality in its alltogetherness. The problem of the one and the many, which is Plato’s fundamental problem and accounts for the transference of the problem from philosophy to literary criticism in the Phaedrus, was faced by the pre-Socratic philosophers in such a way that they sought for an organic unity underlying the diversity of change. Though it is not necessary here to trace their specific methods of relating the parts to the whole,8 several illustrations may be given. A fragment of Pherecydes expresses the problem in religious terms. “Zeus,” he says, “when about to create changed into Eros, because by combining the Cosmos out of opposites he brought it into harmony and love, and sowed likeness in all, and unity extending through all things.”9 Heracleitos is not only the father of Plato’s flux but also the Parmenidean ally of unity. “It is wise,” he says, “to listen not to me but to the Word and to confess that all things are one.”10 This

96

Homer's A r t

finds varied elaboration: “Joints, whole and not whole, connected-separate,, consonant-dissonant, and from all things one and from one all th in g s/'11 and, “the fairest man is flesh composed of parts scattered at random, so is the cosmos/'12 Such fragments are illustrative of the soundness in seeking in pre-Socratic philosophy the impulse and origin of the organic unity which is to dominate physics, medicine, logic, philosophy, and literary criticism, all of which evolve out of the reason's attempt to organize discreteness into an organic unity. Anaxagoras' νουν . . . κοσμειν τα πράγματα διά πάντων ιόντα13 is in essence the philosophical foundation of the literary doctrine of organic unity. In the Hippocratean treatise περί διαίτης there is the phrase τα 8V σώματι άπομίμησις του όλου and in Aristotle we find a variation of this as ώσπερ έν τω δλφ, καί εν τφ σώματι.14 If to this is added Democritus' άνθρωπος μικρός κόσμος15 we find it not surprising that the notion of organic unity should also appear in Greek medicine which is grounded in Ionian philosophy. In the Hippocratean treatise περί άρχαίης ίητρικής it is stated that the physician must have a knowledge of the ολον, a statement which influenced Phaedrus 270c.16 Furthermore, the observation of living organisms must have furnished Hippocratic medicine ample evidence for the development of the concept of organic unity. The comparison of a work of art to a ζφον in Phaedrus 264c shows strong Hippocratean influence, a fact which is corroborated by the mention of Hippocrates in the argument of the Phaedrus, Socrates refers to the Hippocratic method as a parallel to his own principle τό εν πολλά, τα πολλά εν.17 Thus the association of Plato’s first statement of the concept of organic literary unity with Hippo­ crates’ similar conception in medicine shows that the origin of Plato's doctrine is to be found in Hippocratic medicine as well as pre-Socratic philosophy which influenced both. It is evident that the concept of the organic unity of a work of art is also the result of the application to literature of Plato’s own philosophical analysis of the one and the many. The centrality of this conception in Plato has many facets, one of which is its application in the field of literary criticism. Plato’s aversion to ισονομία in the Republic is reflected in his dislike of the ισονομία of each and every line of the Midas epigram which he quotes in the Phaedrus to illustrate the inorganic conception of literature. Such an ισονομία, which he calls χύδην {Phaedrus 264 b), “heiter skelter,” was abhorent to Plato's philosophical instincts and his tradition and accounts for his dislike of Lysias' speech and of the Midas epigram. His application of this philosophical thesis to Lysias' speech and to the Midas epigram must also be related to his views on art in the Republic,18 Ηδονή per se has no standards and any work of art which is not organized on the basis of selective and subordinating principles imposed by reason is not art but uncontrolled ισονομία. The pleasure of art unless controlled by reason is meaningless ισονομία and the enjoyment of such art resembles that of

Style a n d Structure

97

the women and children who are attracted by any and every gaudy color,19 by the uncoordinated paratactic pleasure of the moment. Plato himself points out in Phaedrus 268 d the application of his statement of the concept of organic unity to tragedy. It remained, however, for Aristotle to develop this conception fully in the Poetics 1459 a.18—21. In discussing the relation of poetry to drama Aristotle, states that both have several points in common. “The construction of its stories/' he says, “should clearly be like that in a drama; they should be based on a single action, one that is a complete whole in itself, with a beginning, middle, and end, so as to enable the work to produce its own proper pleasure with all the organic unity of a living creature.’’ This organic unity, which Aristotle posits both for drama and poetry, established a canon of criticism whereby the proper measure of quantity makes for quality, a doctrine which has much in common with the Ethics. This passage also marks the stage in literary criticism when the rules for the criticism of drama also apply to epic poetry, the beginning, as we shall see later, of a confusion which has had unfortu­ nate consequences for the proper appreciation of Homer. In applying this conception to epic poetry Aristotle praises Homer for selecting one action, one section out of the whole; Aristotle accounts for a digression, like the Catalogue of the Ships, as a conscious effort “to relieve the uniformity of his narrative.”20 In the case of other epic poets, he continues, although they treat of one action it has a multiplicity of parts, sufficient to supply, unlike the Iliad and the Odyssey, materials for more than one tragedy. Although Aristotle attributes to the Homeric poems an organic unity, in accordance with his statement in 1459 a. 18-21, and accounts for the inorganic elements in it as relief, he definitely puts epic poetry in the same category as drama. As we shall see, the Iliad and the Odyssey have a unity; but unlike that of the drama it is inorganic and, moreover, the digressions far from being, like Homer’s similes, for purposes of relief, are actually the substance of the narrative, strung parataetically like beads on a string. The effect of Aristotle’s association of epic poetry with the organic unity of a drama has been completely false post hoc, ergo propter hoc literary criticism of Homer. The organic conception of literary criticism, backed by the great prestige of Plato, Aristotle, and Horace’s Ars Poetica,21 laid the foundations of a type of literary criticism which has persisted until the present day. Similarities have been all the more impressed on us by such statements of Aeschylus as that his plays were slices from the Homeric banquet. Lest it be misunderstood that both Plato22 and Aristotle were not aware of the existence of a paratactic type of literature, it needs to be pointed out that both were aware of its existence but that the principles of literary criticism which they set forth applied essentially to literature of the fifth and fourth centuries which had evolved from a paratactic to a hypotactic type, from a style which Aristotle calls λέξις εΐρομένη, to such a masterpiece of organic

98

Homer’s A r t

unity as the Oedipus Rex. It must be realized that the projection into the criticism of pre-fifth century literature of principles of criticism applicable to a later period has resulted in the misunderstanding of the physiognomy of oral epic poetry and the subsequent literature whose form oral poetry influenced. The fault lies not primarily with Aristotle's Poetics, although the close association of the drama with the epic was a major factor in the confusion, but with post-Aristotelian tradition which did not clearly recog­ nize that the principles of the Poetics did not apply to a large body of literature which Aristotle refers to in the Rhetoric 3.9 as λέξις είρομένη, the style of parataxis. This style, he says, “is the ancient one; for example, ‘This is the exposition of the investigation of Herodotus of Thurii.’ It was formerly used by all, but now used only by a few. By a continuous style I mean that which has no end in itself and only stops when the sense is complete. It is unpleasant, because it is endless."23 These pregnant remarks of Aristotle show that he is conscious of a type of literature, of which Herodotus is a late survival. It is the task of modern scholarship to write a Poetics for this body of literature which Aristotle and Plato, both concerned with a new type of literature which supplanted the λέξις είρομένη, did not write. Before proceeding with the first step in the formulation of the principles which must underlie the λέξις είρομένη it is necessary to survey rapidly the parataxis in style, structure, content, and thought which characterizes pre-Socratic literature. In his studies van Groningen has shown that the literature before the middle of the fifth century is largely inorganic in character. The reader will profit greatly from his analysis. The following examples supplement and widen the horizon of parataxis in the various fields of Greek expression. Parataxis in Homer extends beyond the style and characterizes the struc­ ture and thought of the poems. Like Odysseus Homer himself may be called πολύτροπος. The episodic, inorganic, and paratactical nature of the Homeric poems has been noticed and commented on as early as Aristotle who calls the Iliad πολύμυθον (Poetics 1456 a.12), one with a plurality of stories in it. In another statement, difficult to reconcile with the previous one, he emphasizes the unity of the story of the Iliad (1459 a.30 ff.). These two statements add up to the truth that the Iliad has a unity but that its unity is inorganic. Aristotle looks upon the episodes as giving an element of variety to the epic (1459 a .37). He also remarks that some epics have a unity but it is not of the right kind because the action consists of the plurality of the parts (πολυμερή), each easily detached from the rest of the work (1459 b. 1). Though Aristotle has a higher estimate of the Iliad and Odyssey because they supply materials for only one or two tragedies in contrast to the other epics, each of which supplies material for several tragedies,24 he still calls the Iliad a πολύμυθον σύστημα (1456 a.12, 1462b.8) which may be Aristotle’s term for inorganic unity. He is conscious that the Iliad and

Style a n d Structure

99

Odyssey are made up of several actions (εκ πλεΐόνων πράξεων) and of many parts (εχει πολλά τοιαϋτα μέρη). Aristotle’s characterization of the other epics as μία πράξις πολυμερής ( 1 4 5 9 b .1) and the Homeric epic as πολύμυθον σύστημα shows that the conception of the Homeric epic as an inorganic unity is not modern.25 Where Aristotle is responsible for the ensuing literary criticism of treating the epic as an organic unity is his statement that the unity of the Homeric epic is such as to be capable of being dramatized in one simple tragedy, and that the epic resembles tragedy, though to a lesser degree, in conforming to the same rules of completeness and unity that he set forth in chapters 7 and 8 of the Poetics. Homer, unlike Horace’s semper ad eventum festinat, always has time. The μήνις of Achilles tacks, as it were, through such digressions as the dream of Agamemnon, the Catalogue, the aristeia of Diomedes, the Doloneia, until it reaches its fulfilment in the nineteenth book. In the Odyssey such digressions as the entire Telemachy, the episode of Theoklymenos (15.223 if.), the boar hunt (19-399 ff), and the second Nekyia (24.1 ff.) go far in substantiating the Homeric style as λέξις είρομένη. This parataxis is not a unique feature of the structure only. W e find parataxis in other aspects besides episodes. We find parataxis in the epic style,26 in the similes,27 where the poet digresses beyond the original point of comparison and finds delight in the similes per se which reveal Homer's own world and nature; and in thought, such as the Glaucus and Diomedes episode (//. 6.232-236) where, as Perry shows, the poet looks upon the exchange first from the traditional ξενία and then from the economic point of view, completely unconcerned with the incongruity of the modern point of view.28 We also find parataxis in the shield of Achilles and in the religion of Homer, where, as Calhoun has shown,29 Homer presents his gods parataetically, first, as gods collec­ tively who are imbued with the moral attributes of divinity and secondly, as dramatis personae, imbued with human frailties as exhibited in the Aphrodite and Ares interlude. A survey of the Homeric poems shows parataxis rather than organic unity to be the dominant feature. The inorganic parts even if preceded by a prologue are, as van Groningen, shows,30 united by such devices as recurring lines, transitions, echoes, and foreshadowing. The paratactic type of composition is, as will be shown later, the result of oral composition and certain conditions which accompany oral composition. At this point there remains to be shown that the paratactic type of compo­ sition is not unique to Homer. A survey of the oral literatures in Chadwick’s The Growth of Literature shows that oral literatures both past and those surviving are characterized by λέξις είρομένη, episodic parataxis.31 W hen set in the context of oral literature the Homeric parataxis is too common and observable a feature in oral literatures to serve as the basis for the divisionist, scissors and paste school of critics. As van Groningen aptly states, “La philologie doit en tirer cette leçon définitive, que jamais ces irrégularités, ces contradictions et ces fautes, que jamais donc des éléments

100

Homer's A r t

eie nature non organique dans la composition des deux épopées ne pourront servir à prouver une pluralité d auteurs. La conclusion, si elle est exacte, ne manque pas d’importance.”32 Mnemosyne was invoked by poets long after it had ceased to be in written literature the reality that it was in oral literature.33 Even so does the inorganic and paratae tic type of literature persist long after oral literature gave way to written literature. The history of the Greek literature shows a paratae tic type of literature lingering as late as Herodotus when it gives way to the new ideal of organic literature. This post-Homeric parataxis reveals two things: (1) it serves to re-enforce the conclusion already obvious that the Homeric oral literature is the fons et origo of later paratactic literature, in style as in content; (2) it shows the long fortleben of this type of literature when the factors which produced it ceased to operate. A survey of the post-Homeric literature shows that although there are instances of organic literature the paratactical type of composition accounts for the form of considerable literature. An analysis of Hesiod’s Works and Days shows an even more intensive form of πολύμύθον σύστημα than Aristotle would find in Homer. It shows that the unity is moral rather than structural. The lack of unity and proportion would be fatal to the unity of authorship if the poem were abstracted from the context of inorganic literature34 and the manifestations of the paratactic mind in other media. In his analysis of Aleman’s Partheneion van Groningen illustrates how largely paratactic this poem is, how its unity is achieved through a transi­ tional phrase. Two parts, he says, are found here threaded “sans qu’une idée générale les domine: example frappant de ce qu’ on peut appeler composi­ tion paratactique.”35 Xenophanes, furthermore, actually begins a poem with a transitional line revealing how used to parataxis was the audience. An analysis of the first elegy of Solon shows that it is a paratactic poem, with the poet, in the course of his thoughts, flying from one topic to another, a perfect example of how the paratactic firtleben of the Homeric oral epic had conditioned the audience to a paratactic type of literature. Likewise, Semonides’ poem on women reveals the same paratactic technique. It is only a mind which is conditioned by parataxis in language, thought, and structure that can best cope with a Pindaric ode or an Aeschylean chorus with their abrupt transitions, their flexible, lightning-like paratactic imagery which leaps paratactically like Homer’s similes.36 It is only a parataetically trained mind which can appreciate the poems of Empedocles and Parmenides. The position of Δόξα in Parmenides’ poem can only be accounted for by the paratactic tradition of poetry which now comes over into philosophy. It explains better than any reason the polarity in the thought of Parmenides’ poem. When it comes to the drama we have a long way to go before we can reach rhe organic unity which Aristotle claims for the drama. The linear development of the Prometheus Bound is a striking example of th e fort leben of

Style a n d Structure

101

parataxis in Aeschylus, and the Persae is called less a play than a tiny trilogy.37 Even as late as Euripides we find a paratactic mind necessary to appreciate a certain scene in the Bacchae. Gilbert Murray, in a review of Verrall’s The Piddle of the Bacchae, says, f‘The Greek habit was to let each scene stand very much by itself, producing its own effect uninterrupted by references to other parts of the play. An incident or a character which has done its work is simply allowed to drop.”38 Even the very traditional structure of the drama demands a paratactic tradition for its effectiveness. It is only the paratactic mind which can jump undisturbedly from an episode to a choral passage or a parabasis which often has little or no connection with the organic unity of the play. A systematic study of parataxis in the Greek drama would show that Aristotle has excluded from his unity considerable inorganic material which is found in the drama. Finally, we come to Herodotus who came to Athens and, in the very midst of a literature which was rapidly being molded by the concept of organic unity, brings in his work an Ionian parataxis. Though a contem­ porary of Socrates, Herodotus is far from putting into practice the type of organic composition advocated by the Sophists and the Phaedrus. Herodotus is a child of the epic tradition39 and he follows closely in prose the paratactical inorganic unity which is found in the Homeric epics. When Herodotus says, προσθήκας γαρ δή μοι ό λόγος έξ αρχής εδίζητο (4.30), he states in self-conscious terms the paratactic inorganic unity which governs the method of his composition and reveals the longevity of the flexible inorganic parataxis that emanated from the Homeric poems. We end this story of parataxis with Herodotus even though one could go on to show that Plato’s dialogues, ironically even the Phaedrus itself, are full of parataxis and digressions made necessary by the very nature of the spoken word which the dialogues try to imitate. That parataxis is first of all a state of mind rather than a form of literature is evident when we come to Greek art which reveals a story paralleling that of literature. That we have a similar story in Greek art strengthens the reasons for positing for the understanding of Greek literature and art a mind which evolved from a flexible, loosely coordinated unity to an organic unity. The story is most evident in vases. The essential characteristic of Minoan vases is an inorganic paratactic field of decoration which yields in early Athens to a geometric organic unity which is so vividly set forth by J. L. Myres.40 But side by side with this organic manifestation the large body of Eastern and Oriental vases persist in inor­ ganic parataxis. The François vase is the locus classicus41 for parataxis in vase painting and reflects in its storied bands, paratactically arranged, the same features as appear in Homeric parataxis. As we watch the development of vase painting in Attica we observe that the design of the vase suggests to the painter a hypotaxis far earlier than is observed in literature. For with the sixth century parataxis gives way to hypotaxis by reason of the fact that the main panel becomes the central scene and the ornamentation is subordinated to it

102

H orner1s A r t

in the rest of the vase. Thus vases are among the first manifestations of the concept of organic unity in Athens’ intellectual development. Sixth century archaic sculpture reveals the same concern for the parts rather than the organic whole. A study of pedimental sculpture42 from the early temples until the Parthenon shows a parallel to literature in the evolution from a paratactical inorganic unity to the highly organic unity of the eastern pediment of the Parthenon. Sixth century archaic sculpture reveals in general the autonomy of the parts. Miss Richter in her discussion of the kouroi observes, '‘At first grooves, ridges, and knobs on the surface were used to indicate anatomical detail, of which the real purport was not understood. They were composed in a series of patterns, each distinct and separate from the other. Only gradually did the Greek artists comprehend the significance of the human shape and learn to model and interrelate its various anatomical parts.”43 The archaic sculptor works with a set of schemata, which are substituted for the irregular appearances of the real world, perfecting each part and gradually evolving an interrelation of these parts to the whole organic conception.4 Finally, in the field of architecture we find some outstanding examples of inorganic parataxis in the Acropolis itself in such buildings as the Propylaea and the Erechtheum. The inorganic disposition of the buildings on the Acropolis,45 no matter what the reasons were, can only be understood by the fact that the Athenians were used to inorganic parataxis in their literary and artistic traditions. All this survey of parataxis in the various forms of Greek expression, paralleled by the oral literatures of other peoples, shows that parataxis and the type of mind which expresses it are the regular form of thought and expression before the classical period. Moreover, the use of inorganic qua­ lities in a piece of literature as the basis for a divisionist school of criticism is false and has no relevance for pre-classical Greek literature. To apply to it the concepts of organic literature leads to Procrustean violence. Tate, in his review of Prof, van Groningen’s Paratactische Compositie, sums up the case. “Plato,” he says, “demanded that a literary work should have the unity of a living oganism; the parts should be consistent with one another and subordinate to the whole. . . . The pre-classical’ method of composition was not organic or hypotactic but paratactic. . . . Homer’s aim is the perfection of the parts rather than the integrity of the whole; he thinks more of variety and abundance than of qualitative selection and the orderly disposition of the parts. To attack the unity of either poem . . . betrays a concern for literary canons which are irrelevant in the field of pre-classical Greek literature.” 46 The conclusion which has been reached yields immediately to a question. If the literary criticism which emanates from a literature which is essentially organic in composition is found, when applied to Homeric oral poetry, to be the source of Procrustean criticism, what kind of criticism shall replace it? It

Style a n d Structure

103

must proceed from Parry’s favorite principle of Aristarchus: ή έκ τής λ έξεως λϋσίς, and account for the physiognomy of a literature which is oral in genesis and character. Our first task is to understand the mentality behind parataxis. Organic literature is the result of a disciplined artistic mentality which plans the architecture of a work of art. It is logic and its preoccupation with cosmos which is the mentality of organic literature. The relation of the parts to the whole, carefully worked out by the leisurely method of composition with the written word, looking both fore and after, excluding the audience from immediate participation in the artistic illusion, is the modus operandi of organic literature. In sharp contrast to this, paratactic literature is the result of a flexibility of the mind produced by various factors in the composition of oral literature. C‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,” says Longfellow followed by Robert Frost,47 and we must start with this flexible mentality in both the oral poet and his audience. The foundations of the new criticism must rest on the fact observed by students of the primitive mind48 that the interest is in the particular first and foremost instead of the whole. This preoccupation with the particular is the natural state of mind of oral literature, and is also observed in advanced stages of culture such as the digressive literature of people like Fielding, Cervantes, and others. Absorption in the particular and unconcern with the logical relation of the parts to the whole is the unphilosophic condition of εικασία which Plato pictures for us in his account of the Cave. B. E. Perry has entitled this mentality “the early Greek capacity for viewing things separately,”49 and his paper, which is one of the most important contributions to the understanding of preclassical literature, must serve as one of the pillars in the structure of the new principles of literary criticism of oral literature. In the formulation of this new critique we must realize that no one explanation for parataxis is final and conclusive. Besides this mentality which is, as Horace puts it, totus in illis50 and non-referential we must examine a complex set of factors which are at work in the composition of oral literature and which contribute largely to the inorganic character of the Homeric poems. These are first, the poet; second, the audience; and third, the material of the poet. The relation and the conditions under which these factors operate in the creation of oral literature are not the same as in written literature. All three present a new and unique relationship which, in combination with the aforesaid mental capacity in the poet and the audi­ ence, account for parataxis and determine the inorganic quality of oral literature. The physical, technical, and psychological factors at work in the creation of oral poetry make the poet live largely in the moment and only secondarily in the larger framework of his material. When the poet composes by means of the formulaic diction, which Parry has shown in his studies, he must concentrate on the moment, on the immediate verse. Unlike creation with

104

Homer's A r t

the written word, where the audience is a remote factor in the imagination, where sufficient time is at hand to coordinate the part written to the whole conception, with opportunity for revision, the oral poet, is both physically and mentally bound to the moment, the immediate verse, and his intimate relation with the audience. The artistic illusion, which he creates by means of winged words, is ever in flux; neither the poet nor his audience can divert their attention for any period of time to the whole; they cannot pause to analyze, compare, and relate parts to the whole; the whole only exists as an arrière pensée which both the poet and his audience share as a context for the immediate tectonic plasticity of the episode. The spoken word, unlike the written word, must be winged, impelled ever onward by the spontaneity and urgency of verbalization in oral poetry. Creation by means of the spoken word leaves the poet little time to pause and appraise the lines he is shaping in terms of the larger pattern. The oral poet is a veritable Sisyphus; he can not let go of the immediate burden. The imperious domination of the immediate verse and episode shapes in large measure the paratactic style as well as content of the oral epic. The poet s training extends from the noun-epithet formula to entire schemata.51 This technique inevitably results in the λέξις εΐρομένη, the strung-along and adding style, and in the paratactic handling of his material. The effect of this technique on the mind of the oral poet is such that it develops a corresponding paratactic technique in handling his material. The poet thus tends to become episodic in his mentality because of his verbal technique. Verba, it may be said in paraphrase of Bacon, abeunt in mores. W hen the fifth century style changes from parataxis to hypotaxis the writer correspondingly changes from the paratactic to the organic structure in his art. Thus the relation of the style and method of expression to the creation of a similar mentality is one of the important approaches to the understanding of the inorganic oral poetry. Furthermore, the spoken word, as every speaker knows, is conducive to digression. It is easier to digress and lose sight of the original purpose in the spoken word than in formal writing which follows an organized text with a beginning, middle, and an end; and so with the oral poet whose medium of communication is solely the spoken word. Digression in oral literature is even more the product of the inspiration to which both Homer’s Phemios and oral poets in our own immediate times attest.52 The inspiration of the moment, which Radlov observed in the oral poetry of the Kara-Kirghiz, is sensitive to the social context of the recitation. Inspiration and logic are frames of mind which do not readily mix and so inspired poetry, shaped by the mood of the moment, the psychological union of the poet and his audience, leads to digression. “Every minstrel,” says Radlov, “who has any skill at all always improvises his songs according to the inspiration of the moment, so that he is not in a position to recite a song twice in exactly the same form.”53 When one seeks to find the reason for this he is led to

Style a n d Structure

105

variations and digressions which result from the character of inspiration itself and from the intimate interaction of the poet and his audience. “It seems clear/' says Radlov, “that the Kara-Kirghiz minstrel, like the reciter of the Russian byliny, selects his incidents according to his own mood, and according to the temper of his audience, from the wealth of relevant incidents in his répertoire. And this is done with very varying talent and constructive ability, and also with varying success according to the minstrel's mood.”54 This emphasis on mood and social context is amply illustrated in the digressive and inorganic character of Demodocus’ singing in the eighth book of the Odyssey, It explains why the stories of the KaraKirghiz poets consist, a$, Radlov says, of “a mass of material, a number of episodes, which can be arranged and selected from at will, and which are subject to infinite new combinations and groupings,”55 and why different heroes are credited with the same exploit.5 These episodes and their combinations are shaped by the immediate interest and the social context which swings like the magnetic needle around the compass of inspiration. How intimate and sensitive the poet is to his audience57 and how in turn this affects the inorganic quality of his poem is best illustrated from a very illuminating passage in Radlov concerning the Kara-Kirghiz minstrel. The external stimulus comes, of course, also, from the crowd of listeners surrounding the minstrels. Since the minstrel wants to obtain the sym­ pathy of the crowd, by which he is to gain not only fame, but also other advantages, he tries to colour his song according to the listeners who are surrounding him. If he is not directly asked to sing a definite episode, he begins his song with a prelude which will direct his audience into the sphere of his thoughts. By a most subtle art, and allusions to the most distinguished persons in the circle of listeners, he knows how to enlist the sympathy of his audience before he passes on to the song proper. If he sees by the cheers of his listeners that he has obtained full attention, he either proceeds straight to the business, or produces a brief picture of certain events leading up to the episode which is to be sung, and then passes on to the business. The song does not proceed at a level pace. The sympathy of the hearers always spurs the minstrel to new efforts of strength, and it is by this sympathy that he knows how to adapt the song exactly to the temper of his circle of listeners. If rich and distinguished Kirghiz are present, he knows how to introduce panegyrics very skilfully on their families, and to sing of such episodes as he thinks will arouse the sympathy of distinguished people. If his listeners are only poor people, he is not ashamed to introduce venomous remarks regarding the preten­ sions of the distinguished and the rich, and actually in the greater abundance according as he is gaining the assent of his listeners. One may refer to the third episode in Manas which is intended to appeal to my taste solely.

10 6

Homer's A r t

The minstrel, however, understands very well when he is to desist from his song. If the slightest signs of weariness show themselves, he tries once more to arouse attention by a struggle after the loftiest effects, and then, after calling forth a storm of applause, suddenly to break off his poem. It is marvellous how the minstrel knows his public. I have myself witnessed how one of the sultans, during a song, sprang up suddenly and tore his silk overcoat from his shoulders, and flung it, cheerfully as he did so, as a present to the minstrel.58 Then Radlov illustrates how digressions like the catalogue of the “forty heroes,” or the points of an ideal horse enumerated seriatim, are very popular with the audience. This passage is an important laboratory in which to study parataxis in oral poetry. It illustrates aspects of the mentality and the factors which produce parataxis in oral poetry. The oral poet never by-passes or is forgetful of the audience in the shaping of his song. The poet interprets the com­ munity to itself which, unlike the audience of the cinema, takes an active part in and shares the illusion. So intimate is the connexion of the poet to the audience that Radlov mentions the case of a poet whose breakdown in the midst of a recitation ends in moral disgrace. The mood of his inspiration and the mood of the audience are more important than any detached and objective approach to the epic material. We who read the poems abstract the context and magnetic interplay of poet and his audience. That the Iliad and the Odyssey are great enough poems to transcend the oral audience of the poet and appeal to the reading audience of all times does not take away from the important fact that the parataxis and inorganic unity of the poems are intimately connected with a physical, psychological context of poet and his audience which inevitably results in parataxis. If we could project into our knowledge of the Homeric poems the part which his audiences played in the arrangement of the episodes we would gain much in our understanding of the poems. Recent scholars like Bassett have shown the importance of the audience in the creation of the epic illusion and have accounted for inconsistencies which are explicable only by the silent partnership of the audience, such as, how Homer allows his characters to learn “off-stage” what Homer’s audi­ ence already knew. 59 A study of the audience in Homer’s poems and in the oral literature of other peoples shows that the audience in a large measure actively fosters parataxis. The audience imposes certain physical factors which result in the episodic nature of oral poetry. Important among these factors is the time alloted for the poet’s recitation. A careful study of the oral poet Demodocus in the eighth book of the Odyssey shows that his singing is episodic and the time allowed for his singing is dictated by the social activity and interest of the audience. W hen the poet asks the muse των άμόθεν γε, θεά, θυγάτηρ Διός, είπε και ήμιν (Od, 1.10) we

Style a n d Structure

107

find that this inorganic αμόθεν is caused not only by inspiration but also by the audience’s manipulation of the story. In the first instance of Demo­ docus’ recitation of the quarrel of Odysseus and Achilles (8.75 ff.) Alcinoos interrupts him by reason of his perception of the grief of Odysseus. The second instance of the bard’s recitation follows Alcinoos’ speech telling how the Phaeacians excel all other men in dancing and in song. After a dazzling performance. of the dance by the Phaeacian youths Demodocus performs with the singfng of the episode of Ares and Aphrodite. This yields imme­ diately to the dancing episode of Halios and Laodamas. After the presenta­ tion of the gift and the feast, in which Odysseus endears himself with Demodocus by his offering, Odysseus bids him &XX άγε δή μετάβηθι και ίππου κόσμον άεισον (8.492). The word μετάβηθι, "digress,” from "The Woe of the Achaeans” to "The Arrangement of the Wooden Horse” illustrates concretely how parataxis is imposed by the audience and is paralleled by the Kara-Kirghiz poet in Radlov’s account who is asked directly to sing a definite episode and by the poet’s inorganic improvisation in response to a question by Radlov himself.60 The word μετάβηθι yields to us a long overlooked factor and explanation of the inorganic character of the Homeric poems. It not only illustrates further άμόθεν (Od. 1.10) but also furnishes us with an important explanation of the origins of Homeric parataxis. If the episode is the smallest unit in the minimum time allowed by the audience to the poet it is also, as seen from the structure of the Iliad and the Odyssey, the basis of the expansion, of the story when more time .is allowed. Chadwick tells of an unnamed Icelander who is given twelve evenings of a Christmas festival to tell of the exploits of Harold III, King of Norway.61 The king himself made the poet stop after a certain time, so as to make the story last out. This incident illustrates several important aspects of our problem. The episodic character of a poem is partly controlled by the audience; it tells us, as Parry illustrated in the case of Jugoslav oral poetry,62 that the division of epics into books is a later editorial arbitrary act and that the poet stops at any part of the story for diverse reasons; and finally the important fact that the granting to the poet of a large amount of time results not in organic composition but a multiplication of the episodes over a proportionally greater period of time. The unit of his technique is the episode, the irreducible minimum for a social occasion, and it is only through multiplication of episodes that the poet knows how to fill in the longer period of time. Thus the uncertainty of the time given to the poet by the audience and the poet’s own physical strength in recitation fostered the development of the inorganic and episodic type of oral epic. These episodes are connected, as van Groningen shows, by means of transitions, recurring lines, echoes, and foreshadowing. Even though the poets have a comprehen­ sive synthesis of their material, as illustrated by Homer, they present it in a detachable and linear style as illustrated by Demodocus and the diverse ways

108

Homer’s A r t

by which either the poet in his relation to the audience, or the audience in its relation to the poet, shapes the parataxis of the oral recitation. Besides dictating the time at the disposal of the poet and manipulating the story in an active way the audience exercises a powerful control over the choice of the material and circumstance of recitation. As Bassett has pointed out, the poet is ever concerned with the partnership of the audience in the creation of the epic illusion. The audience must not be wearied or confused and therefore linear simplicity, digression, variety are essential in keeping the audience’s interest. To enjoy each part for its own sake without the strain of complexity, as illustrated in a story like Conrad’s Nostromo, where the reader is put to a strain to relate the parts to the whole, is essential in oral entertainment. When the audience is wearied or the poet realizes his own weariness or that the artistic illusion is broken he ends his recitation regardless of where he is with respect to the whole. Radlov gives several examples of such terminations.63 Furthermore, by flexibly adjusting the tale to the interest of the audience the poet inevitably contributes to the inorganic quality of the epic. Genealogies and catalogues are common features in all oral literatures; but the audience’s interest is the poet’s interest, and it may be stated as a cardinal principle in oral literature that the interest of the audience rather than concern for the structure of his material is the object of the poet. Both the poet and the audience in turn are intimately related to the material from which epic poetry arises. The absence in Greek religion of any priestly class or theology which shaped the material of mythology into an organic whole illustrates an important aspect of the epic material. The epic cycles are inorganic storehouses for the poet and dramatist, and when Aeschylus speaks of τεμάχη των Όμήρου δείπνων he mentions an important characteristic of his sources. The nature of the epic cycles, which are the “stuff’ of the oral poetry, is such that the poet reflects the inorganic quality of his material. Unlike our own times where novelty of plot is supreme the oral poet was closely bound to his traditional material, from which he chose segments, expanded or contracted them in accordance with the requirements of the recitation. The segment may or may not have a unity, as Aristotle observed of epic poems. But a poet like Homer may impose, as we see from the preludes, a thematic unity to which he flexibly adheres. This unity, however, does not prevent him from making a veritable odyssey of digressions before reaching the Ithaca of his unity, whether this be the return of his hero or the destructive wrath of Achilles. Throughout the flexible unities of the Iliad and the Odyssey there is transparent the parataxis of the traditional material. Both the poet and the audience are so intimately a part of this material that the large unity may exist as an undefined arrière pensée of both poet and audience. The poet selects his material and the unity of the larger whole may be in the minds of the audience, as Bassett has so skilfully shown.

Style a n d Structure

109

Therefore abrupt terminations in a social recitation, contradictions or unex­ plained knowledge of this or that, do not bother the audience as much as they do the critics. The unity is largely in the mind of the audience as is illustrated in the case of people whose conversation reveals that there is a wide and intimate background which they share but do not completely express. The oral recitation thus becomes a selection of parts whose whole is the inexpressed context of the traditional material. The flexible minds of the poet and the audience can enjoy parataxis more than the critics who do not share the background of the poet and his oral audience. Thus when the audience and the poet are intimate possessors of a storied heritage the poet is freed from always having to speak the literal to inspire the understanding of his audi­ ence. The parataxis of the parts is ever in a fluid context, understood, even if not expressed, by both poet and his audience. By having the audience share in the context the poet is left free to develop the part. How well the audience can participate in the knowledge of the whole material can be illustrated by Chodzko’s collection of the unwritten poetry of the Turkomans of which Chadwick says, “It is obvious . . . that this tradition appears to have been preserved with exceptional fidelity for three hundred years. Distinct cycles are kept strictly apart, and form the exclusive repertoires of professional reciters, whose memories are checked by those of their audiences, who are apparently by no means ignorant of the stories and songs to which they are listening/’ To one who would thus properly understand the grounds for inorganic parataxis in Homer and its fortleben in pdst-Homeric Greek literature a knowledge of the true nature of pre-classicâl mentality and of the forces at work on the poet and the conditions under which he creates is essential. Aristotle’s λ έ ξ ίς ειρομένη must be understood in the light of these factors and with their understanding we are reminded of the sea-god Glaucus in Plato’s Republic “whose first nature can hardly be made out by those who catch glimpses of him, because the original members of his body are broken off and mutilated and crushed and in every way marred by the waves, and other parts that have attached themselves to him, accretions of shells and sea-weed and rocks, so that he is more like any wild creature than what he was by nature.“05 W ith the real and pristine nature of parataxis thus revealed Homeric criticism can proceed to formulate principles of criticism which explain the true physiognomy of oral poetry. Its guide must not be the well-worn concepts of Aristotelian criticism but the laboratory of the other oral literatures such as Parry’s studies of Jugoslav oral poetry and new studies to be made by the writer of the oral poetry of Crete. Homer must be approached more with the results of field-work and less with a priori logical analyses; much more of the psychology of oral literatures, such as Marcel Jousse’s66 work, is needed as a foundation of the new critique. Exacting studies must be made of the field-work reports of Radlov, Parry,67 and the numerous works quoted and used by the Chadwicks which shall serve as the context to study Homer and to elicit the concepts of a new critique. We

110

Homer's A r t

must replace such concepts as characterization, which is meaningless for Homer, and ask why his characters are generic types, why such people as Nausikaa shape up and fade unused.68 We must study more thoroughly the social factors which bear upon the form of oral poetry. We must ask new questions, we must read works like James Joyce's Ulysses, Hemingway’s novels, hear certain kinds of music, to get fresh insights into the inorganic mind, where the intellectual organic concepts are properly thrust aside and an attempt is made to record the undisciplined mind, the natural succession of its thoughts, its extreme naturalness, unconcern for cause and effect, coherence; the frame of mind which enjoys parataxis69 with its intense preoccupation with the particular, which is the child’s kingdom of Heaven. Such an approach, such investigations, such questions will not, as Hamlet says, pluck out the heart of Homer’s mystery, but they will rid us of our long-obsessed false notions of disjecta membra and enrich our understanding so that we may enjoy the kaleidoscopic flexibility and variety of Homer’s panorama, ever mindful of Parry’s words: “The mind, since it cannot think in a vacuum, must necessarily carry over to its comprehension of its past the notions of the present, unless a man has actually been able to build up from the very details of the past a notion which must necessarily exclude the application of his habitual notions.”70

Notes Dedicated to the memory of Corporal Francis C. Kowalczyk, Όμηρίδοί): . . . άπέφθιτο Ίλιόθι προ έσθλος έών. 1. See the collected bibliography in A. B. Lord, “Homer, Parry, and Huso,” A J A 5 2 (1948) 43-44. 2. B. A. van Groningen, Paratactische Compositie in de Oudste Grieksche Literatuur (Amsterdam, 1937); “Elements inorganiques dans la composition de ΓIliade et de YOdyssée," Revue des Etudes Homériques 5 (1935) 3-24. 3. van Groningen, Paratactische Compositie 1-3; “Éléments inorganiques” 5 note 1. 4. J. L. Myres, Who Were the Greeks? (Berkeley, 1930) 499. 5. Ibid., 488. 6. J. M. Edmonds, Elegy and Iambus (The Loeb Classical Library) 1.146. 7. Cf. W. Jaeger, Sohns Eunomie (SPAW 1926); Paideia (Oxford, 1939) l40. 8. Walther Kranz, “Kosmos als philosophischer Begriff frühgriechischer Zeit,” Philologus 93 (1939) 430-448. 9. Frag. 3 (Diels, Fragmente der Vorsokratiker). 10. Frag. 50 (Diels). 11. Frag. 59 (Bywater). 12. Frag. 124 (Diels), as interpreted with the reading of the m s : σαρξ by McDermott, AJPh 62 (1941) 492—494. The writer wishes to add in support of the reading of the m s that Heracleitos may have in mind the dismemberment of Orpheus in the phrase σάρξ είκή κεχυμένων. 13. Plato, Cratylus 413c.

Style a n d Structure

111

14. Problemata 908A.31. 15. Frag. 34 (Diels).

16. Π ερί άρχαίης ίητρικής 20. 17. Cf. Phaedrus of Plato, ed. W. H. Thompson (London, 1868) 124; for the comparison of the organic unity to a ζφον see Tim. 32d—33 a; cf. Protagoras 329d—e. 18. 6 0 3 a 10-60 3 b 1. 19. Cf. Rep. 557c, 559r>, 5 6 1 e ; Laws 719c.

