Traces of the Past: Classics between History and Archaeology 0472119923, 9780472119929

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Acknowledgments While writing this book, I have benefited from the ongoing support of colleagues, family, and friends. I owe a special debt of gratitude to my University of California colleagues Leslie Kurke, Mario TelГІ, and Alex Purves, for supportive criticism and encouragement when it was most needed. Margaret Brose, Catherine Soussloff, and Deanna Shemek have been sources of both personal and intellectual support. Sarah Morris and John Papadopoulos were patient and forgiving in responding to my questions about archaeological matters. Peter Euben and Hayden White offered encouragement and guidance, often at crucial moments. I have greatly appreciated discussing issues of shared interest with Lucia Athanasakis, Josine Blok, Ewen Bowie, Paul Cartledge, Carol Dougherty, Richard Martin, Victoria Pedrick, Natasha Peponi, James I. Porter, Seth Schein, Ineke Sluiter, and Anna Uhlig. Victoria Wohl has been a valued interlocutor throughout the writing of the book. I am also grateful for the support and interest of the following colleagues at the University of California at Santa Cruz: Mary-Kay Gamel, Daniel Selden, Charles Hedrick, Jenny Lynn, Gildas Hamel, Sharon Kinoshita, and Tyrus Miller. Opportunities to present portions of the book at the Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa, University College London, the University of California at Los Angeles, Stanford University, Leiden University, and UC Santa Cruz elicited lively discussion. I thank colleagues for their kind invitations to make those presentations. I also want to acknowledge the expert assistance of Beth Remak and Frank Gravier at McHenry Library at UC Santa Cruz, as well as of Lavalle Hunsucker and the staff at the Library of Classics & Archaeology at the University of Amsterdam, for their help in the midst of recataloguing the library’s collection. Eric Bachman and Kendra Dority provided meticulous editorial assistance at an early stage of the project. Ellen Bauerle and the anonymous readers for the University of Michigan Press offered numerous suggestions for improving the book. The Page x →responsibility for all remaining errors and omissions rests with me. I gratefully acknowledge funding provided for this project by the Committee on Research at UC Santa Cruz. Nothing would get done without the love and support of my family—my husband, Peter Harris; my son, Nicholas Harris; and my mother-in-law and father-in-law, Dolores and Mark Pratt. Portions of this book have been published in various journals and collections of essays, as follows: “Croesus’ Offerings and the Value of the Past in Herodotus’ Histories.” Valuing the Past in the Greco-Roman World. Ed. James Ker and Christoph Pieper. Leiden: Brill, 2014. 172–95. “Epic Remains: Seeing and Time in the Odyssey.” Given World and Time: Temporalities in Context. Ed. Tyrus Miller. Budapest: Central European University Press, 2008. 25–46. “Homer’s Achaean Wall and the Hypothetical Past.” Probabilities, Hypotheticals, and Counterfactuals in Ancient Greek Thought. Ed. Victoria Wohl. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. 122–41. “Things of the Past: Objects and Time in Greek Narrative.” Arethusa 38 (2005): 1–32.” “Visuality and Temporality: Reading the Tragic Script.” The Soul of Tragedy. Ed. Steven Oberhelman and Victoria Pedrick. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005. 251–70. “Zeus’ Stone: Objects and Time in a Delphic Landscape.” Apolline Politics and Poetics. Ed. Lucia Athanassakis, Richard P. Martin, and John F. Miller. Athens: European Cultural Centre of Delphi, 2009. 109–26. Most of these materials have been revised for this book. I thank the editors and publishers for permission to use them here. The abbreviations used in this book for citing ancient authors and texts are generally those found in Simon Hornblower, Antony Spawforth, and Esther Eidinow, eds., The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 4th ed., or in H. G.

Liddell and R. Scott, eds., A Greek Lexicon, 9th ed., revised by H. Stuart Jones (cited as LSJ).

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Introduction Seeing the Past What are we doing when we walk into an archaeological museum or onto an archaeological site? For what or at what are we looking? What do the objects and features we encounter in these unique spaces mean? More specifically, how do they convey to us something about the beliefs and activities of formerly living humans? The answers to these questions may seem all too obvious; they also depend on what “we” I am talking about. Professional archaeologists or art historians, for example, have very specific ways of looking at and talking about their objects of study. But the particulars of these disciplinary approaches are based on the assumption that ancient artifacts and architectural features are part of an array of data that come, over time, to constitute “the ancient past.” This process is achieved through a combination of enforcement and improvisation, that is, through certain discipline-specific ways of seeing, on the one hand, and through more open-ended or relational ways of seeing, on the other. In both cases, the ways in which visible phenomena in the present define and give meaning to the past necessarily depend on language—that is, on the captions, descriptions, explanations, and stories they produce. Narrative, in other words, turns these phenomena into remains and ruins. The aim of this book is to trace this transformation in a selection of ancient Greek texts and, in the process, to attempt to bridge the disciplinary divide that separates archaeologists, historians, and philologists. In very general terms, this divide is between the study of words and the study of things. I begin with the fact that the past—as a temporal category whose effects extend into the present—is often formed in the visual experiences of characters and narrators in Greek narrative. Beginning with epic and didacticPage 2 → poetry and extending to fifth-century drama and history writing, these experiences include the empirical observation of tangible objects like rocks, walls, and tombs. But they also include events whose details are presented as the effects of a character’s or narrator’s visual experiences and perceptions. In this introduction, I introduce the term protoarchaeological to refer to narratives in which the past is constituted out of or in response to what is visible (or not) in the present. Protoarchaeological narratives do two things. First, they activate a competition between the possibility (or promise) of seeing the past and the act of reading (about) it. Second, they activate a competition between the desire to preserve the past in visible or material form, on the one hand, and the past’s susceptibility to destruction and decay, on the other. I’ll have more to say about both claims in the following chapters. As used throughout this book, the term protoarchaeological refers to the visual representation of objects and events in a variety of ancient narratives but is meant to keep its disciplinary connotation. To illustrate the current state of these competitions in disciplinary terms, I begin with a brief overview of recent scholarship in the field of museum studies. At first glance, the relevance of museum studies to a book about ancient Greek narrative may seem tenuous. But debates among scholars in museum studies over the aims of museums and how they achieve these aims provide a succinct introduction to the theoretical issues that frame this book. More specifically, debates over the display and preservation of objects in museums help us to conceptualize the relationship between visual perception and temporal meaning that defines the protoarchaeological narratives discussed in the following chapters. In introducing the idea of the museum as a text, moreover, these debates also point to the utility of reading as a metaphor for mediating this relationship. As I will suggest in the epilogue, this mediating function is explicit in the concept of “reading the past” in archaeological theory. The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) defines the modern museum as follows: “A building or institution in which objects of historical, scientific, artistic, or cultural interest are preserved and exhibited. Also: the collection of objects held by such an institution” (2a). It seems self-evident both that the tasks this definition describes—that is, to preserve and exhibit objects—form a natural pair and that preservation requires spectators.1 But what seems natural also raises a question that links these two tasks: how is the past Page 3 →produced in the remains of material or visible phenomena in the present?2 As the focus of this book, this question is not about the chronological age or physical condition of actual objects or architectural structures. Rather, as mentioned above, it is about the temporal content of the language used to describe them. It investigates

how the visual experiences of characters and narrators in ancient Greek narrative initiate a process of accessing, interpreting, and giving meaning to the past.3 In Friends of Interpretable Objects, Miguel Tamen provides a useful introduction to the conceptual categories that guide this process. He begins with the question of how perceptions of physical or visible phenomena lead to practices of interpretation based on “a connection between how one describes the senses and how one makes sense of the world.”4 In the course of analyzing this connection, Tamen considers the particular situated quality of objects in museums. Museums are indeed places where the use of exhibited objects is inseparable from the basic assumption that objects therein “have been made in order to signify something other than what the eye sees: museums are places where bits of matter are reducedВ .В .В . to meaning and subsequently defined as вЂart.’”5 Here Tamen quotes Cesare Ripa in support of his own conclusions about the political disposition of objects that are caught between the forces of destruction (or iconoclasm) and the forces of preservation. Tamen exemplifies this conflict in terms of a distinction between the inside and outside of museums, or in terms of what he calls the “immuration” of objects. As a consequence of this kind of immuration, he argues, the museum has been both held responsible for the destruction of an object’s original or essential cultural context and credited with the preservation of its universality.6 Page 4 →For our purposes, Tamen’s account draws attention to the situated nature of visible objects as the enabling precondition for their interpretation by a viewer. In this respect, the concept of immuration can be productively expanded to include the disposition and reception of visible phenomena in texts. This analogy is based on the proposition, mentioned above, that the visual experiences of narrators and characters test the limits of measuring and evaluating the passing of time in narrative. As a consequence of this process, readers of texts become virtual viewers of objects and events; more generally, reading becomes a mediated form of seeing. By way of an inversion, this proposition is explicitly tested in the claim that museums are texts to be read. Rhiannon Mason explains the justifications for this claim as follows: The advantage of understanding museums in terms of texts and narratives is that it moves away from privileging or compartmentalizing a particular aspect of the museum; for example, its building, collections, individual staff, or organizational status. All these components remain crucial, but a textual approach argues that they must be viewed in concert to understand the possible meanings of the museum. Another useful aspect of the idea of textuality is that it raises the question of unintentional meanings, omissions, or contradictions present within displays.7 This textual approach argues against the isolation and unique (or simply representative) status of a given museum object and on behalf of a context-driven approach described as equivalent to the activity of reading texts.8 This approach gives substance to Tamen’s reference to objects that “signify something other than what the eye sees,” especially insofar as it may yield “unintentional meanings, omissions, or contradictions.” At the same time, however, this understanding of the museum object as the subject of a yet-to-be-told story raises questions about the political and cultural effects of constructing and authorizing such a story even when it entails the implied positive revelation of “unintentional meanings.” It may be the case that the museum has always been a kind of text insofar as its objects Page 5 →have been the subjects of stories produced in speech and writing. Indeed, the abundance of recent work on the history of the museum and its functions supports this suggestion, beginning with arguments advocating the use of state or public funds for the purpose of building museums and extending to the development of the disciplines of art history, archaeology, anthropology, and related fields. The notion that museums are texts, in other words, may be related to the fact that they are the subjects of a vast amount of scholarly (and other forms of) writing. In this sense, and by a kind of transference, the museum and its objects are equated with what has been written about them. My aim here, however, is to point to the fact that reading has become a dominant metaphor in museum studies. The effect of the metaphor is to reveal

how the aim of preserving culture in its visible forms meets with a certain resistance; the notion that museums can be read as texts reveals the extent to which the temporal dimension of visible phenomena—as an effect of “preservation”—is necessarily mediated by language. In summarizing the task of the museum in their general introduction to Grasping the World: The Idea of the Museum, Donald Preziosi and Claire Farago argue, Museum objects are staged to be “read” in a variety of ways, or in ways that privilege their aesthetic significance (as works of “art”) or their documentary status (as relics or as “scientific” evidence of a time, place, people, spirit or mentality) or, commonly, some combination of both.9 The idea that museum objects are “staged to be read” in privileged ways seems noncontroversial. At the same time, the use of scare quotes in the preceding passage assigns an ironic or dismissive quality to the activity of reading, similar to that the authors assign to the terms art and scientific. If we are supposed to read the latter terms as euphemisms for underexamined truth claims, in what sense is the act of reading objects also a kind of euphemism? More important, what motivates that euphemism?10 According to Preziosi and Farago, the notion of the museum as text is part of a discourse in which reading the museum’s objects has negative effects and Page 6 →in which the staging of objects for viewing in museum displays is an expression of the displays’ coercive potential. They note that the history of preserving and exhibiting objects is embedded in what are now understood to be the progressist claims of Enlightenment thinking; in this scenario, the reader of objects becomes a victim of this history. In contrast, Mason’s notion that museums are texts holds out the promise of discovering the unintentional or hidden meanings that motivate display practices; in this scenario, the reader of objects is a hero.11 In both cases, employing the metaphor of reading (whether taken as a limiting or liberatory activity) is a way of responding to the paradox that objects in museums are more than what is seen. As Preziosi says in a more recent article, “Museum objects are literally both вЂthere’ and вЂnot-there,’ present and absent.”12 We may justifiably question the extent to which the statement that objects are not there is “literal,” especially given the scare quotes. But the implications of this and similar statements—as discussed above—complicate the conventional and commonsense notion that objects preexist what is said about them. If material or visible objects are texts to be read, what is not there takes precedence over what is there; the brute fact of an object’s material existence fades in the process of “reading” it. To overstate this paradox somewhat, the metaphor of reading objects has the effect of making them disappear.13 In practical terms, this effect describes the experience of reading museum catalogues and captions, in which the time spent reading texts deflects, defers, or substitutes for the time spent viewing objects.14 The effects of this literal kind of reading seem to lie behind the hesitation that accompanies the metaphor in the scholarly literature.15 In Page 7 →short, reading (about) visible phenomena competes with seeing them. One aim of this book is to identify and understand the emergence and effects of this competition. I begin with this brief discussion of recent work in museum studies in order to focus attention on the mediating role of reading for interpreting and giving meaning to the past and, more specifically, on the process by which visible phenomena are marshaled as evidence for what happened in the past. Based on a comparison with reading texts, the metaphor of reading objects is, in effect, literalized in the following chapters in close readings of visible phenomena in Greek narrative guided by their function in measuring and evaluating the passing of time. In more general terms, the metaphor of reading objects in the world—including the metaphor of “reading the past” in recent archaeological discourse (a topic to which I will return in the epilogue)—is an analogue to the practice of reading (about) objects in texts. It exemplifies the ontological and epistemological contingencies at work in the dialogic interplay between legibility and visibility—reading and seeing—in constituting, interpreting, and verifying the past. As a way of talking about this relationship in the context of this book, the term protoarchaeological describes