20. Pötf. 1459a.37. 21. Ars Poet. 1-37. 22. For Plato’s awareness of a paratactic type of literature compare his appraisal of the Ισονομία of the Midas epigram, the speech of Lysias in the Phaedrus. His view of the poets in Laws 719c and in the Republic shows that their inability to control inspired disorder through the order of reason makes them unfit to dwell in the πόλις, which is the organic structure of reason expressed in the social relations of man. 23. Rhet. 3.9. For the best treatment of this notion see H. Frankel, “Eine Stileigenheit der frühgriechischen Literatur,” NGG (1924) 63-103, 105-127. 24. Cf. S. E. Bassett, The Poetry of Homer (Berkeley, 1938) 233—237 for a sketch of the Iliad in the form of a drama. 25. Cf. Eustathius on IL 3.230: ούτως εύμηχάνωςΌ μηρος τ ας έξω τε του

νυν καιρού ιστορίας έπεισοδιάζει τή ποιήσει καί ταις μεθόδοις αυτήν καταποικίλλει των αφηγήσεων and Schol. Od. 1.284: τής Όδυσσείας ούκ έχούσης έξ αυτής ποικιλίαν ικανήν τον Τηλέμαχον έξελθεΐν εις Σπάρτην καί Πύλον ποιεί, όπως αν των Ίλιακών έν παρεκβάσεσι πολλά λεχθείη . . . ο ποιητής ποικιλίας λόγων και εξαλλαγής ιδεών, ινα μή μονότροπος ή τής ποιήσεως δ τρόπος. 26. Cf. The Odyssey of Homer, ed. W. B. Stanford (London, 1948) l.lxxxix; B. E. Perry, “The Early Greek Capacity for Viewing Things Separately,” TAPhA 68 (1937) 410-412. 27. Cf. Eustathius on //. 2.87: ου γάρ ή παραβολή ολη τφ πράγματι ολω προσαρμόζεΐν ενταύθα δύναταί; Η. Eränkel, Die Homerischen Gleichnisse (Göttingen, 1921); Bassett, op. cit. (above, note 24) 164-172. 28. Cf. Perry, loc. cit. (above, note 26) 404-405; cf. also Richard Heinze’s pertinent remarks on the paratactic technique in Homer as contrasted with Virgil in Oie Augusteische Kultur (Leipzig and Berlin, 1930) 149 ff. 29- G. Calhoun, “Homer's Gods: Prolegomena,” TAPhA 68 (1937) 11-25. 30. van Groningen, “Éléments inorganiques,” REH 5 (1935) 19-24. 31. H. M. Chadwick and N. K. Chadwick, The Growth of Literature (Cambridge, 1932-1940) 1.5 0 2 ff.; 2.134 ff., 413 ff, 593 ff., 746 ff.; 3 .L6 I ff. 32. van Groningen, loc. cit. (above, note 30) 18. 33. J. A. Notopoulos, “Mnemosyne in Oral Literature,” TAPhA 69 (1938) 465 ff. 34. Cf. My res, op. cit. (above, note 4) 510 for a comparison of the poem with the contemporary loose-jointed art. 35. van Groningen, loc. cit. (above, note 30) 10-11; “The Enigma of Aleman's Partheneion,” Mnemosyne 3 (1935-6) 241 ff.; cf. T. B. L. Webster, Greek Art and Literature 5 3 0 —4 0 0 B .C. (Oxford, 1939) 10—11. 36. Cf. Webster, op. cit. 38, 70-71, 89. 37. Cf H. D. Kitto, Greek Tragedy (London, 1939) 42. 38. The Nation, London, May l6, 1908, cited by Norwood in AJPh 70 (1949) 3Ì9. •39. Cf. W. Aly, Volksmärchen, Sage und Novelle bei Herodot und seinen Zeitgenossen. (Göttingen, 1921) 263 ff

112

Homer's A r t

40. Myres, op. cit. (above, note 4) 495 ff. 41. M. H. Swindler, Ancient Painting (New Haven, 1929) 146—147, 165; cf. Webster, op. cit. (above, note 35) 11. 42. E. Lapai us, Le Fronton Sculpté en Grèce des Origines à la Fin du IVe Siècle (Paris, 1947). 43. G. M. A. Richter, Kouroi (Oxford, 1942) 27. 44. Rhys Carpenter, The Esthetic Basis of Greek Art (Bryn Mawr, 1921) 114 ff. 45. G. P. Stevens, The Periclean Entrance Court of the Acropolis of Athens (Cam­ bridge, Mass., 1936) 1-2. 46. J. Tate, CR 51 (1937) 174-175. 47. Longfellow, My Lost Youth. 48. Ernst Cassirer, The Myth of the State (New Haven, 1946) 27; Lucien LévyBruhl, Les fonctions mentales dans les sociétés inférieures (Paris, 1910); La mentalité primitive (Paris, 1922); L’âme primitive (Paris, 1928). 49- Perry, loc. cit. (above, note 26). 50. Sat. 1.9.2. 51. W. Arend, Die typischen Scenen bei Homw (Berlin, 1933), and Parry’s review CPh 31 (1936) 357-360. 52. Chadwick, op. cit. (above, note 31) 1.635 ff. 53. Ibid., 3.181. 54. Ibid., 3.38-39. 55. Ibid., 3.181. 56. Ibid., 3.762, 771. 57. For the importance of studying literature in the context of situation see T. C. Pollock, The Nature of Literature: Its Relation to Science, Language a>nd Human Experience (New York, 1942) 57 ff 58. Chadwick, op. cit. (above, note 31) 3.184-185; for the varying physical strength of the singer in Jugoslav oral poetry cf TAPhA 67 (1936) 109; AJA 52 (1948) 42. 59. Bassett, op. cit. (above, note 24) 3.114-140. 60. Chadwick, op. cit. (above, note 31) 3.29-30, 184; for a study of the inter­ ruptions of the audience in Jugoslav oral poetry cf TAPhA 67 (1936) 108—109. 61. Chadwick, op. cit. (above, note 31) 1.581. 62. A. B. Lord, “Homer and Huso I: The Singer’s Rests in Greek and South slavic Heroic Song,” TAPhA 67 (1936) 106-113. 63- Chadwick, op. cit. (above, note 31) 3.183, 185. 64. Ibid., 3.177. 65. Rep. 6l Id . 66. M. Jousse, Études de Psychologie Linguistique: Le Style oral rythmique et mnémo­ technique chez les Verbo-moteurs (Paris, 1925). 67. See the unfinished chapter entitled “Aim and Method” of his unfinished book The Singer of Tales, AJA 52 (1948) 37-40. 68. Cf. T. E. Shaw, The Odyssey of Homer (New York, 1932), Translator’s Note; cf J. A. Davison’s remarks in CR 62 (1948) 116-117. 69- For some interesting remarks on inorganic novels cf. W. Somerset Maug­ ham, “What Makes a Good Novel Great,” New York Times Book Review (November 30, 1947) 49; for the inorganic in the films see F. S. Nugent, “Writer or Director— Who Makes a Movie?”, New York Times Book Review (December 21, 1947) 18. 70. Quoted by A. B. Lord in TAPhA 67 (1936) 107.

79 The Homeric Epithets are Significantly True to Individual Character* W. Whallon ^Source: Formula, Character, and Context. Studies in Homeric, Old English, and Old Testament Poetiy, published by the Center for Hellenic Studies, Washington DC, distributed by Harvard University Press, Washington, 1969, 1-1.9, 32.

From a remark by Josephus (Against Apion 1.12) and a few other scraps of ancient opinion, certain Homerists of the eighteenth century— notably Robert Wood and Friedrich August W olf—argued that the Iliad and Odyssey had been retold for a long while before being written down; the idea was never opposed systematically and became generally accepted. The tendency of lines to recur was well known to Aristarchus and his prede­ cessors at the library of Alexandria; and in the nineteenth century the concordances compiled by Guy Lushington Prendergast (London 1875) and Henry Dunbar (Oxford 1880), together with the Parallel-Homer of Carl Eduard Schmidt (Göttingen 1885), made it possible to see the repeated phrases, lines, and passages very quickly. So the groundwork had been laid— in antiquity and then in the modern era— for Milman Parry, V Épithète traditionnelle dans Homère (Paris 1928), to conclude that the Homeric idiom was traditional because its formulaic character could scarcely have been created by a single poet. He believed, I should say demonstrated, that as a rule the epithets were used not for their own sake, but to bring their nouns to more or less standardized lengths. In any context, "swift-footed Achilles’’ is to be regarded as above all a convenient way of saying "Achilles” and does not mean that the swiftness of foot is necessarily important, or even apparent, at the moment. W hat Parry neglected to discuss, and sometimes came close to denying, is that the epithets describe the essential and unchanging character of the men whose names they augment. My intention here is simply to provide for the omission. Some crucial details have already been emphasized by C. M. Bowra, Tradition and Design in the Iliad (Oxford 1930) 81, and Cedric H. W hitman, Homer and the Heroic Tradition (Cambridge, Mass. 1958) 113; but on the whole the subject is open to investigation.

114

Homer’s A r i

I. άναξ άνδρών, κρείων for Agamemnon The epithet άναξ άνδρών “king of men” is used, in the ïliad and Odyssey together, forty-seven times for Agamemnon and no more often than once for anyone else; the epithet κρείων “ruling” is used thirty times for Agamem­ non, seven times for Poseidon, and no more often than once for anyone else; and the expanded form εύρυκρείων “wide-ruling” is used twelve times for Agamemnon and once for Poseidon, and otherwise not at all. Since from these statistics alone we should have gathered that Agamemnon would be the commander-in-chief of the Achaeans, it is no surprise that his contin­ gent of ships is the largest (11. 2.580),. or that he assembled the expedition and led it to Troy (//. 4.179> 9-338). In the episode of the View from the Wall, Priam asks first about the man who looks so royal: he is like one who is a king (II. 3.170); and Helen replies that it is Agamemnon. The relation­ ship here between the meaning of the epithets and the nature of the man they so often describe is self-evident; and yet a few further details ask to be mentioned. Several of the major heroes are addressed (or apostrophized) with titles which fill the entire line; among these are the following:

Άτρείδη κύδιστε άναξ άνδρών Άγάμεμνον Atreides, most glorious, king of men Agamemnon (eight times in the Iliade twice in the Odyssey)

ώ Άχιλεϋ Πηλήος υιέ μέγα φέρτατ3Αχαιών Ο Achilles, son of Peleus, by far the mightiest of the Achaeans (twice in the Iliad, once in the Odyssey)

διογενές Λαερτιάδη πολυμήχαν3Όδυσσευ Zeus-born Laertiades, Odysseus of many arts (seven times in the Iliad, fifteen times in the Odyssey)

Ατρείδη Μενέλαε διοτρεφές ορχαμε λαών Atreides Menelaus, Zeus-nurtured leader of the people (once in the Iliad, five times in the Odyssey)

ώ Νέστορ Νηληιάδη μέγα κυδος Αχαιών Ο Nestor Neleiades, great glory of the Achaeans (four times in the Iliad, twice in the Odyssey)

Αίαν διογενές Τελαμώνιε κοίρανε λαών Ajax Zeus-born Telamonian, commander of the people (three times in the Iliad)

'Έκτορ υιέ Πριάμοιο Δ ιί μήτιν ατάλαντε Hector, son of Priam, equal to Zeus in counsel (twice in the Iliad)

Style a n d Structure

115

Αινεία Τρώων βουληφόρε χαλκοχιτώνων Aeneas, advisor of the bronze-shirted Trojans (twice in the Iliad) Since these lines are highly formulaic, any modification of them is worth noting; let us list the instances that pertain to Agamemnon. Reflecting upon the better luck of Achilles and Odysseus, his shade replaces the usual vocatives with όλβιε Πηλέος υιέ θεοΐς έπιείκελ’ Άχιλλεύ "fortunate son of Peleus, godlike Achilles” (Od. 24.36) and όλβιε Λαέρταο πάι πολυμηχαν Όδοσσεύ "fortunate child of Laertes, Odysseus of many arts” (Od. 24.192); reflecting upon the better luck of Agamemnon, Priam replaces the usual vocative with ω μάκαρ Άτρείδη μοιρηγενές όλβιόδαίμον "Ο happy Atreides, born to destiny, man of good fortune” (II. 3*182). These exceptions are of some interest, but not of such interest as another. W hen his refusal to return Chryseis is said, in the first meeting of the Iliad, to be the cause of the plague, Agamemnon agrees to give her up— on the condition that another woman be found for him. And now Achilles speaks, in a manner we find impressive from our knowledge of the epic idiom as a whole. Not ’Α τρείδη κύδιστε αναξ άνδρών Α,γάμεμνον "Atreides, most glorious, king of men Agamemnon,” but Ατρείδη κύδιστε φιλοκτεανώτατε πάντων "Atreides, most glorious, most covet­ ous of all men” (II. 1.122). I do not know where we see more clearly the wrath announced in the opening word of the poem. One of the ordinary ways of expressing the concept king is σκηπτούχος βασιλεύς "scepter-bearing king” (once in the Iliad and twice in the Odyssey; cf. the plural σκηπτούχοι βασιλήες, likewise once in the Iliad, twice in the Odyssey). But it would be wrong if that phrase occurred now, as a part of the invective, and in fact it does not: Achilles speaks of Agamem­ non as a δημοβόρος βασιλεύς "folk-devouring king” (II. 1.231). To express the rancor of Achilles, the poet has again departed from his usual idiom. When Agamemnon has been denounced, in another meeting, for recom­ mending that the war be abandoned, and things are going badly for him, he is encouraged by Nestor, on the grounds of his being the "most royal” βασίλεύτατος (II. 9*69), to take the lead in gathering ideas about what ought to be done; it is a diplomatic recommendation, not least in its use of this particular word. Soon afterwards, more privately, Nestor proposes that amends be promised to Achilles. Agamemnon makes the famous offer, and concludes: "Let him yield, and submit himself, since I am the more royal” βασιλεύτερος (II. 9*160). Odysseus, Ajax, and Phoenix then go to the huts and the ships of the Myrmidons, and the offer is recounted— of many treasures, and Briseis, and one of Agamemnon’s daughters in marriage, and seven cities. "Let him find another man for his daughter, one equal to him in rank, and more royal than I am” βασιλεύτερος (IL 9392) is the reply.

116

Homer's A r i

The wrath of Achilles is now sullen, less passionate; but the m atter of kingship is still the bone in his throat.

After Patroclus has been slain, and the Achaeans have convened in a further meeting, Achilles formally renounces his wrath, and Agamemnon repeats the offer of reconciliation. Nothing could be further from what Achilles wants at this time, and in asking that the army enter battle without delay he uses the formula Άτρείδη κύδιστε άναξ άνδρών Άγάμεμνον “Atreides, most glorious, king of men Agamemnon" (17. 19.146, 19.199). It is significant that he does so; we may conclude that the relationship between them has been restored to what it ought to be. Agamemnon is truly, not in word only, the αναξ άνδρών among the Achaeans, and this fact pertains to the course of the Iliad. Elsewhere we shall see other epithets that describe important figures with accuracy; unlike the phrase άναξ άνδρών Αγαμεμνον, however, they will not appear now used, now omitted, as the sense of the context demands.

II. πολόμητις for Odysseus Not counting a single instance of the genitive πολυμήτιος, the epithet πολύμητίς occurs eighty-six times, in the nominative only and for Odys­ seus alone. Since μήτις means “counsel, plan" or “device, stratagem,” πολύμητίς may be taken in a good sense, “of many counsels," or in a bad sense, “of many devices," both applying well to the character of Odysseus. I shall consider him here solely with regard to what he says. When Priam, in the View from the Wall, has learned to recognize Agamemnon, he asks who the man is that seems like a ram among ewes. (The simile is strong, even if we withhold judgment about whether the poet is alluding to the escape from the Cyclops’ cave, in the Odyssey.) Helen replies that he is Odysseus, who knows all craft and cunning; and Antenor adds that in speech no one can equal him. “As he stands stiffly, his staff before him and his eyes downcast, you m ight take him for a clout; but when he speaks with his great voice from his chest, and his words fall like snowflakes on a winters day, then no man is his like" {11. 3.216—223, condensed). This estimate is actually similar to one made by Odysseus himself years later, when he distinguishes between ordinary-looking men whose grace lies in their words and men of extremely good looks who speak to no effect {Od. 8.167-175); the Phaeacian Euryalus he puts in the latter group, presumably thinking of himself in the former. Rightly so; no one else in the Iliad, not even Nestor, speaks with the same persuasiveness and force. W hen the Achaeans are rushing to the ships, it is Odysseus whom Athene urges to gather them back, and who reminds them of the prophecy that Troy should fall in the tenth year {11. 2.166-332): it is good counsel and it saves an important day.

Style a n d Structure

117

Odysseus’ appeal to Achilles is a very fine speech indeed, emphasizing at both its start and its close the confidence of Hector (II. 9.225-306); we were almost made to believe that things would turn out well. And just a few hours later the counsels or devices are brutally successful. Diomedes volun­ teers for a scouting mission, to hear some Trojan rumor or to catch some straggler, but asks for a companion since ‘The μήτις of one man alone is often insufficient” (II. 10.227). He is given the chance to name— from among the two Ajaxes, Meriones, Thrasymedes, Menelaus, and Odysseus— the man he wants to go witrh him, and decides that any choice other than Odysseus would be unreasonable. They overtake Dolon, and the questions are framed not by Diomedes, but by the man upon whose μήτις he appeared to rely. David B. Monro, ed. Odyssey XIII-XX1V (Oxford 1901) 291, suggested that the personal qualities of Odysseus, “the wisdom and eloquence by which he is distinguished in the Iliad, passed by an easy transition into the cleverness of a hero of adventures.” Whether this is true or not, πολύμητίς in the bad sense, “of many devices,” does have some bearing on the lies of the Odyssey. Autolycus, a man known for his thievery and oaths, was allowed to name his new-born grandson, and replied: “I have come here angered against [όδυσσάμενος] many men and women throughout the fruitful earth; so let his name be Odysseus” (Od. 19.407-409). (The matter is elegantly discussed by George Dimock, “The Name of Odysseus,” The Hudson Review 9 [1956] 52—70.) These are thè beginnings from which we gather that Odysseus acquired the knack of lying as a matter of course. He lies to Polyphemus in the trick about Nobody (Od. 9.366-410), to Alcinous as well (Od. 7.304), and even to Laertes;(Od. 24.244-279); and by repeat­ edly lying that he is a Cretan (Od. 13.256, 14.199, 19.172-181) he complicates the later saying that all Cretans are liars. The words of Achilles or Ajax we should always regard as true; those of Nestor or his son Antilochus, as doubtful; those of Odysseus, as more doubtful yet— indeed, we should often be judicious, from what we know of him, in assuming they are untrue. I do not believe anyone has remarked that the episode of the Visit among the Dead may be partly a lie. According to his account, Odysseus sum­ moned up the shades by conjuring in the manner Circe had recommended; Tiresias told him of the dangers to be faced on the way home, and Anticleia told of the ruinous conditions that we later find actually to exist in Ithacathen a procession of heroines filed past, as if in her train. Here Odysseus breaks off his story, for the hour is late; and during the following intermezzo in Scher ia we have the chance to reflect that the poet of the Odyssey has not been describing the underworld in his own voice, though he will do so later on (Od. 24.19-222). Alcinous raises the question of veracity with great gentle­ ness, declaring that those who look at Odysseus do not regard him as a dissembler, or one of those who create lies concerning the things that are not common knowledge, but as a man whose words have form and whose mind

118

Homer's A r t

is steady (Od. 11363-367). He compares him to a bard— a remark perhaps to be explained from what the Muses say to Hesiod: “We know how to speak many false things that seem true, and also know how to speak true things when we want to” (Theogony 27—28). Odysseus is now asked to tell whether he also saw any of his comrades who died at Troy, an invitation that cannot very well be declined; and in the continuation certain inconsistencies have generally been thought to appear. Odysseus tells his listeners that he met Agamemnon, Achilles, and Ajax, then saw Tityus, Tantalus, and Sisyphus in their recurrent torment, and finally heard a gloomy history from the wraith of Heracles— the wraith, because Heracles was actually among the gods all the while (Od, 11.602). There are difficulties here; for the great criminals are not pale specters like Anticleia, but vigorous, full of life; and the idea that Heracles is in two places at once shatters whatever generalizations can be made about the Homeric ghost. The difficulties may be real; but we ought to consider that the narrative has been recounted by Odysseus, whose words are else­ where no more than casually connected with the truth. If an untrustworthy witness, he is a charming guest; and in this episode, as throughout the Iliad and Odyssey, πολύ μη τις is a sign of his nature. III. Τελαμώνιος for Ajax

Τελαμώνιος “Telamonian” is used for Ajax often, Τελαμωνιάδης ‘Telamoniades” and υιός Τελαμώνος “son of Telamon” less often; Τ ελ­ αμώνιος and υιός Τελαμώνος are also used for Teucer. The oldest of these is almost certainly Τελαμώνιος. We can seldom or never estimate the absolute age of an epithet, or the phrase in which it occurs, but we can often speak confidently about relative age. For the Parry theory about the usefulness of the epithets (that they stretch out the names to standard sizes) depends largely upon phrases of 2 1 or 3 | feet, in the nominative case. Because these two formula types appear to lie at the core of the formulaic style, a phrase belonging to either type is more likely to have engendered, than to have derived from, its synonyms of other lengths or in other cases. By this argument τλήμων Όδυσεύς “enduring Odysseus” is not so old as πολύτλας δίος Όδυσσευς “much-enduring brilliant Odysseus,” nor πολυμήχαν Όδυσσεύ “Odysseus of many arts” so old as πολύμητις Όδυσσεύς “Odysseus of many counsels”; nor is "Έκτορα χαλκοκορυστήν “Hector of the bronze helmet” so old as κορυθαίολος "Εκτωρ “Hector of the flashing helmet.” In fact, κορυθαίολος "Εκτωρ has a twofold claim to being of great antiquity since it may, but need not, be augmented by μέγας “great”: κορυθαίολος "Εκτωρ itself is 2 | feet in length, μέγας κορυθαίολος Έκτωρ feet. Precisely the same is true for (μέγας) T ελαμώνιος Αίας, which occurs nine times in the briefer phrase

Style a n d Structure

119

and twelve more times in the longer. So in assuming that Τελαμώνιος was used for Ajax.before Τελαμωνιάδης and υιός Τελαμώνος were, we have every advantage. Wilamowitz, Homerische Untersuchungen (Berlin 1884) 246, conjectured that both Telamon and his post-Homeric grandson Eurysakes had names coined from the prominence of Ajax as a shield warrior. Yet the names are not similar otherwise: while Eurysakes “Broadshield” is noble like most Greek names, Telamon “Strap” refers to so minor a piece of equipment as to be unsuitable for a heroic figure. From this fact, and from the fact of his obscurity, Telamon has been thought to owe his existence to τελαμώνιος, which came to be understood as a patronymic, but originally referred to the telamon of Ajax's shield; carrying a ponderous body shield he was a huge and unmoving shield warrior. (See L. Preller, Griechische Mythologie, vol. 2 Oie Heroen, 4th ed. revised by Carl Robert [Berlin 1923], book 3, part 2, p. 10399 Yet a quite different argument has equal merit. Since Telamon was an architectural term for a colossal figure forming a pillar of support, Telamon the father of Ajax had a noble name after all, or else τελαμώνιος simply meant that Ajax himself was a telamon— an enormous and impassive pillar or column, “a giant, bulwark of the Achaeans” πελώριος, ερκος "Αχαιών, as he is said to be in the View from the Wall (//. 3.229) and elsewhere. (See Paul. Girard, “Ajax fils de Telamon,” Revue des eindes grecques 18 [1905] 1416.) But we have been discussing origins, afid our question is what the epithet means in the poetry. The Pelian ash of Achilles was cut from Mount Pelion and given to Peleus (7/. 16.142-144 = 19.389-391); these two facts are emphasized together and Pelian evidently refers to both of them. So let much the same be said about τελαμώνιος: the epithet is a patronymic, but it originally had, and continues to have, one or more senses referring to the shield for which Ajax is notable. (Nevertheless, I agree that the Iliad contains some coincidences hardly to be explained— in 13.693 the leader of the Phthians, a people ordinarily under Achilles is Ποδάρκης, the son of Iphiclus the son of Phylacus.) The telamon is a standard part of the Homeric shield since, as many authorities have observed, in the two formulaic passages for the putting on of armor— the one used for Paris (7/. 3.330—338), Agamemnon (7/. 11.17— 43), Patroclus (IL 16.131-139), and Achilles (7/. 19.369-373); the other for Teucer (IL 15.479-482) and Odysseus (Od. 22.122-125)— the shield is put on before the helmet. Such a procedure would be irrational for arming with the hoplite shield, which had no telamon and was always taken up last, an order of events followed in the Hesiodic Shield of Heracles, 136-140. So Ajax is not the only man whose shield hangs from a strap; on the contrary, he resembles several othets in this respect. But he is the only man whose shoulder tires beneath the weight of the shield (7/. 16.106-107), and the only man to be struck where the two telamones— from his shield and from

120

Homer's Art

his sword— cross on his chest (//. 14.402-405). The equipment mentioned by his epithet has indeed some bearing on his career. Nevertheless, it is the entire shield, not the telamon alone, that Ajax is recognized by (//. 11.527) and remembered for; and the shield has the distinction of two special epithets. The adverbial phrase ήύτε πύργον ‘like a tower” occurs only in the repeated line Αίας S’ έγγύθεν ήλθε φέρων σάκος ήύτε πύργον “and Ajax came near, carrying a shield like a tower” (//. 7.219 = 11.485 = 17.128); nothing similar is ever said about anyone else, nor is anyone else spoken of as being a to w e r himself (O d . 11. 556). In the same way, the adjective έπταβόεχον “of seven oxen” is used repeatedly for Ajax’s shield, never for any other, and from the passage where its occurrences are clustered (//. 7.220—266) we learn that Tychius, the best cutter of hides, made the shield, adding a final layer of bronze— details of moment, since Hector’s spear shears through the bronze and the first six hides, but is stopped by the seven th and last. A fact of very great interest remains. (It was discovered by J. G. Tayler, “Some Notes on the Homeric Shield,” C l a s s i c a l R e v ie w 27 [1913] 222-225, and has more recently been discussed by Hans Trümpy, K rie g erisch e F a c h a u s ­ d rü c k e im griech isch en E pos [Freiburg, Switz. 1950] 30— 31.) The two words for the shield, σάκος and άσπίς, are used with discrimination. The shield of Ajax is twenty-two times a sakos, never an aspis. The shield of Achilles, made to replace the one he has lost, is seventeen times a sakos, never the aspis that Thetis asked for (//. 18.458). Those of Hector and Aeneas, mentioned thirteen and eight times respectively, are invariably aspides. This summary is impressive because no other shield is referred to so often, except that Menelaus is said eight times all told to have either a sakos or an aspis— but the two words for his shield n ever a p p e a r in th e sa m e p a s s a g e , for the consistency in brief passages is absolute. There are twenty-one instances in the I l i a d where a given shield is spoken of twice within five lines, and it is always a sakos or an aspis, not both. (3.347-349 the aspis of Menelaus, 3.356-357 the aspis of Paris, 5.297—300 the aspis of Aeneas, 7.219—222 the sakos of Ajax, 7.250—251 the aspis of Hector, 7.270—272 the asp is of Hector, 8.267-268-272 the sakos of Ajax, 11.434—435 the aspis of Odys­ seus, 12.402—404 the aspis of Sarpedon, 13.157-160-163 the aspis of Deiphobus, 13.405-409 the aspis of Idomeneus, 13.561-565 the aspis of Antilochus, 13.606—608 the sakos of Menelaus, 17.43-45 the aspis of Menelaus, 17.128-132 the sakos of Ajax, 18.478-481 the sakos of Achilles, 18.607—608 the sakos of Achilles, 20.259-260-261 the sakos of Achilles, 20.274-277-278—281 the aspis of Aeneas, 21.164-165 the sakos of Achilles, 22.290-291 the sakos of Achilles.) Only Paris (//. 3-335-356) has a sakos and an aspis within five hundred lines. One result of the consistency is that the shields of different warriors can be kept distinct. Menelaus and Paris, during their duel, do both have aspides within eight lines (//. 3.349-356), but within seven lines the two words contrast without

Style a n d Structure

121

exception. In the fourteenth book of the Iliad Nestor takes the sakos of Thrasymedes who has the aspis of his father (lines 9-11), and Poseidon suggests that the better man with a small sakos should take from the weaker man a large aspis (376—377). In the thirteenth book Menelaus has a sakos (606-608) and his opponent Peisander an aspis (611); in the twenty-third book Diomedes has an aspis (818) and his opponent Ajax a sakos (820). In the twentieth book Achilles has a sakos in lines 259, 260, 261, and 268; then Aeneas an aspis in 274, 277, 278, and 281; then Achilles a sakos once more in 289* In the seventh book Ajax has a sakos in 245, Hector an aspis in 250 and 251, Ajax a sakos in 258, Hector an aspis in 260, Ajax a sakos in 266, and Hector, finally, an aspis in 270 and 272. These statistics are not much of an addition to what we knew before (Ajax and Achilles have sakea, Hector and Aeneas aspides), but the contrasts show that the consistency has its aesthetic value. The sakea of Ajax and Achilles are the most important shields in the Iliads and there is this connection between them: when the armor he lent to Patroclus has been lost, Achilles regards the sakos of Ajax as the only available piece that is adequate for his own needs (11. 18.192-193). Other­ wise the shields are dissimilar: the one is interesting for the episodes in which it figures, the other for the episodes in golden tableaux with which it is decorated. Teucer notches his arrows while crouching behind the shield of Ajax (II. 8.266—272), and the two brothers .regularly set out as a single engine of war (17. 12.361—400); nothing could be more foreign to the character of Achilles. The companions of Ajax hold his shield when he is. exhausted (II. 13.709-711); but the shield of Achilles is not too heavy for him to have run with it a long time (sée II. 22.290, 22.314). So if the differences between the shields, or between the styles of shield warfare, are to be epitomized exactly, Idomeneus speaks for the Iliad as a whole: Ajax is equal to Achilles in close combat, but not in swiftness of feet (II. 13.325)— a summary that answers to the implications of τελαμώ νιος.

IV. ποδάρκης, πόδας ώκός for Achilles Except for a single instance, from the Odyssey, of the accusative πόδας ώκύν, the epithets πόδας ώκύς and ποδάρκης, meaning "swift-footed” and occurring thirty and twenty-one times respectively, are limited to the Iliad, the nominative, and Achilles. But while saying that he is swift-footed they do not assert that all other men are slow. The Iliad as a whole tends to the same conclusion: as a fast runner Achilles may differ in degree but he does not differ in kind, and few things can be said about him that do not occasionally apply to someone else. He resembles a fast-running horse (11. 22.22-24), but so do Paris and Hector (11. 6.263-268 = 15.506-511); he trusts in his swiftness of foot (II. 22.138), but so does the sentinel Polites (II.

122

Homer’s A r t

2.792); and though he says that Trojans flee before him (7/. 19*71-72), Diomedes says more or less the same about himself {11. 6.228). Yet Achilles has this distinction: no one else gives chase in episodes of such excitement and importance. Let us consider an event for which we have two accounts, one by the man who fled and one by him who pursued. Coming upon Aeneas alone among the cattle, Achilles chased him down Mount Ida {11. 20.91, 20.188-189), and Aeneas did not once look back (line 190). They ran to Lyrnessus, which Achilles sacked, but Zeus helped Aeneas and he escaped (92-93, 191-194). The incident did not end with a spear between the shoulder blades; if asked who ran the faster we may say it was Aeneas, not Achilles. Nevertheless, the intervention of Zeus has clouded the question, and our impression is that in the normal course of things Aeneas would have been not scot free but dead. Not long after Aeneas has for a second time been rescued from him by the gods, Achilles chases Agenor far afield, while the other Trojans manage to reach the confines of the city; yet once again we cannot say whether Achilles is the faster, for it is actually not Agenor that he hounds, but Apollo (7/. 21.600-22.13). Nor can we even tell conclusively from the pursuit of Hector, for all the elegance of its similes, whether πόδας ώκύς and ποδάρκης are meaningless or apt. The result is, Achilles does not catch him— “yet how could Hector have escaped if Apollo had not made his knees swift?” {11. 22.204). We still have no proofs but only conceptions: mine is that the poet, though here concerned with matters immeasurably more complex and momentous than the characterization of men in accord with their epithets, still regards the qualities denoted by the formulaic idiom as true. Agamemnon is said to be άναξ άνδρών and κρείων, and in the View from the Wall we find that he really does look like a king on a battlefield of many princes. W hat we need to assess the accuracy of πόδας ώκύς and ποδάρκης is similar testimony— and we have it in the remark of Idome­ neus: “Ajax stands firm; not even to Achilles would he give way, at least in close fight, though in swiftness of foot no one compares with him ” {11. 13*324-325). It is true that Idomeneus himself is stiff-jointed and slow {11. 13.512-515), but we do not have reason to suppose he has lost his sense of speed; and it happens that a fast man speaks about Achilles in much the same way. The smaller Ajax, who nine times has the epithet ταχύς “swift,” and proves himself a good runner by his eminence in overtaking many Trojans {11. 14.520-522), is one of the contestants in the foot race of the Funeral Games. Odysseus— whom we should not have regarded as a runner if he had not, in his night mission with Diomedes, chased the Trojan scout Dolon {11. 10.360-364)— is another; and a third is Antilochus, who is said in a formulaic phrase to surpass other men in the swiftness of his running {Od. 3.112, 4.202; cf. 11. 23.756). We may perhaps expect swift Ajax to win, but Athene makes him slip on the dung from the bulls recently slain,

Style a n d Structure

123

and he comes in second, after Odysseus. That man has a green old age, says Antilochus in taking the last prize; “it would be hard for any Achaean to compete with him in racing, except Achilles“ (IL 23.791-792). Throughout the larger part of the Iliad Achilles is not running but idle, and in many passages his epithets, if they make sense at all, can only mean that he is swift-footed by nature. Granted that he is, does he to our certain knowledge run faster than Aeneas or Hector or anyone else? No, he does not; we are less sure of his speed afoot than we are of his lineage or wrath or greatness as a warrior. Nevertheless the epic matter leads us to believe that under ordinary circumstances no one is so ποδάρκης, πόδας ώκύς as he.

V. κορυθαίολος for H ector The epithet κορυθαίολος is used thirty-nine times for Hector and only once otherwise. The first element in the compound, κόρυς, means “helmet,” though κορύσσεσθαι “to helm” can mean “to arm” with greaves, breast­ plate, sword, shield, helmet, and spear (ƒ/. 16.130). The second element, αχόλος, probably means “fast moving” in the phrase πόδας αιόλος ίππος “horse fast of foot” (IL 19.404); and κορυθαίολος therefore seems to say that Hector has a helmet in rapid motion. Now his πήληξ “helmet” does shake as he fights (//. 13.805, 15.608), but may not be unique in doing so, for Aeneas nods with his κόρυς (IL 20.162) and so does Achilles (IL 22.314). Even if the epithet refers to a helmet with a waving horsehair plume, Hector is no different from Paris, Agamemnon, Teucer, or Patroclus (IL 3.337 = 11.42 = 15.481 = 16.138). But another meaning of αίόλος, “flashing, glittering” like metal under the sun, is just as common in the Iliad (see 5.295, for example) and ought to be preferred here. For the distinctive epithets of a major figure tend to be synonyms (ποδάρκης and πόδας ώκύς for Achilles are one instance among many), and κορυ­ θαίολος can be explained from χαλκοκορυστής “of the bronze helmet,” which is used seven times for Hector and only once else. Yet the indivi­ duality we expected to find is still missing. W hen Hector is struck on the head by the spear of Diomedes, bronze turns away bronze (IL 11.351); but Damasus, Hippothous, Demoleon, and Eupeithes all have helmets with cheekpieces of bronze (IL 12.183, 17.294, 20.397, Od. 24.523). The line βή δέ διά προμάχων κεκορυθμένος αϊθοπι χαλκώι “helmeted in blazing bronze he went among the foremost” is used most often for Hector (IL 5.681, 17.87, 17 .592), but also used twice for Menelaus (IL 5.562, 17.3) and once each for Aeneas (IL 20.111, cf. 20.117) and Odysseus (IL 4.495). And though Hector is rather frequently described as being φλογι εϊκελος “like a flame” (IL 13.53, 13.688, 17.88, 18.154, 20.424), a phrase used elsewhere only once (IL 13.330), Athene kindles a flame

124

Homer’s A r t

from the κόρυς and shield of Diomedes (IL 5.4) and then still more resplendently from the bare head of Achilles (IL 18.206-214, 18.225-227). Nor will further analysis of the formulaic epic diction show clearly what makes Hector’s helmet remarkable. Unlike Ajax’s shield it has no special epithet. Unlike Ajax’s shield and even Hector’s own shield, it is not always referred to by a special noun: usually a κόρυς, as would be expected from κορυθαίολος, it is sometimes a πήληξ instead, or τρυφάλεια. And a survey of the episodes themselves is no more informative. Ajax’s shield is of a known maker and known construction, and it holds our interest in certain passages about shield combat; Hector’s helmet is not comparable in any of these respects. The truth may be that helmets as means of defence do not lead to heroic action— in the most striking incident where one is crucial to a man’s life it works to his disadvantage: Menelaus drags Paris by the helmet until Aphrodite cuts the strap below the chin and saves him (IL 3.369376). Our results are negative so far: we have decided that κορυθαίολος refers, primarily, to a helmet of bronze, though perhaps also to a helmet somehow in motion; but we have not seen that the epithet pertains in any meaningful way to Hector. Only one passage is worth attention, and its force is entirely emotional: “Hector reaches to take Astyanax, but the little boy pulls back to the bosom of his nurse, crying, frightened by the bronze and by the horsehair plume nodding from the helmet; then Hector laughs and lays the helmet, brightly shining, on the ground, and kisses the boy and caresses him ” (IL 6.466-^474, condensed). Astyanax loves his father, but as a father rather than a soldier; Hector unsoldiers himself by putting the helmet aside; and this episode, where the flashing helmet is memorable, goes far towards explaining why we have greater sympathy, greater concern, for Hector than for anyone else in the Iliad, I have not considered here whether the epithets are relevant to context, nor have I denied that they were useful for filling out a line. I agree that the poet did not continually ask himself, “Would much-enduring brilliant Odys­ seus or Odysseus of many counsels make the better sense?” My conclusion— that a major epithet is true to the character of the figure whose name it accompanies— is not a contradiction against but an addition to the formula theory. And the conclusion may well affect our idea of how the Iliad and Odyssey were created.

Postscript by the A uthor (1997) The first two chapters of this study are supplemented by the author’s essay !s Hector androphonos'i in Arktoiros, Hellenic Studies presented to Bernard Knox, Berlin - de Gruyter 1979, 19-24.

80 Homer Against his Tradition* J.A. Russo ^Source: Arion, vol. 7, 1968, pp. 275-95.

If we accept Parry’s view about the traditional formulary nature of the Homeric style, his contention that the oral poet chooses a phrase primarily because it is convenient, not because of any delicate nuance in its meaning . . . then we must, in dealing with Homer, renounce a large area of normal literary criticism. —F.M. Combellack, “Milman Parry and Homeric Artistry/’ C om para­ tiv e L itera tu re (1959) 196.

Homeric criticism today stands at the crossroads. The influence of Milman Parry has reached its high point and begun to recede, leaving many students and teachers of Homer confused, or at least uncertain of their ground. If we can see a turning of the tide we should welcome it, for it will make possible at last a sane and sensitive appreciation of the Homeric epics, free of the excesses of the Analysts, the Unitarians, and the strict Parryists. Let me chart briefly the history of the problem, so that we can better appreciate where we stand and where we should be going. When Milman Parry came onto the scene, Homeric scholars were divided into two hostile camps, the Unitarians and the Analysts. The Analysts had been engaged in the remarkable task of demonstrating that the Iliad and the Odyssey are not really masterpieces of literature at all; that each poem lacked consistency to such a degree that unity of authorship was impossible. The Unitarians had always had the great virtue of loving the Iliad and the Odyssey, and it is hard to argue with people like that. If they had a fault, it was perhaps that they assumed too easily that, since the Analysts were fools and madmen, none of the problems they raised was worth taking seriously. This is the scene which Parry entered so dramatically. He put forth an irresistible proof that— let us choose our words carefully here— in many parts of the Iliad and the Odyssey the language suggests oral composition.

126

Homer’s A r t

Parry stressed such phenomena as the many verbatim repetitions within the poems (supposedly one-third of Homer’s verses are or contain repetitions); and the elaborate and widespread system of epithet combinations covering the names of the major characters in such a way that there is normally only one stock descriptive phrase for each metrical need. This principle of economy, as Parry called it, combined neatly with the principle of scope: that is, the network of descriptive epithets or phrases fans out to cover all the possible metrical variations caused by declining the proper names in the various grammatical cases. The total picture represents an economy and a scope carried out to so fine a degree that it is hard, according to Parry, to imagine any one poet working out the whole system by himself (Recent critics, it should be noted, have found this possibility less difficult to accept.) Moreover, the noun-epithet system is a perfect illustration of the ‘‘tradition” at work. Why use so many descriptive phrases, after all, if they were not familiar and time-honoured, convenient for the poet to use, and reassuring for the audience to hear? Most important of all these factors, Parry said, was convenience: metrical convenience in an improvising situation. A technique based so heavily on formular repeats must be, originally, a guarantee against the kind of rhythmic impasse that would threaten anyone trying to improvise rapidly and publicly in so formal a meter. So at least Parry reasoned. But the emphasis on the word “origin­ ally” is my own, and there is the rub; since I, and many others, would argue that oral origins are one thing and an oral composition of the Homeric poems we have is quite another, and only a hugely unwarranted leap of faith can bridge that gap . 1 Returning to the Analyst—Unitarian division, we find that the effect of Parry’s work was to break up the rigidly held positions on each side. No longer could the Analysts make so much of inconsistencies, since an oral, improvising poet is less accountable in this regard than a man who can check his text. More important, the oral poet cannot freely choose his language from a wide range of possibilities. He must select from what is available in the tradition. Thus the pressure of strongly established formu­ laic patterns and even of formulaic situations will lead him at times to say things that may seem slightly out of place. As for the Unitarians, their two beautiful poems of genius are reduced to mere products of the Tradition— even though it is a great tradition. Since Parry’s oral improvising poet had to rely heavily on established phrases and incidents to preserve his fluency, the personal contribution of any one poet, no matter how gifted, was minimal. The oral bard supposedly had no interest in finding a new phrase or idea. (Again, this claim has been seriously challenged, most recently by Douglas Young in the Autumn 1967 issue of Arion.) While most students of Homer are convinced that this last statement is an exaggeration, Homeric scholars in England and America have for the most part accepted the basic outlines of Parry’s position, as summarized here.

Style a n d Structure

127

Now, the problems— I should say the headaches— for Homeric scholar­ ship caused by Parry's insight are enormous. The Analysts and the Unitarian extremists are, indeed, silenced; but from just what point of view can a critic speak? If the poem really grows out of a great artistic tradition, how much credit goes to the individual artist? A strict Parryist would have to say: very little. O f course there are ways around the problem. Cedric W hit­ man, for example, accepts Parry's basic position and then suggests the analogy of Mozart: Homer too grew up within a marvelously developed and sophisticated tradition; like Mozart, he inherited all its cliches; and being a genius, he managed to be creative none the less, by using the tradition with a mastery unknown before. He kept its rules, or twisted them to his own new purposes; he built more elaborately and more beauti­ fully than anyone before him and in so doing he signaled the end of the tradition. In that direction no one could go farther. New and different styles had to be developed, the old rules had to be replaced by new ones, and so radicals like Archilochus— in the musical analogy, Beethoven— had to break the old molds and forge ahead into new realms. (I am adding some details of my own, but I think I am true to the spirit of W hitman's argument.) This analogy is fine so far as it goes. It is suggestive and helpful, allowing us to envision something of what went on. But it does not take us very far if we want to look closely at specific things in the Iliad and the Odyssey. I should like to change the emphasis. Iti'·'trying to estimate the relation between Homer and his tradition, I think it more likely that Homer was not the Mozart but the Beethoven of the heroic epic tradition; that he represents not the perfection of all that went before him but the eruption of a mighty and singular talent into wholly new realms of expression. My thesis is that although Homer conspicuously carries with him many features of his tradition, there are many examples in the two poems of the kind of creative departure from the tradition, or innovative playing with the tradition, that point to the kind of freedom not found in the tradition-bound oral poet. The best way I have found to argue this thesis is to quote a certain scholar who is in direct opposition to it, Professor F.M. Combellack of the Uni­ versity of Oregon. Combellack, in a recent article, quotes and then attacks statements of D.S. Carne-Ross and Albin Lesky that cannot help seeming eminently reasonable and perceptive. Carne-Ross, for example, writes: Parry did not sufficiently ask himself what happened to the Greek oral tradition when Homer took over— what dislocations occurred when a poet of the highest genius irrupted into this closed world of fine verse craftsmen. W e may study formulaic poetry in the guslars, but with Homer what we should surely be doing is studying the way in which a great poet uses a formulaic tradition: we should be asking ourselves how he adapts himself to its limitations . . . how he forces the traditional

128

Homer’s A r t

elements to mean more than they ever meant before, how he enriches it with new formal and verbal possibilities .2 But Combellack the pessimist— or Parryist— has a ready reply: “absolutely impossible/ ’3 He gives his reasons: It is idle to undertake to discover how Homer “forces the traditional elements to mean more than they ever meant before/’ because we do not know, and there is no possible way for us to find out, what they meant before. . . . We have no device whatever for finding out what is new. The new in literature can be discovered only by comparison with the old, and if the old is not in existence the comparison is impossible.4 Combellack is making much of the fact that the only significant examples of the Greek epic tradition to survive are the Iliad and the Odyssey. But it does not follow from this that the old is not in existence. If there is one point that all Homeric scholars would readily grant, it is that the two epics we have include many pieces of traditional subject matter combined with less traditional material. Just as archaeologists can show that the poems describe, side by side, weapons and other artifacts that belong, historically, to different strata, so the literary critic (with support from linguistics) can show without much difficulty that the Iliad and the Odyssey constitute in many respects an ingenious amalgam of the new and the old. Thus Combellack’s attempt to hide behind a seemingly safe agnosticism on the pro­ blem of separating the new from the old should be rejected. His method is terribly self-limiting, and his pessimism, as I hope to show, is unwarranted. The claim that the old is not in existence in Homer can be countered by directing attention to certain types of recurring scenes whose language is fairly predictable and whose contents, we should all agree, is essentially “traditional.” I refer to the descriptions of arming, feast and sacrifice, manto-man combat, launching and beaching a ship, swearing an oath, and so on. It is impossible to imagine anyone claiming that these scenes are original creations of Homer, that is, of the monumental, creative poet who gave the Iliad and the Odyssey their final form and meaning. It is, on the contrary, a fairly safe assumption that these passages offer some very old examples of the Greek hexameter tradition. Their language and metrics support this assumption. These verses tend to move in phrases carved out in solid blocks, with very little enjambment, and they often develop a certain monotonous rhythmical similarity, using the same kind of words— usually verbs and prepositions— in exactly the same part of the line. The effect is familiar to all readers of Homer in Greek, an effect compounded of stiffness and predictability and a somewhat mesmerizing ritual air . 5 Scenes of this kind were long ago isolated for attention by Walter Arend in his Die Typischen Szenen hei Homer (1933). The very existence of such a

Style a n d Structure

129

book— important though it is— has been in one respect harmful, since it has inhibited the study of what in Homer is original by reinforcing the assump­ tions of Parry and his followers: namely, that most of the narrative is made up, on the verbal level, of formular repetitions, and on the narrative level, of characteristic or typical scenes. But it is most important to have the “typical" and traditional in Homer so clearly set out, since it simplifies the task of identifying and analyzing the in n o v a tiv e and the a t y p i c a l. The only way for modern Homeric scholarship to escape from the blanketing assumptions of Parryism, or free itself from the limitations imposed by a Gombellack, is through new emphasis on those places where we think we can find Homer transcending his tradition: scenes where recognized tradi­ tional elements are brought into play but where we do n o t get quite what we expected, and what we do get seems to be specially created for the occasion. Combellack, in the piece cited above, makes much of what he calls the “oral law": the strong tendency in traditional and especially oral poetry for the “general" to take precedence over the “particular.” He chooses to view Homer as eternally in the iron grip of this “law," an unfortunate view because it excludes, at one stroke, the possibility of studying Homer’s poetic greatness. It limits literary criticism to the documentation of Homer s awkwardnesses and illogicalities, and such, in fact, is the point of Combellack’s article. But the concept of an oral law is not altogether useless. If Homer is not fully within, he is at least close t o , an oral tradition, and the pressure of something like an oral law would account for the existence of the “typical scenes" and the other examples of lengthy verbatim repetition, for. example, the faithfully repeated speeches (such as I l i a d 2.23—33 and 60-70; 9.122—57 and 264-99; 24.146-58 and 175—87).6 But the really important question to ask is: does Homer ever break the oral law? Can the p a r t i c u l a r take precedence over the g e n e r a li Is Homer free to alter the typical scene so as to make it artistically perfect in the way it intervenes and supports the particular needs of the narrative at a given point? W hat I am asking, of course, is whether Homer can compose like an artist and, if so, whether we have the critical tools to watch him at work. The first question is easy. The second has brought countless woes to generations of scholars. Still, let us proceed.

II If we are to correct the excessive emphasis normally given to the “typical," we must discard for good the old view of Homer as primarily the master of the traditional, and think rather of the Homeric poems as providing a spectrum running from most traditional to least traditional or most inven­ tive. At the one extreme are the repetitive “typical scenes"; then come freer and freer departures from the familiar, established patterns; and finally, at

130

H om e/s A r t

the other extreme, total nonrepetition (so far as we can judge it). At present we can, I think, distinguish four different positions or categories. The first category includes the straight verbatim repeats, with or without some varying additional lines. The point is that these additional lines do not affect the character of the passage. A good example is the description of ritual sacrifice, which occurs seven times in the two poems. There is a constant core of identical verses (e.g., 11.465-66, 2.428-29):

μίστυλλόν τ άρα τάλλα και άμφ5όβελοΐσιν επειραν, ώπτησάν τε περιφραδέως, έρύσαντό τε πάντα. They cut the rest up into pieces and put them on skewers, And broiled them carefully, and pulled off all the pieces. Around this core the poet will add any number of appropriate details, some of which are themselves repetitions. The difference between scenes is, however, largely quantitative, and the net significance of each scene is essentially the same. I would set aside the second category for those cases where the same kind of repeated typical scene is handled more creatively. The same method is used by the poet: he relies on a constant core of traditionally prescribed verses and seeks embellishment through the addition of detail. But here the quantitative addition moves into the realm of the qualitative, as the details become significant and introduce new dramatic force into the narrative. This kind of creative variation may be illustrated by the arming scenes. The arming of a hero always follows the same sequence, although this or that step may be omitted. He must (in this order) put on greaves, corselet, sword (over shoulder), shield, helmet, and then take up one or two spears. The first arming in the Iliad is that of Paris in Book 3, preparing for the duel with Menelaus, and he is given the complete basic description, with almost no incidental detail (330-38, tr. Lattimore): First he placed along his legs the fair greaves linked with silver fastenings to hold the greaves at the ankles. Afterwards he girt on about his chest the corselet of Lykaon his brother since this fitted him also. Across his shoulders he slung the sword with the nails of silver, a bronze sword, and above it the great shield, huge and heavy. Over his powerful head he set the well-fashioned helmet with the horse-hair crest, and the plumes nodded terribly above it. He took up a strong-shafted spear that fitted his hand's grip.

Style a n d Structure

131

Later in the poem, we have the arming of Agamemnon in Book 11, of Patroclus in 16, and of Achilles in 19. In each of these cases Homer has made the arming fit the man and the situation with the kind of dramatic force and attention to significant detail that was almost totally lacking in the arming of Paris. Agamemnon’s arming in Book 11 is fantastically ornate and pompous and teems with suggestive images. Great detail is lavished on his breastplate, with its many concentric circles of cobalt, gold, and tin ,.. and the decoration composed of serpents rearing up on either side of the neck. All the rich details of the corselet, shield, and sword serve to underline the magnificence and power of the king of men (anax andrön) and leader of the Greek coalition. Even the detail concerning the source of the breastplate contributes to Agamemnon’s stature: it was a gift of one Cinyras of Cyprus, who gave it because the fame of the expedition against Troy had reached as far as that island. There is also great latent dramatic power in the covert references to war in the form of the personifications of Fear, Terror, and the Gorgon, and in the repeated use of snakes among the ornamental designs. Consider the arming of Agamemnon in full (11.17-46, tr. Lattimore): First he placed along his legs the beautiful greaves linked with silver fastenings to hold the greaves at the ankles. Afterwards he girt on about his chest the corselet that Kinyras had given him once, to be a guest present. For the great fame and rumor of war had carried to Kypros how the Achaians were to sail against Troy in their vessels. Therefore he gave the king as a gift of grace this corselet. Now there were ten circles of deep cobalt upon it, and twelve of gold and twenty of tin. And toward the opening at the throat, there were rearing up three serpents of cobalt on either side, like rainbows, which the son of Kronos has marked upon the clouds, to be a portent to mortals. Across his shoulders he slung the sword, and the nails upon it were golden and glittered, and closing about it the scabbard was silver, and gold was upon the swordstraps that held it. And he took up the man-enclosing elaborate stark shield, a thing of splendour. There were ten circles of bronze upon it, and set upon it were twenty knobs of tin, pale-shining, and in the very centre another knob of dark cobalt. And circled in the midst of all was the blank-eyed face of the Gorgon with her stare of horror, and Fear was inscribed upon it, and Terror. The strap of the shield had silver upon it, and there also on it was coiled a cobalt snake, and there were three heads upon him twisted to look backward and frown from a single neck, all three. Upon his head he set the helmet, two-horned, four-sheeted,

132

H om e/s A r t

with the horse-hair crest, and the plumes nodded terribly above it. Then he caught up two strong spears edged with sharp bronze and the brazen heads flashed far from him deep into heaven.

And Hera and Athene caused a crash of thunder about him doing honour to the lord of deep-golden Mykenai.

41'Deep-golden” in the last line sums up nicely one important aspect of the elaborate description. The rich gold of Mycenae remained in the epic tradition, and Mycenae’s king is presented as an opulent figure. We are forcibly reminded here in Book 11, with Achilles out of the picture and Agamemnon offering himself as champion and leader of the Greek host, of just what those qualities are that give Agamemnon ascendancy over Achilles in Books 1 and 9. Agamemnon has admitted that Achilles is “stronger”— karteros— but affirms that he, Agamemnon, is “greater” and “kinglier”— pherteros and basileuteros. The meaning of these distinctions is illustrated in this great arming description of the “king of men.” The range of meaning of pherteros, as with so many Greek words, is not the same as the range of any one English equivalent we might choose to translate it. Pherteros can mean “better” or “braver” when put in the context of physical prowess, as in the phrases βίη καί χερσί καί έγγει φέρτερος είναι, or βίηφι δέ φέρτερός είμι. But its basic meaning, I think, is “more powerful” in the nonspecific sense of “more able to achieve,” “more influential,” which would follow from its root pher-.7 The meaning of pherteros in the light of Agamemnon’s arming, then, is essentially that Agamemnon has more than Achilles; he is wealthier, and that is a chief source of the authority and respect he commands. Nestor already came near giving us a definition of the difference between Achilles’ and Agamemnon’s power, between the karteros and the pherteros, when he tried to mediate the quarrel in Book 1. There he said to Achilles (280-81, tr. Lattimore): ει δέ σύ καρτερός έσσι, θεά δέ σε γείνατο μήτηρ, άλλ* ο γε φέρτερός έστιν, έπεί πλεόνεσσιν άνάσσει. though you are the stronger man, and the mother who bore you was immortal, yet is this man greater who is lord over more than you rule. While the connective in the first line is “and” (de), we can attribute this to the Homeric Greek preference for parataxis over grammatical sub­ ordination. Clearly Achilles has his special irresistible strength because of his partly divine parentage. “You are stronger because your mother was a goddess” is what Nestor is saying. And it is stated in no uncertain terms that Agamemnon’s special brand of “greatness” derives from the extent of his rule over vast numbers from whom he exacts tribute or

Style a n d Structure

133

receives gifts, like the expensive breastplate from Cinyras. Thus Homer has made his description of Agamemnon's arming lock neatly into one of the major patterns he has woven into the Iliad: the contrast between Achilles' ever deepening discovery of what is really valuable and Aga­ memnon’s eternally shallow preoccupation with the external trappings of value, expressed in rich possessions and elaborate clothing and armor, and epitomized in the long catalogue of goods he so misguidedly offers Achilles in Book 9. There is all this and more tucked into Homer s elaborate description. The prevalence of snakes mentioned above can only strike us as a grim and frightening portent of slaughter to come. (Hence the climax with the Gorgon and Fear and Terror.) The snake is associated in the Iliad with warfare, with destruction, and with the Greek forces. We (and Homer’s audience) will remember the scene in Book 2, after the false dream and the Achaian’s inglorious rush to their ships, when Odysseus, having suppressed Thersites, makes a lengthy speech of encouragement in which he recounts the portent of Zeus that appeared to the Greeks at Aulis, before they sailed for Troy. As they were sacrificing at an altar, out came a huge snake and wound its way to a nearby plane tree in which was a sparrow with her eight fledglings. The snake devoured all nine, after which Zeus turned it into stone. Then Calchas, as Odysseus recalls, came,forward with an interpreta­ tion of the omen: the nine sparrows mean tha.t the Greeks will fight at Troy for nine years, and in the tenth capture "the city. Thus we have been prepared for the association of serpents with the Trojan war, and specifically with the aggressive spirit of the Greek forces.8 This may serve to illustrate the possibilities for creative variation within stock patterns like the arming scene. Similar analyses could be made of the arming of Patroclus and Achilles, and indeed critics have called attention to some striking features in those scenes. It has been noted, for example, that when Patroclus puts on the armor of Achilles, he follows the standard pattern fairly closely, but when he comes to take up the spear, we get a very significant addition (16.139-42, tr. Lattimore): He took up two powerful spears that fitted his hand’s grip, only he did not take the spear of blameless Aiakides, huge, heavy, thick, which no one else of all the Achaians could handle, but Achilleus alone knew how to wield it; There follow a few more lines on the origins of the spear, how it was given to Achilles' father by the centaur Cheiron. Since it is Achilles’ armor that Patroclus is putting on, we are being told quite unmistakably that Patroclus cannot in fact fill Achilles’ shoes, cannot successfully take his place, because he lacks the special greatness and strength of his friend. The arming of Achilles is expanded in such a dramatic and artistic way

134

Homer's A r t

that it cannot be treated adequately here. Pictures of fire and sheer destruc­ tion dominate the scene, though it is duly built upon the standard core of stock formular verses common to all arming scenes.9 The third category of variations from the norm consists of scenes where the stock pattern or type is handled rather loosely, or distorted to such an extent that the poet gives the impression not of depending on the existing type scheme to keep his narrative going, but of twisting some traditional elements into quite new meanings under the impulse to innovate. This category may be taken as a more extreme version of the preceding one; but there is an important difference, in that the backbone of traditional elements is their traditional sequence, on which the arming-scene varia­ tions still rested, is now abandoned. This category is the most interesting, I think, or at least the most peculiar. The kind of change wrought becomes at times odd but still effective dramatically. Analysis of scenes fitting the category and the artistic motive behind them is a complicated business, and I would rather leave it till last, and turn now to the far end of the spectrum. These are the scenes of almost total nonrepetition. They pose a special problem since their “nonrepetitious" quality makes them very hard to identify with one another. Here in fact we are faced with the problem Combellack described in the article from which I quoted: “The new in literature can be discovered only by comparison with the old." Since these scenes repeat very little familiar material, it is almost impossible to establish what the old “original" form looked like. For example, the marvelous scene in Iliad 6 between Hector and Andromache may be a brilliant new creation by Homer, taking off from very rudimentary traditional guidelines laid down for the description of a farewell scene between a devoted wife and a husband about to go off into battle, probably to his death. But we can never find out (though we may guess) just what Homer s magical touch has added to the scene, since we lack all standards of comparison. In this one situation Combellack’s negative position does make sense. Still, there exists one kind of type description that may well serve to illustrate this elusive category. I mean the similes. I don't believe the similes have ever been viewed in this way before, yet is it not true that a good many of them do tend to make the same comparison, and for the same purpose? The clash of opposing forces is frequently described in a simile of the stormy sea, or of sea waves beating in against the coasts, headlands, or beach. The poet wants to emphasize the same thing: the force, the roar, the shattering of two mighty powers colliding. Yet interestingly he never repeats himself. We have here in fact an instruc­ tive violation of that principle of “economy" that Parry thought so vital to oral narrative technique. He argued that convenience in an improvising situation was the poet’s first and foremost need; and the existence of the many repeated formulas and fomulaic typical scenes I have mentioned tends

Style a n d Structure

135

to support his claim that numerous elements in Homer point to oral composition. My point is that a certain number of elements point a w a y from oral composition; or at least away from the kind of improvising, pathof-least-resistance composition that Parry postulated for Homer, on the (misleading) analogy of the Yugoslav oral bards. The fact that in the similes the same need, and often the same general content, is expressed through new language, new formulaic phrases, each time is to me a clear sign that the kind of oirally derived strict economy that characterized the arming scenes, sacrifice scenes, and all the other typical scenes is no longer really operative in the creation of the I l i a d and the O d yssey as we have them. The testimony of the similes is most striking. In some of the most familiar— the sea striking against the shore, a lion attacking its prey— we frequently find more or less the same content expressed in different words. The poet does not merely fail to employ the usual lines or half-lines; on the contrary he goes out of his way to seek new variations on old themes. He finds fresh ways of presenting the force of the waves, the noise of the surf, the hunger, or strength, of a lion, the way he catches weaker animals or fights stronger ones and breaks into sheepfolds. The total freedom to in v e n t shown in these similes stands in the greatest possible contrast to the need to re p e a t shown in the typical scenes. Obviously, the former stands at the very end of the epic tradition; the latter at the beginning; and in the I l i a d and the O d yssey we can see, like objects from different archaeological strata, material from the simpler earlier age of heroic oral composition side by side with that from the later, ripest and most creative, stage, when the composition, whether or not oral, at least no longer needs to follow the constricting pressures of traditional oral storytelling.

Ill

I have saved for last the most challenging category: the scenes that show significant distortions of traditional patterns where those patterns still remain clearly recognizable. It is with this type of scene that we can most convincingly refute the argument of a skeptic like Combellack. Because the patterns remain recognizable, we ca n compare the new with the old. The place in which this comparison can be made most dramatically, I would suggest, is the “typical scene” of pondering and decision. In addition to being included in Arend’s study, this scene type received a good deal of attention in a German dissertation of 1933, which is little read today, Christian Voigt’s Ü b e rle g u n g u n d E n ts c h e id u n g (Berlin 193 3). The study is a good one, and performs an important service in dissecting this scene type and showing how it is based on th ree distinct subtypes or patterns, which themselves usually keep to the form rather closely. Two of the patterns introduce the idea of pondering with the verb

136

Homer's A r t

mermêrizô, “to deliberate or ponder,” with the suggestion of worry (merimna) probably still felt; and they follow it with either the Greek ë . . . ë, “either . or,” or with the word hopôs, “how to,” depending on the poet’s need to describe pondering over two possible alternatives or pondering over how to reach an already chosen goal. The third type uses, instead of mermêrizô, the soliloquy: the hero talks to himself, sets up two possible courses of action, and then abruptly realizes that there is only one way he can conceivably go. The soliloquy is addressed to one’s self, specifically to one’s thymos, and is regularly introduced by the stock line

όχθήσας δ* άρα είπε προς ον μεγαλήτορα θυμόν, followed by the opening words ö mot egö, “ah me!” A classic example is the monologue of Odysseus in Iliad 11.40Iff, when he realizes all the other Achaians have fled in fear and left him alone. He addresses his thymos in the stock verse cited above, begins his lament with ô moi ego, considers the alternatives of fleeing or staying to risk capture, and comes to his conclusion via the stock line “But why does my own heart debate these things with me?”:

άλλα τίη μοι ταϋτα φίλος διελέξατο θυμός; The same soliloquy pattern, based on the stock verses quoted here, is found in Iliad 17.90ff, 21. 552ff, and 22.98ff .10 Because these patterns have such a clearly visible formalized or “normal” structure, we can have some hope of identifying departures from the tradi­ tional forms. One of the most interesting features of the decision pattern is that the subpatterns that tend to dominate the scenes of pondering in the Iliad are not carried over intact into the Odyssey. Divine interference helping to solve a hero’s dilemma {mermêrizô) is, for example, the most common single decision pattern in the Iliad, occurring five times, while only once does a hero conclude this type of pondering with an autonomous decision to act (13.455fif, a minor incident). In the Odyssey, however, the situation is quite the opposite. Gods never intervene to solve a mortal’s dilemma of choosing between two alternatives (there is only one intervention intended to influence human “pondering,” an unusual scene that is discussed below). On the other hand, there are seven instances of human decision introduced by the mermêrizô patterns but concluded autonomously, free of any divine influence (6.l4lff, 10.50ff, 17.235ff, 18.90ff, 22.333ff, lO .lSlff, and 24.235ff). The Odyssey also shows a considerable amount of breaking down and rearrangement of the stock elements that constitute the different types. We find, for example, mixing of types, with ?nermërizô used to introduce an ô moi egö soliloquy, and the tendency to replace mermêrizô with bormainö in the “either . . . or” pattern and with bouleuo in the hopös

Style a n d Structure

137

pattern. It would seem that the meaning of m e r m ê rizô is growing less distinct, and the poet is becoming interested in exploring verbally the possibilities for describing the realm of mental activity, which has hitherto been difficult to describe except in a limited number of stock epic phrases. One piece of evidence to support this view is the way the verb m e r m ê rizô is used several times in the O d y ssey outside the context of the decision scene, which is never done in the I l i a d . There are cases where its meaning seems clearly to have, been reduced to a very general level, something like ‘T hink/’ “intend,” or ‘‘conceive/’ The last two Odyssean passages cited above ( 10.151 and 24.235) suggest the beginnings of such a shift in meaning, since the verb is construed with an infinitive and seems to mean “I [he] considered going [kissing].” More clear-cut examples have the verb taking a direct object, as in O d yssey 2.93:

ή δέ δόλον τόνδ* άλλον ενι φρεσί μερμήριξε, which seems to mean “she conceived [devised?] this other trick”; and the exchange at 16.256—61 between Odysseus and Telemachus, where the context strongly suggests a meaning like “think of,” “conceive o f ’: But if you can m e r m ë r ix a i some protector, consider it, someone who can protect us with an eager will. And then divine, enduring Odysseus answered him: All right then, I’ll say it, and you pay attention and listen; and consider whether Athene, together with Zeus her father, will be enough, or shall I m e r m ë rix ö some other protector? But the most striking example I have found of dramatic and creative departure from the traditional pattern or type is the great scene of Odysseus pondering a course of action which opens Book. 20 of the O d y ssey . It is the most lengthy and ambitious presentation of dilemma and decision in the poem, and fits the situation perfectly. We find Odysseus— veteran of all the possible hurts and challenges that can be experienced at the hands of nature, men, and every kind of supernatural being— brought finally to his highest pitch of mental anguish. For while he is at last in his own house, the master returned, he cannot yet claim what is his, since revealing himself would ruin all his plans; and in this crisis his will to action is checked not by immediate physical obstacles, as has often been the case, but by his own shrewdly calculating mind. He lies awake in his bed in the forecourt, “devising evils in his heart for the suitors” (5—6). At this point the faithless maidservants come out of the house, those who have been sleeping with the suitors (6—8), and Odysseus is thrown into great turmoil, torn between his impulse to leap

138

Homer's A n

upon the girls and kill them and the need to maintain his disguise for a final and ultimate vengeance (9-13). Up to this point the poet is follow­ ing the language and pattern of the “general” scene in which someone ponders two alternatives: one feature, for example, is that the alternative that is ultimately chosen is put second. But now Homer begins to pull out one stop after another in his effort to create a big scene. In mid-line we are told Odysseus' “heart within him barked like a dog” (13). Then the poet explains this strange metaphor by an odd and interesting simile: just as a bitch standing over her puppies barks at a stranger and is ready to fight, so did the heart in Odysseus bark in resentment (14—16). Thereupon Odysseus delivers an address to his kradië, in which he reminds it of the indignities suffered in the Cyclops' cave, worse even than the present ones, and yet the heart at that time bore up well, until finally metis (a play on a pun?) got them out of the cave (17-21). At this point Odysseus5 heart, apparently quite willing to listen to reason, is calmed; but Odysseus himself (autos) begins rolling from side to side (atar autos helisseto entha kai entha) (22-24). The poet immediately enlivens the roll­ ing with a simile: just as a man cooking a sausage on a big fire rolls it from side to side, eager to get it done quickly, so did Odysseus roll from side to side in his anxious pondering of how he might get his hands on the shameless suitors, being one against many (25-30). And now suddenly (in mid-verse again) Athene comes to him, descending from heaven, and asks what could possibly be bothering him, seeing that he is in his own house, with a faithful wife and an excellent son (30—35). In one of the earliest therapy sessions on record she gets him to talk out his problems and comforts him so that he can finally sleep (36-54). W hat are we to make of all this? Voigt has already shed some light on the unusual hybrid nature of the scene. He noted how the first dilemma pattern (“mermërizein, either-or”) is forcefully expanded with the image of a heart out of control, in order to convey to us the extreme difficulty Odysseus has in mastering his own feelings; and how once the immediate flare of anger against the maids is contained, the still more frustrating dilemma of how to overcome the suitors rises to the fore, expressed by the language of the second dilemma pattern (“mermërizein, how to”) and vividly dramatized by Odysseus5 tossing and by the sausage comparison. Voigt notes finally that the poet's recourse to the intervention of Athene to resolve a formal dilemma is highly unusual in that such interventions, while standard in the Iliade are not found anywhere else in the Odyssey\ And even by Iliadic standards, this intervention is especially unusual in terms of formal struc­ ture. Such divine intervention is never used, even in the Iliad, >to resolve a crisis of decision based on the mermërizein hopös decision; it is used only to help a hero decide between two alternatives in a genuine dilemma. In other words, such a divine intervention represents the formal conclusion to the formal scene type of dilemma and decision between two stated alternatives.

Style a n d Structure

139

We can see that the scene opening Odyssey 20 is, in formal terms alone, highly irregular, a striking hybrid, built on a scale not found elsewhere in Homer. While it represents the “abnormal/ 7 it is especially important for my argument to see that it is made up of stock elements taken from a variety of “normal7' scenes. Such a juxtaposition of the abnormal and the normal tells us a great deal about Homeric inventiveness and the “oral law .77 Clearly here, is a case where Homer is trying to do something special. He is trying to extend his reach to the kind of psychological depth and intensity not normally available in the standard descriptions of men facing difficult decisions. This scene certainly represents a great step beyond the tradition, since we can judge what is traditional fairly well by the consistency of the other scenes of dilemma and decision as documented by Arend and Voigt. One question remains: why has Homer striven for this unusual effect at this point in his story? We are obviously at a crucial turn in the plot. The slow, detailed re-entry of Odysseus into his Ithacan world is nearing completion. The pace, which had been slow, is quickening. His identity is already known to Telemachus and Eurycleia, and is very nearly, almost intuitively, known to Penelope, who is also at this very moment in a high state of anxiety and excitement. Both Odysseus and Penelope sense that the final crisis is nearly at hand. The poet wants to suggest as vividly as possible that Odysseus' famous self-masterÿ is at last wearing thin. This scene of dilemma and decision, then, must rise above the “general" or “typical" to serve Hom ers special artistic needs, and although the total effect is unusual and almost strained, it is none the less impressive. W hat was needed, after all, and what Homer succeeded in creating, was the impression of straining at all the limits, of a hero’s private mental activity rising to an unprecedented intensity and complexity. I think it fair to say that in this scene the influence of the general upon the particular has been reversed, and in a most vivid and powerful manner. If there does exist something like an “oral law" supporting obedience to the tradition, then the most important thing we can learn about Homer is that he sometimes breaks that law.

IV Now that we have surveyed the wide range of relationships between the “typical" and the “untypical" in Homer, we can begin to appreciate the tension that exists between tradition and invention in these poems. While we cannot deny that certain typical and formulaically patterned scenes do exist, and that repeated formular phrases and lines are common, it seems an inescapable conclusion that we must consider these relics of the tradition

140

H om er's A r t

that lies behind the Iliad and the Odyssey. It has always been admitted that these two poems are the culmination of a long and well-developed tradition. The mistake, I suggest, has been in viewing the Iliad and the Odyssey as traditional epics. There is more to them than that. The grip of the tradition, as I have tried to show, may sometimes determine the course of the narrative very strictly; but at other times the tradition seems to relax its grip or, more accurately, the master-poet is strong enough, and original enough, to hold out against the convenience of the prefabricated thought or scene, against the pressure of the “typical/’ These are the moments— and we have looked at only a few— when the particular, the special, the unique, gain the upper hand, when we think we can see how Homer resists his tradition, when we see him refusing to take it as it comes and instead twisting it and reshaping it to his own special ends. These are the moments that give Homer the poet his existence, and bring us back to the Iliad and the Odyssey again and again.

Notes 1. The best analysis in recent years of the gap between what Parry proved and what he would have lik e d to prove, and of the “leap of faith" this gap has called forth in modern-day Parryists, is that of A. Hoekstra, H om eric M odifications o f F orm u laic Prototypes (Amsterdam 1965), ch. 1. 2. D. S. Carne-Ross, “Postscript” to Christopher Logue, P atrocleia o f H om er (Ann Arbor 1963), 53 n. 2. 3. F. M. Combellack, “Some Formulary Illogicalities in Homer,” T A P A 96 (1965) 54. 4. Ibid. 55. 5. For a detailed analysis of the metrical and verbal formalization characterizing some scenes of this type (IL 1. 432—87), see my article, “The Structural Formula in Homeric Verse,” Y C S 20 (1966), esp. 227-34. 6. In the case of speeches that are repeated it is both the pressure of the “general” and the weakness of the “particular” that allow the repetition. There exists simply the pressure of a precedent, and no need in the particulars of the new situation to change the given wording. 7. Thus when moved to a nonphysical context, the word has exactly this mean­ ing: οι μευ φέρτεροί εισι νοήσαί τε κρήναι τε (O d, 5.170, Calypso speaking resignedly of the superiority of the Olympian gods). 8. Cf. also the omen at //. 12.200ff: an eagle, wounded by a snake it carries in its talons, is interpreted as a warning to the Trojans not to press their attack too far. Again, the Greeks are identified with the snake’s destructive powers. 9. For a full treatment of this scene and some pertinent observations on the other arming scenes, see James Armstrong, “The Arming Motif in the I l i a d f A J P 79 (1958) 337-54. 10. Comparison of the use of this soliloquy decision pattern in the Odyssey (5.354ff, 406ff; 464ff; 6.118ff) will reveal interesting evidence for the way fixed traditional Iliadic patterns tend to decompose in the Odyssey —which may well suggest that the composition of the Odyssey was not subject to the same (oral?) pressures as the composition of the I lia d . In the four cases cited above, all omit the pivotal formular question άλλα τίη μοί ταϋτα κτλ; and three of the passages

Style a n d Structure

l4 l

substitute other expressions of resolution, two of them being unique verses (or combinations):

άλλα μάλ5ώδ5ερξω, δοκέει δέ μοι είν άριστον άλλ5αγ’, έγών αύτός πειρήσομαι ήδέ ϊδωμαι

(5360), (6.126).

In 5.406ff no conclusion at all is reached about how to act; instead, a great sea wave intervenes and forces Odysseus toward shore.

81 Die größeren Aristien der Ilias* T. Krischer ^Source: Formale Konventionen der homerischen Epik., Zetemata 56, Munich, 1971, pp. 23-36.

Um festzustellen, was die Aristien der Ilias (bzw. jene Gebilde, denen nach allgemeinem Konsens diese Bezeichnung zuerkannt wird) gemeinsam haben und inwiefern sie sich unterscheiden, muß man jede einzelne von ihnen mit jeder anderen vergleichen. Da dieses Verfahren jedoch zu einer sehr umfangreichen Erörterung führt, stellen wir die Normalform, die auf diese Weise ermittelt wurde, lieber voran, um sie als Maßstab zu verwen­ den. Es ist dann nämlich nur noch ein einziger Durchgang nötig, in welchem gezeigt wird, wo die einzelne Aristie mit dieser Normalform übereinstimmt und wo sie abweicht. Die Normalform läßt sich folgendermaßen beschreiben: Die Darstellung der Kämpfe wird vorbereitet durch eine Rüstungsszene, in welcher der künftige Aristeuon besonders herausragt; seine W appnung wird ausführlich beschrieben, und von seinen Waffen erstrahlt ein siegverheißender Glanz. Nun ziehen die Heere zum Kampf aus, treffen aufeinander und messen sich eine Weile mit wechselndem Glück. Dann ist für den Aristeuon die Stunde gekommen. Erst tötet er einige Gegner, die namentlich genannt werden, im Einzelkampf; dann steigert er seine Anstrengungen und bricht in die Phalangen der Gegner ein, wobei er zahlreiche Feinde tötet, die nun nicht mehr namentlich aufgezählt werden. In einer weiteren Steigerung erreicht diese Linie ihren Höhepunkt: der Aristeuon treibt das gesamte feindliche Heer zu Paaren vor sich her, niederschlagend, wen er erreichen kann. Dann kommt die Wende: der Aristeuon wird verwundet, was für seine Partei einen Stillstand oder Rückschlag bedeutet. Aber schon greift, auf ein Gebet des Verwundeten hin, eine Helfergottheit ein, die ihn wiederherstellt. Sogleich stürzt er sich mit vermehrter Kraft wieder in den Kampf, doch da fühlt sich der Hauptheld der Gegner in seiner Ehre getroffen, stellt sich zur Monomachie und fällt. Den Schlußakt des Dramas bildet der Kampf um die Leiche des gefallenen Gegners, die unter äußersten Anstrengungen und nicht ohne Hilfe der Götter dem Zugriff des Siegers entzogen wird.

Style a n d Structure

143

Da wir das Ergebnis der Untersuchung in einer Tabelle übersichtlich zusammenstellen wollen, numerieren wir die Elemente des Schemas, indem wir dieses zunächst in seine wichtigsten Phasen einteilen und sodann unter­ gliedern. Die Wappnung, die der Ankündigung der Aristie dient, mag die Ziffer o erhalten, die Kämpfe bis zur Verwundung 1, die Verwundung selbst mit der Wiederherstellung 2, die Monomachie mit ihrem Nachspiel 3. Im einzelnen: Anlegen der Waffen 0 a, Glanz der Waffen 0 b, Einzelkämpfe 1 a, Ansturm auf die Phalangen 1 b, Verfolgung des Heeres 1 c, Verwundung 2 a, Wiederherstellung 2 b, Monomachie 3 a, Kampf um die Leiche 3 b . Untersucht werden sollen die Aristien von Achill, Hektor, Diomedes, Patroklos und Agamemnon. Da die Reihenfolge der Behandlung im Prinzip gleichgültig ist, die Aristie Hektors aber bei weitem am schwierigsten zu überschauen, stellen wir sie ans Ende der Reihe. — Die Aristie des Diomedes wird nicht durch eine Rüstungsszene ange­ kündigt. Lediglich am Ende der Epipolesis (Δ 412^421) erhält der Hörer einen Hinweis, wer sich in dieser Schlacht auszeichnen wird. Aber der Dichter hat noch einen weiteren Ersatz geschaffen: nach den unentschiede­ nen Kämpfen am Ende des Δ läßt plötzlich zu Beginn des E Athene von Helm und Schild des Helden ein Feuer leuchten. Damit ist das Signal gegeben, das anderwärts bei oder nach der W appnung sichtbar wird. Da der von der Göttin verliehene Feuerglanz offensichtlich Ersatz für ein (aus kompositorischen Gründen) ausgefallenes Motiv ist, und der Dichter in diesem Sinne öfters vorgeht, wollen wir hierfür die Bezeichnung, Ersatzmo­ tiv' einführen. Der Held stößt nun auf das Brüderpaar Phegeus und Idaios, von denen der eine getötet wird, während der andere die Flucht ergreift (E 9 ff). Dieser Anblick geht den Troern so sehr zu Herzen, daß sie zu weichen beginnen (29). Sechs Anführer der Danaer erlegen je einen Gegner. Da die Opfer alle im Rücken getroffen werden, befinden sie sich offenbar auf der Flucht (37-84). Allerdings heißt das nicht, daß das gesamte Heer schon auf der Flucht wäre, sondern lediglich, daß die Promachoi sich eilig zurückzie­ hen. Nun bricht Diomedes ein in die Phalangen wie ein Strom, der über die Ufer getreten ist und alles mit sich reißt, was ihm im Wege steht (85-94). Von einzelnen Kämpfen und Opfern ist hier nicht mehr die Rede. Während der Held wütet, gelingt es Pandaros, ihn mit einem Pfeil zu verwunden (98). Aber kaum hat sich der Sieger seines Erfolges gerühmt, da läßt sich Diomedes von Sthenelos den Pfeil aus der Wunde ziehen und betet zu Athene, sie möge ihm gewähren, den Gegner zu erlegen. Die Göttin erscheint sogleich, gibt ihrem Schützling Kraft ein und heißt ihn Aphrodite verwunden, sobald er ihrer ansichtig werde (115-132). Bis zu diesem Punkt haben wir die Elemente 0 b, 1 a, 1 b, 2 a, 2 b, des obigen Schemas durchlaufen, während 0 a und 1 c, W appnung und Verfolgung des fein­ dlichen Heeres, fehlen. In dem Teil, der auf die Wiederherstellung folgt, scheint sich die Aristie

144

Homer's A r t

erheblich vom Schema zu entfernen, und zwar je länger die Kämpfe dauern, desto mehr. Der Anfang fügt sich noch der Norm: der Held greift mit verdreifachter Kraft in den Kampf ein und erlegt eine Reihe von Gegnern ( 134^ 165). Das sieht Aineias und wendet sich in einer Schelte ermunternd an Pandaros: „Wo sind dein Bogen und deine gefiederten Pfeile und dein Heldenruhm?“ Sie besteigen den Wagen; auf der anderen Seite rückt Diomedes mit Sthenelos vor, und es kommt zu einem Kampf, in dem Pandaros nach einem vergeblichen Lanzenwurf von Diomedes getötet wird. Da springt Aineias vom Wagen, den Gefährten zu verteidigen, wird von einem Steinwurf des Diomedes getroffen und bricht ohnmächtig zusammen (297 ff.). Nun greift Aphrodite ein und versucht, ihren ohn­ mächtigen Sohn vor dem Zugriff des Siegers zu retten, wird aber von diesem verfolgt, eingeholt und verwundet. Während sie zum Olymp entschwindet und dort von ihrer Mutter getröstet wird, übernimmt Apollon die Rolle der Helfergottheit. Er trägt den ohnmächtigen Helden endgültig vom Kampf­ feld weg, schafft aber an seiner Stelle ein εϊδωλον, um welches der Kampf entbrennt (449 ff.)· Einem Hinweis des Apollon folgend, fordert Ares die PriamossÖhne auf, um Aineias zu kämpfen, den sie doch einst wie Hektor ehrten (464—469). Der Verlauf der Handlung zeigt deutlich, daß von den beiden Gegnern des Diomedes der eigentliche Rivale Aineias ist, nicht Pandaros. Dieser sollte ursprünglich den Wagen lenken (226 ff.), lehnt das aber ab, weil er Diomedes m it dem Speer erlegen möchte, und daran scheitert der Pfeilschütze. Die beiden Waffengänge dieser Monomachie sind auf die beiden Gegner des Aristeuon verteilt, wobei der zweite der vornehmere ist, zugleich derjenige, von dem die Bewegung ausgegangen war. In dem Kampf um das εϊδωλον greifen wir wieder eines jener ,Ersatzmotive', von denen wir ein erstes Beispiel zu Beginn der Aristie kennenlernten. Das Abbild wird geschaffen, weil im Schema auf die Monomachie der Kampf um die Leiche des unterlegenen Rivalen folgt. Man vergleiche die Szene, in der Plek tor unter dem Steinwurf des Aias ohnmächtig zusammenbricht (Ξ 409 ff.): es findet kein Kampf um den Körper des Ohnmächtigen statt, und kein εϊδωλον wird geschaffen. Hatten die Achäer geringeres Interesse an Hektor als an Aineias? War der Held den Göttern weniger lieb? Das Schema bietet eine plausible Erklärung an: Die Ohnmacht Hektors ist ein Bestandteil von dessen Aristie (Element 2a), die Ohnmacht des Aineias hingegen ein Ersatz für den Tod des Helden in der Aristie des Diomedes (Element 3 a); im einen Falle sieht das Schema einen Kampf um die Leiche vor, im anderen nicht. Das εϊδωλον dient begreiflicherweise lediglich dazu, den Kampf in Gang zu bringen; nachdem die beiden Parteien einmal handgemein gewor­ den sind, wird sofort der Held wiederhergestellt, und damit ist das εϊδωλον verschwunden (E 512—518). Diese Lösung erscheint durchaus zwingend, denn man kann sich nicht recht vorstellen, wie der Kampf um ein εϊδωλον

Style a n d Structure

145

hätte enden können. Sollten die Troer es unter größten Anstrengungen retten, um dann zu merken, daß alles umsonst war? Oder sollte es (entgegen der Norm) erbeutet werden, um dann die Achäer zu enttäuschen? Aber widerlegt nicht die Wiederherstellung des Aineias unser Schema der Aristie, welches dieses Motiv nur für den Aristeuon selbst gelten läßt? Man vergleiche die fünf Verse (512-516), in denen die Wiederherstellung des Aineias mehr erwähnt als dargestellt wird, mit der Wiederherstellung des Diomedes (E 1,15 ff.) oder der des Hektor (O 236 ff.), um zu sehen, wie hier aufs äußerste reduziert wird, was sich dort frei entfaltet. Der Dichter braucht die Wiederherstellung, um das εϊδωλον wieder loszuwerden, aber er gestaltet sie nicht zu einer plastischen Szene aus, weil Aineias nicht Aristeuon ist. Würde die Aristie des Diomedes in diesen Kampf, an dem der in der Monomachie besiegte Gegner wieder teilnimmt, ausmünden, so würde sie gewissermaßen im Sande verlaufen. Der Dichter ist dem Schema sehr weitgehend gefolgt, aber die Änderungen, die er vorgenommen hat, verlan­ gen einen anderen Abschluß. Die Schlußszene des Gesanges (711 ff), in welcher der Held, von seiner Helfergöttin geleitet, den Zweikampf mit Ares wagt, den Gott verwundet und vom Schlachtfeld vertreibt, löst diese Aufgabe aufs glänzendste. Sie ist also, selbst dem Schema nicht angehörig, mit den anderen Abweichungen, die das E aufweist, aufs engste verknüpft: wenn der in der Monomachie besiegte Gegner am Ende wieder mitkämpft, dann kann diese Monomachie eben nur ein Auftakt sein zu einer zweiten, noch größeren. Aus demselben Zusammenhang läßt sich aber auch die Abweichung im ersten Teil der Aristie verstehen: daß es dem Helden nicht vergönnt ist, das feindliche Heer zu den Toren der Stadt zu treiben, mindert diesen Teil ganz erheblich; und gerade das erscheint notwendig, weil ja auch die auf die Wiederherstellung folgende Monomachie durch das Über­ leben des Besiegten entschieden gemindert ist und zum bloßen Vorspiel wird zu dem Ares-Kampf. Die Aristie entfaltet sich also von relativ kleinem Anfang über einen ansehnlichen Mittelteil zu einem großen Finale. Ein mächtig ausgebauter Anfang würde, zusammen mit dem Finale, das M it­ telstück entwerten. Hält man die Variation neben die erschlossene Normalform, so zeigt sich, daß beide trotz der relativ geringen Zahl von Abweichungen einen grund­ verschiedenen Charakter tragen: hier ein Siegeslauf, der schon im ersten Teil fast das Höchste zu erreichen scheint, dann jäh abbricht, um in einem neuen Ansatz zu einem bleibenden Erfolg zu führen. Am Schluß aber wird in dem Kampf um die Leiche eine unüberschreitbare Grenze sichtbar. Anders bei Diomedes: die Anfänge sind relativ bescheiden, die Verwundung bringt nur eine kurze Verzögerung, dann kommt die Monomachie, der ein bleibender Erfolg versagt ist, die aber dafür auch nur überleitet zu der strahlenden Höhe des Götterkampfes. Hier wird am Ende keine Grenze sichtbar, im Gegenteil! Noch ehe ein bleibender Erfolg erzielt wurde, weist eine