narratives in which visual descriptions of objects and events put the possibility of seeing the past in competition with the practice of reading about it. The term is meant to be capacious, just as the anachronism is intentional. Protoarchaeological narratives are those in which the act of reading texts is linked with conceptualizing the past as a receding visual field.16 Such narratives navigate the gap between empirical observation and linguistic representation in accounting for the past.17 More vividly, they respond to the task that Herodotus sets himself at the beginning of the Histories, namely, to ensure that “the past deeds [П„бЅ° ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО±] of men do not fade with time” (Histories 1.1). Taking the unique visual metaphor of “fading with time” as a point of departure, the following chapters look at the ways in which narratives in a variety of ancient Greek genres both invoke Herodotus’ task and reveal the limits to its achievement.18 As mentioned above, I also hope to open up a dialogue between classicists who study texts (philologists and historians) and those who study materialPage 8 → or visual sources (archaeologists).19 I realize that this characterization is reductive in the sense that scholars of the ancient past often make effective use of both textual and material sources; I will have more to say about this below. But as heuristic devices, these sources are accorded different—often hierarchical—explanatory values. The aim here is to explore the ways in which visual perception is key to conceptualizing the past as these disciplines’ shared object of study. In disciplinary terms, this book brings together three areas of investigation whose relationship to one another may not seem obvious at first glance: time as a feature of narrative structure in literary theory, the concept of “the past itself” in the philosophy of history, and the ontological status of material objects in archaeological theory. The point of doing so is to better understand the epistemological premises—the various means of discovering the truth about the past—on which these disciplines are founded. The book also engages with three topics that have generated ongoing debates and discussions within humanities research: the dominance of vision in making truth claims, the role of language in distinguishing fiction from fact, and the criteria for establishing a past reality. Together, these topics frame the arguments that follow and draw attention to what is at stake in making them. This book’s multidisciplinary approach is necessarily selective and requires some explanation of the choice of texts discussed in the following chapters. I begin from the premise that the book’s framing question traverses the traditional categories of author, genre, and period that often circumscribe a book about ancient literary texts. At the same time, focusing on the relationship between visual perception and the meaning of the past reveals some previously unrecognized links between these categories, such as how the role of Odysseus in the Odyssey prefigures that of the eyewitness in history writing and how the comic critique of tragedy in Frogs relies on a distinction between seeing a play and reading a script. The choice of beginning with Homer and Hesiod acknowledges their profound influence on later writers. But it also introduces another criterion by which to judge the significance of that influence, namely, the foundational relationship between visual perception and temporal meaning in the ancient texts. From Zeus’ stone in Hesiod’s Theogony, to the Achaean wall in the Iliad, to Croesus’ offerings in Herodotus’ Histories, to everyday objects in Frogs, this relationship not only transcends the generic categories that lie at the heart of literary studies; it also requires crossing disciplinary boundaries that, as I Page 9 →have noted above, are policed by the two dominant modes of giving meaning to the past, namely, reading (about) it and seeing it. Questions about why I discuss Herodotus and not Thucydides or why I treat comedy and not tragedy can only be answered in negative terms. I cannot claim full coverage of the topic at hand, just as I do not insist that the texts I discuss in the following chapters are exemplary.20 The question of my choice of texts—a question rightly raised by an anonymous reader—speaks both to the limits of coverage as an aim in literary studies and to the capaciousness of a topic that extends beyond a single author, genre, or period. On the positive side, the canonical status of the works discussed here is partly a consequence of their own perseverance through time; in this respect, they exemplify the importance of preservation as a category of analysis. I include both literary (poetic) and historical (prose) texts, moreover, in order to argue that insofar as history writing mediates between the fictional and the factual or between the hypothetical and the empirical, it exerts a kind of centripetal force on the project as a whole. More specifically, history writing focuses our attention most pointedly on the relationship between what happened in the past (what Aristotle calls П„бЅ° ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО±) and what is visible in the present.21 Within the field of classics, these issues have long been the focus of what Ray Laurence has called the “uneasy

dialogue” between ancient historians and classical archaeologists and the absence of “a theory of representation of the material world in language.” He suggests that one cause of this uneasiness is a poor understanding of “the role of material objects in texts,” both in the foundational narratives of classics as a discipline and in the formulation of the events (broadly speaking) that constitute ancient history.22 More recently, Richard Martin has summarized the contested relationship between material and textual (literary) evidence for the ancient past. Reviewing articles in a number of prominent classics journals, Martin notes “the recognition [among the current generation of classicists] that material culture is neither subordinate to, nor merely illustrative of, the text.”23 Page 10 →But as Martin also observes, “Outreach toward the textual by material culture specialists considerably outpaces any counter-contribution from the philological side.” He concludes that, with some rare exceptions, the old paradigms in which texts explain objects or in which objects illustrate texts remain more or less in place.24 Throughout his important article on this subject, Martin recognizes the prevailing assumption that the phenomena of texts and objects are separate even if coreferential, an assumption epitomized in the phrase “the vase and the poem.” He proposes that one way to negotiate the text-object divide in classics is for philologists to venture out into the realm of anthropological (Geertzean) fieldwork, “if only in a professedly semi-amateur mode,” or for scholars to engage in a kind of connoisseurship based on a “deep acquaintance with words and things.”25 Martin also argues that these and the other approaches he proposes for bridging the text-object divide in classics work against the “big-box Department of Culture” that university administrators, with their eyes on the bottom line, now favor.26 This conclusion, even if briefly stated, is crucial to Martin’s argument, since it confronts the divide in the context of the history of disciplines and institutions. Based on the assumption that no one scholar can be both a trained philologist and a “material culture expert,” however, the related assumption is that disciplines are the natural arbiters of expertise in any given field. Both assumptions make sense. But while it is obvious that disciplines have their own objects of study, methodologies, lexica, bibliographies, and practices, these distinctions are historical rather than natural. To return to the subject at hand, if the divide between objects and texts is a disciplinary given, policing that divide becomes a matter of authoritative self-preservation, with little room for innovation. This is the current state of the field of classics as Martin describes it. Page 11 →Martin’s suspicion of departments of culture, established under the auspices of what he elsewhere refers to as the “vagueness of cultural studies,” is compelling.27 But there are ways of approaching the text-object divide that do not depend on a wholesale abandonment of disciplinary distinctions, on the one hand, and of the relative expertise of practitioners, on the other.28 A first step is to put these distinctions into historical perspective. This is one of the aims of Martin’s article. In the process of doing so, however, the challenge is to resist equating objects and texts, that is, the claim that words themselves are objects or, as Martin puts it in reversing this equation, that “material objects function as speech-acts” [emphasis in the original].29 As Martin shows, such conclusions emerge from the importation of linguistic theory into postprocessual archaeology, beginning in the 1980s. I will return to this development in the epilogue to this book. I want to suggest here that resisting this equation does not mean surrendering to the assumption that disciplines delimit natural categories. In fact, as the basis of interpretation, the equation can be understood as submitting to the sort of disciplinary vagueness or imprecision that Martin assigns to the department of culture. Thus, the question is not whether objects and texts are different or similar by nature but, rather, what factors have made the divide between them a necessary precondition for the disciplines of philology, history, and archaeology. In approaching this divide, I begin from four related premises: (1) as a conceptual category, the past has a history; (2) this history is constituted in part in the experience of the material or visible world; (3) this experience is an effect of narrative; (4) this effect is formative of the academic disciplines named above.30 The third of these premises refers to this book’s principal focus on the ways in which the visible world, as the object of verbal description and emplotment, both creates and mediates the past in Greek literature and history writing. This world includes not only singular material objects, such as Zeus’ substitute stone in Hesiod’s Theogony (discussed in chapter 1 of the present study), but also events as witnessed by characters, such as Odysseus’ own past deeds in Homer’s Odyssey (discussed in chapter 3). The propositionPage 12 → that events