146

Homer's A r t

beständig aufsteigende Linie in übermenschliche Hohe - für den Kenner der Materie gewiß eine sehr bedenkliche Entwicklung. Die Aristie Achills bildet zu derjenigen des Diomedes einen sehr starken Kontrast, obwohl beide in weitem Umfang der Normalform folgen. Die Vorbereitungsmotive sind beide vorhanden: T 368 ff. wird die Wappnung des Helden beschrieben und T 374 ff. der Glanz der Waffen. Dann ziehen Held und Heer aus, aber ehe es zum Kampf kommt, findet noch eine Götterversammlung statt, die damit endet, daß die Götter gleichfalls gegeneinander zum Kampf antreten (Y 1-74). Nun treibt Apollon den Aineias zum Kampf gegen Achill, und nach einem einleitenden Wortge­ fecht kommt es dann zur Monomachie, die damit endet, daß Aineias von den Göttern entrückt wird (Y 75—352). Dieser Beginn der Achill-Aristie wurde von den Interpreten stets als Anomalie empfunden, und die typolo­ gische Betrachtung bestätigt dieses Urteil vollauf. Im Hinblick auf die Normalform der Aristie ist diese Monomachie ein Zusatz, und dieser ist nicht, wie die Ares-Monomachie des Diomedes, in das Gefüge der Aristie einbezogen. Dieser Zweikampf wirkt vielmehr wie ein Fremdkörper in der Aristie Achills, weil er unbestreitbar nicht dem Ruhme Achills dient, sondern dem Ruhm des Aineias. W ir vermerken also, daß hier ein höchst auffälliger Zusatz vorliegt und lassen die Frage nach der Erklärung vorerst offen. Nach dem ergebnislosen Kampf wendet sich Achill in einer Paränese an die Seinen, das gleiche tut Hektor auf der anderen Seite (Y 353-372), dann folgt eine Reihe von nicht weniger als vierzehn Einzelkampf-Siegen Achills (Y 381 bis 489), dann wütet der Held unter den Feinden wie ein W ald­ brand, zahllose Mannen erschlagend (Y 490—503). Darauf wird die Verfol­ gung beschrieben: ein Teil der Troer flieht zur Stadt, ein anderer wird zum Skamander abgedrängt und stürzt sich in die Fluten (Φ 1 ff.). Das sind ganz deutlich die Elemente 1 a, b, c unseres Schemas. Dieses sieht nun die Verwundung vor, d. h. der Held müßte, durch den Speer oder Pfeil eines Gegners getroffen, in seinem Siegeslauf aufgehalten werden. Aber Achill trägt nun einmal die in der Nacht zuvor von Hephaist geschmiedete Rüstung. Wie könnte er also verwundet werden! Liest man nun, wie der Held an eben dem Punkt seiner Aristie, an dem das Schema die Verwundung vorsieht, durch den Flußgott Skamander in äußerste Lebensgefahr gebracht wird, sodann zu Zeus um Hilfe betet und zunächst von Athene und Poseidon beschützt, dann endgültig durch Hephaist errettet wird, so gibt es schwerlich einen Zweifel darüber, daß hier eines jener Ersatzmotive vorliegt, wie sie auch bei Diomedes begegne­ ten. In diesem Falle dient der Ersatz, der gewiß durch die göttlichen Waffen Achills mitbedingt ist, zugleich der Steigerung, denn die Gefähr­ dung durch den Flußgott hebt den Helden weit hinaus über alle die anderen, die durch einen menschlichen Gegner in Gefahr geraten. Auf die Befreiung Achills folgt als retardierendes Intermezzo die

Style a n d Structure

147

Götterschlacht (Φ 385—513), auf diese aber, vorbereitet durch die AgenorEpisode (Φ 544 ff.), die Monomachie mit Hektor. Nach dem Schema kommt diese Monomachie dadurch zustande, daß der Hauptheld der Gegner sich durch die Siege des Aristeuon in seiner Ehre getroffen fühlt, den Zweikampf wagt und dabei fällt. Das ist denn auch im wesentlichen der Verlauf des X, doch hat der Dichter die Handlung einmal dadurch bereichert, daß er Priamos und Hekabe den Sohn anflehen läßt, den Zweikampf nicht zu riskieren; zum andern aber durch die vergebliche Flucht Hektoré. Auf diese Weise wird das Motiv bereichert, aber nicht eigentlich in seinem Charakter verändert. Ein Kampf um die Leiche Hektors findet nicht statt, weil kein Troer es wagte, beim Nahen Achills vor den Mauern zu bleiben. Dadurch wird, ähnlich wie durch das Ersatzmotiv für die Verwundung, die Große der Aristie unermeßlich gesteigert. Aber der Kampf um die Leiche ist im Schema nicht lediglich eine Fortsetzung der Kämpfe über die Monomachie hinaus, sondern er macht zugleich die Anteilnahme der Götter am Schicksal des Besiegten sichtbar und zeigt eben damit, daß es für den Aristeuon trotz aller Erfolge eine unüberschreitbare Grenze gibt. Hat man aber diesen Sinn des Schlußaktes vor Augen, dann wird einem auch deutlich, daß die Lösung Hektors durch Priamos denselben Sinn hat, also ein Aequivalent ist, ein — sit venia verbo - ,Ersatzmotiv‘. Die Götter zeigen diesem Helden, der über alles menschliche Maß hinausgewachsen ist, nicht die Grenze seiner Heldenkraft, sondern die Grenzen des Menschlichen. — Die Aristie Agamemnons ist leichter als- jede andere zu überschauen, denn sie durchläuft bis zur Verwundung alle Elemente unseres Schemas in ganz regelmäßiger Ausführung; mit der Verwundung aber bricht sie ab. A 16 ff. wappnet sich der Held, und Λ 44 f. leuchtet der Glanz seiner Waffen zum Himmel. Nachdem die Schlacht eine Weile unentschieden verlaufen ist, tötet der Aristeuon dreimal je zwei Gegner (Λ 91-147), dann wütet er unter den Feinden, die schon nicht mehr standhalten, wie ein Waldbrand (Λ 148 ff.), dann verfolgt er sie bis zum Skäischen Tor (165-180). Nun wechselt die Szene: Zeus sendet Iris zu Hektor, ihm zu sagen, daß er, sobald Agamemnon verwundet ist, in den Kampf eingreifen solle, dann werde er bis zu den Schiffen Vordringen und morden, bis die Sonne untergeht (Λ 185-210). Abgesehen davon, was diese Ankündigung für das Verständnis der Hek­ tor-Aristie bedeutet, erfährt der Hörer unmißverständlich, daß Agamem­ nons Aristie mit der Verwundung endet. 1 Ein Hörer, dem das Schema der Aristie vertraut ist, würde ohne diese Weissagung eine Wiederherstellung Agamemnons und die Fortsetzung seiner Aristie erwarten. Nach dieser Ankündigung der Ereignisse wird auf Hektors Betreiben der Kampf erneuert, und der Aristeuon erringt noch zwei Einzelkampf-Siege; dabei wird er verwundet und scheidet aus dem Kampf aus (Λ 211-283). Die Aristie des Patroklos wird vorbereitet durch eine großangelegte

148

Homer's A rt

Wappnungsszene (Π 130 ff.), in der jedoch das Elem ent,Glanz der Waffen' fehlt Die Patroklie ist die einzige der fünf großen Aristien, in der dieses Vorbereirungsmotiv fehlt, und damit deutet der Dichter, wie sich bei der Behandlung des entsprechenden Gleichnistypus zeigen wird, den tragischen Ausgang an. Wenn der Held sich zu seinem letzten Kampf rüstet, erglänzen die Waffen nicht. Der Beginn der Kämpfe ist durch das WaffentauschMotiv gekennzeichnet: Die Troer halten den Helden für Achill, und jeder schaut sich um, wie er dem Verderben entrinnen kann (Π 278—283). Aber eine regelrechte Flucht setzt doch erst nach dem ersten Einzelkampf-Sieg des Patrokos über Pyraichmes, den Führer der Paioner, ein (Π 284-296). In einer ersten Etappe dieser Flucht werden die Schiffe frei, so daß der Brand gelöscht werden kann. Dann kommt es zu neuen Kämpfen, in denen eine Reihe von Achäer-Führern je einen Gegner töten (Π 306-350). Nun wenden sich die Troer endgültig zur Flucht, auch Hektor vermag den Seinen keinen Schutz mehr zu gewähren und wird von Patroklos zur Ebene hinaus verfolgt (Π 366-393). Hier liegen also die Elemente ,Einzelkampf und ,Verfolgung' vor, während der ,Ansturm' weggelassen ist, offenbar um des Waffentausch-Motivs willen. Die Einzelkampf-Siege der anderen Achäer-Führer nach dem ersten Sieg des Aristeuon und vor dem ersten Höhepunkt der Aristie haben eine Analogie in der Aristie des Diomedes (E 37-83). Nach dem Schema müßte auf die ,Verfolgung' die ,Verwundung' folgen, aber dieses Element fehlt in der Patroklie. Da von den größeren Aristien alle anderen dieses Element aufweisen, dürfen wir annehmen, daß es in der Patroklie wegen des tragischen Ausganges weggelassen ist. Die Gefährdung des Aristeuon vor der Monomachie verliert ihren Sinn, wenn dem Heiden bestimmt ist, nach eben dieser Monomachie zu fallen. Der Gang der Handlung ist nun in kurzen Zügen folgender: Patroklos läßt die fliehenden Troer gar nicht bis zur Stadt gelangen, sondern schnei­ det ihnen den Fluchtweg ab, um den Kampf in der Ebene zu erzwingen (Π 394t- 398). Der Sinn dieses merkwürdigen Manövers liegt offensichtlich darin, nach dem Höhepunkt der Aristie noch eine neue Verfolgung zu ermöglichen, die zu dem Tod des Helden vor den Toren der Stadt führt. Zunächst aber geschieht folgendes: Sarpedon fühlt sich durch eine Reihe von Einzelkampf-Siegen des Aristeuon in seiner Ehre getroffen und ruft den Gefährten zu: „Schande, ihr Lykier . . ." (Π 422). Gleich darauf kommt es zur Monomachie, in der der Held fällt. Es entbrennt ein heftiger Kampf um seine Leiche, der damit endet, daß Zeus die Troer zur Flucht wendet, während Apollon den Toten vom Schlachtfeld fortträgt, ihn zu waschen und zu salben. Schließlich bringen Hypnos und Thanatos den toten Helden in seine Heimat. Damit ist das Ende der Aristie erreicht, was der Dichter übrigens sehr deutlich markiert, indem er Π 684 ff. bemerkt, daß Patroklos ,verblendet' und ,töricht' war, als er die erneute Verfolgung der Troer aufnahm. Als

Style a n d Structure

149

Begründung fügt er hinzu, daß der Held dem Tode entronnen wäre, wenn er die Warnung Achills beachtet hätte. Aber Achill hatte doch gesagt, er solle die Troer von den Schiffen vertreiben und zurückkehren (Π 87 ff,)! Nie hätte er den Kampf in der Ebene erzwingen dürfen! Warum setzt also die Verblendung erst jetzt ein? Die Monomachie und der Kampf um die Leiche sind notwendig, damit der Held zu Ruhm gelangt; jeder weitere Schritt hat im Rahmen der Aristie keinen Sinn mehr und wird daher negativ bewertet. Der weitere Verlauf der Handlung gehört in den Rahmen der HektorAristie, in welche die Patroklie so eingeschaltet ist, daß der Tod des Patroklos dem Element „Monomachie“ entspricht und der Kampf um seine Leiche den Schlußakt bildet. Patroklos ist jener Gegner des Aristeuon, der sich durch dessen Siege in seiner Ehre getroffen fühlt, den Zweikampf riskiert und fällt. Aber im Unterschied zu allen anderen Helden, die diese Rolle spielen, durchläuft er, ehe er fällt, das ganze Schema der Aristie. Daß durch diese Schachtelung gewaltige Probleme entstehen, liegt auf der Hand. Um sie zu erklären, müssen wir die Aristie Hektors von Anfang an verfolgen. Daß das Kampfgeschehen des dritten Tages von der Verwundung Agamemnons an als ganzes eine Aristie Hektors bildet, wird angedeutet durch die Botschaft, die Zeus durch Iris dem Helden überbringen läßt: er werde ihm Kraft verleihen, daß er bis zu den Schiffen vordringe und morde, bis die Nacht hereinbricht (Λ 207—209). Das heißt doch wohl: von da an gehört dieser Tag bis zum Ende H ektor;. er ist der Aristeuon. Bereits beim Auszug des troischen Heeres wurde durch die Waffenglanz-Typik (Λ 62) angedeutet, daß eine Aristie Hektors bevor steht (Element 0 b). Aber diese übliche Vorbereitung reichte im vorliegenden Falle offenbar nicht aus. Einen Hörer, der an einen kohärenten Verlauf der Aristie gewöhnt war (wie er bei Achill oder Diomedes vorliegt), mußten die vielen Einlagen, durch welche Hektors Siegeslauf unterbrochen wird, notwendig irritieren. Die Botschaft des Zeus wirkt dem entgegen, indem sie unmißverständlich sagt: Hektor bleibt Aristeuon, bis die Sonne, untergeht - was immer inzwischen geschehen mag. Betrachtet man das Geschehen, das zwischen dieser Ankündigung und dem Tod des Patroklos liegt, so wird man die übrigen Elemente unseres Schemas unschwer identifizieren. Kaum ist Agamemnon ausgeschieden, da stürzt sich Hektor nach einer Paränese an die Gefährten in den Kampf (Λ 284 ff.). Erst tötet er neun namentlich genannte Gegner (299 ff), dann wütet er unter der namenlosen Masse, daß zahlreich die Häupter der Mannen durch Hektor fallen (305—309), und schon sind die Danaer, die vorher bis zu den Mauern Troias vorgedrungen waren, auf der Flucht zum Graben (cf 311, 327). Das ist der typische Beginn einer Aristie, deren Elemente 1 a, b, c. Sehr leicht zu identifizieren sind im übrigen die Verwundung (Ξ 409 ff.) und die Wiederherstellung durch die Gottheit

150

Homer's A r t

(O 236 ff.).2 Demnach liegen also von der Ankündigung an sämtliche Stufen unseres Schemas in der richtigen Reihenfolge vor. Um aber die Aristie in ihrem Zusammenhang zu verstehen, müssen wir nun auch die Handlungskomplexe zu erfassen suchen, die zwischen den deutlich erkennbaren Fixpunkten liegen, also einerseits zwischen dem zügi­ gen Beginn der Aristie und der Verwundung, andererseits zwischen der Wiederherstellung und dem Tod des Patroklos. W ir beginnen m it dem ersten der beiden Komplexe, der deutlich gegliedert ist in drei Teile: die weiteren Kämpfe des Λ, die Teichomachie, der Gegenschlag der Achäer in Ν/Ξ. Die weiteren Kämpfe des A lassen sich in ihrem Bezug auf die Aristie Hektors wohl am besten erfassen, wenn man vom Schema ausgeht. Hektor hat den ersten Teil seiner Aristie durchlaufen und treibt die Feinde vor sich her. Was müßte geschehen? Offenbar dasselbe, was kurz vorher geschehen ist, als Agamemnon in der gleichen Situation war: der Aristeuon müßte verwundet werden. Tatsächlich aber geschieht folgendes: Während die Achäer vor Hektor fliehen, spornt Odysseus Diomedes zum Kampf an, sie rücken gemeinsam vor und töten je einen Gegner im Einzelkampf; dann morden sie unter der namenlosen Masse, während die übrigen Achäer noch immer fliehen (Λ 313—327). Nach einigen weiteren Siegen bemerkt Hektor die beiden, rückt gegen sie vor und wird von Diomedes' Speer am Helm getroffen. Zwar hält der Helm den Stoß aus, aber Hektor ist für den Augenblick am weiteren Kampf gehindert, springt rasch zurück, dann wird ihm schwarz vor Augen, und er sinkt für einen Moment in die Knie. Aber schon besteigt er seinen Wagen und fährt davon (ohne daß wir erfahren wohin), wobei ihm Diomedes höhnende Worte nachruft (349— 367). Was soll diese merkwürdige Szene, in der Hektor getroffen und vorübergehend kampfunfähig wird, ohne wirklich verwundet zu sein? Λ 498 erfahren wir, daß Hektor auf der äußersten Linken des Schlacht­ feldes (μάχης έπ αριστερά πάσης) kämpft, und als er erfährt, daß auf dem Hauptkampffeld die Troer durch Aias in Bedrängnis geraten, kehrt er schleunigst dorthin zurück (523 ff.)· Damit wird der Sinn der QuasiVerwundung Hektors klar: ohne daß das für einen späteren Zeitpunkt vorgesehene Motiv der Verwundung und Wiederherstellung bereits ver­ braucht würde, sollte die Aristie für eine Weile unterbrochen und der Held aus dem Kampfgeschehen (bzw. dem Zentrum desselben) entfernt werden. Die Kämpfe, die in dieser Spanne stattfinden, mögen im Zusammenhang der kleineren Aristien behandelt werden; einen Bestandteil der HektorAristie bilden sie naturgemäß nicht. Mit der Rückkehr Hektors zum Hauptkampffeld nimmt der Rückzug der Achäer seinen Fortgang und hält an bis zur Teichomachie. Diese —der zweite der drei retardierenden Kampfabschnitte vor Hektors Verwundung läßt sich folgendermaßen skizzieren: an der Spitze seines Heeres stürmt Hektor gegen das Lager vor, und zwar vergeblich, denn die Pferde können

Style a n d Structure

151

den Graben nicht überqueren (M 40 ff.). Auf Pulydamas’ Anraten werden nun die Pferde weggeführt, und das Heer wird in fünf Kampfgruppen eingeteilt, die selbständig (und doch wohl gleichzeitig) angreifen sollen (M 80 ff.). Zunächst wird der Angriff des Asios beschrieben, der ,,zur Linken“ (M 118), also auf dem Nebenkampffeld, stattfindet und gänzlich mißlingt. Nun erhält Hektor ein Unglück verheißendes Götterzeichen, über das er sich jedoch hinwegsetzt, ohne indessen mit seinem Angriff Erfolg zu habén; denn, von den beiden Aianten angespornt, kämpfen die Achäer sehr tapfer (M 195-289). Nun führt Sarpedon seine Kampfgruppe gegen die Mauer, und zwar vor den Turm des Menestheus, der beim Anblick des herannahend.en Helden erschrickt und eilig die beiden Aianten zu Hilfe ruft (M 290 ff.). Diese erscheinen und führen einen heftigen Kampf mit dem Angreifer. Da —d. h. währenddessen - gelingt es Hektor, mit einem gewaltigen Felsbrocken den Riegel eines Tores zu zerschmettern und in die Befestigung einzudringen — die ja an dieser Stelle von ihren stärksten Verteidigern entblößt ist. Mag das Verdienst des Sarpedon bei diesem Kampfe groß sein (vgl. M 290 bis 293) —wir werden im Zusam­ menhang der kleineren Aristien davon zu reden haben —, der Ruhm, als erster eingedrungen zu sein, gebührt Hektor. Die Teichomachie ist also zugleich Retardation und Fortsetzung von Hektors Siegeslauf. Der Gegenschlag der Achäer wird vorbereitet durch eine großartige Schilderung der Ankunft des Helfergottes Poseidon (N 10-38). Kaum angekommen, ermahnt der Gott die Achäer zum Standhalten, erst die beiden Aianten, dann die anderen (43-1.25). Sogleich schließen sich diePhalangen zusammen, so daß Hektor vergeblich gegen sie anstürmt (126148). Es kommt zu einem Kampf, in dem u. a. Amphimachos, ein Enkel des Poseidon, fällt; dieser ist darüber sehr erzürnt und eilt zu den Zelten, um weitere Kämpfer anzuspornen. Als ersten trifft er Idomeneus, der sich sogleich rüstet und dann gemeinsam mit dem Gefährten Meriones in den Kampf zieht. Er wendet sich auf das Schlachtfeld ,zur Linken*, auf dem Hektor nicht zugegen ist (N 307 ff.). Aus der Betrachtung der HektorAristie können wir also die Kämpfe des Idomeneus —von denen im Rahmen der kleineren Aristien die Rede sein wird - aus klammern. Wenn die Darstellung zum Hauptkampffeld zurückkehrt, ist dort die Situation, wie der Dichter ausdrücklich vermerkt, unverändert (N 673—684). Es folgt ein Katalog von Völkern, welche unter Führung der beiden Aianten tapfer kämpfen (N 685 bis 722). Auf der anderen Seite schart Hektor auf Anraten des Pulydamas die Seinen um sich und rückt vor. Stolz schreitet der Held auf die Feinde zu in der Hoffnung, daß sie vor ihm zurück weichen, aber Aias fordert ihn in den üblichen Scheltreden zum Zweikampf auf, was Hektor mit gleicher Münze heimzahlt (N 810-832). Mit großem Kampf­ geschrei rücken nun die beiden Parteien gegeneinander vor (N 833-837) — da wechselt die Szene. Erst wird eine Versammlung der verwundeten Achäerführer eingeschoben, dann die Δ ιό ζ απάτη, die damit endet, daß

152

Homer s A rt

H pnos zu Poseidon eilt und ihn auffordert, unbesorgt den Achäern zu helfen (Ξ 354-360). Dieser fuert die Achäer an, die inzwischen um die verw undeten Achäerführer vermehrt sind. Sie rüsten sich neu und rücken mit gewaltigem Kampfgeschrei vor, und endlich kommt es zu dem längst angekündigten und durch die Zwischenszenen retardierten Kampf zwischen Hektor und Aias. Hektor schleudert seinen Speer, der jedoch von der Rüstung des Aias aufgehalten wird, dann trifft ihn Aias mit einem gewalti­ gen Felsbrocken, daß er ohnmächtig zusammenbricht (Ξ 402-420). - Der Überblick dürfte gezeigt haben, daß der gesamte Gegenschlag der Achäer konsequent auf dieses Ziel hin ausgerichtet ist, in der Darstellung freilich retardiert durch die Parallelhandlungen. Die letzte Lücke, die wir nun noch zu schließen haben, reicht von der Wiederherstellung Hektors (O 236 ff.) bis zum Tode des Patroklos (Π 712 ff.), wobei natürlich die Aristie des Patroklos, die bereits behandelt wurde, auszuklammern ist. Nach der Wiederherstellung des Helden ist Apollon Promachos der Troer, bis der inzwischen verlorene Boden wiedergewonnen ist. Mit seiner Aigis treibt der Gott die Achäer zurück ( 0 318 ff.) und ebnet dann mit leichter Hand Wall und Graben ein, daß die Troer hereinströmen können (O 362 ff.). Nun entbrennt ein heftiger Kampf mit wechselndem Glück innerhalb des Lagers, bis endlich Zeus Hektor die Kraft verleiht, zu den Schiffen durchzubrechen und das Feuer hineinzuwerfen (O 592 ff.). Bei diesem letzten Ansturm, der den Höhepunkt der bisherigen Kämpfe dar­ stellt und die Wende herbeiführt, erscheint Hektor, in einer Art Ekstase des Kampfes (cf. O 605 μαινετο) mit Schaum vor dem Mund und feurig leuchtenden Augen. Mit äußerster Kraft stürzt er sich in die Phalangen, erschüttert sie und schlägt sie in die Flucht (O 618-637). Als letzter hält Aias noch stand, aber schon ruft Hektor nach Feuer, und nach einer kurzen Zwischenszene, in der wir Achill und Patroklos im Gespräch sehen, lodern die Flammen (Π 122 ff.). Vergleicht man diesen Verlauf des Geschehens mit der Normalform der Aristie, so zeigt sich ein deutlicher Unterschied; Zwar stürzt sich auch Diomedes nach der Wiederherstellung mit verdreifachter Kraft in den Kampf und tötet eine Reihe von Gegnern, aber das ist doch nicht mehr als ein Auftakt zur Monomachie. Diese ist, bei ihm wie bei Achill, nach der Gefährdung die entscheidende Leistung. Anders bei Hektor. Hier ist der Durchbruch zu den Schiffen, also die konsequente Fortsetzung des vor der Verwundung begonnenen Siegeslaufes, unbestreitbarer Höhepunkt der Aris­ tie. Wie ist diese Anomalie zu verstehen? Sie ergibt sich ganz konsequent aus der Einfügung der Patroklie. Daß der Gegner, dem bestimmt ist, in der Monomachie m it dem Aristeuon zu fallen, selbst erst eine ganze Aristie durchläuft, bleibt nicht ohne Folgen auf den Kampf, in dem er fällt. Schließlich ist Hektor vor Patroklos geflohen, und der Zweikampf, der nach dem Schema den Höhepunkt der Hektor-Aristie bilden müßte, findet vor den Mauern von Troia statt! Man betrachte die Einleitung dieser

Style and Structure

153

Monomachie (Π 712 ff.): Hektor wird von Apollon bei seiner Ehre gemahnt, den Kampf zu wagen. So (oder ähnlich) pflegt nach dem Schema der Gegner des Aristeuon sich zum Kampf zu entschließen, nicht dieser selbst! Dieser Kampf kann nicht Höhepunkt von Hektors Aristie werden, und der Dichter hat alles getan, ihn zu entwerten, indem Apollon Patroklos wehrlos macht und Euphorbos ihn m it einem Pfeil trifft, so daß es kaum mehr ein Sieg zu nennen ist, wenn Hektor ihm den Todesstoß versetzt (Π 787 ff.). Erst in dem nun folgenden Kampf um die Leiche wird Hektor wieder zu dem Helden, vor dem die Achäer weichen müssen - obschon es ihm freilich nicht gelingt, die Leiche zu erbeuten. Damit dürfte klargeworden sein, inwiefern die Aristie Hektors der Nor­ malform folgt und inwiefern sie von dieser abweicht. Der Normalform entspricht die typische Folge der typischen Elemente. Abweichung ist, daß Patroklos, ehe er durch Hektor fällt, eine Aristie durchläuft, was die Monomachie entwertet; dafür wird auf der anderen Seite der Ansturm und das Zurückdrängen des feindlichen Heeres gewaltig ausgedehnt und erhält seinen Höhepunkt erst nach der Verwundung. Außerdem aber schafft der Dichter durch die ,Quasi-Verwundung' und die damit einsetzende Teilung des Schlachtfeldes Gelegenheit zu Parallelhandlungen, d. h. zu parallel laufenden kleineren Aristien. Auch in diesem Punkt unterscheidet sich Hektors Aristie nicht unwesentlich von den Aristien eines Diomedes oder Achill: Hektor ist nicht dadurch groß, daß er allein souverän das Schlacht­ feld beherrscht, sondern dadurch, daß er sich letztlich nach manchen Verzögerungen und durch Patroklos vorübergehend gefährdet, allen ande­ ren gegenüber als der Stärkste erweist. - ; Abschließend fassen wir das Ergebnis unserer Durchmusterung der fünf größeren Aristien in einer Tabelle zusammen, die gewiß nur das Aller­ gröbste festzuhalten vermag, aber vielleicht doch geeignet ist, das sichtbar zu machen, was wir eingangs die ,Ökonomie der Differenzen' nannten. W ir markieren das Vorhandensein eines Motivs durch +, das Fehlen durch —, Achill

Hektor

Diomedei

—

—

1a 1b 1c 2a 2b

+ + 63) 17. 26. C.M. Bowra, Tradition and Design in the Ilìade Oxford (1930) 19, perhaps does not realize this enough, when he refers to Agamemnon’s ‘repentance’. This word reflects the reasoning of Achilles, but not that of Agamemnon. Cf. what A. Parry says on this, point, The Language of Achilles’, in G.S. Kirk (ed.) Language and Background of Homer, Cambridge (1964) 56-7. 27. The manner in which Cauer, for example, translates δμηθήτοο: ‘möge er denn sich erweichen lassen’, is in my opinion too weak, and does not do justice to the imperativus and the meaning of δάμνημί. This word is also used by Aga­ memnon to emphasize his position of power. 28. See, for example, Dodds, op. cit. Cf also 5, where he rejects the inter­ pretation of Liddell and Scott. 29. Stallmach, op. cit. 59. 30. Bowra, op. cit. 20. 31. Cf., for example, H. Frankel, Dichtung und Thilosophie des frühen Griechentums, Munich (21962) 95. 32. See, for example, Ο 511—13 or P 645—7.

86 Die Begegnung zwischen Diomedes und Glaukos (Z)* Oe. Andersen *Source: Die Diomedesgestalt in der Ilias, Universi tetsforlaget AS/Scandinavian University Press, Oslo-Bergen-Tromsoe, 1978, pp. 95-110.

Im Z rollt der Kampf weiter ένθα καί ένθα (2). Die griechischen Helden werden vorgefiihrt: zunächst Aias, dann Diomedes, Euryalos, Polypoites, Odysseus, Teukros, Antilochos, Agamemnon, Lei tos, Eurypylos, in immer dichterer Folge (5-36), bis mit der Gefangennahme des Adrastos durch Menelaos ein Ausbruch aus dem Katalog erreicht wird. Agamemnon will Adrastos, ja will keinen mehr schonen (37—65, bes. 57 f.), und auch Nestor ruft den Danaern sein αλλ* ανδρας κτείνωμεν zu (70). Die Schlacht ist grausamer, intensiver geworden, verglichen mit den Kampfszenen der zwei vorangehenden Gesänge. So wird ein wirkungsvoller Kontrast für die bei­ den folgenden Szenen geschaffen: die Begegnung zwischen Glaukos und Diomedes und jene zwischen Hektor und Andromache. Das gewaltige Vordringen der Achaier und besonders des Diomedes dient zugleich als Motivation für Hektors Besuch in Troia, der zur Begegnung mit der Gattin führt, denn Helenos sieht ein, dass man in der Stadt Gebete an die Götter veranstalten muss, wenn ein Umschwung erfolgen soll (77—101). Darum soll Hektor zu seiner Mutter gehen, und sie bitten, die Frauen zu versam­ meln zu Gebet und Gelübde, und zwar an Athene (94-101):

αι κ έλεήση άστυ τε καί Τρώων άλόχους και νήπια τέκνα, ώς κεν Τυδέος υιόν άπόσχη Τλίου ίρής, άγριον αιχμητήν, κρατερον μήστωρα φόβοιο ον δή εγώ κάρτιστον Αχαιών φημι γενέσθαι. ούδ3Αχιλήά ποθ3ώδέ γ3εδείδιμεν, ορχ^μον άνδρών, ον πέρ φασι θεάς εξ εμμεναι·. άλλ3δδε λην μαίνεται, ουδέ τίς οι δύναται μένος ισοφαρίζειν. Gerade gegen Diomedes soll Athene die Stadt schützen. Nach Diomedes’ Aristie entgeht einem nicht die Ironie. Athene hat zwar mit ihrem Palladion

Characters

219

einen Sitz auch in Troia, und sie ist nicht erst um der Ironie an dieser Z~ Stelle willen dort eingeführt worden. Dennoch ist es Absicht, dass sie hier als die grosse Schützerin der Stadt, angerufen werden soll, während wir im Hintergrund die persönliche Helferin des Diomedes ahnen. Überhaupt ist klar, dass die Handlung hier an Diomedes’ Aristie im E anknüpft, sonst hätte es keinen Grund gegeben, den Tydiden besonders hervorzuheben. Diomedes wird als stärkster Held der Griechen dem Achilleus gleichges­ tellt; beide sollen auch später im Z miteinander verglichen werden. Ja, eigentlich wird Diomedes über Achilleus gestellt (99). Es wird kein Zufall sein, dass die Abkunft Achills von einer göttlichen Mutter erwähnt wird (100). Im diesem Lichte wird Diomedes’ grössere Kraft noch erstaunlicher. Aber dadurch werden wir zugleich daran erinnert, dass Diomedes nur kraft einer Gottheit so gewaltig gekämpft hat. Sein menos wird eigens hervorge­ hoben (101). Das ist gewiss nicht auffallend bei einem homerischen Helden, doch wir denken an das ihm von Athene geschenkte μένος πατρώϊον. So geht Hektor in die Stadt, und die Zeitspanne, bis er in der Stadt ankommt, wird mit der Begegnung zwischen Diomedes und Glaukos ausgefüllt (119—236). Damit werden auch eine allmähliche Entfernung vom Kampfgeschehen und eine stufenweise Beruhigung erreicht. Natürlich haben Helenos’ Worte nicht nur an das Vorhergehende anknüpfen, sondern auch auf diese Begegnung zwischen den beiden Helden vor bereiten sollen. W ir begegnen jetzt gerade dem »rasenden« (101) Helden, gegen den die Troerinnen um Schutz beten sollen. Er scheint ein ganz anderer geworden zu sein. Jetzt ist alles um Diomedes wieder normal. Nach Hektors Abgang vom Schlachtfeld wird die Begegnung zwischen Glaukos und Diomedes ohne viele Umschweife inszeniert (119 f.).1 Dem Diomedes ist der Gegner unbekannt. Das ist notwendig, damit die Begeg­ nung ihren besonderen Sinn bekommen kann. Es ist auch innerhalb der Ilias das erste Mal, dass Glaukos auftritt, so dass wir die Unwahrscheinlichkeit dieses Unbekanntseins umso eher hinnehmen. Es passt übrigens hier, nach­ dem wir im E so vielen Helden schon begegnet sind, darunter den grössten auf der Troerseite — Aineias, Hektor, Sarpedon .—, dass ein neuer Held auftaucht, und zwar einer, der mit der Aristie des Diomedes nicht assoziiert werden kann. Diomedes fragt, wer er wohl sie (123):2

τίς δέ σύ έσσι, φβρίστε, καταθνητών ανθρώπων; So wird sonst nirgends bei Homer gefragt. Pandaros’ Ungewissheit hin­ sichtlich Diomedes 5, 183 »ob er ein Gott sei« ist etwas ganz anderes — obwohl es wiederum kein Zufall ist, dass die Ungewissheit Diomedes gilt. Die Wendung καταθνητών ανθρώπων gibt es in der Ilias sonst nicht, während sie in der Odyssee häufig begegnet. Doch auf eben diese W endung kam es dem Dichter an. Diomedes fragt speziell nach der Zugehörigkeit seines Gegenübers unter den Sterblichen und erwägt nachher (128), ob er ein

220

Homer’s Art

Gott sei. Sein Fragen ist also von der Antinomie Gott—Mensch bestimmt und zeugt von der bewusst problematisierenden Gestaltung der DiomedesPartien der Ilias. N ur der Diomedes des E würde solche Fragen stellen. Bei ihm liegt in der Frage nach möglicher Göttlichkeit kein bloss höfisches Komplimentieren wie bei Odysseus vor Nausikaa in der Odyssee (6, 149 ff.). Sie muss gewiss im Lichte seiner Erfahrungen im E gesehen werden.3 Aus seiner Frage dürfen wir übrigens schliessen, dass Diomedes jetzt auch in der Hinsicht »normalisiert« ist, dass er nicht mehr einen Gott als solchen erkennen kann. Nach seiner Frage spricht Diomedes (127) den selbstbewussten Satz aus:

δυστήνων δέ τε παΐδες έμφ μένει άντιόωσιν. Auch er muss im Lichte dessen, was wir schon über Diomedes erfahren haben, verstanden werden. Das menos ist seiner »väterliche Kraft«. Aber auch in anderer Hinsicht ist der Vers aufschlussreich. Er kommt nur 21, 151 wieder vor, in Achills Begegnung mit Asteropaios. N ur Achilleus und Diomedes reden in der Ilias so selbstbewusst. Dann folgt die Alternative (128 f.):

εί δέ τις αθανάτων γε κατ’ ούρανοϋ είλήλουθας, ούκ αν έγωγε θεοΐσιν έπουρανίοισι μαχοίμην. Zu Unrecht hat man behauptet, der Diomedes, der diese Worte spricht, müsse ein anderer sein als der Diomedes des E .4 Denn der Diomedes des E hat ja nur unter Anleitung Athenes gegen Götter gekämpft. Als grundsätz­ liches Gebot der Göttin indessen galt (5, 130): μή τι σύ γ ’ άθανάτοισι θεοις άντικρυ μάχεσθαι, und Diomedes hat selbst das Heer gemahnt (5, 606): μηδέ θεοις μενεαινέμεν ίφι μάχεσθαι, um schliesslich (5, 815 ff.) sein Fernbleiben vom Kampf damit zu erklären, dass er nicht gegen Götter kämpfen will. —Im Z ist Diomedes wieder auf sich selbst angewie­ sen, und er weiss es. W er könnte m it grösserem Recht über solche Dinge reden als der vom E herkommende Diomedes? Zur Erklärung seiner festen Entschlossenheit, nicht zu kämpfen, falls Glaukos ein Gott sei, erzählt er, wie es einst dem Lykurgos ging, als er sich dem Dionysos widersetzte.5 Des Dryas Sohn Lykurgos verjagte die Ammen des Dionysos, und der Gott suchte bei Thetis im Meer Zuflucht und Trost. Dem Lykurgos aber zürnten die Götter. Zeus blendete ihn, er wurde nicht alt. So etwa das Paradeigma (130-^40). Seine Bedeutung liegt zunächst in der Pointe, dass Lykurgos bestraft wurde. Doch ähnlich wie bei anderen Paradeigmata besteht hier eine weitgehende Parallelität zwischen dem Geschehen vor Troia einerseits und der erzählten Beispielsgeschichte andererseits. Das Wichtigste soll hier verzeichnet werden. Im Paradeigma hören wir, dass der Mensch, wenn er κρατερός (130) ist,

Characters

221

wie das auch öfters von Diomedes gesagt wird, einen Gott unter Umständen überwinden kann. Das hat nämlich Lykurgos getan, und das hat auch Diomedes getan. Dionysos ist geflüchtet; der erschrockene Gott lässt an Aphrodite und Ares im E denken, die beide zum Olymp hinauffuhren.6 Der Sieg des Menschen wird sich aber rächen: ουδέ γάρ ουδέ . . . δήν ήν (130 f. / 139) heisst es von Lykurgos, mit deutlichem Anklang an Diones Worte 5, 407. Als Anklang darf man seine Worte mit umso grösserer Zuversicht auffassen, als die Bestrafung an sich ja in der Blendung des Frevlers besteht. Der Bestrafung ist Diomedes im E entgangen, obwohl ihm auch Apollon gegenüberstand. Gestraft wurde Lykurgos von Zeus. Eine mächtigere Gottheit ist also dazugekommen. Es darf kein Zufall sein, dass im Paradeigma dieselbe Zweistufung der Götterwelt hervortritt wie in Diomedes' Aristie, wo Apollon hinzutrat - freilich ohne dass es für Dio­ medes schlimme Folgen hatte. Aus Sophokles, Ant. 955 f. und vielen anderen Quellen geht hervor, dass sich Dionysos selbst an dem Frevler rächt. Es liegt nahe anzunehmen, dass wir bei Homer eine Innovation haben, und zwar um der Entsprechung willen. — Mit diesem Beispiel sagt Diomedes auch etwas zu seiner jetzigen Situation. Denn er scheint keineswegs daran zu zweifeln, dass er in einer Auseinandersetzung m it dem Gegner den Sieg davontragen, könnte. Was er fürchtet, sind die Folgen seines Siegs, falls der Gegner ein Gott wäre. Vor diesem Hintergrund dürfen wir sagen, dass der Sinn des Paradeigmas sich nicht mit seiner Pointe - Kampf m it einem Gott führt zur Bestrafung — erfüllt. Darin, aber z. T. auch darin, dass Diomedes mit dem Sieg für sich rechnet, liegt zwar der Argumentationswert des Paradeigmas als einer Aussage des Diomedes. Sein Funktionswert indessen beruht auch auf den Spiegelun­ gen, die in ihm enthalten sind. Ich glaube nicht, dass die Entsprechungen zwischen Paradeigma und Iiiashandlung zufällig sind. Einiges deutet, wie wir sahen, darauf, dass gewisse Züge für eben diese Stelle erfunden worden sind. Das Paradeigma wirft Licht zurück auf die Situation vor Troia und trägt zu ihrem Verständnis bei durch Verdeutlichung dank hervorhebender Entsprechungen und abhebender Kontraste. Dieser Gesichtspunkt kann hier an Hand eines einzelnen Paradeigmas, aber auch im Lichte der früher behandelten Paradeigmata in Δ und E, nur angedeutet werden und müsste bei einer Behandlung der »grossen« Paradeigmata der Ilias von Meleagros, Ate (im T) und Niobe näher ausgearbeitet werden. Was das Lykurgosparadeigma betrifft, trägt m. E. auch das »Milieu« des Paradeigmas zur Erhellung des Geschehens vor Troia bei. Es geht ja im Paradeigma nicht um einen richtigen Waffengang mit einem Gott inner­ halb des heroischen Gesichtskreises, sondern um religiösen Widerstand. Was hat überhaupt Lykurgos gegen die Ammen des Dionysos m it Dio­ medes auf dem Schlachtfeld zu tun? Der Dichter verweist auf ein Gebiet, wo ernsthafter -Widerstand gegen Götter vorliegt, und wo auch grausam bestraft wird. Es ist bezeichnend, dass in Diones Beispielsgeschichten nichts

222

Homer’s A r t

von Bestrafung gesagt wurde. Wie wurden die Aloaden bestraft? Oder Herakles? Die Worte Diones in Vers 5, 407 hätten durch ihre eigenen Paradeigmata nicht unterstützt werden können. Gestützt wird ihre Behaup­ tung erst hier durch das Lykurgparadeigma, das aber in eine ganz andere Sphäre gehört. Und deshalb ist das Paradeigma auch kein Fazit. Denn Diomedes war im E weder ein Herakles noch ein Lykurgos, sondern hatte ein ganz besonderes Verhältnis zu der Göttin Athene. Wie auf Dione macht der Dichter auch auf Dionysos nur in Verbindung mit Diomedes Anspruch. W ir haben mit einem Dichter zu tun, der fur seine besonderen Zwecke zu Gottheiten und Mythen greift, die ausserhalb der Tradition seines epischen Gedichts liegen. Er ist bestrebt, den beson­ deren Rahmen um Diomedes’ Aris tie herauszuarbeiten und das Geschehen in seiner Einmaligkeit vielseitig zu erhellen. Immer wieder zeigt sich, dass Diomedes’ Taten beispiellos sind, dies auch im Umstand, dass er heil davonkommt. Die späte Rache der Götter indessen ist ein Motiv auch in Glaukos’ Antwortrede, der wir uns jetzt zuwenden.7 Glaukos beantwortet nicht die indirekte Frage, ob er ein Gott sei. Er stellt sofort das andere DiomedesThema ins Zentrum: die Frage nach dem Geschlecht. Doch zunächst stellt er selbst - der er über lange Strecken hin seine eigene Genealogie darstellen soll - eine grundsätzliche Frage, und zwar mit Kommentar (145-149):

Τυδβΐδη μεγάθυμε, τίη γενεήν ερεείνεις; οϊη περ φύλλων γενεή, τοίη δέ καί ανδρών. φύλλα τα μέν τ άνεμος χαμάδις χέει, άλλα δέ θ ’ ύλη τηλεθόωσα φύει, εαρος δ' έπιγίγνεται ώρη· ώς άνδρών γενεή ή μέν φύει ήδ5απολήγει. Gleich am Anfang wird so der düstere und pessimistische Grundton seiner Rede angeschlagen. Alles Menschliche unterliegt dem Gesetz des Lebens: Geburt, Blühen, Verwelken, Sterben, Apollon hatte 5, 441 f. den Diomedes daran erinnern müssen, dass

οϋ ποτέ φυλον ομοιον αθανάτων τε θεών χαμαί ερχομένων τ' ανθρώπων. Jetzt wird das Menschengeschlecht m it dem Geschlecht der Blätter vergli­ chen, die vom W inde zu Boden gefegt werden.8 Die Hinfälligkeit des Menschlichen wird durch ein Geschlecht illustriert, durch die Genealogie des Glaukos, »l’ultimo rampollo di una stirpe devastata dalla morte«, wie Broccia (86) sagt. Dazu ist sie da, was aber nicht verhindert, dass die Genealogie zugleich im herkömmlichen Sinne als Ruhm des Glaukos zu verstehen ist. Glaukos darf sich seines Geschlechts rühmen, obwohl das Ganze in einen grösseren Zusammenhang hineingestellt worden ist: in den

Characters

223

der Diomedeshandlung. Nicht umsonst wird die Rede des Glaukos an Diomedes gerichtet, der so viel vom väterlichen Ruhm gehört hat und so dicht an die Grenzen des Menschlichen herangetreten ist. Wie wir sehen werden, gibt es auch in der Erzählung des Glaukos Beziehungen zum Diomedes-zusammenhang. Seine Rede ist also nicht nur auf Belehrung im allgemeinen angelegt, sondern speziell im Hinblick auf Diomedes gestaltet.^ Die Hauptsache der Glaukos-Genealogie ist die Geschichte von Beller­ ophontes (155-205). W ir geben sie in ihren Hauptzügen wieder, indem wir das in unserem Zusammenhang Interessante herauszuarbeiten versuchen, Bellerophontes, der uns meistens als Sohn des Poseidon begegnet, steht bei Homer in einem ferneren Verhältnis zum Meeresgott, indem er als Sohn eines Glaukos auftritt, der seinerseits Sohn des Sisyphos Aiolides ist. Die Verbindung weiter nach rückwärts führt zu Deukalion und Prometheus, aber Sisyphos ist bekanntlich auch m it Poseidon verbunden. Irgendwie geht des Bellerophontes Geschlecht auf Poseidon zurück, aber Glaukos, d. h. der Dichter, hat es kurz nach dem Gleichnis (146-9) nicht eigens hervorheben wollen, um die W irkung seiner Worte nicht sofort abzuschwächen. Für den Menschen Bellerophontes ist die göttliche Abstammung irrelevant. Bellerophontes ist aber in anderer Hinsicht gottnah. Die Götter haben dem Helden Schönheit und Mannestugend geschenkt (156 f.). Dass die Götter ihm wohlgesinnt sind und er selbst fromm und gehorsam ist, hat man geradezu als ein »Leitmotiv« der Geschichte bezeichnet.10 Bellero­ phontes verhält sich bei Homer vorbildlich gegenüber den Göttern. Den traditionellen Himmelstürmer Bellerophontes hat Homer tendenziös umgestaltet.11 Bellerophontes befindet sich in Tiryns (157), obwohl er von Korinth stammt. Laut den antiken Erklärern12 habe er wegen Totschlags flüchten müssen. Es ist möglich, dass die nicht sehr originelle Geschichte vom Totschlag nachhomerische Erfindung ist, erfunden, um den bei Homer erwähnten Aufenthalt in Tiryns zu erklären, und dass wir bei Homer die Anwesenheit des Bellerophontes in Tiryns unbedenklich hinnehmen dür­ fen. W enn aber die Geschichte von Bellerophontes’ Totschlag der vor­ homerischen Tradition gehört, wird er verschwiegen worden sein, und zwar, damit Bellerophontes in möglichst hellem Licht hervortrete.13 Bei Proitos ereignet sich eine Potiphar-Geschichte (l6 0 —65). Zürnend lässt Proitos Bellerophontes nach Lykien fahren, um dort seinen Tod zu bewerkstelligen (168-70). N ur sein σέβας (167) hindert ihn, selber den Helden zu töten. An Proitos’ Schwiegervater in Lykien hat Bellerophontes den Brief mitgebracht, in dem sein Todesurteil geschrieben steht.14 Er fährt nach Lykien 'θεών ύπ άμύμονί πομπή (171). Neun Tage lang wird er bewirtet, dann fragt Iobates - der Name wird nicht erwähnt - nach dem Brief (172-177). Es folgen die Versuche, Bellerophontes aus dem Weg zu räumen. Er soll zunächst die Chimaira töten, was ihm auch gelingt θεών

224

Homer’s A r t

τεράεσσι πιθήσας (183). Dann überwindet er die Solymer (184 f.), dann die Amazonen (186). Bei der Rückkehr lässt Iobates einen Hinterhalt legen von den besten Männern Lykiens. Doch von ihnen kam niemand zurück: πάντας γάρ κατέπεφνεν άμύμων Βελλεροφόντης (190). Dann erkennt der König ihn als θεού γόνον (191) an und gibt ihm seine Tochter und das halbe Reich. Das Volk gibt ihm ein grosses temenos (194 f.). Dank Tapferkeit und Frömmigkeit hat Bellerophontes grösstes Glück erworben. Drei Kinder hat er. Ihnen geht es folgendermassen: Laodemeia wird durch Zeus Vater des Sarpedon (198 f.). Ihren Tod findet sie durch Artemis (205). Isandros findet im Kampf gegen die Solymer den Tod durch Ares (203 f.). Hippolochos wird Vater des Glaukos. —Uber Bellerophontes selbst heisst es zum Schluss (200-2): άλλ3οτε δή και κείνος άπήχθετο πάσι θεοΐσιν, ήτοι ο κάπ πεδίον τό "Αλήϊον οίος άλάτο, öv θυμόν κατέδων, πάτον ανθρώπων άλεείνων , Im grossen und ganzen wird Glaukos Wohlbekanntes erzählt haben. Selbst sagt er über seine Genealogie (151): πολλοί δε μιν άνδρες ισασιν. Deswegen braucht nicht alles deutlich ausgeführt zu werden, und deswegen fehlt wohl auch der Name des Lykierfürsten. Anders freilich ist das Fehlen von Glaukos’ eigenem Namen zu verstehen, woran man mit Unrecht viel Anstoss genommen hat: Nach der Vorstellung der Ahnen ist kein Zweifel mehr möglich. Seine Identität ist geradezu durch die Genealogie gegeben. — Noch mehreres in seiner Rede - die Anspielungen auf das gute Verhältnis zu den Göttern, die Geschicke der Kinder, der Hinterhalt, Bellerophontes’ Ende — wird erst dann seinen vollen Sinn bekommen, wenn man die Absicht des Dichters und die Tendenz der Rede berücksichtigt und hier nicht nur Rudimente einer vollständigen Version sieht. Das Verschweigen des Pegasos und Bellerophontes’ unerklärt gebliebene Anwesenheit in Tiryns haben wir schon oben als Indizien einer gewissen Tendenz gewertet. W eiter helfen gewisse Ähnlichkeiten zwischen den Erlebnissen des Beller­ ophontes in Lykien und das, was von Tydeus in Theben erzählt wurde (4, 385-398). Auch Tydeus wurde hinausgeschickt und bewirtet und musste sich später im Kampf behaupten. Gegen beide legt man einen Hinterhalt; vgl. 4, 3S>1—3 und 6, 187-90. Tydeus hat zwar einen Gegner geschont, während Bellerophontes alle tötete, doch beide wurden Sieger »θεών τεράεσσι πιθήσας« (4, 398; 6, 183). In beiden Fällen ist es unmöglich, genau festzustellen, was darin liegt, aber wegen der Entsprechung der beiden Stellen dürfen wir kaum 6, 183 einen verschlüsselten Hinweis auf Pegasos sehen. Uns scheint der Dichter absichtlich dem Glaukos einen Grossvater gegeben zu haben, der uns an Diomedes’ Vater denken lässt, und zwar aus zwei Gründen: erstens, damit die beiden Helden, was ihren

Characters

225

Adel betrifft, als ebenbürtig erscheinen, und zweitens und vor allem, um die paradigmatische Beziehung zu Diomedes nahezulegen. Tydeus war ein frommer und tapferer Mann, der grossartige Taten vollbrachte. Sein Sohn hat mit frommem Sinn sogar gegen Götter gekämpft. Mit seiner Darstellung des Bellerophontes will der Dichter etwas dazu sagen, und auch etwas zu dem, was Diomedes in dem Lykurgosparadeigma gesagt hat. Es ist kurzum dem Dichter daran gelegen, ein Bild von Bellerophontes als einem frommen und schuldlosen Mann von göttlicher Abkunft zu zeichnen, der sich auch in den schwersten Proben hat behaup­ ten können und reichlich gesegnet worden ist, der aber schliesslich doch nicht dem Hass der Götter entgangen ist, wie sein Ende deutlich macht. Darin liegt die Pointe der Geschichte. Der Mensch kann sich auf die Dauer nicht sichern, auch mit Frömmigkeit nicht.16 Die einfachere Anschauung, die Diomedes vom Wirken der Götter hat, wird hier relativiert und problematisiert. Diomedes rechnet selbstbewusst mit eigener Stärke und meint zu wissen, wie man den Zorn der Götter vermeiden kann. Lykurgos hat gegen Götter gekämpft und ist gestraft worden: έπεί αθανάτοισιν άπήχθετο πασι θεοΐσιν (140); derartiges will Diomedes vermeiden. Doch auch von Bellerophontes heisst es: καί κείνος άπήχθετο πασι θεοΐσιν (200). Es unterliegt m. E. keinem Zweifel, dass hier Lykurgos und Bellerophontes aufeinander bezogen sind.17 Die Bellerophontes-Geschichte verschärft unter verschiedenen Aspekten die Frömmigkeitsproblemarik um Diömedes. Damit wird jeder Versuch hinfällig, auf einen zugrundeliegenden Katalog der Gottesfrevler zu schliessen.18 Damit sind auch die Verse 200-2 gegen Athetese gesichert. Falsch werden die Verse von Lohmann (91) beurteilt, der sie deswegen verdächtigt, weil das Motiv des Götterhasses einen neuen Gedanken in die sonst so klare und ökonomische Struktur bringe. Gerade auf diesen überraschenden Abschluss zielt die ganze Rede hin. Um die Pointe besonders hervorzu­ heben, kommen die Verse erst, nachdem schon erzählt wurde, dass Bellero­ phontes' Tochter Laodameia von Zeus geliebt wurde und ihm Sarpedon gebar. Von ihr hören wir zunächst nur dies (198 f.). Aber nachdem wir über das Schicksal ihres Vaters und den Tod ihres Bruders Isandros gehört haben (200-204), heisst es kurz von ihr (205):

τήν δέ χολωσαμένη χρυσήνιος "Αρτεμις έκτα. Auch noch sie hat einen jähen Umschlag durch die Götter erfahren. Der Schluss der Rede zielt immer mehr auf Diomedes. Hippolochos wurde Vater des Glaukos (206). Der Vater selbst bleibt ganz schattenhaft. Dem Glaukos jedoch ist es auferlegt, die Ehre des ganzen Geschlechts zu erhalten (207—10):

226

Homer's A r t

πέμπε δέ μ3ές Τροίην, καί μοι μάλα πόλλ3επέτελλεν, αίέν άριστεύειν και ύπείροχον εμμεναι άλλων, μηδε γένος πατέρων αίσχυνέμεν, οι μέγ3αριστοι έν τ3Έφύρη έγένοντο καί εν Λυκίτ| εύρείη. Beide Helden, Glaukos wie Diomedes, haben Verpflichtungen gegenüber grossen Vorfahren. Das ist Heldentum und für diese zwei Helden nichts Besonderes. Gerade bei den zitierten Versen denken wir z. B. an die Abschiedsworte des Peleus an Achilleus (vgl. 9, 252 ff.; 11, 783 fl)· Dort geht es jedoch nicht um das μηδέ γένος πατέρων αίσχυνε'μεν.19 Das Motiv hat zweifelsohne in Verbindung mit Diomedes eine besondere Bedeutung. Deshalb begegnen wir ihm in immer neuen Variationen. Wenn wir das Ende von Giaukos’ Rede betrachten, verstehen wir auch, dass seine Genealogie als Ruhm des Geschlechts aufzufassen ist. Er fängt seine Rede damit an, dass das Geschlecht des Menschen »wie das Geschlecht der Blätter« ist, doch endet er mit tapferer Selbstbehauptung aus heroischem Adelsbewusstsein. W ir verstehen hier auch, weshalb er seinen Namen nicht zu nennen braucht. Die Glaukos-Genealogie mit der Geschichte von Bellerophontes ent­ wickelt also die beiden Diomedes-Themen weiter, sowohl die »Frömmigkeitsproblematik« als auch die »Geschlechtsproblematik« oder »Epigonenproblematik«. Dem Sohn des Tydeus wird in Glaukos eine Gestalt gegenübergestellt, die sich m it ebensoviel Recht ihres Geschlechts rühmen darf. Glaukos tut das auch. Gleichzeitig stellt er gleichsam resigniert die grundsätzliche Frage danach, was denn eines Menschen Geschlecht sei. Der weitere Verlauf der Diomedes-Glaukos-Begegnung soll nur in aller Kürze kommentiert werden. Bellerophontes ist auch deswegen so hervor­ gehoben worden, weil durch ihn ein Anschluss an Oineus gewonnen wird. Die beiden Gegner erweisen sich als durch väterliche Gastfreundschaft Verbundene.20 Es ist sehr schön, dass somit die Bedeutung des Geschlechts auf einem neuen Gebiet hervortritt. Uber die Kriegssituation und über Generationen hinaus gilt das von den Vorfahren Gestiftete. Etwas unvermittelt sagt dann Diomedes (222 fl):

Τυδέα δ3ου μέμνημαι, έπεί μ3 έτι τυτ-θόν έόντα κάλλιφ3, οτ3έν Θήβησιν άπώλετο λαός 'Αχαιών. Hier bekommen wir eine Art Erklärung für die besondere Rolle, die das Geschlecht und der väterliche Ruhm für Diomedes spielen. Er hat keine Erinnerung an seinen Vater. Der Vater ist ein ferner Schatten oder vielmehr ein fernes Licht und darum für paradigmatische Zwecke geeignet. Die Problematisierung des Verhältnisses des Diomedes zum väterlichen Ruhm wird somit auch plausibler gemacht.

Characters

227

Als Zeichen ihrer Gastfreundschaft tauschen sie dann Rüstungen (232-

36). Bekannt ist die Torheit des Glaukos, der für seine goldene Rüstung eine eherne bekommt: δν-θ9 αδτε Γλαύκω Κρονίδης φρένας έξέλετο Ζεύς (234). Sehr schön ist der Dur-Ausgang nach so viel Moll-Spiel, sehr schön auch, dass der Dichter den Griechen Diomedes doch noch den Sieg davontragen lässt. Was ist mit Glaukos geschehen? Psychologisch lässt es sich erklären als eine momentane Torheit aus Erleichterung. Ich halte es für besonders bedeutungsvoll, dass Zeus hier ins Spiel gebracht wird. Denn hat nicht Glaukos in seiner Rede die W illkür und Laune der Götter betont, der er am Ende selbst unterliegt? Diomedes verschwindet jetzt für eine Zeitlang aus dem Blickfeld. Er wird lediglich bei Hektors Besuch in Troia erwähnt. Hektor wiederholt (269 ff) Helenos' Anweisungen (vgl. 88 ff) an die troischen Frauen, die Athene um Schutz gegen Diomedes bitten sollen (227 f. = 96 f). Es ist wohlbedacht, wenn der Dichter Hektor nur Vers 96 f über Diomedes aus Helenos' Rede wiederholen lässt und nicht auch die Verse 98—101, obwohl sie in noch höherem Grad den Ernst der Situation betonen würden. Dort hat Helenos von Diomedes gesagt, er sei »fürchterlicher als Achilleus«. Das hätte in Hektors Mund nicht gepasst. Die troischen Frauen bitten um Diomedes’ Tod (306 f ):

άξον 6ή εγχος Διομήδεος, ήδέ καί αυτόν πρηνέα δός πεσέειν Σκαιών προπάρονθε πυλάων. Aber Athene erhört ihr Gebet nicht (311)J W ir dürfen hier noch die Ironie mitklingen hören, die darin liegt, dass die; Frauen ausgerechnet zu Athene um Diomedes’ Tod bitten. Doch hat ein anderer Gegensatz mehr Bedeu­ tung. Vor dem skäischen Tor soll Hektor sterben, dann Achilleus. In diesen Schicksalszusammenhang gehört Diomedes nicht hinein. Durch das Gebet der Frauen werden unsere Gedanken aber von Diomedes weg auf jenen Schicksalszusammenhang gelenkt, unmittelbar vor der Begegnung zwischen Hektor und Andromache. Wenn Hektor seiner Gattin begegnet, ist der drohende Diomedes ganz irrelevant. Hektor wird nur von Achilleus bedroht. Seine Gestalt ist es, die - noch indirekt - ihren Schatten wirft, wenn Andromache (407—440) zu Hektor über das Schicksal ihrer Verwand­ ten redet und die Sorge um den Gatten zum Ausdruck bringt. W ir sind jetzt mit der Behandlung des Diomedes-Komplexes in den Gesän­ gen Δ Ε Ζ fertig, Diomedes hat in ihnen Gestalt und Gehalt bekommen. Er stand über lange Strecken hin im M ittelpunkt des Interesses des Dichters. Eine ähnliche Rolle wird er in der Ilias nicht mehr spielen. Der Dichter hat ihn jedoch noch nicht zu Ende gedichtet. Auch wir werden es nicht unterlassen, sein Auftreten im späteren Verlauf des Gedichts zu charakter­ isieren und zu interpretieren.

228

Homer's A r t

A nm erkungen

1. Zur Stellung und Bedeutung der Episode vgl. Broccia 73 ff. (bes. 96 ff), der auch die einschlägige Literatur ausgiebig anfuhrt. 2. Formale Analyse der Rede bei Lohmann 12; vgl. auch Oehler 9, der jedoch Diomedes’ Rede fälschlich damit erklärt, dass er sich vor dem Anschein der Feigheit schützen müsse. 3. Verkannt wird der Sinn der Frage z. B. bei Hedwig Jordan, Der Erzählungsstil in den Kampfscenen der Ilias, Diss. Zürich 1904 (Warmbrunn 1904), 43, die die innere Beziehung zum E leugnet und in der Frage ein bloss »technisches Hülfsmittel« sieht, um das Gespräch in Gang zu bringen; die Frage zeige, wie wenig peinlich die Dichter der Ilias mit dem Motivieren umgingen. 4. Bekannt sind Leafs Worte in der Einleitung zum Z (Bd. I, 256) von »crying contradiction« und Wilamowitzens Urteil 304 über die Glaukosepisode: »Sie gehört nicht zu E, denn dieser Diomedes kämpft nicht mit Göttern«. Richtig, aber unklar G. Finsler, Homer II, 2Leipzig/Berlin 1918, 62, das Gespräch sei dem Gedanken nach mit dem E ziemlich eng verbunden. Ähnlich unzutreffend Willcock in seinem Kommentar (A Commentary on Homer's Iliad, Books /-V/, London 1970) zu Vers 129: »Diomedes is here expressing a general, universally acknowl­ edged point of view; his particular deeds in book V are hardly relevant«. In neuerer Zeit entschieden richtig über die Beziehungen zwischen E und Z Erbse 157 und Gaisser 167, welche letztere gut die ganze Episode im Z als »both a pendant and a commentary« zu der Aris tie im E bezeichnet. 5. Zum Religionsgeschichtlichen vgl. neben den Lexica und Handbüchern E. R. Dodds in der Einleitung zu Euripides' Bacchae 2Oxford I960, XXV—XXVIII; W. K. C. Guthrie, The Greeks and Their Gods, London 1950 (1968) l6 l, 165 ff 6. Wegen der Entsprechung mag die Flucht des Dionysos sehr wohl sekundär sein gegenüber dem im E Erzählten und vielleicht gegenüber 18, 397, was das Motiv »Aufnahme bei Thetis« betrifft, das im Σ allerdings eine Innovation zu sein scheint, und zwar um eine Gegenseitigkeit der Verpflichtungen zwischen Thetis und Hephaistos zu schaffen; vgl. Braswell. CQ 65, 1971, 19 ff und bes. 21 mit Anm. 2. Es bestehen auch andere Beziehungen des Dionysos zum Meer, vgl. Μ. P. Nilsson, Geschichte der griechischen Religion I, 3Mü.nchen 1967, 580. 7. Zum Formalen vgl. Lohmann 89-91- Für das Sagengeschichtliche, das wir von unserer Untersuchung fernhalten, siehe Wilamowitz 304 und Von der Mühll 116 £; vor allem aber L. Malten, »Homer und die lykischen Fürsten«, Hermes 79, 1944, 1-12, wo sich übrigens auch durchaus treffende Bemerkungen zur Funktion und Bedeutung unserer Episode im Zusammenhang der Ilias finden. R. Peppermülier, »Die Glaukos-Diomedesszene der Ilias«, WS 75, 1962, 5—21 geht in seiner Suche nach »Spuren vorhomerischer Dichtung« viel zu weit auf untragfähiger Grundlage, wenn er (11 f.) behauptet, dass die ganze Episode von einer älteren Quelle übernommen sei. 8. Ausführlich zum Gleichnis Broccia 85 ff Die genaue Interpretation des Gleichnisses wird wegen des zweideutigen Begriffs γενεή (145 u. 151: »Ges­ chlecht«; 146 u. 149: »Generation«; vgl. H. Fränkel, Dié homerischen Gleichnisse, Göttingen 1921, 41) kompliziert. Ich würde jeden Gedanken an »demokratische Anwandlung« fernhaiten und sehe im Gleichnis auch keinen Gegensatz zwischen Individuum und Geschlecht. Es geht um die Hinfälligkeit alles Menschlichen. 9. Dass Glaukos mit seiner Rede mehr als eine Genealogie geben will, geht schon aus der Länge hervor: 62 Verse gegenüber z. B. 29 für Aineias (20, 213-41) und 14 für Diomedes (14, 113-26). Dass die Glaukosgenealogie zugleich eine Sarpedongenealogie ist, reicht nicht zur Erklärung ihrer ungewöhnlichen Länge aus.

Characters

229

10. Lohmann 90. 11. Die Himmelfahrt und Pegasos kommen bei Homer überhaupt nicht vor. Der Grund ist kaum, dass Homer sie »noch nicht« gekannt habe (vgl. Gaisser 170), sondern dass die frevelhafte Himmelfahrt nicht in die Konzeption des Dichters passt. Verschwiegen ist Pegasos auch bei der Tötung der Chimaira (181-3), aber nicht, weil er märchenhaft war. Märchenhaft ist auch die Chimaira. Der Grund wird vielmehr sein, dass jede Erwähnung des Pegasos den Gedanken an die Hirn* melfahrt nahelegen würde. (Anders W. Marg, »Das erste Lied des Demodokos«, Navicula Cbiloniensis (Festschr. Jacoby), Leiden 1956, 21, Anm. 2: »Das Untier Chimaira ist gepau genannt, weil an ihm die Arete sich bewährt; das hilfreiche Wunderpferd ist unterdrückt«.). 12. Siehe W. Dindorf, Scholia Graeca in Homeri Iliadem, Oxford 1877, III, 287 (zu V. 155). 13- Gaisser, die im allgemeinen die Tendenz der Geschichte überzeugend herausgearbeitet hat, geht in Einzelheiten zu weit, so z. B. wenn sie 172 den unerklärt gebliebenen Aufenthalt des Bellerophontes in Tiryns als ein »reversal of fortune« deutet. 14. Zum problematischen Brief kurz und gut Wilamowitz 304, Anm. 2. 15. Rätselhaft ist das Ende des Bellerophontes. Vgl. dazu Kullmann, Das Wirken der Götter, 22 ff., der eine anregende Interpretation der BellerophontesErzählung gibt, wenn auch seine psychologisch-pathologische Deutung schwerlich überzeugt. Wichtig ist seine Feststellung, dass Homer »nicht nur aus kompositor­ ischen, sondern auch aus religiösen und »weltanschaulichen« Gründen seine Vor­ lagen änderte«. (23). [Note indicator missing from original text.] 16. Die Pointe hat auch Gaisser gesehen, nur ist es unbefriedigend, dass sie darin nur »an artistic effect« (165) sieht. 17. Richtig Von der Mühll 117 und Ameis-Hentze z. St.; vgl. dagegen Leaf z. St. und Lohmann 91, Anm. 149. 18. Ein »Frevlerkatalog« wird nach Webster, Lorimer und Murray auch von Gaisser 175 f. angenommen (dort Literaturangaben). In diese Reihe gehört neuerd­ ings auch F. Codino, Einführung in Homer, Berlin 1970, 154 f., der überhaupt für den Diomedes keinen Blick hat (vgl. 57: »Derjenige, der Diomedes in die Ilias eingeführt hat, hat nicht vermocht, dass sein Held sich im griechischen Lager vor Troia wirklich wohl fühlt«.). 19. Deshalb darf man nicht mit Wilamowitz (206) 6, 207 als Vorlage für 11, 784 (und 9, 252) ansehen, weil an ersterer Stelle »noch das wesentliche μηδέ γένος πατέρων αίσχυνέμεν« folge. Denn Vers 6, 208 ist von der besonderen Problematik um Diomedes bestimmt. 20. Richtig Von der Mühll 117: »Oineus’ Bewirtung des Bellerophontes ist natürlich ad hoc erfunden, ebenso, dass sich Diomedes des Vaters Tydeus nicht entsinne«. 21. Vgl. J. D. Craig, »ΧΡΥΣΕA ΧΑΛΚΕΙΩΝ«, CR 17, 1967, 243-45. Dass »l'inégalité de valeur entre les dons est voulue« (so E. Benveniste, Le vocabulaire des institutions indoeuropéennes, Paris 1969, I, 99) entspricht nicht der Auffassung des Dichters.

Literatur Benutzt sind die Ilias-Ausgabe von Monro und Allen in OCT (3. AufL), der Kommentar von Ameis-Hentze (-Cauer) 1875/1922 mit Anhang und der

230

Homer’s A r t

Kommentar von Leaf I—II 1900/1902; die Scholia vetera sind nach der Ausgabe von Erbse (Berlin 1969 ff) zitiert. Werke und Aufsätze, die nur einmal oder in einem bestimmten Zusammenhang angeführt worden sind, sind nicht in die folgende Liste aufgenommen, die nur solche Arbeiten umfasst, auf die öfter verwiesen wird und die in Text und Anmer­ kungen nur mit Verfassernamen bzw. Kurztitel angegeben worden sind. Broccia, G., Struttura e spìrito del libro VI dell’ Ilìade, Parte Prima, Sapri 1963Drerup, E., Das fünfte Buch der Hias, Paderborn 1913Erbse, H., »Betrachtungen über das 5- Buch der Ilias«, RhM 104, 1961, 156-189. Fenik, B., Typical Battle Scenes in the Iliade Wiesbaden 1968 (Hermes Einzelschr. 21 ) .

Gaisser, J. H., »Adaptation of Traditional Material in the Glaucus-Diomedes Episode«, TAPhA 100, 1969, 165-176. Krischer, T., Formale Konventionen der homerischen Epik, München 1971 (Zetemata Heft 56). Kullmann, W., Die Quellen der Ilias, Wiesbaden I960 (Hermes Einzelschr. 14) (- Kullmann). Kullmann, W., Das Wirken der Götter in der Ilias, Berlin 1956. Lillge, F., Komposition und poetische Technik der Αιομήδονς Ά ρ ίσ τ ε ία, Gotha 1911. Lohmann, D., Die Komposition der Reden in der Ilias, Berlin 1970. Oehler, R., Mythologische Exempla in der älteren griechischen Dichtung, Diss. Basel 1925. Reinhardt, K., Die Ilias und ihr Dichter, hrsg. von U. Hölscher, Göttingen 1961. Robert, C , Die Griechische Heldensage II—III, Berlin 1920-26 (- Robert). Robert, C., Oidipus I—II, Berlin 1915. Schadewaldt, W., Iliasstudien, 3Darmstadt 1966. Von der Mühll, P., Kritisches Hypomnema zur Ilias, Basel 1952. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, U., Die Ilias und Homer, Berlin 1916. Willcock, Μ. M., »Mythological Paradeigma in the Iliad«, CQ 14, 1964, 141-154.

87 Speech as a Personality Symbol: The Case of Achilles* P. Friedrich arid J. Redfield *Source: Language, vol. 54, 1978, pp. 263-88.

Individual speech is a minimal system of language use and variation and yet, despite its theoretical interest, has been neglected; syntax (as against phonology) has been egregiously ignored. This article, stimu­ lated by the work of Adam Parry and of Sapir, partly solves a thorny problem over two millennia old. Using total samples of Achilles and his interlocutors, the authors establish nine categories of discriminatory variables in rhetoric, discourse, and syntax; ‘expressive rhetoric', asyn­ deton, and particles are particularly revealing. The speech of Achilles is related to the personality which it symbolizes. Our conclusions concern three major open questions in the study of individual variation.

Introduction 1. The way the speech of an individual seems to reflect his or her person­ ality is, like etmyology, one of the things about language that fascinates the non-specialist. We have ail had the experience of recognizing instantly the voice of even a casual acquaintance after hearing only a few syllables, after only a fraction of a second. As with gait and facial features, we synthesize subtle cues into a speech gestalt that can be recognized among thousands. There is a theoretical issue at stake here: what is the relation between this individual uniqueness and the shared speech of social groups? Since lan­ guage communicates, the notion of a private language seems a contradiction in terms. Yet the contradiction is more apparent than real; linguistic means may be used, in the course of communicating a message, to convey and in this sense communicate differences between speaker-hearers. An example may be drawn from the dialects of subcultures. These, it is true, are often used to reinforce a sense of community (scholars’ jargon, thieves’ argot); but they may also be used to reinforce differences. When the butler converses with his master,- the policeman with the rock fan, each may be especially careful to employ his own dialect.

232

Homer''s A r t

The contrasting dialects, in such situations, are intended to be mutually intelligible; each speaker restricts his active linguistic behavior to a subset of the items passively available to him. One speaker calls an event a rip-off another a Code 4, another a forcible deprivations the child says simply, He made me give him my stuff. In each case the speaker, consciously or unconsciously, identifies himself as playing a specific role or belonging to a group with specific capacities and values. This identification is explicit in terms of the items chosen, implicit in terms of the items rejected as ‘not my language’. The individual is the ultimate system of variation, on the linguistic as on the cultural level. As Sapir put it, The social scientist . . . must not dodge the task of studying the effects produced by individuals of varying tempera­ ments and backgrounds on each other . . . This weakness, it seems, is not unrelated to a fatal fallacy with regard to the objective reality of social and cultural patterns defined impersonally’ ([1938] 1949: 576). More recently, Lévi-Strauss reminds us that within culture each individual is a unique species, ‘a synthesis of ideas and modes of behavior as exclusive and irre­ placeable as the one a floral species develops out of the simple chemical substances common to all species’ ([1962] 1966: 214). This unique synth­ esis, his personality’, is the source of his unique value to others, and thus of his dignity. Personal speech may then be thought of as a means whereby the individual displays, and even defines, his personality vis-à-vis the group. The speech and speech-producing language system of the individual can be contrasted with the sort of systems that typically excite the specialist— whether these latter are the intuited system of an ideal speaker-hearer of some sort, or the patterns of some speech community. The few studies of individual speech that we do have are wholly or largely restricted to one side of language. Thus, in Sapir 1927, we find a fairly typical attention to intonation, pitch, speed of pronunciation, ‘rhythm’ (e.g. number and placement of stresses), and other matters such as length of vowels. All these variables are phonetic and/or phonological, and are pre­ sented as such. W ork by Sapir’s student, Stanley Newman (1930), also focused heavily on phonetic and phonological symbolization of psychiatric states— as has a fairly rich tradition of analysis involving interviews of psychiatrists and patients. In his courageous empirical study of pedolectology’, Straight 1976 precisely and sensitively characterizes the speech of twenty-two Mayan children— but, again, almost entirely in terms of pho­ netic and phonological variables. Similarly, the recent studies of Voice printing’ have focused, with considerable success, on certain phonetic cues. Finally, at the recent conference on ‘Individual differences’, held at Berkeley in 1976, the emphasis was overwhelmingly on the sound level of speech. Now the sounds of speech require the shortest segments for recog­ nition as belonging to an individual, and it may well be that they are the most tellingly idiosyncratic; but this latter point remains to be demon­ strated— and, what is more, has never to our knowledge been offered as a

Characters

233

hypothesis. Much evidence, on the other hand, indicates the highly diacritic function of such variables as word usage and morphology (e.g. the dropping of inflectional endings), as well as syntax, discourse, and rhetorical tropes. The diagnostic value of such variables has been strongly confirmed by our analysis. In examining a character from Homer's Iliad ? we work from a written text, composed in a tradition which lacked (or more probably had no use for) orthographic resources to suggest phonetic or phonological variation. We thus examine, not so much the personal voice of our hero, as his personal style. Literary style has, of course, been carefully studied since the Hellenistic critics; in our own day, such analysis has often taken the form of analysis of syntax. Some hundreds or even thousands of articles, monographs, and master's or doctoral theses have been written over the past century on the syntax of various authors, major and minor. The syntactic analysis of individual authors has, moreover, been pursued more recently in terms of modern concepts of psycholinguistics, as in Brown & Gilman’s brilliant comparison of Emerson and Thoreau (1966), or of transformationaL generative syntax, as illustrated by the ground-breaking work of Ohman 1964, and by many studies in Freeman 1970. The relations between syntax and the author’s style constitute a special subfield of linguistics— one that is, as it were, prefabricated for the study of individual speech differences. Much less, however, has been made of personal speech w it h in literature—the variations employed by an author to differentiate the speech of one character from another. Such variations may be phonological, as in the case of such obvious mannerisms as a drawl, lisp, or stutter. But even in the absence of such clear signals, it seems that characters in certain literary works—e.g. in Shakespeare, Dickens, or Dostoievsky— can be recognized or ‘heard’ after a few sentences. From certain points of view, such literary characters should offer especially rich material for the study of personal speech, since the literary artist typically stylizes and sharpens the features he observes in experience. Literature is not a direct reflection of life, but the analysis of a literary product can be methodologically suggestive for the study of collected material. We contend that Achilles in the Iliad is characterized by individual speech patterns. Students, even on quite an elementary level, often note that his speech stands out, as have specialists in the language for over two millennia. Yet we do not find agreement as to the differentia— intuitive responses include: ‘He’s more forceful’, ‘harder to scan’, ‘uses odd words’, and ‘just feels different’. Why has this ancient and intriguing question remained unsolved? The difficulty lies partly in the Homeric language. As a dead language, it is known to us only through texts; and from these we can construct the active system— the competence of the original composer— only partly and

234

Homer’s Art

uncertainly. Furthermore, Homeric Greek was from the beginning an artificial literary dialect, distinct in important respects from the colloquial speech of those who composed in it. Even though no records of that colloquial speech survive, it is possible to say something about the differ­ ences. Epic, in the first place, ‘has to scan’— i.e., the Homeric language is governed by a surface output rule which requires that utterances consist of hexameters. The hexameter line implies much more than a sequence of dactyls (with spondaic substitutions); it also requires the avoidance of hiatus and the division of the line into asymmetrical hemistichs, with tendencies toward further subdivision into clausulae. We are, in fact, just beginning to understand the hexameter, through the work of O ’Neill 1942, Porter 1951, Frankel 1926, Peabody 1975, and others. But it is at least clear that composition in hexameters has an important constraining effect on sentence rhythms, particularly as each speech by a character within the Iliad consists of one or more complete hexameter lines (with the sole exception of XXIII.85 5). Composition in hexameters tends to make the morphology more com­ plex, and to simplify the syntax. Homeric morphology is characterized by a profusion of synonymous allomorphs, borrowed from various natural dia­ lects and in some cases generated within the poetic tradition; these provide an element of metrical flexibility, and the choice of one allomorph over another in a particular context is often metrically motivated. Homeric syntax, by contrast, makes repetitive use of relatively few constructions; it seldom employs inversions, inserted clauses, or deletions by parallelism or ‘gapping’. Generally, clause follows clause in a straightforward sequence. Oral recitation generally requires a language which is ‘formulaic’. This central term is also still in the process of interpretation— but it is at least clear that the poet composed, not word by word, but in groups of words, patterned so as to fit the meter, and that in many cases he employed fixed phrases which became, in effect, lexicalized; a noun-adjective phrase might become a single lexeme, so that the independent force of the adjective was lost. Since this language is at first unfamiliar to us, we start by noting its general features. All the characters in Homer ‘speak Homeric’; thus they all seem to speak very much alike. At a somewhat higher level of sophistica­ tion, however, the reader begins to take these general features for granted; they become the background, and individual variations begin to stand out. Here we attempt to state some of the variations which distinguish Achilles. Our analysis, then, is a (preliminary) investigation of two questions: (1) How does the Homeric poet, employing his artificial and in some ways restricted language, create a sense of individual character? (2) W hat ques­ tions can profitably be asked in the investigation of personal speech in general? The distinct possibility exists, further, that the special methodo­ logical problems raised by the speech of Achilles will lead us to answers that

Characters

235

tend to get neglected with living informants, and thus open up new questions about the general significance of individual speech to linguistic theory. In what follows, ‘speech’ refers primarily to actual utterances or patterns immediately inducible from them— but also to some extent, or at least implicitly, to a complex and specific level of organization with its own distinctive processes, which we shall refer to as an individual language. In language as in culture, the individual presents us with a level of organiza­ tion in its o w n r ig h t , often involving degrees of abstraction that are difficult or impossible to induce from observed behavior.

Adam Parry's Hypothesis 2. Attention was focused on Achilles’ way of speaking by Parry 1956. He asserts that ‘the formulaic character of Homer’s language means that every­ thing in the world is commonly presented as all men (all men within the poem, that is) commonly perceive it’ (53-4). This applies to the poet, and to his characters. ‘There is a single best way to describe a multitude of shining fires’; therefore Homer describes the Trojan watchfires (VIII.553-65) through a comparison with stars which rejoice the heart of the shepherd. He cannot, says Parry, present their ‘particular dramatic significance’— unlike Alexander Pope, who in his transition presented the fires as a ‘nightmare’. Similarly, values of life are essentially agreed upon’ by the characters, as ‘set forth by Sarpedon’ (XII.310-28). Achilles, however, ‘does not accept the common language. Achilles has no language in which to express his disillusionment.’ He can do so, says Parry, only by misusing the language he disposes of. He asks questions that cannot be answered and makes demands that cannot be met. He uses conventional expressions where we least expect him to. Achilles’ tragedy, his final isolation, is that he can in no sense, including that of language (unlike, say, Hamlet), leave the society which has become alien to him. The thesis offered by Parry’s compact paper (of which we have offered only a summary) is complex. It is partly a statement about the relation between the heroes and their culture: the heroes, says Parry, feel a congruity, validated by tradition, between ‘reality’ and ‘thought’; Achilles alone rejects this tradition. This aspect of Parry’s thesis has been effectively criticized by Claus 1975— who, in the first place, denies that the heroes in general experience their world as congruous or non-problematic; ‘heroic behavior is self-evidently subject to contradictory demands and impulses, the for­ mulaic expressions of which must be evaluated and then reconciled or discarded’ (16). Thus Sarpedon’s speech in Book Twelve (says Claus) is a

236

Homer’s A r t

complex rhetorical solution to the tension between heroic behavior when conceived as action for the sake of secular reward and heroic behavior when conceived as ‘substantially gratuitous'. Second, Claus denies that Achilles rejects his ethical tradition and the cultural rules with which it provides him; he rather attempts to apply those rules in a situation in which they cannot be made to work: ‘Virtually all that he says . . . conforms to the intangible standards which he feels the code demands of himself and of others, and places him therefore within heroic society— as he believes it ought to be in any case— not against it’ (24). Achilles then (we may add) is less Hamlet than Coriolanus; he becomes alienated from his community in an attempt to remain true to the code the community has taught him. Parry's paper is also a statement about the relation between formulaic language and Homeric thought processes. For Parry, fixed phrases imply fixed thoughts. Claus has less to say on this point, although he does make the necessary beginning by remarking that ‘formulae must be perceived by their speakers as capable of differing in meaning according to context, since intelligible speech cannot occur unless meaning is something only potential in words until used.' Nagler (1974: 61) puts this more forcefully: To speak accurately, a word or phrase by itself does not actually mean anything. It is, of course, the speaker who means something, which he can signal to hearers who share his linguistic acculturation by means of utterances that are recognized as words, phrases, and so forth. It is necessary to recall this simple fact from time to time, to remind us that the art language cannot compose for the poet, or even, in the last analysis, restrict what he means to say. Parry's notion that formulaic language imposes formulaic thought is a kind of Whorfianism run wild. His example (48-9), the fires at the end of Book Eight, is a particularly unfortunate one— since the same fires appear again at the beginning of Book Ten (1—16), where they provoke in Agamemnon a passion of terror, described in a simile of a thunder-andlightning storm. Homer could have presented the fires in Book Eight as a ‘nightmare’ if it had suited his dramatic purpose there to do so; he could have compared them to a forest fire (cf. XI. 155-7, XX.490-93) or the smoke of a burning city (cf. XVIII.207-14). The formulaic language is the language in which Homer and his characters say what they have to say; if they say, not what we would say, but the kind of things bards and heroes usually say, that is a point, not about their language, but about their culture. Lastly: Parry (54) confuses, in his account of Achilles’ speeches, the levels of language and discourse. ‘Questions that cannot be answered’, ‘demands that cannot be m et’, and unexpected ‘conventional expressions' can be translated from one language to another without (from the point of view

Characters

237

of these aspects of the remarks) loss of information value. Parry's account of Achilles' speeches refers to problems of congruity and truth value, not language or style.1234 Here we address the questions of the language of Achilles. We shall point out specific features which distinguish his speech from that of the people he converses with. We shall argue that the language of Achilles does reflect a definite personality, which we shall characterize briefly in humanistic rather than technical psychological terms. We shall also argue that his language56 does not support the view that he is alienated from his culture— or that he experiences an incongruity between speech, thought, and reality.