constitute visible phenomena in the same way that objects do seems counterintuitive and is certainly subject to debate. But while narrative descriptions of material objects and architectural features can be said to epitomize the relationship between visual perception and temporal meaning (as the OED definition of the museum suggests), the narration of events by an eyewitness shares many temporal, ontological, and epistemological elements with the narration of objects. I will argue, for example, that Odysseus’ relationship to his own past in the Odyssey anticipates and prefigures the role of the first-person О±бЅђП„бЅ№ПЂП„О·П‚, or eyewitness, in history writing.31 To invert a maxim from Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, if objects are “slow events,” events are objects that come into view with the passing of time.32 This is obviously stretching a point. But it is meant to suggest that the distinction between objects and events, a distinction that lies at the heart of the text-object divide, breaks down when both are the subjects of time-dependent visual fields within narrative. This breakdown is illustrated, for example, in the ways in which the fate of material objects is connected with the ethical dimension of past events. Thus, the story of the Achaean wall links the passing of time to the achievement of heroic fame, or ОєО»бЅіОїП‚, in the Iliad (discussed in chapter 2 of the present study), and the disposition of Croesus’ offerings in Greece is linked to the achievement of the good life (ОµбЅђОґО±О№ОјОїОЅбЅ·О·) in Herodotus’ Lydian logos (discussed in chapter 4). In these examples, the fate of visible objects is key to understanding the ethical and epistemological meanings that lie behind a sequence of past events. This relationship between objects and events as interrelated visible and temporal phenomena takes a particular turn in the case of Attic drama, where, in the poetic contest in Aristophanes’ Frogs, it operates in the interface between reading the tragic text and seeing the hypothetical play in performance (as discussed in chapter 5). In more general terms, Frogs is about the ways in which comedy questions the efficacy of tragedy as a visual medium. One intended effect of approaching the past as a phenomenal or visual field in a variety of Greek narrative forms is to call into question the dominance of memory in classical scholarship.33 Memory (ОјОЅбЅµОјО·) has been and Page 13 →continues to be a mainstay of work on the Homeric poems as the products of an oral culture. Indeed, it is a principal variable in work on virtually all the ancient genres, whether in verse or prose. The representation of past time in Greek narrative is consistently explained in terms of the causes and effects of memory as experienced or endorsed by characters and narrators. Thus, for example, Jonas Grethlein’s 2010 book, The Greeks and Their Past, takes memory as both its starting point and the central concept in an account of the emergence of Greek historiography in the preliterate or protoliterate milieu of the fifth century. Exemplified in close readings of a selection of texts, Grethlein’s investigation of the past as an effect of what he calls “literary memory” is founded on a tension between chance and regularity in the narration of events.34 He offers a compelling account of the ways in which both the nonhistorical and the historical genres in archaic and classical Greece share this tension. There is no question that memory is a powerful concept in ancient Greek culture, beginning with the invocation to the Muses as the framing device of the Homeric poems. The role of memory as a heuristic device in classical studies can be understood as a consequence of this fact. But the privileging of memory, with its roots in the formal structures of orally derived poetry, also has the effect of overshadowing the significance of visual and other modes of perception in mediating and giving meaning to the past.35 In Page 14 →addressing this effect, protoarchaeological narratives anticipate the ways in which material artifacts are invested with time and, in the form of a reversal, then become subject to the metaphor of “reading the past” in archaeological discourse. To summarize, this book maps a trajectory from the implicit metaphor of “seeing the past” in protoarchaeological narratives to the explicit metaphor of “reading the past” in archaeological discourse. As mentioned above, the relationship between the temporal dimension of visual perception as described in narrative and reading as the medium of its reception will be a recurring topic. If protoarchaeological narratives traverse the divide between objects and events in the ancient texts, they also traverse the divide between the so-called preliterate and literate genres. Expressed in the oral-literate binary still operative, if contested, in classics, this divide is based on the premise that orally derived poetry not only is formally distinct from texts produced with the aid of writing (e.g., drama and history) but also derives from what Egbert Bakker refers to as a different “mentality.”36 The history and significance of this binary within

classics and the humanities more generally are well known. As defined here, protoarchaeological narratives refer to the existence of a mediating third term, namely, what Hal Foster has called “visuality.”37 In Vision and Visuality, Foster makes a distinction between what he terms “the datum of vision and its discursive determinations.”38 Theories about the mechanics of seeing in the history of science and, by extension, the data of empirically based research are the domains of vision. The social, ideological, and rhetorical effects of “the visual” and “the gaze” in the fields of art history, literary theory, gender studies, and film studies are the domains of visuality. As a mediating third term in the context of this book, visuality refers to the possibility of seeing the past in the process of hearing or reading about it. In this sense, protoarchaeological narratives complicate arguments based on whether or not a particular work was produced orally or with the aid Page 15 →of writing, and they instead foreground the temporal dimension of visual experience in the Greek narrative tradition. Like all binaries, however, vision and visuality are mutually reinforcing rather than mutually exclusive; visible data can be both the cause and effect of visuality. As examples of what Foster calls “discursive determinations, ” protoarchaeological narratives also represent a response to archaeology and history as disciplines whose objects and events are posited—at least in principle—as prior to the language used to describe them. As we will see, the question of this priority is a persistent conundrum both in the philosophy of history and in archaeological theory. In suggesting that protoarchaeological narratives work against this principle, I am not saying that there are no visible objects or visually available events prior to what is said or written about them.39 Rather, protoarchaeological narratives complicate the notion of direct access to that prior existence by referring simultaneously to the possibility of seeing the past and to the fact that the past is precisely what cannot be seen in any literal sense. They exemplify what Karl BГјhler has called the displacement between what is seen with the “mind’s eye” and what is seen with the “bodily eye.”40 In protoarchaeological narratives, this displacement is activated in the relationship between the visual experiences of characters and narrators, on the one hand, and those of readers and spectators (whether implied or actual, as in the case of drama), on the other.41 In all cases, these experiences name a confrontation with the past as a receding visual field, with reading as its mediating practice. To paraphrase Herodotus’ words, they name the confrontation with a past that “fades with time” (Histories 1.1). In this respect too, protoarchaeological narratives respond to the long-standing conundrum in the philosophy of history over what constitutes “the past itself.” As A. Froeyman notes, this conundrum is formed in the interrelation of three concepts. These concepts are “subject” (the historian herself), “object” (history itself, whatever this may mean) and “language/text/symbolization” (which mediates between subject and object). Most if not all essential differences between theories of history are rooted in different conceptionsPage 16 → about the interrelation between these three conceptsВ .В .В . [Philosophers] need an account which does not presuppose that there is a past independent of us which we can gain access to by means of language, and which still claims that it makes sense to talk of the past itself, independent of our linguistic representation.42 (emphasis added) Two points pertain to the present discussion. The first is that while “the past itself” may be an idealized concept in history writing, the conundrum Froeyman describes is not unique to the discipline of history. Rather, it is anticipated in the narrative forms (in poetry and prose) that both precede and are contemporaneous with the fifth-century Greek historians. Expressed in the relative dominance of Froeyman’s three general concepts, the idea of “the past itself” can thus be decoupled from the strict empiricism that demands independence from “linguistic representation.” A second, more tentative point is that this demand for independence can be traced to the concept of seeing the past—with its basis in empirical observation—in these earlier genres. This last point pertains not only to history as a discipline but also to the disciplines of philology and archaeology, whose “objects” can be defined partly by their shared confidence in visual experience, however mediated, as sources for accessing and giving meaning to the past. In Foster’s terms, archaeologists have vision, philologists or literary scholars have visuality, and historians have a bit of both.43 In saying this about historians, I mean that their accounting for the past is based on some combination of visible and textual evidence, with

inscriptions on stone representing a privileged class.44 These distinctions are obviously oversimplified. But while there are differences in emphasis, each of these disciplines confronts the past as a time that is no longer or is only partially visible. My aim in this book is to begin to trace this confrontation and its consequences in the Greek narrative tradition. As mentioned above, the argument necessarily comes up against the conundrum to which Froeyman refers, namely, how the past—as constituted in empirical observation—can be both prior to and dependent on linguistic representation. The epistemological and ontological contingencies that characterize this conundrum are persistent features of the protoarchaeological narratives under investigation here. Page 17 →As mentioned above, each of the following chapters is comprised of close readings of canonical Greek works. Chronologically, the book spans the archaic to the classical periods in Greece. The trajectory from Homer to Herodotus to Aristophanes allows me to plot the temporal dimension of visual perception from mythological time to historical time (as a matter of content) and from orally derived to literate genres (as a matter of form). In the process, I hope to show how the promise of seeing the past transcends these conventional categories. This is not an argument for the exceptional power of the visual sense over the other senses, however, but an account of its role in giving meaning to the past as a function of narrative.45 Plotting this trajectory into modernity, Yannis Hamilakis speaks of the material remains of Greek antiquity in terms of “their ability to produce and materialize place and time,” particularly the place and time of the Greek nation-state.46 The irony that ancient ruins are essential to establishing and preserving the narrative of a modern national identity—which is also one of the museum’s aims with which the present discussion began—can be traced back to the effects of the protoarchaeological narratives discussed in the following chapters. Their significance in the principal genres of ancient Greek literature invites us to think about the logic of this irony, about the past as a receding visual field in the Western imaginary, and about our own roles as spectators or witnesses in the presence of that past. Chapter 1 analyzes the role of visible objects in the temporal landscape of Hesiod’s Theogony. Beginning with the poet’s account of his meeting with the Muses on Mount Helicon, this relationship is followed across several episodes: the report of the poet-narrator’s receipt of the laurel scepter; the account of the anvil, or бј„ОєОјП‰ОЅ, that functions as a means of measuring time; and, finally, the story of the stone swallowed by Cronos in his attempt to prevent Zeus’ rise to power. Chapter 1 focuses on the protoarchaeological effects of these objects as material signifiers of past time and concludes with Pausanias’ tentative sighting of the stone swallowed by Cronos in the PeriГЄgГЄsis. The argument illustrates two related premises that frame the book: (1) time in Greek narrative is measured in the disposition of visible and material phenomena; (2) the past is conceptualized in terms of what is no longer or is only partially visible. In illustrating this relationship, the Theogony also demonstrates how the disposition of visible objects in narrative is emblematic of the distinction between fact and fiction, as exemplified in the Muses’ ambivalent attitude toward truth telling. Page 18 →Chapter 2 discusses the Achaean wall in the Iliad as a singular example of the temporal, epistemological, and ontological categories that define protoarchaeological narratives. It presents two related arguments: first, that the fate of the wall, framed by the question of whether or not it ever actually existed, is linked to the ethical dimension of the poem, measured in the epic hero’s achievement of “immortal fame, ” or ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ бј„П†ОёО№П„ОїОЅ; second, that the wall offers a unique opportunity for investigating the prehistory of the criteria that Aristotle introduces to define history writing (бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅ·О±) in contrast to poetry or literature (ПЂОїбЅ·О·ПѓО№П‚) in the Poetics. The link between these two arguments is the account of the wall’s destruction in a hypothetical past, that is, a past that, from the point of view of the poem, has not yet happened. This temporal anomaly demonstrates by analogy that the achievement of ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ is contingent on the possibility that the past can be known in its visible remains. The chapter explores how and why the Achaean wall fulfills this function in the poem and in the history of its reception. Chapter 3 identifies two epistemological and temporal regimes in Homer’s Odyssey. One is identified with the Muses’ “evil” gift of blindness, the other with the human capacity for seeing with one’s own eyes. In embodying the latter capacity, Odysseus is a figure for the transition from a divinely inspired account of the past to one based on human visual perception. The argument centers around two hypothetical similes: that Demodocus sings his stories “as if” he were present at the events he recounts and that Odysseus tells his stories “as if” he were a singer, or бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚. Read together, these “as if” statements

challenge the common assumption that Odysseus is an avatar of the oral poet and reveal instead an ambivalence toward the presence of an eyewitness speaker (Odysseus) in a form whose account of the past is authorized by a divinely inspired singer. In generic terms, these “as if” statements imply that the time of the divinely inspired (but blind) singer is passing by and that he is already on his way to becoming the repudiated other of the writers of history. They also complicate the common scholarly notion that the oral poet turns his auditors into spectators of the epic events in the present moment of his performance. This notion can be understood as a response to encountering the epic poems as literary artifacts and, as a consequence, confronting the past as a visual absence. This confrontation is the basis of the Odyssey’s protoarchaeological effect. Chapter 4 takes up the role of visible evidence in Herodotus’ Histories, beginning with the historian’s stated purpose to ensure that “the past deeds [П„бЅ° ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО±] of men do not fade with time” (Histories 1.1). The effect of this visual metaphor is explored in the relationship between the practices Page 19 →of consulting oracles and making offerings, principally Croesus’ offerings at Delphi in the Lydian logos. These offerings are divided into four distinct categories in the narrative: those that have been written about, those that have not (or not yet) been written about, those that the historian says exist “up to my time” (бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјбЅіОї, ОјбЅіП‡ПЃО№ бјђОјОµбї¦, etc.), and those that have been utterly destroyed. The chapter focuses on how this third category of offerings exemplifies the relationship between what happened in the past (П„бЅ° ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО±) and what is visible in the present (бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјбЅіОї).47 The fate of Croesus’ offerings—characterized by the ways in which they have changed over time—also illustrates the proposition that reading (about) the historical past is equated with the limits of seeing it. Similar to Homer’s account of the Achaean wall, this protoarchaeological impulse in the Histories pertains to its ethical content, that is, the achievement of human happiness, or ОµбЅђОґО±О№ОјОїОЅбЅ·О·. The ephemerality of the offerings, measured in their receding visual presence, provides insight into that achievement’s limiting factors (including the corrosive effects of time itself). Chapter 5 explores the conflict between reading a dramatic text and seeing the play in performance, as the principal concern of Aristophanes’ Frogs. Beginning with Dionysus’ desire (ПЂбЅ№ОёОїП‚) to resurrect the dead Euripides after reading his Andromeda, this conflict is played out in the anatomization of tragedy into bits and pieces of text and arrays of various objects. In the process, the comedy demonstrates that tragedy is simply the “stuff”—or, less colloquially, the matter—of comedy. Referring both to a desire to see the tragedies in their original past performances and to the impossibility of fulfilling that desire, this “stuff” is the source of the protoarchaeological effect of Frogs. As part of this effect, the god’s desire to “save the city” by resurrecting the militaristic Aeschylus—or any tragic poet for that matter—is another sign that, from the point of view of the comedy, tragedy has “died” as a public and visually available performance medium. Thus, Dionysus’ desire is not merely a natural consequence of having read Euripides’ play. Rather, it signifies the extent to which reading the play text is equated with the inability to see the play in its original performance. The chapter ends with a discussion of Aristotle’s ambivalence toward tragedy’s visual aspect, or бЅ„П€О№П‚, in thePoetics. As evidence for the transition from a dramatic script (as the source of a hypothetical play in performance) to a dramatic text (intended for reading), this ambivalence is also a symptom of the recurring Page 20 →conflict between empirical observation and linguistic representation in constituting and evaluating the past. The epilogue to the present book looks at this conflict within current archaeological theory, where it is specified in the proposition that the materiality of objects—also referred to in terms of their tangibility and visibility—is sacrificed to the language used to describe them. Beginning with the premise in Brill’s New Pauly Online that archaeological artifacts constitute “tangible evidence for the past” (haptisches Zeugnis der Vergangenheit), the chapter traces this conflict in the relationship between the discipline’s persistent empiricism and its employment of language-based metaphors, principally the metaphor of “reading the past” in postprocessual archaeology.48 In this disciplinary context, the metaphor of reading the past names the evidentiary limits of tangibility while it also invites an exploration of the archaeologist’s task of writing about artifacts. The question raised is what archaeologists gain or lose by making legible (readable) what is visible and tangible. My answer is based on two premises. First, the metaphor of reading the past works in defense of the persistent

empiricism of the discipline, founded on the priority of visual and tangible objects positioned in an original place and time. Second, the relationship between empirical observation, linguistic expression, and the meaning of the past in archaeological theory is not formulated in disciplinary isolation. Rather, the ontological and epistemological contingencies that define that relationship are present in the protoarchaeological narratives discussed in the previous chapters and, as a result, justify the anachronism in hindsight. More succinctly, the epilogue explores how archaeology’s metaphor of reading the past constitutes a response to the past’s fading with time.