Methodology 3. In conducting our analysis, we had to design a methodological strategy. Our first question was that of sample. The descriptive linguist traditionally operated with ‘ten notebooks of Choctaw5 for the phonology and morphol­ ogy of Choctaw. The sociolinguist operates with the answers to certain questions which he puts to specified numbers of informants from various categories of the population. Many a transformational syntactician operates with his or her personal command of the language under investigation. But how many notebooks, or tapes of a speaker, or sessions of introspection are needed in order to capture what is distinctive id his speech? Since we were studying a literary work, we were able to draw a sample which was essentially total . The language of Achilles, for our purposes, is represented by what Achilles says in the lliad\ elsewhere, e.g. in the Odyssey, he is essentially a different speaker. The question of sampling reminds us again that, in studying personal speech through a literary example, we are conducting an inquiry which is, in important respects, different from work with live informants or historical records, though in some respects parallel to such work. The poet of the Iliad gave Achilles just those speeches, and the manner of speaking, appropriate to the unfolding dramatic needs of that work; the result is not a sample but a complete character, as created. Our total sample of the language of Achilles consists of 897 lines, averaging between six and seven words a line. The great bulk of these are concentrated within ten scenes, displaying the hero in a variety of situations (e.g. intimate, public, battlefield): (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6)

Achilles5 quarrel with Agamemnon: 1.53-305. his prayer to Thetis: 1.348—430. his reception of the embassy: IX. 182—668. his sending Patroclus to battle: XVI.1-100, 124-256. his reception of the news of Patroclus’ death: XVIII. 1-137. his reconciliation with Agamemnon: XIX.40-276.

238 (7) (8) (9) (10)

Homer’s A r t

his unfolding struggle with the river: XXL 1-297. his confrontation with Hector: XXII. 248-404. his conduct of the funeral of Patroclus: XXIII. 1-257. his ransoming of Hectors body: XXIV.468-67Ó.

These scenes include 758 lines by Achilles. Another 139 lines by him are scattered through the epic, and these were also included in our sample. However, we have excluded, for reasons to be specified, 71 lines by Achilles which occur during the funeral games (XXIII.257-897). Achilles dominates these ten scenes; he is the actor who directs the action, the challenge to be met, the problem to be solved. These scenes constitute less than one-sixth of the Iliad? but through them Achilles dominates the poem. The important turns of the plot take place here, especially the unpredicted turns; the other characters do not know what Achilles will say and do. Often, as audience, we do not know either; we listen intently to his speeches in order to know what is in his mind. The language of Achilles is central to the drama of the Iliad. On levels of analysis where we could proceed intuitively, armed with our memory of the whole text (particularly on the levels of rhetoric and dis­ course), we were prepared to compare Achilles with all other speakers in the Iliad. On a more finely detailed level, however, we needed to count the incidence of specific items, and for this purpose we needed a counter­ sample. Here we made another major strategic decision; we chose as our counter-sample those speeches, made in the presence of Achilles, that he hears or overhears.3 (We excluded the funeral games, because in that section it is often not clear which speeches Achilles hears and which he does not.) This choice, again, reflects the fact that we were dealing with a literary work. From the point of view of idiolect, it might seem more natural to contrast Achilles with the total speeches of one or more other characters— Odysseus, say, and Hector. But we were asking: how does the poet distin­ guish the speech of his hero from the speeches of those others who form the background to his acts? From this point of view, it made sense to contrast Achilles’ speeches with those that form their immediate environment. The speeches heard or overheard by Achilles (again excluding the funeral games) total 746 lines in the ten scenes, and another 144 scattered through the epic. The two samples were thus nearly equal in size: 897 vs. 890. This was both fortuitous and fortunate; it enabled us to present our raw figures without converting them to per-line frequencies. The counter-speakers include gods and goddesses, men and women, and one horse. Some are friendly, some angry, some superordinate, some sub­ ordinate; the counter-sample, like the basic sample, presents a great range of topics and audiences. Our data run to some twelve or thirteen thousand words; we feel that the size and range of the samples contributes to the validity of our conclusions.

Characters

239

Once the samples were defined, we had to determine our discriminatory variables, their analytical status, and their internal, structural, and hierarch­ ical relations to each other. We had no special source of hypotheses; we merely speculated about possible relevant variables on the basis of our knowledge of Homeric Greek and of language, poetics, and linguistics. The positive results which we present reflect successful hypotheses; many hypotheses were unsuc­ cessful, in that no discriminatory variable between Achilles and the counter­ speakers emerged from analysis. Some failed hypotheses are itemized at the end of our analysis, before our final conclusions. Ideally, each variable that has been found to characterize Achilles should be discussed in terms of an explicit statement of the relevant set of rules for Homeric Greek. Unfortunately this would entail a monograph-length treat­ ment (and the formulation of a partly novel grammar!) For the present, we simply present the discovered variables and trust to the reader's general knowledge of language and linguistics (and, in some cases, of Homeric Greek). We have found nine distinctive features in Achilles’ speech, with the qualification that some of them are internally complex and so include sub­ features. We set them out under three headings: rhetoric, discourse, and syntax/lexicon.

The Language of Achilles 4Λ. Rhetoric By 'rhetoric’ we mean simply those devices or strategies which, effectively employed, make a good speech’ and a good speaker’— although, ineffec­ tively employed, they produce 'empty talk’ and the 'windbag'. These devices may be acquired by systematic instruction, but more often are unconsidered by the speaker and organized at a subliminal level. Rhetoric impinges on argument, since it involves the selection of relevant points, and orders them into a persuasive structured relation; rhetoric also impinges on style and syntax, since it involves the organization of linguistic elements into meaningful and pointed utterance. Yet rhetoric (typically ignored by linguistics) has an independent status; it is one of the essential systems for shaping sentences and putting them together into larger units. We begin our account of Achilles’ rhetoric with the ethnographer’s familiar question: 'W hat do the natives say?’ The natives, the characters in the Iliade tell us that Achilles is a somewhat ineffective speaker. He himself says that, while he is an unequalled warrior, 'in the public meeting there are others who are better’ (XVIII. 106). He is young and impetuous; his father had warned him, when he sent him to Troy, that his difficulty would be, not in dominating the enemy, but in getting on with his own side (IX.254-8). Therefore he has others to help him, especially his friend

240

Homer's A r t

Patroclus, who can guide him with words (XL786-9), and Phoenix, the old man who had cared for him in infancy, who has come to teach him to be ‘a speaker of words and a doer of deeds’ (IX.443). By the time of the Iliad, Achilles is already perfect in the second role, but lacking in the first— in contrast to the master of words, Odysseus, who says to him: ‘You are stronger than I . . . with the spear, but I excel you in thought by far, since I was bom before you and know more’ (XIX.217-19)· This judgment on Achilles, made within the poem, is in contrast (we would submit) to the experience of nearly every reader of the poem: Achilles is the most effective speaker, and most of the memorable speeches are his. This paradox, however, can be resolved by pointing to an ambiguity in the term ‘effective’, and to the existence of two contrasting rhetorics. One we may call ‘second-person’ rhetoric; it persuades others— convinces them that certain facts are objectively true, that certain attitudes ought to be held, or that a certain course of action is proper or desirable. The second kind of rhetoric we may call ‘first-person’; it also persuades its audience, but not so much of facts about the world as of facts about the speaker. Through the expression of feelings and attitudes in an emotionally convincing way, this rhetoric convinces the audience that the speaker really does think what he says he thinks, and that his feelings are deep. The contrast is roughly equivalent to Bühler’s (1934) distinction between ‘conative’ or ‘appellative’ vs. ‘expressive’ functions in communi­ cation (cf. Jakobson I960: 354-5). The first kind of rhetoric is character­ istic of the successful politician or lawyer; the second, of the successful lyric poet. Of the two sorts of rhetoric, Homer conferred the second upon Achilles. He is the only hero in the Iliad who is himself a bard. In one passage, we actually see him outside his tent in the evening, playing the lyre and singing ‘the deeds of men’ (IX. 186-9)— including, we assume, his own; Homer intends him to be taken not only as a poet, but as a poet of his own acts.4 The poetry which makes his rhetoric so powerfully expressive does not, however, enable him to manipulate men effectively; and so the others are not persuaded to join him against Agamemnon. But its power does enable him to touch a second audience, namely the reader, and so to create an ironic complicity. The fact that Achilles’ speech is poetic means that our analysis must attune to poetic functions. The problem of ‘speech as a personality symbol’ overlaps with the nature of poetic language; and, by the same token, the field of psycholinguistics overlaps with that of stylistics. What, then, is the structure of this poetic hero’s rhetoric? Achilles’ points are elaborated with a richness of detail. One excellent example comes in the first book where he swears by the scepter (all the translations below are by Redfield):

Characters

241

Yes, by this scepter, that no more will put forth Spring or leaf, since it left its stump in the mountains, Nor flourish again; all over the bronze has stripped it Of leaf and bark, and now the sons of Achaeans Close it in their palms, judges whose laws Are kept before Zeus— and strong will be this oath . . . (1.234-9) Rather than simply name the scepter, he sketches an unforgettable vignette of its origins and functions. Another example is the speech with which he dedicates his hair at Patroclus’ funeral; he pictures the river of his homeland, his father and his father’s vow, the sacrifice and the place of sacrifice (XXIII. 144—51). Other speakers provide rich detail— most notably Pandarus, in his account of his bow and his horses (V. 180—216)— but none with the degree and aptness of Achilles, whose detail is a means of compelling the hearer to a more intense perception, a vivifying of reality which rivals the metaphor as an essential of poetic language. Homeric rhetoric is characteristically ‘paratactic’; items are strung together as roughly coordinate, with relatively little indication of their logical relation or relative importance. Often the same point is made several different ways. W hen ineffective, such repetition is merely plethoric, as in 1.106—20, where Agamemnon (under pressure) is expressing himself very badly. He first tells the seer (in paraphrase): ‘You never say anything good; you always like to bring bad news; you never told us anything good.’ He then recapitulates the seer’s message, and says that he himself wanted to take the girl home with him; he likes her better than his wife; he finds her no worse in figure, growth, mind, skills. He says that he will, however, give her back, but he wants another prize— so that he won’t be the only one without a prize; because it is not fitting; they can all see that he is losing his prize. Agamemnon here says everything three or four times, without estab­ lishing any logic or order to his sequences. In Achilles’ speeches, such a list is typically developed into a cumulative, expanding series. Achilles does not draw a simple comparison, but concen­ trates two or three. One celebrated instance depicts his rejection of a recompense: Hateful his gifts— I count them a hair’s worth; Not if he offered me ten or twenty times As much as now, if he could get it someplace, Not so much as Orchomenus holds, or Thebes In Egypt, where the houses bulge with goods— There are a hundred gates, two hundred men Ride out at each with chariots and horse—

242

Homer’s A r i

Not if his gifts were numbered like sand or dust, Not even so can the king persuade my heart. (IX. 3 7 8-86) Here he works up from the offered gifts— to ten-fold; to twenty-fold; to those potentially available; from one city; or from a second, larger one, in a large country; to the sand; and even to the dust (with its still finer particles)— a seven-point scale! As if this were insufficient, we find him just fifteen lines later (IX.401-9), running from what Troy held, to Apollo's temple, to four specific categories (cattle etc.): six points of comparison. A third good example occurs in his rejection of the pleas of the dying Hector (XXII. 348—51): even if the ransom were 'ten-fold, yes, twenty-fold, and they should promise yet more, no, not though Priam, son of Dardanus, told them to pay your weight in gold’. Other heroes can build up ideas in this way, as in Hector's slowly developed passage on the fall of Troy, which starts with a sequence of negations— 'Not . . . nor . . . no . . . so much as’— and ends with a full and imaginative picture (VI.447-65). But no hero rivals Achilles in the quality of his sustained and cumulative images— which, be it noted, are sometimes implicitly metaphors (x is like y), and sometimes underlying metonyms, as in any metaphorical series. W hether lyric or epic, then, his imagery is often poetic (Jakobson & Halle 1956: 76—82). A third poetic feature in Achilles’ speech is his ability vividly to depict hypothetical images— things he has not experienced in an empirical sense, but which he predicts or foresees. This is illustrated by the passage where he describes how he will sail home on the morrow (IX.3 56—63), and by the one where he speculates on Aeneas’ rewards for killing him (XX. 179—98). An even more striking image occurs later, when he is describing to his victim, Lycaon, the details of what will happen to his corpse: Lie down there with the fish; they from your wound W ill lick the blood, uncaring; nor will your mother Lay you out on the bier for mourning; Scamander W ill tumble you down to the broad gulf of the sea And there some fish will leap through the black wave W ith a ripple, to eat Lycaon's shining fat. (XXI. 122-7) Other heroes also engage in such hypothetical reasoning— Hector s vision of Andromache’s future (VI.456—65), and Priam's of his own death (XXII.59— 76)— but none so often or so well. Achilles’ capacity for hypothetical imagining comes out, above all, in his use of the simile, where one complex of concrete perceptions is clarified by imaginative comparison with another. Although the simile in Homeric style

Characters

243

is proper to narrative, and not to speeches, Achilles’ speeches include two remarkable ones: first, when he compares himself to a mother bird feeding her nestlings (IX.323-8); second, when he compares the weeping Patroclus to a little girl crying to be picked up (XVI.7-11). As with the other poetic devices, Achilles’ use is not unique; compare Paris’ fine simile (111.60-63), and also Aeneas’ (XX.252-5). (Cf. also Achilles’ myth of the jars, XXIV.525-33, with Phoenix’ myth of the prayers, IX.496-514.) But the peculiar power of Achilles’ two similes (he is the only speaker with two) places them among the gems of this epic, and hence of world literature. These similes are relatively complex forms of metaphor, in the generic sense of the art of comparison, and hence an essential realization of Achilles’ poetic language. A fourth trait is what we can provisionally call ‘poetic directness’. Some­ times this reduces to a simplicity, as in his response to his dream of Patroclus (XXIII. 103-7). But this same simplicity becomes a strength when it enables him to go straight to the hard facts. When his mother tells him that his fate is tied to Hector’s, she avoids the word ‘death’ and speaks of potmos ‘fate’. But Achilles opens his response with ‘straightway let me die’ (XVIII.98). And even after Hector’s psyche has fled to Hades, Achilles says, vaunting over him, ‘Lie thou dead!’ (XXII.365). Poetic directness often gives Achilles’ speech a tone of detachment. At one point Lycaon, with the spear actually at his throat, pleads for mercy; Achilles replies carefully, in two parts. He explains that, since the death of Patroclus, he no longer takes prisoners; thus he rejects Lycaon’s quasi-legal claim. He then goes on to reject the appeal to mercy: Patroclus has died, and Achilles himself must also die; so, ‘friend, you die too. Why do you cry so?’ (XXI. 106). He then cuts Lycaon’s throat and feeds him to the fish. While this and similar passages may have struck some readers as bordering on psychopathology, we contend that the behavior is normal in terms of Iliadic culture; and that the speech mainly reflects a remorseless realism, which is one variant of the principle that the poet ‘speaks the truth’. Achilles can bring to the surface themes which are otherwise kept implicit in the poem. W hen confronting Hector, he compares the warrior to a predatory beast— a comparison which is the theme of many similes, but is nowhere else stated flatly (XXII.262-4). In the same scene, he brings to the surface the latent theme of cannibalism when he regrets that he lacks the force to chop up Hector and eat him raw (XXII.346-7). 5 Thus, by the last book, Achilles speaks to Priam in a voice now familiar to us; he combines a lyric elaboration with an unflinching statement of the hard facts of the world: Wretch, your heart has had to bear much evil. How did you endure to come to the ships alone, Before the eyes of a man who your many and good

244

Homer's A r t

Sons has slaughtered? Iron-hard your spirit. Come, sit here, and all this pain of ours We shall let rest in the heart, although it hurts us. There’s no conclusion comes to cruel mourning. Thus the gods have spun for wretched men, To live in pain. But they themselves are carefree. Two are the jars set on the floor of Zeus, Full of gifts that he gives, one of evil, one of blessings; When he mixes his gifts, Zeus who delights in thunder, Sometimes it runs to evil, sometimes to good— But when his gifts are sorrow, Zeus marks his victim; Evil wasting drives him across the earth; He wanders, by gods disowned, by mortal men. Thus to Peleus gods gave shining gifts From birth. All mankind he excelled In happiness and wealth; he was king in Phthia, And him, though a mortal, gods gave a goddess-wife. But then god gave the evil: he’d not have A race of mighty sons born in his house. One son he had, short-lived; he’ll not even have My care in his aging, since so far from home I sit in Troy, harming you and your sons. You also, old man, once, we hear, were happy. All far Lesbos holds, the seat of Makar, Wide Phrygia, the trackless Hellespont— All those, they say, you excelled in wealth and sons. But since they brought sorrow, the Heavenly Ones, Ever about your town are war and dying. Bear it. Don’t weep forever, in your heart. You’ll not conclude it, grieving a fine son, Nor bringing him back; you’ll just add evil to evil. (XXIV.518-51) Here his simplicity and directness have been raised to an ethic: nothing can be done with the way of things, except to see it as it is. Together with this, he unfolds and elaborates his thought in the meticulous statement of Peleus’ and Priam’s good and evil fortune; in the list of places where Priam’s wealth excelled; and most of all in the myth of the jars, which is a self-contained poetic creation. Like the other two traits of concrete detail and hypothetical modes, Achilles’ simplicity and realism have parallels. For sheer directness, no speaker can equal Paris (cf. I ll.43 8—46); and Achilles’ merciless speech to Lycaon is paralleled by Diomede’s to Dolon (X.447-53). But no other speaker is as often so remorselessly direct; no one fits and tries to fit word

Characters

245

and idiom so tightly to an unadorned reality. In sum, when we say that Achilles employs the resources of a poet, we mean only that, in his speeches, these devices are particularly frequent and particularly well-developed. Further understanding of the expressive, poetic mode of Achilles’ rhetoric comes from a controlled contrast with the opposite conative mode, aimed mainly at persuading and moving people around—particularly as the mode is exemplified in the speech of that master negotiator and persuader, the quintessential^ pragmatic Odysseus. There are, then, a number of rhetorical devices that Achilles does n o t employ. First of all, the skilled and sophisticated speakers of the Iliad often make a distinction in order to limit a point. Nestor says to Achilles: ‘You are stronger, and a goddess mother bore you, yet [Agamemnon] is greater, since he is king over many’ (1.280—81). To Diomede he says (in paraphrase): ‘You are strong in war, and for your age not a bad speaker, yet you are not as good a speaker as I am, since you are younger’ (IX. 5 3—9)· Diomede says to Agamemnon: ‘[Zeus] gave you to be honored for the scepter beyond others, but he did not give you valor; its power is great’ (IX.38—9). Menoetius tells Patroclus that Achilles was better born, but Patroclus still the elder (XI.786—7). Agamemnon complains of Odysseus’ language, but accepts his position (XIV. 104-8). In each case, the speaker implies that from some other perspective, he might have made some other point. Achilles never speaks in this way; he simply makes his point. His speeches are rich in antitheses— god vs. man, courage vs. greed, etc.:— but he makes his point apply to both sides of the antithesis. A second related phenomenon is that an Iliadic orator sometimes con­ cedes a point to an adversary in order to gain others later. Thus Phoenix (IX.5 23) says that it was all right for Achilles to be angry before, but not now; Polydamus (XVIII.25 7—8) says that Hector’s tactics were correct while Achilles would not fight, but must now be revised; Sarpedon (V.485) says that Hector is fighting well himself, but failing to organize his troops. The best example comes from Odysseus, who sympathizes with the desire of the Greeks to go home; to spend even a month away from home is hard, and they are in their ninth year— but he is arguing for staying still longer, having stayed so long (IL292-8). Achilles, on the other hand, never con­ cedes a point to an adversary— neither one that has actually been made, nor a hypothetical one. Third, the other heroes sometimes anticipate the objections of their adversaries as part of the larger strategy of putting oneself into another’s position, in order to influence and persuade (e.g. IX.300-301). But Achilles never anticipates an adversary’s objections. A fourth move in the orator’s repertoire is to provide alternative reasons or motives for a given course of action. A good example is provided by Lycaon (XXL74-96) when he appeals to Achilles on the grounds that he is a suppliant, has already bought his freedom once, and is not sprung from the

246

Homer's A r t

same womb as Hector. But the clearest example of such ‘over-determined’ rhetoric is provided by Odysseus when, during the embassy in Book Nine (225—306), he appeals alternatively to duty, gain, and honor. Specifically, he makes the following points: (1) Achilles’ father enjoined him to curb his proud spirit, for gentle-mindedness is the better part. (2) Agamemnon has offered many sumptuous gifts: seven tripods, ten talents of gold, etc.— even seven women, including the concubine whom he had taken away, and a redemption of Achilles’ honor through an oath that Agamemnon never touched the young woman. (3) Achilles will receive great sexual satisfaction in the form of twenty of the finest Trojan women. (4) He will receive further honor through a choice from among Agamemnon’s three daughters. (5) He will gain enormous wealth through the rule of seven ‘well-peopled’ cities. (6) Pity alone should move him to forgo his wrath. (7) If he does, great honor will be given by the Greeks. Finally (8), now, he can at last kill Hector. Odysseus’ heaping up of motives, quite normal for Iliadic oratory, is refused by Achilles, who is not moved by this kind of language, though he is deeply moved, subsequently, by the more emotional and personal argu­ ments of Phoenix. Achilles, in his turn, never tries to motivate a hearer this way. Another device, superficially merely verbal, is the repetition of a parti­ cular word. Thus, in II.382-4, Agamemnon repeats eu four, times; in IX .464-9, Phoenix repeats variants of polüs four times. Nestor has three repetitions of kârtistoi in 1.266-7, and three of miti in XXIII. 315-18. Such repetitions serve to stress a central concept, and are characteristic of the meditative folk-wisdom of Hesiod (cf. Works and days 5-7, 150—51, 317— 19, 354—6, 578-80). Achilles never uses this device; his speeches are more rapid, and thus seem more spontaneous. These negative points state the rhetorical tone of Achilles’ speech: pas­ sionate and highly personal, unequivocal, aiming at self-declaration rather than at persuading others. As compared with the rhetoric of the wily, selfconcealing, seductive Odysseus, Achilles’ rhetoric is as different as equally good rhetoric can be. Achilles himself makes the point: Noble son of Laertes, crafty Odysseus, My speech will come straight through, forgetting tact, Just what I think— and I’ll see it happen so. No need to sit there muttering each to each. I hate that man like to the gates of Hell W ho hides one thing in his heart and says another. I’ll say it straight, the way I see it best. (IX. 3 08-14) Yet we should note that this is a claim to truth in contrast to tact or guile, not truth in the sense of a balanced factual account. Achilles does not feel

Characters

2Al

called upon to adapt himself to the world; rather he describes the world according to his present feelings. This leads to certain exaggerations. Thus he tells Agamemnon that he has received practically nothing at distribu­ tions— in effect, a beggar’s share (1.166-8). He tells his mother that Zeus awards him no honor at all (1.354); and he tells his friends that, before Troy, the brave man and the coward receive exactly the same honor (IX. 319). Later he looks back on his own anger simply as an unfortunate experience, and speaks of the strife which drives even a sensible man to rage’ (XVIII. 108). W hile he is angry, he says that he cares for Briseis just as Menelaus cares for Helen, just as any decent man cares for his wife (IX. 34043); later, he says that the girl was certainly not worth the quarrel, and that it would have been better if she’d died before it began (XIX.56-62). Such distortions are examples of what might be called poetic license; facts and consistency are neglected for the sake of vivid self-presentation. This point can be translated into psycho-social terms: there is a certain theatricality in Achilles’ self-presentation; he plays himself to the hilt. He thus becomes the victim of his own feelings. His friends tell him that his anger with Agamemnon is not improper, but is exaggerated (IX.515-23, 630-40). He answers that his rage makes it impossible for him to respond to argument (IX.644—8). Later, in his bafflement, he prays that all the Trojans might die, and all the Achaeans as well, só that he and Patroclus alone m ight take Troy (XVI.97-100).6 After Patroclus’ death, the extra­ vagance of Achilles’ mourning is a problem to others— to Antilochus, who is afraid he will kill himself (XVIII.34); to Odysseus, who has to dissuade him from taking the troops into battle without allowing them to eat (XIX. 15 5—72) and who complains that his mourning is excessive (XIX.221-33); and to Agamemnon, who tries to persuade him to bathe (XXIII.38-41). Even his mother thinks that Achilles goes too far in giving up food and sex (XXIV. 128—37). Thus in gesture, as in speech, Achilles enacts his present state of mind without a mature respect for limits; his realism is that of the immediate moment, not of the long view. Before we leave the subject of rhetoric, another general point should be made about the speakers in the Iliad. Any one of them can, in principle, produce a remarkable speech. Thus the famous speech by Sarpedon (XÌI.310-28) is not what one would expect on the basis of his earlier statements. The speech by Glaucus (VI. 145-211), while not out of char­ acter, is unexpected. Menelaus does not speak in a noteworthy manner until Book Thirteen (620-34). Aeneas is notably laconic throughout the Iliad until he suddenly cuts loose with the speech in XX. 200-5 8. Even a very minor character can suddenly take off into brilliant rhetoric— witness Asios in XII. 164-72 (including a simile). This potential for excellent rhetoric makes the Iliadic characters unreal— unless you agree with Balzac that every janitor is a man of genius! But it should remind us that all individuals in the Teal world’ vary in their rhetorical ability, and that even the dumb and

248

H orne/s A r t

humble have moments of it. More immediately, it means that Achilles’ rhetorical power is not something so extraordinary in its context, but more a question of sustained intensity and high quality. Any hero can speak well, but Achilles always does. His speech is never routine. In principle, we should have compiled a total inventory of rhetorical devices in the Iliad, and then analysed the devices which Achilles uses; but this must wait for some future scholar. 4.2. Discourse The category of discourse includes rules for creating prolixity vs. concise­ ness; it divides speeches into sub-units such as the sentence through the use of various genres (narrative, simile etc.); and it establishes interconnections between such units. Questions of discourse are of course inextricably inter­ connected with those of syntax; for one thing, the syntactic patterns them­ selves vary from one discourse type to another. One of the familiar genres of the Iliadic orator is the narrative. One needs only be reminded of Phoenix’ autobiography (IX.444-95), his story of Meleager (IX.524-99), Nestor’s several accounts of his youth (esp. XI. 670-761), Agamemnon’s story of Ate (XIX.91-131), Aeneas’ annotated genealogy (XX.215—41), and the many genealogies— or of Lycaon’s account of how he came to be recaptured, and who he is (XXI.75-93). It is true that narrative is by no means absent from Achilles’ speech: he tells of Thetis’ help by Zeus (1.396-406), of the origins of his lost armor (XVIII.84-5), and of Heracles’ death (XVIII. 117—19); he mentions his own genealogy (XXI. 187-9) and tells of Niobe and her sorrows (XXIV.602-17). But narrative is relatively unimportant within the total framework of what he says, and he uses it allusively, without himself becoming a story-teller. The only exception to this is his narration to his mother in the first book (36693). Here the audience already knows the story: we listen to learn how this character has perceived and experienced it, since there are significant eli­ sions and other changes. Finally, Achilles’ narratives are significantly shorter. Whereas other narratives run from 10 to 100 lines, his run only from 3 to 15. Here again we see the poetic side of his language; while the other characters use narrative like the orators in Herodotus, Achilles’ use resembles that of Pindar. A second discourse-level feature is length of speeches. We find that Achilles’ speeches are somewhat shorter, since he produces the same number of lines with half again as many speeches. In five scenes (and in Book Twenty) another speaker gives the longest speech— but in five others, Achilles does so: his appeal to Thetis; his sending of Patroclus; his hearing of Patroclus’ death; the slaying of Hector (where the longest speech is given after Hector’s death, to the Myrmidons); and his ransoming of Hector’s body. These facts of length are partly determined by context; in debating situations or with the enemy, Achilles is relatively brief. (Aeneas, after

Characters

249

accusing Achilles of idle talk, goes on to make a speech twice as long as his— XX.200-58). W ith his own troops, or in the relatively intimate milieu of his own hut, Achilles’ speeches are longer. The brevity of Achilles’ speeches, and the sensitivity of this feature to context, is revealing of Achilles’ status and personality. Unlike the less powerful and rambling Nestor, his remarks are concise and forceful. On the other hand, he gives an impression of tension on public occasions, and appears unwilling to develop his remarks except among his intimates.7 By far the longest of his speeches, of course, is his great address to the embassy (IX.308—429); it is made in his own hut and is directed to his closest friends outside of his own troops (cf. IX.204). It is a tremendous explosion of passion which reduces its audience to stunned silence (IX.430-31)— and then is followed by Phoenix’ still longer (but completely unexplosive) speech. 4.3. SyntaxiLexicon The third level of structure in the diagnosis of speech is that of syntax— in the sense of the relations between words in the clause, and to some extent the structures underlying those clauses. Syntax may involve processes of addi­ tion, deletion, or commutation of words and idioms: how are sentences or clauses linked, what is the incidence of asyndeton, and what are the differ­ ential rules for selecting different categories of words and constructions? An important (although little studied) rule of Homeric syntax requires each clause in continuous discourse to be united to its predecessor by at least one connector or 'link’. There are many kinds of links, including demon­ strative pronouns and adverbs, correlatives,' certain particles, and conjunc­ tions. Against this strong rule for linkage between one clause and the next, only about three percent of clauses are unlinked; these are said to be ‘in asyndeton’, and are, of course, highly marked. Asyndeton is more frequent in some grammatical and semantic contexts than others; e.g., it is somewhat more frequent when the new clause begins with an interrogative, or con­ tains an imperative, or states a proverb. A few standard formulae are always in asyndeton. In one construction, in which a clause is formally introduced, asyndeton is so frequent as to be practically standard: Ί am going to tell you something: such-and-such is the case’ (e.g. IX.529, XIX. 103, 193, XXIV. 134). Asyndeton is significantly more frequent in the speeches of Achilles: 42 vs. 29 instances— or, if we omit the 'clause formally introduced’ construc­ tion, 39 vs. 2 1 .8 There are actually fewer imperatives (including hortatory subjunctives, aoristic prohibition subjunctives, and infinitives for impera­ tives) in Achilles’ speeches than in the counter-sample; but Achilles’ imperatives are in asyndeton 12 times, as against 5 times in the counter­ sample. Four times in Achilles’ speeches, asyndeton is produced by post­ poning a pronoun which might naturally have opened its clause and thus

250

Homer's A r t

have functioned as a link (XVL55, 94, XIX.421, XXIV.544-6); this construction (which never occurs in the counter-sample) is a form of emphatic inversion. We see, then, that Achilles has more asyndeton in general, especially with imperatives and in emphatic constructions; all this contributes to his abrupt, informal, forceful way of speaking. A second syntactic measure is the differential incidence of grammatical features (e.g. the aorist or genitive). While the speech of Achilles and his counterparts is generally coordinate, a striking discrepancy emerges in the occurrence of the subjunctive: 133 vs. 80 instances (not counting subjunc­ tives used for imperatives). This may reflect the more emotional quality of his speech (although it is interesting that the number of optatives is the same— 54— and the number of imperatives is actually fewer— 98 vs. 107). The parameter of syntax also intersects with that of lexicon, the semantic structure of words and idioms, etc. Thus words and particles with strong connotations of endearment reflect the speaker’s feeling about his interlo­ cutor, or some topic, or the social interaction that is taking place. Their use or avoidance also symbolizes the speaker’s personality in a social context. Our study has disclosed two major areas, partly lexical, partly syntactic, where Achilles’ speech is diagnostically different from that of the control group: vocatives and related phenomena, and particles. Vocatives are ‘outside the sentence’, whether at the beginning or end, or as insertions within syntactic structure. Occasionally a Homeric speaker will shift out of the vocative and then back into it again (cf. 1.74, XXII.261). We counted each shift separately, and found that, from this point of view, Achilles is close to the counter-sample: 78 vocatives vs. 70. The important difference is in the greater elaboration of Achilles’ vocative expressions; he tends to pile vocative on vocative— i.e. to string together two or more vocative expressions, either or each of which could have been used separately. ‘Could have been used separately’ is obviously a somewhat controversial formulation; but using a standard which had the merit of being the same for both samples, we found 23 such expressions in Achilles’ speeches vs. 8 in the counter-sample. (A cruder but less controversial index to the same phenomenon; Achilles’ vocative expressions total 190 words, the counter-sample’s 141.) An elaborate instance is XVI.233—5, an address to Zeus which occupies almost two lines, and is further developed to the end of the next line— another example of Achilles’ piling up details. Sixteen of Achilles’ speeches begin with a whole-line vocative expression; only six of the counter-speeches begin this way (and only three of these are addressed to Achilles). We note that Achilles tends to begin speeches with a vocative propername expression: 23 of his speeches begin in this way, as against 12 in the counter-sample. The counter-speakers tend to place the name later in the first line: 17 of these, vs. 9 for Achilles. More significantly, perhaps, is Achilles’ tendency to characterize those he

Characters

251

addresses by titles, such as goddess', ‘mother', ‘herald’, ‘king’. He calls Priam giron elder’ (or gerate) no less than eight times in Book Twenty-four. Such titles imply a specific relation between the speaker and his audience; the counter-speakers, by contrast, characterize Achilles more generally as ‘son of Peleus’, ‘like to the gods’ etc. The exceptions are Thetis and Phoenix, who repeatedly call Achilles ‘child’; Phoenix also once calls him philos ‘dear’, ‘intimate’. Otherwise Achilles is not characterized by title, except for a few uses of such vague ho noti fies as ânax and órkhame laony each meaning ‘ruler’. Related to Achilles’ ‘relational’ use of titles is his free use of terms of affection—philos three times; eriêres hetairoi ‘trusty comrades’ to the Myrmi­ dons; atta gerate ‘old daddy’ to Phoenix; deïlê'poor fellow’ to Priam; ‘delight of my heart’, ‘ill-fated, dearest of companions’, ‘beloved head’ to Patroclus. The only similar item in the counter-sample is Odysseus’ opépon, a phrase of affectionate protest, used when Odysseus is trying to establish a tone of intimacy (IX.252). Most characteristic of Achilles is his free use of terms of abuse. This is most notable in his quarrel with Agamemnon in Book One; he calls the king ‘greedier than anyone’, ‘clothed in shamelessness with a heart for gain’, ‘greatly shameless’, ‘dog-face’, ‘folk-devouring king’— and (in the line cen­ sured by David Hume in ‘The standard of taste’) ‘heavy with wine, with the eyes of a dog, and the heart of a deer’. Later insults are much less elaborate, but they continue; Achilles uses ‘dog’ (twice), ‘fool’ (twice), alaste (meaning obscure, but clearly negative), and ‘most destructive of the gods’ (to Apollo). The counter-speakers, on the other hand, while they often reproach Achilles, dò not find it easy to use such language to his face. Patroclus, it is true, calls him ainaretë (another obscure term) and nëlées ‘ruthless’ (XVI. 31-3); and Agenor, having worked himself up to a confrontation with Achilles, calls him nëputie ‘fool’ (XXI.585)— and is promptly elimi­ nated. Achilles’ use of vocatives confirms our sense that he dominates the interactions in which he takes part. He does not have to hurry into the delivery of his message, but can begin by firmly establishing his relation with his audience, through initial proper-names and elaborated propername expressions. He refers often to his relation with those to whom he speaks, both objectively (through relational titles) and subjectively (through terms of affection and abuse). Achilles’ free use of insults is of course especially characteristic of his status; he does not have to watch his lan­ guage. Two passages further confirm this pattern. In Book Sixteen (200206) Achilles says that the Myrmidons have been urging him to battle, calling him skhetlie and nëlées. This quoted speech is a paraphrase, if not an invention, and is in Achilles’ own style; he displays the way in which he would talk to himself if hè were finding fault with himself. In Book Nine (642-42) Ajax, infuriated by Achilles’ rejection of the embassy, calls him skhitlios and nëlës. This part· of Ajax’ speech is addressed to Odysseus; when

252

Homer's A r t

Ajax turns to address Achilles directly, there are no more vocatives. Ajax is angry enough to use these terms in Achilles' presence, but even, he does not use them to Achilles’ face. We now turn to the particles. These are individual morphemes which function as free forms (although a number of them are enclitic— i.e. included in the pitch contour of the words to which they are suffixed). They are without specific denotation, but serve instead to signal the emo­ tional tone of the expressions in which they occur, or logical relations between expressions. A few (such as ge and per) may be used to modify sub-phrases within a clause, but most are exclusively clause-modifiers. A particular clause-modifying particle has a fixed position, either clause-initial or ‘post-positive’— i.e. placed (along with indefinites and enclitic personal pronouns) immediately after the initial item in the clause. Three, four, or even five particles can be strung together. There is no equivalent form class in English; the semantics of the Greek particles overlap with English ‘however’, ‘anyway’, ‘otherwise’, ‘sure’ etc. Most similar, in modern Eur­ opean languages, are German doch, ja etc. There has been much investiga­ tion of specific Homeric particles, and Denniston’s massive work (1954) has frequent reference to Homer; but we have found no treatment of the Homeric particle per se. W e counted all particles in both samples. For many of the frequent particles— e.g. gar, âra, ge, and per— the figures were nearly identical for both samples. This fact throws into relief the few cases where Achilles’ usage differs. In one case, we could not be sure that the difference was significant; Achilles uses mén slightly less often than the counter-sample (58 vs. 70).9 Mén is typically an anticipatory adversative, signaling that the clause will be followed by another contrastive clause (cf. German zwar)\ Achilles’ less frequent use of this particle may correlate with the fact that he does not use distinctions to limit and concede points. More significant is Achilles’ great use of the emotive particles I (31 vs. 14)10 and dê (46 vs. 39). These add a tone of certainty, urgency, pathos, or irony to an utterance, and their frequency is consistent with the passionate tone of Achilles’ speech. The figures for dé may gain added significance from the fact that occurrences in the counter-sample are partly concentrated in the speeches of Thetis (6 instances) and in Aeneas’ long speech (XX.200258; 5 instances). These two speakers use the particle fairly often in their speeches outside the counter-sample— Thetis four times in 83 lines, Aeneas twice in 45 lines. It is possible that the use of this particle is a characterpoint which Achilles shares with Thetis and Aeneas. But the samples are not large enough for us to be sure. The figures for the particle toi and the enclitic pronoun moi are striking. Toi is a ‘phatic’ pronoun which engages the attention of the person addressed, and signals the special relevance of the message to that audience. Its counterpart is the pronoun moi ‘to me’— which, when enclitic, is in

Characters

253

Homer most often ‘ethical1 (i.e. a sentential modifier signaling the special relevance of the message to the speaker). Enclitic moi is far more common in Achilles’ speeches than in the counter-sample: 72 vs. 37. Toi, on the other hand, is far less frequent: 39 vs. 60 (including toigdr and hoi, 44 vs. 68). This distribution is consistent with Achilles’ first-person, self-declaratory rhetorical stance— so often contrasted with the second-person, persuasive stance of counter-speakers. These results were confirmed by examination of the distribution of the nominative 2nd person su. Except in occasional sentences where the pro­ noun has a nominal predicate, it is otiose in semantic reference; where there is a finite verb, the 2nd person is already signaled by the form of the verb. The pronoun therefore adds a nuance of emphasis, similar to that signaled by toi. It is far less common in Achilles’ speeches than in the counter­ sample: 17 vs. 40. We must, however, note that the corresponding 1st person pronoun egê (including egén and egUge) is also less frequent in Achilles’ speeches than in the counter-sample: 31 vs. 37. We would not have predicted this distribu­ tion. On the other hand, we note that it is partly accounted for by the appearance in the counter-sample of the egoistic Agamemnon, who uses this pronoun 13 times in 141 lines— three times as often as Achilles. The most striking disparity in the two samples is. in the use of nun de, which we would gloss ‘as it is’ or ‘actually’. This particle complex marks a return to fact after a hypothetical statement— particularly after a contraryto-fact, but also after futures and less-vivid suggestions. Achilles’ frequent use of nun de (26 vs. 7) is consistent with his combination of imagination and realism; his mind goes out into a world of possibility, and then abruptly returns to the situation before him. Our examination of vocatives and particles thus reveals a pattern con­ sistent with the rhetorical analysis which was earlier (and thus indepen­ dently) arrived at. Achilles’ use of these items suggests that he is keenly aware of others, but careless of their feelings and dominant over them; he is concerned with himself and with subjective self-expression, with a mind which darts back and forth between imagination and fact. Such a character­ ization will not seem unfamiliar to readers of the epic; we do, however, think it striking that in the Homeric style, which often seems to the neophyte rigid or unvaried, character (as defined by plot) can be expressed through details of language. Having presented the positive results, we must not leave this empirical analysis without itemizing hypotheses that failed. These failures are also significant facts about the speech of Achilles: (a) Phonological and metrical: amount and quality of assonance, of internal rhyme; incidence of enjambment, of lines beginning with a spondee. (b) Morphology: no apparent differences.

254

Homer's A r t

(c) Lexical: incidence or content of hapax legomena, of ‘popular words’, of archaic words; use of the epic te; number of verbs per line; degree of formulaicness (e.g. incidence of formulae per line). (d) Syntax: sentence length; clause length; preposed relative clauses; pre- or post-posing of the preverb-preposition units; relative frequency of lines with no verb, one verb, or with more than one verb, or of sentences occupying less than a complete line. As for verbal categories, there were no significant differences regarding the number of finite verbs, or the occurrence of the imperative, the optative, or the indicative. (e) Rhetoric: frequency of proverbs, general (gnomic) statements, or abstract language. Our inability to conjure up a n y morphological hypotheses may reflect the artificial regularity of the written text, or the artificial character of the Homeric language; it seems likely that most languages will reflect indivi­ dual differences at all levels of structure—phonetic, lexical etc. W e have, in any case, itemized twenty-six (sic!) failed hypotheses, in the hope that they will encourage others to make additional analyses of the speech of Achilles— or of their iceman, or other sets of ‘data’. Further work is necessary, moreover, on why Achilles’ p a r t i c u l a r set of characteristics has the p a r t i c u l a r effect that it does.