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Chapter 1 The Landscape of the Past in Hesiod’s Theogony Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait, sleepless. —through metaphor to reconcile the people and the stones. Compose. (No ideas but in things) Invent! Saxifrage is my flower that splits the rocks. —William Carlos Williams, A Sort of a Song (1944)49 As succinctly expressed in its opening line, “Let us begin to sing” (бјЂПЃП‡бЅЅОјОµОёбѕї бјЂОµбЅ·ОґОµО№ОЅ, 1), Hesiod’s Theogony is about the beginning of time as the motivation for the beginning of poetic production.50 The question before us is how the visible or material world is part of the poem’s temporal environment. In general, scholarly attention paid to material or visible objects in archaic Page 22 →poetry has taken two routes. On the one hand, they are the source of aesthetic effects in ecphrastic passages, with the Shield of Achilles in the Iliad taking pride of place.51 On the other hand, they are marshaled as archaeological evidence in accounting for a past reality. In the introduction to their book on the Catalogue of Ships in the Iliad, for example, Simpson and Lazenby conclude, Because our knowledge of the Greek world in the Late Bronze Age comes almost entirely from archaeological evidence, the most striking similarities between it and the heroic world are its material things.52 In light of the potential for anachronism, the project of matching artifacts to narrative descriptions is tricky. In the case of what is thought to be a good match (e.g., the famous boar’s tusk helmet of Iliad 10.261–65), two interrelated questions are raised: does the object in question contribute to the truth-value of the poem, or does the poem prove the significance of the artifact?53 In either case, the meaning of the poetic object is measured in how closely it conforms to empirical data.54 This chapter maps out a different approach to the phenomenal world of the Theogony. I argue that visible objects are key to evaluating the poem’s temporal content, but not for the purpose of evaluating the conformity of the objects to historical or archaeological reality. Rather, they are the source of an implied conformity to a prior

reality. This is the basis of their protoarchaeological effect. By “implied conformity,” I mean that one of the primary uses to which material objects are put in the Theogony is to refer to and authenticate a past event. The search for empirical conformity in the history of classical scholarship may be a reflection of this work of authentification in the ancient texts themselves. But the more immediate argument has to do with the ways in which descriptions of visible or material objects mark human time, as opposed to divine time, in the Theogony. In taking on the burden of time, these various objects also become emblematic of the project Page 23 →of interpretation as a kind of excavation, of recovering the material bases of the past in its textual traces. To situate the argument, I begin with a brief look at what has been called “thing theory” in humanities and social science research. Under this rubric, the work of Bill Brown and others has proposed a theoretically nuanced approach to the temporal dimension of visible objects in texts.55 Indebted to philosophical research, this version of the new materialism owes more to what Arjun Appadurai has called the “idiosyncracies of things” than to the long-standing and dominant role of the fetish in anthropological, psychoanalytical, and Marxist theory.56 As Brown somewhat enigmatically explains, the theory begins from the premise that when perceived as “things,” material objects exceed both their use value and their perceived intrinsic value. You could imagine thingsВ .В .В . as what is excessive in objects, as what exceeds their mere materialization as object or their mere utilization as objects—their force as a sensuous presence or as a metaphysical presence, the magic by which objects become values, fetishes, idols, and totems. Temporalized as the before and after of the object, thingness amounts to a latency (the not yet formed or the not yet formable) and to an excess (what remains physically or metaphysically irreducible to objects). But this temporality obscures the all-at-onceness, the simultaneity, of the object/thing dialectic and the fact that, all at once, the thing seems to name the object, just as it is, even as it names some thing else.57 (emphasis in the original) As described here, the new materialism works to dismantle the disciplinary and classificatory systems that limit the meaning of narrativized objects to their aesthetic effects or that abandon them to archaeological positivism. It also allows the problem of “the vase and the poem”—as discussed in the present study’s introduction—to escape the limits of mere illustration. Most Page 24 →relevant to the present discussion, however, is the fact that the “some thing else” in Brown’s definition is time, or what he calls “the before and after of the object.”58 The meaning of things, in other words, is in their “timing,” where timing refers not to their dating in a linear chronology but to their position in a broadly conceived and relational temporal field. Summarizing the foundational premise of the new materialism, Lorraine Daston notes that “things are simultaneously material and meaningful.”59 But this simultaneity is modified by the fact that both their materiality and their meaningfulness are contingent with respect to time. This relationship to time establishes the protoarchaeological effects of material objects in Hesiod’s poem. The investigation in this chapter will include discussions of specific material objects—a scepter, an anvil, a stone—that punctuate the text as temporal markers. Together, these objects suggest a connection between what is visible and invisible, on the one hand, and what produces meaning (or the truth about the past) and what resists meaning, on the other. I begin, however, by contextualizing this connection within the temporal landscape of the Theogony as a whole, framed by the poet’s “vision” of the divine Muses. In this well-known proem, “Hesiod” encounters the elusive Muses as he shepherds his lambs on Mount Helicon (22–23). There, he says, the Muses gave him a scepter (ПѓОєбї†ПЂП„ПЃОїОЅ) and breathed into him a divine voice (бјђОЅбЅіПЂОЅОµП…ПѓО±ОЅ ОґбЅі ОјОїО№ О±бЅђОґбЅґОЅ ОёбЅіПѓПЂО№ОЅ) so that he might “celebrate things that will be and things that happened before” (Theogony 22–35). О±бјµ ОЅбЅ» ПЂОїОёбѕї бј©ПѓбЅ·ОїОґОїОЅ ОєО±О»бЅґОЅ бјђОґбЅ·ОґО±ОѕО±ОЅ бјЂОїО№ОґбЅµОЅ, бј„ПЃОЅО±П‚ ПЂОїО№ОјО±бЅ·ОЅОїОЅОёбѕї бј™О»О№Оєбї¶ОЅОїП‚ бЅ•ПЂОї О¶О±ОёбЅіОїО№Ої. П„бЅ№ОЅОґОµ ОґбЅі ОјОµ ПЂПЃбЅЅП„О№ПѓП„О± ОёОµО±бЅ¶ ПЂПЃбЅёП‚ Ојбї¦ОёОїОЅ бј”ОµО№ПЂОїОЅ,