Conclusions 5. Achilles' Speech and 'Personality The foregoing, detailed analysis of the speech of a literary protagonist (which seems to have no precedent in either sociolinguistics or Early Greek studies) has established some general categories of discriminatory variables. The positive rhetorical qualities are richness of detail, cumulative imagery, hypothetical comparison, and poetic directness; on the other hand, Achilles does not restrict his point, concede points, anticipate objections, or provide alternative reasons for action. At the level of discourse, narrative is less important, and Achilles’ narratives are shorter— as are his speeches gener­ ally. At the level of syntax and lexicon, we found a tendency to asyndeton and a propensity for vocatives and insulting and/or derogatory speech in general, as well as for particles that are in some sense ‘emotive’. We argue that various combinations of these features, plus others from phonology and metrics that we have not been able to capture, serve to characterize some of the ring or style of Achilles. (There is much more to be discovered; a paper given by D. W. Packard at Chapel Hill in 1976 showed that the punctua­ tion of Achilles’ speeches is strongly marked.) Furthermore, this syndrome of traits, from rhetoric to syntax, appears to reflect a personality type that is not particularly unfamiliar to any of us; it includes such traits as directness,

Characters

255

realism, passionateness, self-assertion, and the tendency to dominate in interaction. The particular personality and the language which symbolizes it can, in the main, be treated as a system in interaction with, but partly independent from, Achilles’ dramatic role. We hope that our work will suggest further possibilities for the analysis of Homeric style. In examining the speech of one hero, we have departed from the mainstream of Homeric analysis, which has usually attempted to establish the general stylistic consequences of formulaic composition. Clearly, certain stylistic features are universal in early hexameter; the use of the art language committed the poet to certain devices which belonged not to him but to his language— most notably, the fixed epithets. M. Parry (1971) began with these epithets; and perhaps as a result of his influence, much succeeding scholarship has focused on the noun-adjective phrase. The result has often been a sense of the Homeric style as stereotyped and lacking in variation. We suggest rather that the traditional art language should be thought of as a repertoire, drawn on by the poet for his purposes, and used with considerable stylistic freedom. If the choice of adjective is less mean­ ingful than in non-traditional verse, then the sources of meaningful varia­ tion are to be sought elsewhere— in the general shape of utterances, in the use of rhetorical devices, and in the choice of particles, of particular highlymarked lexemes, or of marked syntactic constructions. A particularly rich field for further study, we would suggest, is that of the grammatical categories— the choice of an optative as against a subjunctive, a perfect as against an aorist. In any case, insofar as we have identified features specific to Achilles’ speech, we believe we have also identified possibilities for expres­ sive variation within the Homeric language. We further note that such variation does not often seem to dictate the choice of some features to the absolute exclusion of others; rather, stylistic variation is achieved through the relative frequency or infrequency of specific features in specific styles. In describing Achilles’ speech, we have also been describing his character, since style is the man’. We here add a point about the relation between that character and the cultural presuppositions of the poem. We do not find Achilles to be culturally deviant; his actions and responses are conditioned by pervasive cultural norms— particularly those of honor, loyalty, and the ready use of violence in defense of both. But it is also true that Achilles is unlike anyone else. Just as we think of the Homeric language as a repertoire, rather than a rigid system, so we think of the Homeric culture as a repertoire, in which different possibilities are open to different individuals. Achilles is characterized by immediacy and easy dominance. These are his way of being in the culture. His lively intelligence and imagination display the situation to him in vivid relief; he lacks the patience to look beyond it. He is so used to dominating others that he has developed no manipulative skills to help him when that dominance becomes difficult. When he is shamed by Agamemnon and prevented by Athena from killing his enemy,

256

Homer’s A r t

he becomes baffled and withdraws. This, we would suggest, is one normal Homeric response. And as Achilles sees the world in absolutes, his with­ drawal is absolute; he is unable to accept the culturally prescribed procedure for healing the situation. But this refusal, we should note, is not a rejection of the culture— but, at least from Achilles’ point of view, an assertion of its norms. Our position on Achilles as normal’ can be supported by comparing him with that paragon of pragmatic sanity, Odysseus, who responds to the sexually-based insults to the honor of his wife by slaughtering over 100 suitors and hanging dozens of 'disloyal’ maidservants. One can speculate that Odysseus, if affronted by Agamemnon as Achilles was, would draw on the same culturally prescribed pool of responses; but, eschewing poetic rhetoric, he would use the oratory of the persuader, and his own astuteness, to engineer a successful regicide. The characters in the Iliad act in terms of the abstract code and the pragmatic rules of honor of the Iliad. The almost diametric differences between the speech of these two honor-bound prota­ gonists reflects, not psychological deviancy, but normal results of an inter­ play between the cultural system, the variables of speech, and particular characters and situations. Achilles’ speech looks 'idealistic’ (some would say remorselessly so) only if we choose to ignore the code of honor in terms of which he and the other Iliadic heroes structure their lives (cf. Friedrich 1978). We would like to conclude with some sweeping questions about the possible significance of the individual for the general study of language. One whole set of questions concerns the levels and components of language. In comparative linguistics, e.g., the fruitfulness of reconstructing morpho­ phonology has been dramatically illustrated. Morphology is harder to recapture, and syntax is even more slippery— if indeed it is reconstructable at all beyond a rather shallow level. Studies of dialectology have shown the high diacritic value of all levels, although this varies significantly from one language to another; in the Indian caste situation, e.g., morphophonology seems especially diagnostic. In our study of Achilles’ language, we could not pin down phonological, morphological, or metrical parameters; but we did find syntactic and rhetorical ones. The problem of individual speech clearly raises a host of technical questions about just what is individual, and some of these questions are novel. One reason the problem of individual speech has been neglected by students of language-related disciplines is, probably, that it involves gestalt-level decisions with an enormous aesthetic or 'purely intuitive’ component. Eventually, however, linguists and philologists are going to want to explore this level much further. The question of what components of language are involved embraces more comprehensive issues. To what extent are individual diacritics i n h e r ­ e n t , as in Achilles’ accumulations of detail, which seem to be distributed fairly evenly through his speeches? To what extent do they involve an

Characters

257

idiosyncratic shift of the fit between g e n r e and c o n t e x t , as when Achilles declares his private feelings at formal assemblies? To what extent does individual language involve peculiarities of selection, as in Achilles' choice of vocative and certain linking particles? To what extent does it involve types of prediction? Thus Achilles asserts feelings about himself (Ί hate, love’ etc.), whereas Odysseus suggests and speaks to the hypothetical reasons and sentiments of his interlocutor(s). These and other questions about individual language eventually must draw on the more subtle reaches of linguistics, whether the acoustic correlates of individual voice, or the formal structure of the performatives and (culturally linked) presuppositions that underlie utterances. Fuller understanding of individual language, and of universals in individual language, would obviate various kinds of distortion and skewing in many branches of linguistics, particularly the uncontrolled use of introspection. The second comprehensive question concerns the basis of inference; again, a glance at other branches of the field may be suggestive. In com­ parative linguistics, the proto-forms of a language family should be recon­ structed by comparing, not a smattering of contemporary languages, but two or more proto-stocks (or at least stages of an ancient language that are close to what one would posit for the proto-stock— cf. Vedic Sanskrit and Proto-Indie). Similarly, many of the most complex patterns can be inferred only from the interrelated patterns in a large sample of dialects. By the same token, both the ‘Cartesian’ syntactician, in his chamber with his pencil, and the empirical’ sociolinguist, in the department store with his tape-recorder, commit what are, strictly, analogous methodological fallacies in moving directly from the so-called ‘data’ of intuition òr a questionnaire to general­ izations about the ‘competence’ of an ideal speaker-hearer or the ‘speech’ of a community. Between the data and the generalizations there exists the variable, the phenomenon of individual language— seen, not as the ‘idiolect’ of a naive behaviorism, but as a level of organization with its distinctive processes and complexities. Our models of language and of linguistics should include individual language and speech as significant variables. Our third and perhaps most basic question concerns the larger matrix of language. Much evidence indicates that the relatively superficial levels of sound and syntax are connected rather tightly with variables of social class and the like. Equally good is the evidence for tight and sensitive connec­ tions (via systems of presuppositions’) that relate the semantic structure of words and larger units to cultural values and structures of various kinds. But just as speech and language are variously connected with socio-cultural matrices, so is the language of the individual complexly interrelated with matrices of individual character. The currently weakened state of personality studies in both anthropology and linguistics is connected with the perennial neglect of the individual level of language. Yet this is a fruitful area for research, where more systematic study would eliminate fallacies in

258

Homer's A r t

arguments. We have shown above how our study of 'the language of Achilles' eliminates (or at least makes more vulnerable) the hypothesis that it reflects ‘alienation’ and ‘disillusionment’, and raises the more realistic hypothesis that it bespeaks an expressive and domineering but essentially normal character. If and when we revive the study of speech as a personality symbol, we will be in a better position to respond to the visceral fascination that the layman, to whom we referred at the outset, has always felt about these questions.11

Notes We wish to acknowledge gratefully the critical suggestions made by William Beeman, Steven Caton, Margaret Egnor, Steven Straight, and Deborah Friedrich. We dedicate this article to the memory of Edward Sapir and offer it as a follow-up to his provocative article on ‘Speech as a personality trait' (1927). We are also indebted to the Lichstern Fund of the University of Chicago and to the Early Greek Studies Program (Department of Health, Education and Welfare) for help with typing and xeroxing. 1. This Voice’ problem is, of course, a leitmotiv in A. Solzhenitsyn's Nobel Prize winning novel, The first circle. On the other hand, studies of the acquisition of language by individual children have sometimes included excellent material on grammars. 2. The success of Parry's article has perhaps resulted from the fact that he ascribed to this archaic epic a very modern attitude—modern in the sense that it can hardly be traced back beyond J.-J. Rousseau. For Rousseau, as for many of his heirs, culture meant society; society meant structure; and structure meant con­ straint and the suppression of the individual. In the Origins of inequality, Rousseau concluded that human freedom and happiness would be possible only in a world in which men had nothing to do with one another; he saw that this would be a world without language. A variant of this position holds that experience, to be authentic, must be unverbalizable (‘the idea, once expressed, is a lie’), and that an authentic hero must be inarticulate. Parry makes Achilles relatively inarticulate, a hero who can express himself only by ‘misusing’ his language. 3. Thus the conversation between Hector and Athena-in-the-guise-of-Deiphobos (XXII.226-46) is omitted; Achilles is aware of it, but does not hear it. 4. Similarly, the Odysseus of the Odyssey is compared by others to a bard, and tells his own story for four books (cf. Redfieid 1967). Odysseus is presented as a narrative poet; Achilles’ poetic gifts tend, as we shall see, toward the lyric. But in both cases the poet is, perhaps, solving the same poetic problem: the power of the word is the only power which can be presented to a literary audience (instead of being merely described); by endowing his hero with powerful speech, the poet can directly convince us of his power among men. 5. For an extended treatment of this theme, see Redfieid 1975. 6. Even this extravagant wish has its parallel: Diomede’s remark at IX.46-9. 7. As an orator, Achilles is thus more like Menelaus than like Odysseus—cf. III. 212-2 3. 8. The definition of asyndeton in Homer is highly controversial, pending systematic study of the entire system of linkage. Here, as in other parts of the study, our definition has at least the merit of being the same for both samples. We

Characters

259

have not treated the particle dë as a link, on the ground that its use in the whole corpus of Homer, without any other linking conjunction or particle, is extremely rare—yet dë occurs by itself four times in Achilles’ speeches (1.295, IX.328, XVI. 127, XIX.271) where we expect normal links (among post-positive particles these include gar [including toigdr], mén [including märi\, and au [including ante]). There are two such uses of dë in the counter-sample: 1.266 and XXIV.641. Probably the line between linked and asyndetic discourse should not be looked upon as absolute; thus our count (while still reflecting the phenomenon) may be based on an artificially rigid distinction. We suspect, further, that the demand for an explicit link was, a feature of the literary language, not of its colloquial substratum, and that the poets sometimes used asyndeton to suggest colloquial speech (cf., in the Odyssey, iv.641—72 and xx.201—4). At certain points, especially XXI.99-103, the poet may be granting Achilles a colloquial tone. We should also note that, in referring to ‘each clause in continuous discourse’, we define ‘clause’ as a construction centering on a finite verb or its equivalent—i.e. a subject + nominal, predicate construction, or an infinitive used as an imperative. Subordinate infinitives and participles are not treated as the centers of independent clauses; neither are imperatives (such as age) reinforcing other imperatives. ‘Con­ tinuous discourse’ means the poet’s narrative and the speeches of his characters; the beginning of a speech is the beginning of a new piece of discourse and requires no link. 9. This count is somewhat rough, since ‘anticipatory’ mén was lumped together with ‘affective’ mén (including man)—the latter as employed, e.g., in the oathformula ë mén (never used by Achilles, four times in the counter-sample). ‘Affective’ mén is really a distinct particle, confused with the other by an accident of ortho­ graphy; but it is relatively rare in Homer. 10. ‘Affective’ ë is distinguished from ‘disjunctive’ ë—the Greek ‘or’—by con­ textual interpretation, in cases where the orthography might lead one to confuse them. Some of these interpretations are controversial, but the count should not be substantially affected. \ 11. The syntactic facts about Achilles’ use of marked orders (cf. Friedrich 1975: 10-13) are not fully discussed here because they involve different samples. In brief, the adjective-noun order is generally more frequent and unmarked, whereas the noun-adjective order predominates for Achilles—note especially his impassioned speech to his mother (1.149-71) with four AN’s and 7 NA’s. Second, subject-verbobject and subject—object—verb are the two main orders; but Achilles is unique (in that sample), providing four verb-subject-object orders. Gary Miller (p.c.) has also discovered that Achilles’ use of the dual is idiosyncratic. This is the first article the authors have written jointly, and we feel that a precise description of our relative contributions is in order. In 1971, during a jointlytaught graduate seminar on the Iliad, Friedrich went through Adam Parry’s article and gave a one-hour critique in class, establishing some of the latter’s basic flaws. Then the matter lay fallow. The constructive hypothesis that Achilles’ speech really w a s different was unexpectedly and tentatively confirmed in the summer and fall of 1973—when, during a completely unconnected study on Greek and early IndoEuropean syntax, Friedrich found that Achilles tended to have marked surface orders (e.g. NA). The main speeches of Achilles were reviewed in the Homeric course, and Redfield then posited some twenty possible variables and checked them out on the samples named above, with many positive results. Redfield’s insights into the speech of Achilles during this period were interconnected with the concluding phases of work on his 1975 book on the Iliad. In the summer of 1975, Friedrich wrote up the results, with some conclusions, and sent out a 20-

260

Homer's A r t

page MS to the sociolinguists named in our introductory footnote, all of whom returned stimulating comments. During the spring of 1976, Redfield posited another fifteen or so variables, searched the corpus, and came up with more positive results—particularly the striking ones on asyndeton and particles. During the fall of that year, Friedrich wrote up a semi-final draft, which was somewhat rewritten by Redfield. The basic idea of the paper was Friedrich’s; the research strategy was Redfield’s. Most of the detail is Redfield’s; most of the theoretical commentary is Friedrich’s. The collaborators agree that their collaboration has added up to more than the sum of its two parts.

References Brown, Roger, and A. Gilman, 1966. Pesonality and style in Concord. Transcen­ dentalism and its legacy in Concord, ed. by M. Simon & T. H. Parsons. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. [Reprinted in Psycholinguistics, ed. by R. Brown, 336-69- Glencoe, IL: Free Press, 1970.] Bühler, Karl, 1934. Sprachtheorie. Jena: Fischer. Claus, David B. 1975- Aidos in the language of Achilles. Transactions of the American Philological Association 105.13-28. Dennis ton, J. D. 1954. The Greek particles. 2nd ed. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Frankel, Hermann, 1926. Der kallimachische und der homerische Hexameter. Nachrichten der Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen, phil.-hist. Kl., 197-229- [Reprinted in his Wege und Formen frühgriechischen Denkens, 2nd ed., 100—156. Munich: Beck, I960.] Freeman, Donald C. (ed.) 1970. Linguistics and literary style. New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston. Friedrich, Paul. 1975. Proto-Indo-European syntax. (Journal of Indo-European Studies, Monograph 1.) Butte: Montana College of Mineral Science. ------. 1978. Sanity and the myth of honor. To appear in Ethos. Jakobson, Roman. I960. Closing statement: linguistics and poetics. Style in language, ed. by T. A. Sebeok, 350-78. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. ------, and Morris Halle. 1956. Fundamentals of language. The Hague: Mouton. Lévi-Strauss, Claude. 1962. La pensée sauvage. Paris: Plon. [Translated as The savage mind. London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 1966.] Nagler, Michael. 1974. Spontaneity and tradition. Berkeley & Los Angeles: Uni­ versity of California Press. Newman, Stanley, 1930. Personal symbolism in language patterns. Psychiatry 2.177-82. Ohman, R. 1964. Generative grammar and the concept of literary style. Word 20.423-39O’Neill, Eugene, JR. 1942. The localization of metrical word-types in the Greek hexameter. Yale Classical Studies 8.103-78. Parry, Adam, 1956. The language of Achilles. Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 84.124—34. [Reprinted in The language and background of Homer, ed. by G. S. Kirk, 48-54. Cambridge: Heffer, 1967.] Parry, Milman. 1971. The making of Homeric verse. Ed. by A. Parry. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Peabody, Berkeley. 1975. The winged word. Albany: State of New York University Press. Porter, Howard N. 1951. The early Greek hexameter. Yale Classical Studies 12.163.

Characters

261

Redfield, James. 1967. The making of the Odyssey. Essays in Western civilization in honor of Christian W. Mackauer, ed. by L. Botstein & E. Karnovsky, 1-17. Chicago: The College of the University of Chicago. [Reprinted in Parnassus revisited, ed. by Anthony Yu, 141-54. Chicago Library Association, 1973-] ------. 1975. Nature and culture in the Iliad: the tragedy of Hector. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sapir, Edward. 1927. Speech as a personality trait. American Journal of Sociology 32.892-905. [Reprinted in his Selected writings, 533-59. Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1949·] ------. 1938. Why cultural anthropology needs the psychiatrist. Psychiatry 1.7-12. [Reprinted in his Selected writings, 569-77.] Straight, H. Stephen. 1976. The acquisition of Maya phonology. New York: Garland.

88

Elpenor* H. Rohdich ^Source: Antike und Abendland , vol. 31, 1985> pp- 108-Ί5.

I Die erste individuelle Seele, die dem zum Haus des Hades gefahrenen Odysseus gegenübertritt, ist die des Gefährten Elpenor (Odyssee 11.51).1 Das Epos hatte ihn am Ende des einjährigen Aufenthalts bei Kirke vom Dach ihres Hauses fallen lassen; trotz der Kühle der Nacht noch immer nicht ausgenüchtert, benommen und ohne Bewußtsein, wo er war, stürzte er, vom Aufbruchsgetümmel der Kameraden aufgeschreckt, sich geraden­ wegs hinunter und brach sich den Hals (10.552 ff.). Das Signalement, das Odysseus von dem Unglücksmenschen, dem Benjamin seiner Mannschaft, gegeben hatte— der Tapferste war er nicht und nicht der Gescheiteste (10.552 f.)— , wird sorgfältig aufgegriffen und vertieft. Man hatte den Leichnam, wie der Erzähler nachträgt (11.52-54), ohne Grab und Totenk­ lagen einstweilen bei Kirke zurückgelassen, »weil ein anderes Geschäft drängte«— der Aufschub der Bestattung und die dürre Motivation indizie­ ren die quantité négligeable, für die Elpenor gilt.2 Die Dichtung schlägt zwei Fliegen m it einer Klappe. Sie arrangiert die ihr äußerst wichtige Begegnung, die der Hadesfährer im Totenreich vor allen anderen hat, und ruft zugleich die völlige Bedeutungslosigkeit des armen Teufels in Erinnerung, auf der, als ihrer notwendigen Voraussetzung, die folgende Szene basiert.

II Odysseus reagiert auf die Erscheinung des Unglücklichen, den die Odyssee in provokanter Pointe zum epischen Nachfahren des Patroklos im Nie­ mandsland zwischen Leben und Tod erhebt,3 mit Tränen und Jammer (11.55), aber auch mit Überraschung. Seine Frage, wie jener unter das

Characters

263

neblige Dunkel gekommen sei (11.57), die das Vorbild der Ilias benutzt,4 bedeutet nicht, daß er vom Tode des Elpenor noch nichts wußte, sondern drückt eine Verwunderung aus, die der folgende, asyndetische Satz begrün­ det: »Schneller warst du zu Fuß als ich mit dem schwarzen Schiffe« (11.58). Odysseus erlebt zum ersten Mal, was Tod ist, macht die dem Lebenden eigentlich unzugängliche Erfahrung des Übergangs vom Leben zum Tode, den man Sterben nennt. Heute erst in der Frühe war das Unglück gesche­ hen, weit weg von hier in der diesseitigen W elt, die volle Tagesstrecke eines rasch dahinsegelnderi Schiffes entfernt, und nun ist die Seele des Gestürzten schon da wie der Swinegel im Märchen und demonstriert dem Hadesfahrer ad oculos, unter wie andere Bedingungen der Mensch mit seinem Sterben gerät. Die Feststellung des Odysseus (11.58) ist nicht ohne Komik; daß man dies schon immer empfand, zeigen die geflissentlichen Versuche, den spon­ tanen Eindruck zu verleugnen. Die Komik entsteht durch die Applikation von Normen, die in einer bestimmten Sphäre gültig sind, auf eine andere Sphäre, in der sie es nicht sind. Die etablierten Erfahrungswerte der Gesch­ windigkeit von Fußgänger und Schiff sowie ihrer Relation zueinander erlei­ den, an die Reise der Seele ins Totenreich angelegt, einen Bruch, der sie um ihre Unbedingtheit bringt; vor der neuen Erfahrung werden sie nichtig und lächerlich. Die Bemerkung des Odysseus ist in der Tat kein Spott oder ein der Situation wenig angemessener W itz, sondern konstatiert die objektive Komik, die sich aus der Verkehrung der normalen menschlichen Verhältnisse durch den Tod ergibt. Die Seele hat kein durch Kulturarbeit gewonnenes Fortbewegungsmittel, das den Menschen über seine natürlichen Kräfte hinaus beschleunigt, und ist doch schneller auf der Reise als das schnellste Schiff—nur leider auf der verhaßtesten aller Reisen: verblüfft und traurig, in den banalen Grundfesten seiner Erfahrung erschüttert, schmerzlich amüsiert vom Widersinn, m it einem Lächeln unter Tränen nimmt der Besucher des Hades die differente Qualität des Gestorbenseins wahr, das die soliden Maß­ stäbe menschlicher Existenz komisch und erschreckend relativiert.

III Noch einmal beansprucht der Todessturz des Elpenor einen Platz in der Dichtung (11.61 ff.), läßt das Epos die groteske Kläglichkeit des Ereignisses erstehen, das triviale Ende dieses Trojakämpfers, der ausgezogen war in das gewaltigste Ereignis der heroischen Kultur und auf ihrer pro­ minentesten Walstatt, wo sich zehn Jahre lang die größten Helden seiner Zeit im Kampf um den Ruhm waffenrasselnd begegneten, ein Namenloser blieb; der, wohlbehalten davongekommen, im Vollrausch vom Dach eines pontischen Freudenhauses stolperte, um sich jämmerlich das Genick zu brechen. Das Interesse der Dichtung, die tragikomische Banalität dieses Schicksals ins Bewußtsein zu rücken, ist unübersehbar; sie legt mit der

264

Homer's A r t

ausführlichen Erinnerung an die Umstände des Unglücks die Basis für die von ihr intendierte Rezeption der Elpenor-Gestalt. Deren Bericht divergiert am Beginn, bevor er gleitend in Iteratverse übergeht, von der Erzählung des Odysseus, die er am Ende des 10. Gesangs (554 ff.) vorgetragen hatte. »Einer Gottheit schlimmes Geschick betörte mich und die Unmenge Weins» (11.61)— Elpenor berichtet nicht bloß, was ihm widerfahren ist, er interpretiert. Seine Deutung verrät vorweg den Geist, der in seiner Bitte an Odysseus sich aussprechen wird. Denn sie fungiert nicht einfach als Entschuldigung für die Dummheit, vom Dach gefallen zu sein, sondern offenbart das Wertgefühl, von dem auch dieser niedrigste der Gefährten beseelt ist. Elpenor leugnet den Einfluß des Alkohols nicht, er kann ihn nicht leugnen; aber als wichtigste Ursache seines Sturzes stellt er das von einem Daimon verhängte Geschick voran. Auch er versteht sich als Gegen­ stand göttlichen Interesses wie die Großen seiner Zeit und der Vorzeit, wert der Aufmerksamkeit einer Gottheit, gewürdigt ihrer waltenden Hand; auch er beansprucht, ein Geschick zu haben. Elpenor macht sich den schon zum Mythos gewordenen Gestalten gleich, die alsbald die Bühne der Nekyia bevölkern werden. Sein Selbstgefühl orientiert sich an der dominanten Norm der heroisch-aristokratischen Kultur, in die er hineinwuchs und der er als Trojakämpfer angehört; es ist sehnsüchtig nach der Namhaftigkeit, der Prominenz, danach, eine very important person zu sein, deren Größe sich gerade mit der Vernichtung ausweist, die göttliche Hand über sie brachte.

IV Seine Bitte wird diesen Geist bestätigen und zugleich entscheidend mod­ ifizieren. Bevor er sie äußert, beschwört er Odysseus flehentlich bei denen, deren Ferne er mit doppelter Wendung einprägt, bei »denen dahinten« (των οπιθεν), »die nicht da sind« (06 παρεόντων 11.66), der Familie, die in der Heimat blieb, der Gattin, dem Vater, der ihn aufzog, als er klein war, und dem einzigen Sohn Telemachos, den er im Hause zurückließ (11.6668). Das Raffinement des Textes ist bewundernswert. Elpenor ist dabei, sich von seinem König und Kommandanten den heroischen Tymbos zu erwir­ ken, der seinen Namen der Nachwelt künden soll, aber er tut das, indem er ihn durch das Gedenken an die Lieben in der Heimat zur Gewährung der Bitte zu verpflichten sucht. Der Appell enthüllt das Denken des Gebetenen wie des Bittenden. Die auf Erfolg rechnende Unterstellung, daß Odysseus Familie und Heimat das Liebste sind, spiegelt Elpenors eigene Mentalität. Er selbst kreist mit seinen Gedanken um diese Werte, ist von ihnen beherrscht, erfüllt von der Sehnsucht nach ihnen, die sich nicht mehr realisieren wird. Der Ruhm, den das Heldengrab in fremder Erde, das ihn auf eine Stufe mit den gefallenen Großen stellt, zu manifestieren

Characters

265

bestimmt ist, erscheint hintergründig als zweite Wahl; die erste wäre die glückliche Heimkehr gewesen und das Leben im Kreise der Seinen. Aber das Gemahnen an die Lieben daheim bedeutet noch mehr. Elpenor, der Tapferste nicht und nicht der Gescheiteste, weiß, daß sein Ansinnen wenig fundiert ist, daß er hoch greift m it ihm, daß er nicht bei seiner heroischen Areté den Odysseus beschwören könnte oder die Götter zu Zeugen laden, das Verlangte verdient zu haben. Das Bewußtsein von dem geradezu größenwahnsinnigen Charakter seiner Bitte schlägt sich in ihrer zweistufi­ gen Struktur nieder, über die sich der erstaunliche Petent nicht undiplo­ matisch seinem Ziel näherbringt. Zunächst wünscht er negativ, nicht unbeweint und unbestattet liegengelassen zu werden, auch im Interesse des Gebetenen, damit er ihm nicht, als im Niemandsland zwischen Leben und Tod verbleibender Leichnam, zur Ursache von Göttergroll werde (11.72 f.). Dann, unter dem Anschein, dasselbe, nun positiv, noch einmal zu sagen, kommt er mit seinem eigentlichen Begehren heraus; das ein einfaches, den Erfordernissen der göttlichen Ordnung gerecht werdendes Grab weit übersteigt (11.74 ff.). Es ist die Beschwörung bei Heimat und Familie, in die der Text die Begründung des Anspruchs verlegt hat, den der niedrigste unter den Gefährten des Odysseus erhebt. Die Umwertung der heroisch-aristokratischen Ideologie greift tief; das Ruder auf dem Tymbos, das Elpenor sich wünscht (11.77 f.), ist ihr Symbol. Nicht mehr nur exzeptionelle, erhabene Tat ist es, die im Kleos ihren vorweg zugesagten Lohn einfordern kann— allein dies, so lange von der Heimat getrennt gewesen und, ohne sie je wiederzusehen, gestorben zu sein, das Unglück, umgetrieben in der Fremde, sehnsüchtig nach der Heimat, in den Fernen des Pontos sein Leben gelassen zu haben, steigt zum zureichenden Grund für eine Ehre auf, wie sie traditionell den Helden der heroischen Kultur erwiesen wird. Der ideologische Abstand der Odyssee von der Vergangen­ heit, der die überkommenen Begriffe von Heroik und Ruhm revidiert und ihren erhabenen Anspruch nach dem Maß eines neuen W elt Verständnisses korrigiert, findet in der Elpenor-Gestalt seinen beredtesten Zeugen. Wie bewußt die Dichtung verfährt, zeigt ihre Prägung durch Zitate aus dem heroischen Epos schlechthin, der Ilias. 11.66 adaptiert den Vers 665 des 15. Gesangs, wo Nestor an die Scham der Achaier vor der W elt und besonders vor den fernen Angehörigen appelliert, um sie zum Standhalten zu bewe­ gen. Erscheinen hier W elt, Heimat, Familie und Besitz der heroischen Norm völlig unterworfen, so kehrt das jüngere Epos die Rangordnung um und verleiht dem Zitat ου παρεόντων neuen, vertieften Gehalt. Die Beschwörung der Kindheit und ihrer hoffnungsvollen Verheißung (ö σ’ έτρεφε τυτθόν εόντα 11.67) holt sowohl jene Szene aus der Vergangen­ heit des großen Krieges herauf, in der Agamemnon in wiederum schwieriger Lage seines Heeres den Teukros m it der Mahnung anfeuert, daß der Blick seines Vaters Telamon auf ihm ruhe, den des Sohnes Tapferkeit zu hohem Ruhm zu erheben habe (II. 8.283), als auch die Klage Andromaches nach

266

Homer's A r t

Hektors Tod (IL 22.480), die bald vom Jammer um das Elend der Witwe zu ihrem Hauptthema, dem Schicksal des verwaisten Sohnes Astyanax, übergeht. Die schrecklichen Konsequenzen der traditionellen Heroik erste­ hen in bedrückender Plastizität; doch die Ilias fängt allen aufkommenden Zweifel ab und rechtfertigt ihr grausames Geschehen mit dem unüberbiet­ baren W ert des Kleos, zu dem sie sogar die Klagende selbst in ihren letzten Worten (22.514) raffiniert sich bekennen läßt. Mit dem Zitat aus dem älteren Epos zitiert das jüngere zugleich sich selber; die W endung vom Kleinen, den der Vater aufzog, hier von Odysseus gesagt, hatte es früher einmal für dessen Sohn Telemachos gebraucht (1.435), den die Amme Eurykleia nährte. Vater und Sohn, der Held der Odyssee und sein herange­ wachsener Stammhalter, werden am Ende des Glücks teilhaftig werden, das die Dichtung für sie bereithält: das Leben in gesicherter Seßhaftigkeit auf ihrem ererbten Besitz bis zur natürlichen Neige zu fristen und, hinschei­ dend allein nach dem biologischen Gesetz, der eine im andern, der Altere im Jüngeren sich fortzusetzen. Die schmerzliche Rührung im Gedenken an das, was man zu Hause zurückließ (11.68), kennt auch die Ilias, wenn sie die um den trauernden Achilleus versammelten Alten aufstöhnen läßt, da der erste Held vor Troja um seinen Vater weint (19338 f.); aber Zeus selber, der Kronide, greift ein, um die heroische Situation zu restaurieren und den Gang der Dinge an ihren genuinen Ort, das Schlachtfeld, zurück­ zulenken (19340 ff.). Die pointierte Zitierkunst der Odyssee erreicht ihren Gipfel in 11.73. Der Vers, adaptiert aus dem 22. Gesang der Ilias (358), ruft die Todesstunde Hektors in die Erinnerung, der sterbend Achilleus warnt, seine Leiche zu schänden, da dies den Groll der Götter heraufbesch­ wören werde— : Elpenor in der Rolle Hektors, des ersten Mannes der Troer, der nur dem Allergrößten unterlag!

V Mit ihrer meisterhaft gehandhabten Methode des Zitierens stellt sich die Odyssee vor den Hintergrund des exemplarischen Epos traditioneller Her­ oik, um sich von ihm abzuheben. Der von Elpenor artikulierte Anspruch unterwandert die überkommenen Anschauungen von menschlichem W ert und Unwert und verlangt ihre historische Ablösung. W eit entfernt, einfach Medium einer äußerlichen kompositorischen Verklammerung von KirkeAbenteuer und Nekyia zu sein, hat die Gestalt des Jüngsten in der Mannschaft des Odysseus eine wichtige ideologische Funktion, die wahrzu­ nehmen sie vom Dach fiel; sie ist mit bewußter Absicht an den Anfang der Erlebnisse im Hades plaziert. Bevor die große, Bewunderung und Entsetzen erregende Revue der toten Heroinen und Heroen beginnt, beherrscht ein kleiner, unbedeutender Mann die düstere Szene, nichts weniger als außerordentlich an Wehrkraft wie an Verstand, der unbedarfteste unter

Characters

267

den Gefährten des Odysseus, eine bloße Zahl in der Truppe, umgekommen durch einen lächerlichen Unfall, den er durch unmäßiges Trinken selber verschuldete. Mit nichts, woraufer verweisen könnte, nichts, als im Verein mit den anderen das Schiff gerudert zu haben, auf dem er von Troja nach Hause wollte (11.78), tritt das Schattenbild dieses Dutzendmenschen vor seinen König und verlangt ein heroisches Grab. Und dieser, wenn auch kurz und knapp, m it einer doppelt bekräftigenden Formel, die für seine eigenen Totenehren venvendet worden war (1.293), sagt es ihm zu (11.80). Erst jetzt wird der Gehalt der Elpenor-Episode gültig. Noch war es möglich, daß Odysseus den Unbescheidenen in seine Schranken wiese; aber die Zusage akzeptiert den Anspruch und erkennt ihn an. Das kurze Gespräch der beiden Männer am Eingang des Totenreichs wird zum Hintergrund, auf den die folgende Parade des zum Mythos gewordenen Heroentums bezogen bleibt. Elpenors Tymbos stellt sich vorweg dem massiven Aufgebot der geschichtlichen Heroik gegenüber und bringt es unter die Perspektive einer neuen Zeit. Die Idee des Ruhms wird nicht eskamotiert, nicht zum alten Eisen geworfen, der Trieb nach ihm nicht geleugnet oder diffamiert; viel­ mehr bestätigt die Bitte Elpenors die Kostbarkeit des Kleos und reflektiert klar den Horror vor der auslöschenden Vergänglichkeit, der als kardinales Motiv der Ruhmbegier zugrunde liegt. Aber sowohl die Position des Ruhms in der Rangfolge der Werte als auch das Kriterium, nach dem der Anspruch auf das Weiterleben in der rühmenden Kunde der Nachwelt beurteilt wird, erfahren durch die Szene zwischen Odysseus und der Seele seines unerheblichsten Mannes eine provokante Modifikation. Die etablierte. Prämisse für den Gewinn der surrogativen Unsterblichkeit wird in einer Weise neu gefaßt, die von der Tradition her gesehen eine Banalisierung bedeutet und gerade dadurch den Geist ddr Odyssee eindrücklich profiliert. Was wie eine Entwertung des Ruhmesgedankens aussieht, überführt ihn in Wahrheit in die historisch fortgeschrittene Kultur, für die zu werben die Dichtung vom Heimkehrer sich zur Aufgabe gesetzt hat. Seine blutige, gnadenlos-erhabene, düster glänzende, faszinierende und schreckliche Prä­ tention wird zivilisiert, humanisiert und dem neuen, bürgerlichen Denken der Odyssee angepaßt. Gemessen an seinem Verhältnis zu den Gütern Leben und Heimat, seinem Bewußtsein von ihrer Unüberbietbarkeit und Unersetzlichkeit erscheint würdig, dem Vergessen entrissen zu werden, wer im Bemühen, sie wiederzugewinnen, seinen Körper in der Fremde des Pontos zurücklassend, zu den Schatten im Hades gehen mußte. Der nicht durch Frevel, sondern durch unglückliche Umstände und einen Moment der Schwäche verursachte Verlust dieser Güter ist an und für sich ein Schicksal von solcher Dimension, daß es eine erhabene Gedenkstätte ver­ dient, die der Nachwelt von ihm kündet. Der Tymbos Elpenors löst sich ab von der Person des unter ihm Bestatteten und sublimiert sich zum allge­ meingültigen -Monument der Werte Leben und Heimat, die in dem klä­ glichen Nobody so mächtig waren wie in irgendeinem anderen, wie in

268

Homer's A r t

Odysseus selbst. Er wird zum Mahnmal auch für den, der ihn gewähren soll, zum Symbol seines fortschreitenden Bewußtseinsprozesses, der ihn der vom Epos gemeinten Reife entgegenführt, zum Memento, den Nostos m it Entschlossenheit und ohne mutwillige Verzögerung zu betreiben— kann der Unfall Elpenors als eine Folge des seinem König anzulastenden Verliegens bei Kirke verstanden werden, die bei zielstreibig-rascher Weiterfahrt nicht eingetreten wäre, liegt darin so etwas wie eine Schuld des Odysseus, so trägt das zugesagte Grab zugleich einiges von ihr ab.

VI Elpenor, der Mann, dessen Name von »betrogener Hoffnung« spricht,6 der in den großen Krieg gezogen war wie die andern mit heroischen Rosinen im Kopf, das zwölfte Jahr fern dem Vaterland, des Heldentods nicht gewür­ digt, sondern, ein lächerlich-trauriger Pechvogel, in alberner Parodie eines Schicksals vom Dach gefallen wie ein betrunkener Primaner; nichts erfüllte sich ihm, seine Existenz blieb unbedeutend und anonym, sein Name ein leerer Wahn— Elpenor, dessen Bestattung man achtlos aufgeschoben hatte, wird einen Tymbos erhalten auf dem Strande des Meeres gleich Achilleus (24.65 ff.) oder dem Völkergebieter Agamemnon am Ufer des Nils (4.584), gleich seinem König selbst, sofern auch er im Pontos unterginge (1.291). In ihm ehren Odysseus und die Dichtung, deren Eponym er ist, das Unglück der verlorenen Heimat. Das traditionelle Heldengrab wird in einer zugleich niedrigeren und höheren Weise zum Zeichen: nicht mehr Künder einer der menschlichen Kondition abgetrotzten Göttergleichheit, die wertvoller wäre als das Leben, sondern Trost über einen Verlust, der banal und doch der größte ist. Die Rede Elpenors selbst reflektiert die innere Modernität seines Denkmals; Zeichen soll es sein »eines unglücklichen Mannes« (άνδρός δυστήνοιο 11.76)— und dann folgt der formelhafte Halbvers aus dem heroischen Milieu, der sich provozierend fremd ausnimmt in seiner neuen Umgebung: »auch den kommenden Menschen zur Kunde« (και έσσομένοχσΐ πυθέσθαΐ).7 Unglücklich gewesen zu sein— die Antwort des Odys­ seus bekräftigt es (ώ δύστηνε 11.80)— erscheint als Elpenors einzige Qualität; doch die ideologische Prägnanz seines Unglücks macht ihn nicht nur würdig, ein Epitheton (δύστηνος) des Helden der Odyssee selbst zu tragen,8 sondern auch, durchs Zitat noch einmal an die Seite Hektors gehoben zu werden. Ein anderes Gedenken hat sich etabliert, bevor die Seelen der Großen aus der Tiefe des Mythos emporsteigen. Der sublimierte Hunger nach Grandeur, Göttergleichheit und Unvergänglichkeit im Ruhm wird transparent auf ein elementareres Bedürfnis, das sich traditioneller Sicht als eine Degeneration zur Trivialität darbietet, nach der Intention der Odyssee aber umgekehrt den Geist des heroischen Zeitalters wie eine ungeheure Denaturierung erscheinen läßt, wie eine großartig-schreckliche

Characters

269

Deviation der menschlichen Geschichte, einen kalten Rausch, aus dem es gleichsam zur Besinnung zu kommen gilt. Die poetische Repräsentanz des natürlichen Triebs nach dem Glück des Daseins, das sich nur in der Sicherheit des heimatlichen Besitzes erfüllt, in ihrer pointiertesten Form zu übernehmen, tritt die Figur Elpenors in das epische Geschehen ein und stellt mit der Niedrigkeit ihres Geschicks das extreme bürgerliche Gegen­ bild zur mythischen Prominenz, die, aufgeregt vom Geruch des Lebens, aus dem Erebos an die dampfende Blutgrube herandrängen wird. Die Ehrung, die der Held des Epos, beschworen bei den Lieben daheim, dem Beklagen­ swerten zusagt, verweist vorweg die Heroinen und Heroen der Vorzeit auch ideell und kulturgeschichtlich ins Reich der Toten. Die Übertragung der Ruhmesideologie auf den niedrigsten der Gefährten indiziert ihren funda­ mentalen Wandel, der die traditionelle Heroik als einzig rechtmäßigen Träger von Kleos zum Präteritum erklärt und den Begriff der Denkwür­ digkeit neu definiert. Der Progreß vom Alten zum Neuen spiegelt sich in der Ambivalenz des Namens Elpenor. Ursprünglich und im Sinne der Eltern, die ihn gaben, verpflichtete er auf das erfolgreiche Streben nach der traditionellen Areté, mochte er den bedeuten, »auf den die Männer hoffen« oder »der auf Manneskraft hofft«,9 und der Krieg gegen Troja bot die Chance, den magisch fixierten Wunsch zu verwirklichen. Doch zu der Zeit, da der Unglückliche vom Dach fiel und im,Epos namhaft wurde, hatte sich die Erwartung, die er im Namen trägt, bereits umgewertet zur einzigen Hoffnung, die Heimat wiederzusehen— : beides blieb ihm versagt, aber als »Hoffnungsmann«, als frustriertes Subjekt, der Sehnsucht nach dem Glück des Lebens im Eigenen, nicht als Vollbringer heroischer Tat, der er nie war, rechtfertigt er die Errichtung des Tymbos, die sein König, selber im Prozeß der inneren W andlung begriffen, ihm verständnisvoll verspricht. Odysseus vollendet mit der gewährenden Geste gegenüber dem niedrigsten seiner Gefährten nicht nur seine auf Kirkes Insel geleistete Aristie als moderner Basileus, den die verantwortungsbewußte Fürsorge für die Untergebenen zur Herrschaft legitimiert— in der erstaunlichen Ehrung Elpenors setzt sich die bewußte Banalität der Odyssee-Ideologie selber ein Denkmal, hebt ihre neuen, bürgerlichen Werte auf das Postament, von dem sie die erhabenen alten verdrängt hat, und etabliert sie an deren Stelle als vom Kulturforts­ chritt der menschlichen Geschichte hervorgebrachte Nachfolger. Der Bruch, der die geforderte Bestattung kennzeichnet, der Widerspruch zwischen der Erhabenheit des Aktes und der Niedrigkeit der Person, der er gilt, reflektiert den Bruch im Epos Odyssee selbst, das im ererbten Gewande heroischer Dichtung neue Inhalte vermittelt, die über die traditionellen hinaus sind. Zusammen mit dem Seher Teiresias, der die unheroische, leidenlos-glücküche, friedlich ausatmende zweite Lebenshälfte des Odysseus prophezeit, und Antikleia, der Heldenmutter, die eben dies, Mutter eines Helden alten Stils zu sein, nicht ertrug und in unerfüllter Sehnsucht nach dem fortgeschrittenen, besseren Glück dahinschwand,

270

Homer's A r t

bildet Elpenor das ideologische Präludium der Nekyia, das den Geist der Odyssee intoniert, bevor die Geister der Vorzeit, von Persephoneia selber dem Besucher zugetrieben, damit er lerne, lebensgierig zur Blutgrube heranströmen. Der Namenlose und doch der Anonymität der Gefährten Entrissene, der Unbedeutende, der erste, an dem der Hadesfahrer erlebte, was Tod und, dialektisch, auch was Leben ist, tritt in unerhörter Bedeut­ samkeit vorweg den Großen der Geschichte entgegen; ein Nichts, vergli­ chen mit den gewaltigen, zweideutigen, wüsten, hybrid wuchernden Schicksalen der Gestalten des Mythos, eine Null in der zum ritualisierten heroischaristokratischen Waffenspiel geordneten Kultur der jüngeren Geschichte, der er selber angehörte, wird er von der Dichtung zu einem Helden ihres Weltverständnisses erhoben, der dem Abenteuer im Toten­ reich a priori die von ihr gewünschte Interpretation unterlegt— : mit all ihrer faszinierenden Erhabenheit abgelebt und grausig im doppelten Sinne, figurieren die Heroinen und Heroen der Nekyia eine Vergangenheit, deren größte Bedeutung ist, kulturgeschichtliche Voraussetzung für eine Zukunft zu sein, die sie in bewußter Ablehnung ihres wilden, leidenschaffenden Wesens überwindet.