ОњОїбї¦ПѓО±О№ бѕїОџО»П…ОјПЂО№бЅ±ОґОµП‚, ОєОїбї¦ПЃО±О№ О”О№бЅёП‚ О±бј°ОіО№бЅ№П‡ОїО№ОїО‡ ПЂОїО№ОјбЅіОЅОµП‚ бј„ОіПЃО±П…О»ОїО№, ОєбЅ±Оєбѕї бјђО»бЅіОіП‡ОµО±, ОіО±ПѓП„бЅіПЃОµП‚ Оїбј¶ОїОЅ, бјґОґОјОµОЅ П€ОµбЅ»ОґОµО± ПЂОїО»О»бЅ° О»бЅіОіОµО№ОЅ бјђП„бЅ»ОјОїО№ПѓО№ОЅ бЅЃОјОїбї–О±, бјґОґОјОµОЅ Оґбѕї ОµбЅ–П„бѕї бјђОёбЅіО»П‰ОјОµОЅ бјЂО»О·ОёбЅіО± ОіО·ПЃбЅ»ПѓО±ПѓОёО±О№. бЅЈП‚ бј”П†О±ПѓО±ОЅ ОєОїбї¦ПЃО±О№ ОјОµОібЅ±О»ОїП… О”О№бЅёП‚ бјЂПЃП„О№бЅіПЂОµО№О±О№, ОєО±бЅ¶ ОјОїО№ ПѓОєбї†ПЂП„ПЃОїОЅ бј”ОґОїОЅ ОґбЅ±П†ОЅО·П‚ бјђПЃО№ОёО·О»бЅіОїП‚ бЅ„О¶ОїОЅ ОґПЃбЅіП€О±ПѓО±О№, ОёО·О·П„бЅ№ОЅО‡ бјђОЅбЅіПЂОЅОµП…ПѓО±ОЅ ОґбЅі ОјОїО№ О±бЅђОґбЅґОЅ ОёбЅіПѓПЂО№ОЅ, бјµОЅО± ОєО»ОµбЅ·ОїО№ОјО№ П„бЅ± П„бѕї бјђПѓПѓбЅ№ОјОµОЅО± ПЂПЃбЅ№ П„бѕї бјђбЅ№ОЅП„О±, ОєО±бЅ¶ Ојбѕї бјђОєбЅіО»ОїОЅОёбѕї бЅ‘ОјОЅОµбї–ОЅ ОјО±ОєбЅ±ПЃП‰ОЅ ОібЅіОЅОїП‚ О±бј°бЅІОЅ бјђбЅ№ОЅП„П‰ОЅ, Page 25 →ПѓП†бѕ¶П‚ Оґбѕї О±бЅђП„бЅ°П‚ ПЂПЃбї¶П„бЅ№ОЅ П„Оµ ОєО±бЅ¶ бЅ•ПѓП„О±П„ОїОЅ О±бј°бЅІОЅ бјЂОµбЅ·ОґОµО№ОЅ. бјЂО»О»бЅ° П„бЅ·О· ОјОїО№ П„О±бї¦П„О± ПЂОµПЃбЅ¶ ОґПЃбї¦ОЅ бјў ПЂОµПЃбЅ¶ ПЂбЅіП„ПЃО·ОЅ; [Once [the Muses] taught Hesiod a beautiful song, as he was shepherding his lambs under holy Helicon. And this is the very first speech the goddesses said to me, “Rustic shepherds, evil disgraces, mere bellies, the Muses of Olympus, daughters of Zeus who holds the aegis: We know how to say many false things that are like true things but we know how to utter true things, when we want to.” So said the ready-voiced daughters of great Zeus And they plucked and gave me a scepter, a shoot of strong-blooming laurel, A thing to be gazed at; and they breathed into me a divine voice So that I could celebrate things that will be and were before, And they ordered me to sing about the race of blessed ones who exist always, And always to sing of themselves both first and last.

But what [concern] to me are these things having to do with tree or stone?] The prominence of temporal adverbs in this passage—especially in lines 33 and 34, where О±бј°бЅІОЅ бјЂОµбЅ·ОґОµО№ОЅ echoes О±бј°бЅІОЅ ἐόντων—makes it clear that time is both an eternal prospect and the subject of a set of relative terms in which “first and last” correspond respectively to “things that have been” and “things that will be.” The placement of the two phrases in the same metrical position, moreover, sets up an equation between eternal being and eternal singing, with the clear implication that the former is guaranteed by the latter. But while the immortality of the gods is implicitly transferred to the singer in these lines, their overall effect is to emphasize his undeniable and limiting mortality. The divinely inspired singer may sing for as long as he lives, but he will not live forever. He is, in the dismissive characterization he puts in the mouth of the Muses, “a belly” (26).60 The Theogony’s proem thus Page 26 →sets up a beginning and an ending, a past and a future, measured in song as the means of bridging the temporal and ontological incommensurability between human and divine knowledge. In his discussion of this passage, Claude Calame notes how the naming of the poet lends credibility to the reality of the event he describes. The naming of the he, his identification as Hesiod, is a direct reference to the real communication situation; when compared with the utterance of the enunciation in Homeric poetry, this is an innovation—no similar procedure can be found either in the epic poems attributed to Homer or in the Homeric Hymns.61 Hesiod’s innovation, in other words, is the provision of an extradiscursive framing device marked by an autobiographical datum (“Hesiod”).62 Commenting on this passage in 1966, Martin West alludes to the effect of this innovation in the history of scholarship on the poem: “Among modern scholars the prevailing view is that [Hesiod’s encounter with the Muses] was a genuine vision such as might easily be induced by solitude amid awesome mountain scenery.” This view of the encounter between the poet and the Muses may no longer be the prevailing one, but it illustrates the extent to which visual perception in narrative is the principal means of inferring the reality of the past. Acting on this inference, West goes on to note that “we do not know whether [Hesiod] could see [the Muses] or only hear their voice.”63 Within the poem itself, the encounter with the Muses is principally acoustic and paideutic. They “taught” (бјђОґбЅ·ОґО±ОѕО±ОЅ, 22) Hesiod a song while he was on Helicon, they “spoke” to him (бј”ОµО№ПЂОїОЅ, 24), and they “breathed a divine voice into him” (бјђОЅбЅіПЂОЅОµП…ПѓО±ОЅ ОґбЅІ ОјОїО№ О±бЅђОґбЅґОЅ ОёбЅіПѓПЂО№ОЅ, 31–32), but there is no explicit indication in the narrative that they actually appeared to him in Page 27 →visible form. That scholars have tended to take Hesiod’s vision at face value is therefore symptomatic of the equation of lived experience with visual experience, even if they conceive of the vision as occurring in Hesiod’s head. Although there is no clear inference that the Muses appeared to Hesiod in visible form, the encounter is mediated by the inclusion of a singular material object, namely, the gift of the “scepter, a shoot of strong-blooming laurel” (ОєО±бЅ¶ ОјОїО№ ПѓОєбї†ПЂП„ПЃОїОЅ бј”ОґОїОЅ ОґбЅ±П†ОЅО·П‚ бјђПЃО№ОёО·О»бЅіОїП‚ бЅ„ОѕОїОЅ ОґПЃбЅіП€О±ПѓО±О№, 30–31). As Carolina Lopez-Ruiz notes, the awarding of the scepter has led some scholars to believe that Hesiod had served as a priest at Delphi.64 Related to this hypothesis is the fact that a scepter or similar object is the traditional symbol of the post-Homeric poet or rhapsode; its use is explained as a means of visibly distinguishing the performer from his audience.65 Whether or not the use of such an object conforms to a contemporary or later reality, however, the scepter in the Theogony gestures toward this social and historical function: it is a visible sign, a ОёО·О·П„бЅ№ОЅ, or “thing to be gazed at,” by which the poet identifies himself as someone who has been chosen by the Muses. As the poem’s only explicitly visible link between “Hesiod” and the Muses, the scepter also functions as a metonym for a real or lived event in the past, a conclusion that may be extended to the performance context of the Theogony itself.66 If we can imagine that an original performer of the poem made use of such an object (or