Anmerkungen L Zur Beurteilung Elpenors durch die Odyssee-Kritik vgl. G. Beck, Beobach­ tungen zur Kirke-Episode in der Odyssee. Philologus 109, 1965, 23; ferner R. Spieker, Die Begegnung zwischen Odysseus und Elpenor. Der altspr. Unterricht 8, 3, 1965, 65 £ 2. Die aus dem Wunsch, Odysseus zu exkulpieren, geborene Ansicht, man habe Elpenor noch gar nicht vermißt (vgl. Ameis-Hentze, Komm, zu 11.53 und Anhang), ist auch nach vordergründigen Gesichtspunkten abwegig; vgl. dazu Spieker a. a. O. 70 f.; zu apologetisch H. Eisenberger, Studien zur Odyssee. Wiesbaden 1973, 166 £ 3. Ilias 23.65 ff. 4.11.23.51. 5. ούχ εστι χερτομίας ο λόγος . . . (Schol. 11.58); »Der ganze Gedanke ist ein naiver Ausspruch in vollem Ernste . . . » (Ameis-Hentze, Komm. z. St.); Spieker a. a. O. 70 f. glaubt, der Vers verrate eine gewisse Verlegenheit des Odysseus darüber, daß er Elpenor nicht bestattete. 6. K. Reinhardt, Die Abenteuer der Odyssee. In: Tradition und Geist, Göttingen I960, 104.—Die Bedeutung des Namens ist umstritten; vgl. H. von Kamptz, Homerische Personennamen. Göttingen 1982, 27, 6l £, 99 £ 7. Es sind die Worte Hektors, mit denen er sich seinem Untergang stellt (II. 22.305). 8. Vgl. Spieker a. a. O. 74. 9. Vgl. Kamptz a. a. O.

89_____________________________________ The Philosophy of the Odyssey* R.B. Rutherford *Source: Journal of Hellenic Studies, voi. 106, 1986, pp. 145-62.

rursus quid virtus et quid sapientia possit utile proposuit nobis exemplar Ulixen, qui domitor Troiae multorum providus urbis et mores hominum inspexit, latumque per aequor, dum sibi, dum sociis reditum parat, aspera multa pertulit, adversis rerum immersabilis undis. Sirenum voces et Circae pocula nosti; quae si cum sociis stultus cupidusque bibisset, sub domina meretrice fuisset turpis et excors, vixisset canis immundus vel amica luto sus: nos numerus sumus et fruges consumere nati, sponsi Penelopae, nebulones, Alcinoique in cute curanda plus aequo operata iuventus, cui pulchrum fuit in medios dormire dies et ad strepitum citharae cessatum ducere curam. (Horaee, Epistles i. 2.18-31) So let us now turn from the vigour and combat of the Iliad to the Odyssey with its ethos. For that poem too is not altogether devoid of wisdom (αφιλοσόφητος). ([Heraclitus], Homeric Allegories 60) The ancient critics are well known— some might say notorious— for their readiness to read literature, and particularly Homer, through moral specta­ cles.1 Their interpretations of Homeric epic are philosophical, not only in the more limited sense that they identified specific doctrines in the speeches of Homer’s characters, making the poet or his heroes spokesmen for the views of Plato or Epicurus,2 but also in a wider sense: the critics demand from Homer not merely entertainment but enlightenment on moral and religious questions, on good and evil, on this life and the after-life. When they fail to find what they seek, they follow Plato and find him wanting.3

272

Homer’s A r t

In modern criticism of Homer this approach has not been altogether abandoned, but it has perhaps become less prominent. In the case of the Odyssey, the moralistic reading of Odysseus' character, well exemplified in the lines of Horace's poem quoted above, would probably be met with considerable scepticism today. Horace’s reading of the Odyssey, it may fairly be said, is too limited and one-sided to do justice to the complex character of the hero, in whom we find not only wisdom, prudence and endurance, but also curiosity, vanity and above all a delight in crafty tricks and lies. Odyssean criticism seems not yet to have reconciled the poem’s dominantly moral tone and the moral status of its hero. It is a commonplace that the Odyssey as a whole is, much more than the Iliads a moral tale, in which, for example, the unjust man meets with the censure and punishment of the gods, whereas the suppliant, the stranger and the guest-friend are under their protection.4 But how far are these and other ethical principles ade­ quately represented and championed by the hero of the poem? To put the question another way, is Odysseus too rich and complex a character for the poem to accommodate? W hat is here being suggested is that, although moral interpretation of the Odyssey is familiar and even orthodox in modern critical writings, the insight of the ancients, that such morality must be embodied in or illu­ strated by the hero himself, has been lost. This parting of the ways is disturbing not only because critics such as Horace or Plutarch or the Stoic allegorists merit a hearing, nor even because of the influence which the concept of Odysseus as a moral example, a symbol of man’s voyage through life and quest for wisdom, has had upon later times;5 it is also hard to deny that the moral reading of Odysseus' character and adventures gains con­ siderable support from the poem itself. It is neither frivolous nor fanciful to observe that Odysseus, in abandoning Calypso for Penelope, exchanging eternal pampered passivity for a real and active mortal existence, shows exceptional self-denial and devotion.6 Allegory, one of the chief weapons of the ancient critic, also has its origins in poetry, not least that of Homer himself;7 and it may be seen, just below the surface, in episodes such as the escape from the Lotus-Eaters and the Sirens, or in the transformation of Odysseus’ men by Circe. The trials and labours of Odysseus, like those of Heracles, were seen by the ancients as both a moral training and a testingground for virtue;8 though we may not wish to endorse the specific alle­ gories which they detected, it remains true, I think, that they saw some­ thing fundamental to the poem, and as important for its design and structure as for its ethos. Furthermore, the poet often makes Odysseus himself voice moral warnings and describe the condition of man: many of the themes of the poem are summed up, for example, in the powerful speech in which he cautions the decent suitor Amphinomus (xviii 125 ff.). The hero is also the exemplar of the good king, who is a father to his people (ii 230 ff, cf. 47; iv 69O ff., V 7 ff., xix 365 ff.).9 W hen he comes home, as one

Characters

273

famous passage implies, the land will be restored to health and fertility, the crops will flourish once more; with the homecoming of the rightful king, prosperity will come again to Ithaca (see xix 107 ff.). In short, we can hardly claim that the character and experiences of Odysseus are not a central concern of the poet; and, as is proper and perhaps inevitable in serious poetry, they have a moral dimension. It can still be asked, however, how important and coherent is the moral picture of Odysseus which is presented in the poem. My purpose in this paper is to chart the development of Odysseus, and to suggest some of the ways in which the changes in his behaviour and responses serve to illustrate and develop important themes of the poem. For the conception of a character developing is not anachronistic or inappropriate in the study of ancient literature, despite what some critics have maintained.10 This is not to say that we should read the Homeric poems as psychological novels, but that Odysseus, like Achilles, reacts to and is changed or affected by circum­ stances and experience.11 Odysseus too, though not a tragic hero, learns and develops through suffering: he undergoes an enlargement of experience and compréhension’.12 In the course of this paper, I shall attempt to trace the main stages in this process of enlargement; I shall try also to show that the ethical framework, the philosophy’, of the Odyssey, is less clear-cut and more realistic than is sometimes implied; and that Odysseus, though a compli­ cated and not always virtuous character, is none the less a coherent one, and a proper vehicle for that philosophy. Inasmuch as Homeric morality is upheld, however capriciously, by the gods, they naturally feature from time to time in this paper; but I do not propose to linger on the thorny questions of Homeric theology, or to treat in full such questions as the similarity or differences between Iliadic and Odyssean religion,13 the programmatic remarks of Zeus in Book i of the Odyssey,14 or the relationship of the divine pantheon in either poem to contemporary belief or cult.15 It is hardly possible, however, to avoid offering a few preliminary comments, which I hope will be relatively uncon troversial. In general, I take for granted the presentation of the Iliadic gods in a number of recent works, perhaps most conspicuously in the last two chap­ ters of Jasper Griffin’s eloquent study Homer on life and death (Oxford 1980). The gods of the Iliad are beings of terrible power and majesty, yet also often frivolous, selfish, vindictive, and above all able to abandon or ignore their human protégés, to turn their eyes away from mortal suffering.16 In the Odyssey>the picture is obviously rather different; the problem is to decide precisely how different. We may observe that the gods appear less fre­ quently, and that fewer of them are actually involved in the action. There are divine councils only at the openings of Books i and v; Athene and Poseidon, though for different reasons deeply concerned with the destiny of Odysseus, seem prepared to forget about him for several years; and of all the

274

Homer’s A r t

gods in the Odyssey, only Athene has anything of the fullness of character­ isation which we find in the divinities of the Iliad. The gods are, then, less well known to us; and their purposes are obscure to the characters of the poem.17 They move in disguise among men (esp. xvii 482—7). Although they are said, and sometimes seem, to uphold justice, there are disturbing exceptions (in particular, the punishment of the Phaeacians by Poseidon, endorsed or at least condoned by Zeus himself, hardly corresponds to any human canons of justice);18 and although in her plea to Zeus on Odysseus’ behalf Athene praises the hero’s piety (i 60-2, cf. 65—6), her own affection for him is based on their similarity of character (xiii 330-1).19 In other words, the successful return and revenge of Odysseus is a special privilege, not a general law. Men should be pious, but piety does not automatically win rewards. Similarly, the gods may warn men, and (as we shall see) such warnings can never safely be ignored, but obedience may be impossible (as in the case of the starving companions of Odysseus in Book xii), and virtue and generosity, such as the Phaeacians show to Odysseus, cannot always save the unfortunate mortal from the anger of the offended god. The actions of Poseidon and Helios in the Odyssey recall the ruthlessness of the gods of the Iliad when they act in defence of their honour.20 The divine back­ ground of the Odyssey shows little change: the gods, like human kings and overseers,21 may show favour to certain selected mortals, and may at times even feel under some ill-defined obligation to step in and exercise their authority in support of the just cause, but that is not their normal or perennial preoccupation. It is time now to return to Odysseus and his function within the moral structure of the poem. We have seen that ancient writers, including Horace, often saw him as a philosopher, a moral authority, even a sapiens. As has already been indicated, this picture needs refining: the difficulty is to reconcile it with his deviousness, his greed and appetite, his ingenious spinning of lies, his almost comical pleasure in his own cleverness. On the one hand we have Odysseus the πολύτλας, the man of sorrows, who suffers yet finds the inner strength and wisdom to endure despite all his trials; on the other, the πολυμήχανος, the crafty schemer.22 In imitation and interpretation of the Odyssey we generally find that one side or the other is adapted or emphasised: already in classical times, later authors prefer to choose between the philosopher and the crook.23 In Sophocles, for example, we find the Odysseus of the Ajax to be a sombre and compassionate statesman, whereas in the same author’s Philoctetes it is the other side of the Homeric portrait which is stressed, and Odysseus emerges as an arch­ sophist, a time-serving and scheming politician.24 Homer himself, however, combines both these aspects, the liar and braggart and the moral avenger, within the same poem. It seems plausible that the earlier tradition had stressed the more disreputable, unheroic

Characters

275

aspects of the character. In the Iliad, his capacity for deception is treated with veiled allusion by Achilles (ix 308-314) and open insult by Agamem­ non (iv 339). His very appearance is unconventional and deceptive (iii 209“ 224, cf. Od, viii 159-64). He deceives Dolon without a qualm (II. x 383); his successes in the funeral games are not quite innocently won (xxiii 725 ff.); his retreat from the battlefield in the eighth book of the Iliad, ignoring Diomedes' appeal and Nestor’s plight, was the occasion of considerable debate among the scholiasts (viii 97 with ΣΒ Τ).25 In the Iliad, he is a fine speaker and a quick thinker (as shown especially by his presence of mind in Book ii, when he saves Agamemnon from disgrace); but we are obviously meant to see him as a lesser hero and a less noble figure than Achilles. It is striking that what moralising Odysseus does offer in the earlier poem, in Book xix, is, and seems meant to appear, trite and insensi­ tive (II. xix l60 ff., 216 ff., esp. 225).26 In the Odyssey, we hear of his relationship with the arch-thief and oathbreaker Autolycus (xix 393-412), and in the first book we are also told of his use of poisoned arrows (i 257— 64), though for dramatic as well as moral reasons the poet does not admit their use in the actual slaughter.27 We may also observe that his womanis­ ing overseas with glamorous goddesses has been discreetly kept to a mini­ mum, though not entirely bowdlerised. (There is some evidence that in other tales Odysseus’ fidelity to Penelope was ..less uncompromising, his sexual morals more lax.28) All in all, the poet has not chosen a hero who can readily become the vehicle or the spokesman of ethical teachings. Traditional analysis might see the wily .trickster and the moral hero as originally two different treatments or traditions lying behind the tale of Odysseus, unhappily stitched together to create a patchwork.29 More plau­ sibly, refined analysis might deduce from the evidence so far given that the poet of the Odyssey imposed a moralising picture on recalcitrant material, in an effort to transform folk-tale or fable into a narrative with greater ethical and religious significance.30 Naïve unitarianism might reply by simply appealing to human nature: people are complicated, characters in fiction as in real life possess many qualities and these may often be inconsistent; the character of Odysseus and the poem itself are the richer for this variety, which reflects the hero’s chameleon-like versatility. Such a defence, super­ ficially attractive, will seem less so if we believe that most classical literature characteristically imposes pattern and integrates contradictions within an artistic and formally structured whole. It is not usual for ancient authors to present their readers with loose ends, random juxtapositions or unrelated elements. Their preference is to include contrasting and conflicting scenes or viewpoints within a carefully organised, unified structure.31 In the rest of this paper I shall attempt to offer a more refined version of the Unitarian position, based on the assumption that Odysseus' character does change or develop, and that this development is not simply of psychological

276

Homer's A r t

interest, but serves to reinforce, to convey more vividly and more thought­ fully, the moral lessons of the Odyssey. When we first meet Odysseus in the Odyssey, on the island of Calypso in Book v, his wanderings are of course well advanced. He has been stripped by ill fortune and divine persecution of ships, comrades, treasure, all that once was his. Part of the point of structuring the poem in this way is in order to introduce us to the hero at the very nadir of his fortunes, just as in geographical terms he is at the outer limits of the known world. But it will be more convenient to go through Odysseus’ adventures chronologi­ cally, and this means moving directly to the opening of the hero’s narrative to the Phaeacians, in Book ix. There is a certain difficulty here, given that these stories are told by Odysseus himself at a later date.32 There are indeed some touches of bravado and the occasional reference to his own foresight or achievements, for instance at x 156 ff., the episode in which he kills a mighty stag. It seems deliberate, and amusing, that he dwells so long on the episode, even repeating, in a matter of ten lines, the formula which emphasises the beast’s enormous size (x 171 - 180 μάλα γαρ μέγα θηρίον ήεν); similarly, he takes the trouble to mention how long his followers spent gazing at the dead animal in wonder. But in spite of these boastful passages in the firstperson narrative,33 it remains the case that Odysseus does tell us a fair amount, sometimes ruefully and grimly, about his own errors as well as his companions’ misdeeds. From Troy, Odysseus sailed to the land of the Cicones. Here again, his narrative betrays a breezy heroic bravado: ‘there I sacked their city and killed the people’ (ix 40; cf e.g. II. ix 326-9, 594-5). But a sterner note is heard when the men go on looting, despite Odysseus’ warnings (ix 44 τοί δέ νήπιοί ούκ έπίθοντο). This disobedience sets the keynote of Odysseus’ difficult relations with his followers. As a result, the neighbouring allies spring a counter-attack, and six men from each ship are lost before the rest can make their escape. The second mishap is Odysseus’ doing: indeed, the whole debacle of the Cyclops episode is due, as he himself admits, to his insatiable curiosity, and to his eagerness to win friends and acquire gifts. Particularly noteworthy are his retrospective comments at ix 224 if., in which he recalls the moment when he and his men had entered the Cyclops’ cave. ‘There my companions begged me to let them take away some of the cheeses and depart, driving kids and lambs out of their pens and aboard our swift ship, and setting out once more over the salt sea. But I did not heed them 34— better, far better, if I had! I was still eager to see the owner of the place and find out if he would give me a guest-gift. But it was no kind host that my companions were to meet there. . . The rest of the story needs no summary here. Odysseus succeeded in getting some of his companions out of this predicament, but

Characters

277

only after having got them into it. Furthermore, he cannot resist the temptation to mock the Cyclops from the apparent safety of his ship, taunting him in the fashion of an Iliache warrior. 35 This is almost disastrous when Polyphemus hurls boulders at them; still worse, Odysseus has to exult in his own personal success, revealing his own identity and so making it possible for the Cyclops to harm him through his prayer to Poseidon. Here again, the companions desperately try to restrain Odysseus, but he pays no attention (ix 492 f£). In the episode of the bag of winds (x 1-79), the situation is more complicated, for it seems that both Odysseus and his men are at fault: Odysseus for his characteristic lack of trust, never telling his men more than is absolutely necessary, always taking delight in his superior knowledge. Understandably, they do not trust him, and proceed to loot their captain’s luggage (x 44 f.). As a result, when actually within sight of Ithaca, they are driven off course by the battling winds. Odysseus is filled with unequalled misery at this fresh setback: he considers hurling himself into the sea (50— 2), but instead, as he puts it, T endured (53 ετλην) and remained: veiling my head, I lay in the ship’. This moment of self-control and restraint of his emotions (we are not told that Odysseus weeps, though the companions certainly do, 49) points the way forward to Odysseus’ later endurance and patience in adversity. But it has yet to become the dominant, controlling force in his character. In these early adventures he is still something of a dashing buccaneer; he has yet to become the brooding, deep-thinking planner and almost Stoic moralist whom we see in the making during the Phaeacian books and in action in the second half of the epic. 6 These episodes help to explain the general tension between Odysseus and his companions, particularly Eurylochus, in subsequent adventures, notably the Circe episode. They admire, fear and even care about him, but they also distrust him. This emerges from x 198-202, 244-73, and especially the splendid scene at 428 fifi, when Odysseus returns from his encounter with Circe, to tell his waiting friends that all is well. At this point Eurylochus makes a panicky speech which culminates in an accusation of Odysseus: he says (in essence) 'where are you off to, you fools? Shell turn you all into pigs or wolves or lions; it’ll be just like the Cyclops affair all over again, when our friends died because of his rash folly (x 437 τούτου γάρ και κείνοι άτασθαλιήσιν ολοντο)!37 Although Odysseus draws his sword in fury and has to be restrained by his more timid friends (x 443, 'No, descendant of Zeus, let’s leave him here, if you bid us do so . . .’), we may well feel that there is some truth in what the rebellious Eurylochus says. The next episode involving a warning that is not heeded occurs in Book xii, with the warnings of Circe when Odysseus finally leaves her island. She tells him privately ~of the dangers of the Sirens, but, knowing that he will not be able to resist listening to their song, she gives him instructions how to do so in safety.38 These he follows to the letter: the story illustrates once

278

Homer's A r t

again his curiosity, his fascination with new experiences, but it also indi­ cates his greater prudence in comparison with earlier episodes in which he took unnecessary risks or forced his compànions to do so. But Circe also warns him of the danger from Scylla and Charybdis: here he cannot avoid losing some men, and must be content if the ship itself is saved. At this point the heroic spirit of Odysseus the sacker of cities reasserts itself, and he asks if there is no way to make a stand against Scylla. The enchantress replies: Self-willed man (σχβτλιε), is your mind still set on war-like deeds, on struggle and toil? W ill you not bow to the deathless gods themselves? Scylla is not of mortal kind; she is an immortal monster. (xii 116-8) Odysseus needs to learn that the old heroic code of facing your foe in headon defiance, kill or be killed, cannot always work.39 In what follows, Odysseus shows that these lessons are only partially learnt. He retails the warnings to his companions, but with typical caution tells them only part: O f Scylla I did not speak, that inexorable horror, for fear the crew in panic might cease from rowing and huddle themselves below in the hold’ (xii 223-5). But he himself forgets Circe’s warning— the familiar story-pattern once again makes its appearance— dons his armour and tries to threaten Scylla, to no avail (xii 226 f£). Six of his comrades are lost, in one of the most spine-chilling scenes of the Odyssey, and one which speaks clearly in the language and images of men’s nightmares. . . . I saw only their feet and hands as they were lifted up; they were calling out to me in their heart’s anguish, crying out my name for the last time . . . Scylla swung my writhing companions up to the rocks, and there at the entrance to her cave, she began to devour them as they shrieked and held out their hands to me in the extremes of agony. Of all the things I saw with my eyes, of all the trials I underwent in my quests of the paths of the sea, that was the most pitiful. (xii 248-5 9)40 The next trial that Odysseus and his crew have to undergo is the episode of the Oxen of the Sun. Both Tiresias and Circe had been particularly insistent in warning Odysseus about this (xi 104 ff., xii 127—41). If Odysseus lands on Thrinacia, he must not harm these animals, or his homecoming will be late and hard, and before that he must lose all his comrades (xi 114 = xii 141). In Tiresias’ speech of warning one line in particular stands out for its thematic importance, extending beyond this episode to the poem as a whole: Tf you are prepared to restrain your desire, and that of your comrades’, (xi 105 αϊ K έθέλης σόν θυμόν ερυκακέειν

Characters

279

καί εταίρω ν . . .). Self-restraint and self-denial remain important themes throughout the rest of Odysseus’ career, not just during the wanderings.41 Odysseus himself would have preferred to steer past the island altogether, but again it is Eurylochus who protests, rebelling against their leader’s strictness (xii 271-302), and Odysseus is forced to yield, though not with­ out insisting that his companions swear an oath not to touch the beasts. Needless to say, in the end, with the winds unfavourable and starvation looming, the companions, urged on by Eurylochus, forget their oath and embark upon the fateful meal (xii 339 ff). On this occasion they are clearly the offenders, but Odysseus’ own position is ambiguous, since he had left them alone when he went away to pray and fell asleep, as he had before in the episode of the bag of winds. He tells the Phaeacians that the gods sent this disastrous sleep on him (xii 338, cf 370 ff, esp. 372 α τη ν).42 A convenient excuse, as in Agamemnon’s famous 'apology’ (//. xix 86 ff),43 or a malicious deity at work, or a more complex theological paradox, by which the gods, like Jehovah in the Old Testament, lead their human victims into sin?44 At all events, the companions perish while Odysseus is saved, but he too is to be punished, still dogged by the curse of Poseidon, now reinforced by the anger of Helios. As Tiresias warned him: si δέ κε σ ίνη α ι, τό τε το ι τεκ μ α ίρομ 3ό λεθ ρ ο ν ν η ι τε και ετά ρ ο ισ 3. αύτος δ5 εϊ πέρ κ εν άλύξης, όψ ε κακώ ς νεια ι, ολέσ α ς άπο πάντας εταίρους, νη ος έπ3άλλοτρίης* δ ή εις δ3 έν πήματα ο ϊκ φ . . . If you harm them, I foretell destruction for your ship and your compa­ nions; and if you yourself escape, you will come home late and hard, after losing all your companions, a passenger on another’s ship; and you will find troubles in your house . . . (xi 112-5) This story pattern is an important part of Homer’s legacy to tragedy: the omens ignored, the warning inadequate, defied or recalled too late. 5 We may remember the case of Creon in the Antigone, of Pentheus and Hippo­ lytus, of the doomed Polynices in the Oedipus Coloneus. Like many characters in Greek tragedy, like Orestes and Oedipus, for example, the companions of Odysseus seem trapped by a problem that has no solution.46 Precautions and warnings are not always enough. The travel books of the Odyssey do not offer us a simple, black and white fable in which Odysseus is always right and the companions always wrong or wicked. Eurylochus is not a hubris tic figure or a theomachos. A more realistic and thoughtful pattern seems to emerge: Odysseus survives not because he is pious or guiltless or devoid of vices, nor even- because he does not make mistakes, but because he is able to learn from them, to adapt, to use what help he can get from others and stay

280

Homer's A r t

on top. He learns, slowly and painfully, to curb both his heroic impulses (the instinctive desire to taunt an enemy, to fight on even when it is hopeless), and his more dangerous, more idiosyncratic quality, his curiosity. Moreover, we see him growing into a more sombre figure, isolated from his own kind after the deaths of his remaining friends, turned in upon himself and absorbed in his own loneliness and grief, suspicious even of those who offer help and support. Here we turn back to Book v, in which our first glimpse of Odysseus is as he sits weeping on the shore of Ogygia (151-8), and in which, after many years of captivity, he is finally told by Calypso that he can go. His suspicious response is striking: in surly fashion, he replies: (yo\x have something else in mind, goddess, you have no thought of sending me home, you who now bid me traverse the vast gulf of the sea on a raft: . . .’ (v 173-4). Nor is this a unique case: he reacts similarly to the overtures of the sea-nymph Ino, who offers him help when his raft has been shattered (v 333 ff, esp. his speech at 356-59)· This is a negative and unprofitable suspicion; it appears again when he wakes up on the shores of Ithaca and immediately supposes, against all probability, that the Phaeacians have betrayed him (xiii 203-14). Their actual fate, as presented in the preceding scene, makes still clearer the unfairness of this suspicion and creates a poignant irony (esp. lines 2134). It reappears once more when he will not believe Athene's assurance that he is at last home, even after she has revealed her identity (xiii 312 if., esp. 324-8). Suspicion is one aspect of the gloomy pessimism which possesses Odysseus in the early books, especially v-viii. Tossed by fate and aban­ doned, perhaps even hated (x 73—5) by the gods,47 he is now preoccupied with his own miseries, and loses no opportunity to comment on them to others. Thus in Book v, when Calypso warns him that there are further troubles in store for him when he reaches his home, he replies in words which prefigure, and perhaps provide the model for, Aeneas’ speech of praemeditatio in response to the parallel warning of the Sibyl in the sixth book of Virgil’s Aeneid (103-5): 48 Even so, my desire and longing day by day is still to reach my own home and to see the day of my return. And if this or that deity should shatter my craft on the wine-dark sea, I will bear it (τλήσομαί), and keep a heart within me that can endure sorrow. For now indeed I have suffered and toiled long on the waves and in war; let new tribulations now join the old. (Od v 219-24) This gloomy yet stoical fatalism appears further in the Phaeacian books, for instance in Odysseus’ appeal to Nausicaa: \ . . and now some deity has cast me here, I suppose so that I can suffer some further misfortune. For I don’t suppose it is at an end; no, the gods have further things in store for me . . .’

Characters

281

(vi 172-4). Nausicaa s reply produces the standard fatalistic thinking of early Greek literature, though we may here also suspect that the poet, as so often in the Phaeacis A) is having a little fun with his creations. Her words are: 'Stranger, since you do not seem to me a bad or foolish man, remember that Zeus himself, the Olympian, dispenses blessings to mankind, to good men and also to bad, to each as he chooses. This fate he has, we may be sure, given to you, and it is for you to endure it’ (vi 187-90; τετλάμεν again).50 These remarks are dpubtless very true and salutary; they come close, in fact, to Odysseus' own wbrds to Calypso in the fifth book; but there is a gentle humour in Odysseus' hard-won insights being echoed thus by Nausicaa’s sententious naïveté. In the Phaeacian books we find further pessimistic remarks and unhappy speeches by Odysseus even after he has been hospitably received (vi 325, vii 208 ff.); and in general in Book viii he remains apart, brooding and weeping, reluctant or unable as yet to reveal himself and partake in their frivolous and peaceful existence (further, see viii 154—5, 182-3, 231—2, 478, ix 12 ff). It is a commonplace, which I would endorse, that Phaeacia is a ‘transitional' episode, a half-way stage between the magical, other-worldly fairyland of Odysseus’ earlier adventures and the familiar Greek geography and society of Ithaca.51 The Phaeacian books also prepare for and include events which foreshadow Odysseus' later experiences in Ithaca.52 Most important, Phaeacia provides a suitable environment for Odysseus to recover from his adventures beyond the known world. He is able to mix with human beings again, to experience their compassion, their hospitality and finally their wonder and admiration. He regains some of his old selfconfidence in the course of Book viii; he also realises with delight that his old ally Athene has returned to aid him (viii 199—200). In short, he begins to emerge from his shell of self-pity and self-centred despair; for the Odyssey no less than the Iliad is concerned with the role of man in society, with the preservation or the destruction of the bonds, social, emotional and moral, between a man and his fellows.53 No episode of the Phaeacian books is as moving and suggestive in charting the progress of Odysseus as the concluding scene of Book viii, the account of the third song by Demodocus and its aftermath.54 Full of food and drink and pleased with himself, Odysseus asks Demodocus to change his song, turning to the fall of Troy. Tell us, he says, of the Wooden Horse, ‘which Odysseus had brought into the citadel as a ruse' (viii 494). Demodocus obliges with a detailed account of the sack of Troy highlighting Odysseus and his struggles. We expect the disguised hero to be pleased and flattered. But instead he weeps, and his tears are described in one of Homer's most moving similes, in which he is compared with a woman who weeps over the body of her husband, who fell protecting his city and their children, while she is left alive to be dragged off into slavery (viii 52131). Not precisely Andromache (for the woman in the simile reaches her

282

Homer’s A r t

husband's body before he draws his last breath), the wife in the simile stands for all the widowed women of Troy, all those who suffered in the sack, and suffered at Odysseus’ hands. Now the victor and the victim are united in suffering and grief: 11. 530-1 beautifully bring this out by the verbal echo:

τής δ’ ελεεινοτάτφ άχεϊ φθινύθουσι παρειαί* ώς Όδυσεύς ελεεινόν ύπ οφρόσι δάκρυον είβεν. Here we see Homer contrasting different ideas of what poetry does and what it is for. W hat Odysseus expects is, in effect, a panegyric of his own strategic and military successes. There seems no reason to doubt that in the aristocratic society of early Greece and Ionia, such poems would be common, as in many other oral traditions, and familiar to Homer (cf Hes. Th. 80— 93).55 But what Odysseus actually gets is something deeper and more characteristically Homeric: not a partisan version, but one that sees both sides, Trojan and Greek. Bor when we look back at the summary of Demodocus’ song, we find that it dwells on the delusion and the cruel destiny of the Trojans (511 αϊσα γάρ fjv απολέσθαι, κ.τ.λ.; cf. Virg. Aen. ii 54), and how near they came to destroying the horse. The situation and the chain of events would be familiar to Odysseus, who had himself been inside the horse (iv 271-88), and we might expect him to remember this crisis with satisfaction and relief. It needs the eloquence and the compassion of a Homeric poet to open the springs of pity in Odysseus and to make him see that the victory he won all those years ago has become a matter for history and poetry; that the profits which he gained have slipped through his fingers; and above all that his own sufferings and his own separation from wife, child and home are not more important than the sufferings of the Trojans, but mirror-images of them (as is brought out by the marital theme in the simile).56 It has often been remarked that Odysseus weeps twice at Demodocus’ songs, the first time being earlier in the day when he sang of the quarrel between Odysseus and Achilles. We may expect a recognition then, but Alcinous’ tact leads him to stop the singing and divert the stranger in other ways. The second weeping-scene caps the first, not only because it is more emotional and prolonged,57 but also because of the subject of the song and the object of Odysseus’ grief and pity. In the earlier scene, he wept for himself and his comrades; in the scene we have just considered, he realises, like Achilles, the common ground between friend and foe. This is the lesson of shared and common suffering, common not just to friends and allies, but to all mankind.58 In the later books of the Odyssey, this principle animates some of Odys­ seus’ sternest and most serious speeches of warning to the suitors. Their offence has a broader moral significance because it ignores the humility and fragility of man. The suitors believe that they can live like gods, eternally

Characters

283

feasting, unpunished (νήποίνοί, a recurrent word; see i 377, 380, etc.).59 Experience has taught Odysseus that such arrogant optimism is a delusion. As he says to Amphinomus, the one suitor who regularly has misgivings about what they are doing: I have something to say to you, and do you listen, and store it in your heart. Of all things that breathe and move upon the earth, earth mothers nothing more frail than man. For as long as the gods grant him prosper­ ity, as long as 'his limbs are swift, he thinks that he will suffer no misfortune in times to come. But when instead the Blessed Ones send him sorrow, that too he has to bear, under compulsion, with enduring heart. The father of godssand men makes one day unlike another day, and men on the earth must change their thoughts in accordance with this. I too once seemed marked out as a fortunate man; I did many reckless things (139 ατάσθαλ") to sate my desire for power and mastery, putting great faith in my father and brothers. And so I would have no man be lawless (άθεμίστίος); rather, let each accept unquestioningly whatever gifts the gods grant him. (xviii. 130-42)60 There is falsehood here, and the story bears affinities to Odysseus' large-scale lies;61 but like them it contains elements of truth about his travels and his past; and it also involves moral truths and warnings which draw on the basic ethical framework of the Odyssey: rashness, boldness, overconfidence coming to grief; and, by contrast, the advocacy of generosity, mercy, gentleness (see above all Penelope’s speech at xix 325 ff.).62 If Phaeacia prepares Odysseus for the role that he must play in Ithaca and the second part of the poem, it is the scene with Athene in Book xiii, on the beach in Ithaca itself, which provides the pivot and completes the change in Odysseus’ condition.63 W ith Book xiii we move from predominantly sea­ going adventures to land, and from more magical and supernatural coun­ tries to a familiar part of Greece. The reunion with Athene marks the new upward turn in Odysseus’ fortunes. From now on, instead of being the victim of the gods and the child of ill fortune,63a he will be in control; instead of receiving warnings, he will give them; instead of being a passive figure who merely endures, he will become the active strategist and avenger; instead of indulging in self-pity and brooding on the past, instead of carrying grief or vanity or boastfulness to extremes, he learns the crucial lesson of self-restraint and self-control. This is shown first when in Book xvi he beholds his son after their long separation (xvi 1 ff.). The point is skilfully made through the use of a simile describing a father welcoming his son, the simile being applied not, as would be natural, to Odysseus, but to Eumaeus.64 Eumaeus plays the role of a surrogate father to Telemachus (who calls him αττα, e.g. xvi 31), and the

284

Homer's A r t

spontaneous joy and openness of the swineherd’s greeting to his young master (23 ήλθες, Τηλέμαχε, γλυκερόν φάος) provide a perfect foil to the silent presence of the disguised Odysseus in the background. The poet keeps Odysseus silent, and refrains from describing his emotions for some time; he does not break this silence until xvi 90, when he is his usual collected self, and it is only later, after the recognition between father and son has taken place, that Homer gives some hint, however delicately, of the hero’s feelings. Now we again see a father kissing and shedding tears; but what was only a simile before is now reality.

ώς αρα φωνήσας υιόν κύσε, κάδ δε παρειών δάκρυον ήκε χαμαζε* πάρος δ' έχε νωλεμές αιεί W ith these words he kissed his son, and shed a tear that fell down his cheeks and to the ground; until that moment he had held the tear back always.65 (xvi 190-1) The self-discipline of Odysseus receives its severest trial in the encounter with Penelope in Book xix. Here too he must mask his emotions and hold back his tears, even when he is forced to watch Penelope weep at the very words he himself utters; and here again, the poetic device of contrasting similes vividly communicates the lesson which Odysseus has now learned:

ϊσκε ψεύδεα πολλά λέγων έτύμοισιν όμοια* τής δ3άρ3άκουούσης ρέε δάκρυα, τήκετο δέ χρώς. ώς δέ χιών κατατήκετ3εν άκροπόλοισιν ορεσσιν, ήν τ3εύρος κατέτηξεν, έπήν ζέφυρος καταχεύη, τηκομένης δ3αρα τής ποταμοί πλήθουσι ρέοντες* ώς τής τήκετο καλά παρήϊα δάκρυ χεούσης, κλαιούσης έον άνδρα παρήμενον.67 αύτάρ Όδυσσεύς θυμω μεν γοόωσαν έήν ελέαιρε γυναίκα, οφθαλμοί δ3ώς ει κέρα έστασαν ήέ σίδηρος άτρέμας εν βλεφάροισν δόλφ δ3ο γε δάκρυα κευθεν. He moulded all these falsehoods of his to resemble truth, and as the queen listened, her tears flowed and her cheeks grew wet. It was as when the snow melts on lofty mountains; the west wind brought it, the east wind melts it, and at its melting the rivers swell up to overflowing. So did her lovely cheeks grow wet as she shed tears and wept for the husband who sat so near her. As for Odysseus, his heart went out to his weeping wife, but beneath his eyelids his eyes kept as firm as horn or iron; he still dissembled, and showed no tears. (xix 203-212, tr. W. Shewring)

Characters

285

Clearly, the similes are antithetical: melting snow versus hard iron or horn; overflowing emotion versus containment and control. The meeting between Odysseus and Athene in Book xiii is also important in other ways for the thematic design of the poem. Two aspects in particular require comment: delayed recognition and testing (πείράζεχν and cognates are key words in the second half of the Odyssey).68 Athene deceives Odysseus, disguising herself and concealing from him the fact that he is now back in Ithaca; thus she, has the pleasure and satisfaction of making the revelation herself There is a sophisticated and humorous psychological point here: Homer understands the superiority we feel when we are in a position to reassure or bring good news to others, how we are often willing to delay giving the news, hoping thus to enhance their suspense and our pleasure. This is the superiority that Odysseus himself enjoys throughout the second half of the poem. In almost all the recognition scenes it is he who chooses the moment of revelation (the exceptions are Argos, who does not really count, being a dog, and Eurycleia, where Odysseus has indeed slipped up, but remains in command of the situation and avoids further exposure). Athene, then, is showing him the way, but also demonstrating that she can play his game and deceive him. The scene is rich in witty ironies and double-bluffs.69 Athene deceives Odysseus successfully (he does not recog­ nise who she is) and she makes her revelation (he is in Ithaca); but even in his moment of delight he does not give himself away. Instead of a sponta­ neous outburst of joy we find him responding with exquisite self-possession: ‘Ah yes, Ithaca . . . yes, I’ve heard of that place, even far off in my home in Crete . . .’ (xiii 256): these words form the prelude to one of his outrageous but splendidly circumstantial lies. In the end, Athene has to admit defeat and reveal her own identity (xiii 287-309, 330 ffi; note esp. 332-5, in which she praises his self-control). Thus the poet prepares for the themes which will dominate subsequent books. Odysseus will move disguised among his household, testing, seeking out loyalty and treachery, good and evil.70 Only when the test is passed will he reveal the truth. The scene in Book xiii is an ironic, touching but charming anticipation of the scenes of suspense, tension and drama which are to follow. As often, the gods of Homeric poetry are like mortals, their actions are analogous, but there are also crucial differences. Athene is like Odysseus, and that is why she loves him; but it is also why she tests his calibre and seeks to deceive and only later to undeceive him. Teasing and deception are characteristic of the gods, even when dealing with their favourites.71 It is also often true that what is serious and even tragic for mortals is light-hearted and even unimportant for the gods, a point well illustrated by the amour of Ares and Aphrodite (viii 2 66-3 66).72 So too here, Athene’s deception and testing of Odysseus’ mettle is amusing, for her and for us; but- nothing depends on it for her. As a goddess, she can, if she wishes, play such games, with no fear of human retaliation, whereas in the

286

Homer's A r t

later books the tests and deceptions which Odysseus practises are very different. Despite all the ingenuity and brazenness that he employs, we know that his life depends on his keeping his identity secret until the right moment. The analogy between Athene's actions and those of Odysseus is also thematically important in another respect. It has been well observed that Odysseus himself, with his superior knowledge and power, is to some degree in the position of a Homeric god, avenging insults and defending his honour.73 This analogy has also a moral dimension. Odysseus' seemingly lowly status, which in fact conceals terrible power and anger, is close to the stories, common in many cultures and found, for example, in the Old Testament, which tell of gods visiting men in disguise in order to test the hospitality they receive, and to find out whether their hosts are just and pious (