something similar, i.e., a ῥάβδος), we can further appreciate how it might signify a lived experience to an immediate or original audience. The point is not that Hesiod’s laurel scepter is interchangeable with the rhapsode’s staff; the scepter is fully explained neither by reference to actual performance practices nor as an ornamental element in the poem. Rather, it works to verify the poet’s claim to what Calame calls a “real communication situation” in the past. In more vivid terms, by locating the reality of the past in an object that can be held in the hand, the scepter activates the poem’s protoarchaeological effect.67 At the same time, however, this claim is complicated by the Muses’ Page 28 →famously ambiguous statements about their own truth telling: “We know how to say many false things that are like [бЅЃОјОїбї–О±] true things, but we know how to utter true things, when we want to” (27–28). Coming just before they give the scepter to Hesiod, this first-person speech constitutes a transitional moment in which, in dramatic fashion, “Hesiod” the mortal shepherd becomes “Hesiod” the divinely inspired singer. If the scepter signifies this transition, the Muses’ ambiguity sounds a cautionary note based on an implied conflict between the two sources of information that Hesiod has about the past: his own limited human knowledge, on the one hand, and the divinely omniscient knowledge of the Muses, on the other.68 As a symbol for the reality of the event in which this transition takes place, the scepter both acknowledges this conflict and disavows the potential for telling truth-like lies that is expressed in the Muses’ confession: “Hesiod,” we are to assume, tells the unqualified truth.69 But this implicit claim is clearly compromised by the fact that the Muses speak through the poet, so that, consequently, their confession is simultaneously his own. As an object that mediates the divide between the mythical past and the autobiographical present and between truth and falsehood, the scepter exemplifies the potential for material artifacts to embody significant temporal and epistemological variables in the narrative. Following this scene, Hesiod marks the transition to the narrative proper with an enigmatic question whose proverbial status may emphasize his professed rusticity: “But what [concern] to me are these things having to do Page 29 →with tree or stone?” (бјЂО»О»бЅ° П„бЅ·О· ОјОїО№ П„О±бї¦П„О± ПЂОµПЃбЅ¶ ОґПЃбї¦ОЅ бјў ПЂОµПЃбЅ¶ ПЂбЅіП„ПЃО·ОЅ; 35). This expression, with its epic and Near Eastern parallels, has been the subject of a long-standing debate among scholars, with most simply acknowledging its transitional function in the Theogony.70 In connecting the Hesiodic and Homeric usages with “a cultural and temporal remoteness” extending to the birth of humankind from either rocks or trees, however, Gregory Nagy complicates this conclusion. In his reading, the phrase refers to a transition from “primitive” topics to more “civilized” ones.71 “Tree” and “stone” are here the physical embodiments of a temporal and cultural anteriority. Using comparative material from archaic epic and the Levant, Lopez-Ruiz suggests that the proverb refers specifically to what Hesiod has just reported, namely, his encounter with the Muses. If we read Theogony v. 35 as the closing of a self-contained passage that starts in v. 22, and if we take literally the words of Hesiod, “but what do I care about these things concerning a tree or a stone? ” it becomes clear that Hesiod is referring to what he has just related (П„О±бї¦П„О±), namely, the way in which the Muses personally invested him with their gift of singing true things, past, present and futureВ .В .В . Therefore, v. 35 does not simply have a rhetorical function of changing topics and linking the previous and following sections, it encapsulates the whole previous passage. It does so in a twofold way: with the anaphoric pronoun П„О±бї¦П„О±, which refers to what has just been said in neuter plural form, and also by qualification of those lines as things “round about tree and stone.” The “tree and stone” expression is a key (not a description) of what Hesiod has just confessed. Thus, whatever the “original” meaning of the proverb (if we could isolate such a thing), in the context of this proem it refers to the revelation and transmission of restricted and true “divine-cosmic” knowledge Page 30 →and its inseparable modality of prophetic activity.72 (emphasis in the original) Although Hesiod’s question remains enigmatic, as Lopez-Ruiz acknowledges, the idea that the phrase “tree or stone” is a figure for the acquisition of divine knowledge and prophetic speech is persuasive.

Although it remains mysterious to us, it seems clear that Hesiod’s audience is expected to know the answer to his rhetorical question. In this respect, it has the potential effect of granting to that audience some part of the “divine-cosmic” knowledge claimed by the poet himself. But if the question alludes to this shared knowledge, it also functions as a kind of recusatio, in which the poet’s ironic self-deprecation (picking up from the Muses’ abuse in line 25) puts pressure on the claim that he had actually met and spoken with the Muses in person. If Hesiod’s encounter with the immortal goddesses is somehow equated with speaking trees or cultic rocks—that is, with “primitive” (?) modes of communing with the divine—that meeting has no greater claim to veracity than they do. At the same time, however, the idea that men can speak to trees and stones may be the ironic but also evolutionary proof that a shepherd can speak with the Muses. Read in this way, Hesiod’s question implies that his meeting with the Muses exceeds the more “primitive” mode of communicating with the divine. In either case, however, if we agree that the question expects a negative answer and that the reference to “tree or stone” is a metonym for “primitive” and/or nonverifiable truth claims, the question’s effect is to put the framing device of the Theogony in competition with these claims. In short, the question about “tree or stone”—including its proverbial status—positions Hesiod’s autobiographical account within a longstanding tradition in which claims to divine knowledge are open to suspicion. The Muses’ own enigmatic truth claims can be understood in the context of this tradition. All this is highly speculative, of course. Perhaps less speculative, because less dependent on the unknown and original meaning of the phrase, is the notion that referring to “tree or stone” is also a way of referencing an empirical reality. When West notes that “the governing fact is that trees and rocks are the most obvious examples of discrete objects in a natural landscape,” he infers as much but does not credit this “governing fact” with explaining Hesiod’s rhetorical question.73 Taken as such, the implication that his encounter with the Muses has nothing to do with “tree or stone”—that is, with the material Page 31 →signs of unverifiable prophetic utterances—is answered by the visible gift of the laurel scepter (30).74 If the former somehow gestures toward the difficulty of sustaining a claim to divinely imparted knowledge about the past, the latter signifies the promise of transcending this difficulty. Its protoarchaeological effect works to counteract the poem’s ambivalent truth claims.75 A similar effect is embedded in Hesiod’s extended description of the underworld. Scholarship on the description of Tartarus in the Theogony has focused on two related topics, the authenticity of the passage and its inconsistencies—or, more concisely, on the proposition that narrative inconsistencies are the signs of interpolation. According to West, “The underworld that emerges from Hesiod’s account is not one of which one could draw a map or construct a model.” It resists quantification.76 David Johnson suggestively locates this resistance in the emotional impact of the underworld: “The very obscurity of the underworld and the powerful emotions it inspires make it a flexible and powerful tool for Hesiod for much the same reasons they make it puzzling for those looking for topographical coherence.”77 Dropped into this incoherent scene is a rather unusual object of quantification, the anvil, or бј„ОєОјП‰ОЅ, whose fall measures the number of days it would take to reach earth from heaven or to reach Tartarus from earth (Theogony 720–28).78 П„бЅ№ПѓПѓОїОЅ бј”ОЅОµПЃОёбѕї бЅ‘ПЂбЅё Оібї†П‚, бЅ…ПѓПѓОїОЅ ОїбЅђПЃО±ОЅбЅ№П‚ бјђПѓП„бѕї бјЂПЂбЅё ОіО±бЅ·О·П‚О‡ П„бЅ№ПѓПѓОїОЅ ОібЅ±ПЃ П„бѕї бјЂПЂбЅё Оібї†П‚ бјђП‚ П„бЅ±ПЃП„О±ПЃОїОЅ бј ОµПЃбЅ№ОµОЅП„О±. бјђОЅОЅбЅіО± ОібЅ°ПЃ ОЅбЅ»ОєП„О±П‚ П„Оµ ОєО±бЅ¶ бј¤ОјО±П„О± П‡бЅ±О»ОєОµОїП‚ бј„ОєОјП‰ОЅ Page 32 →ОїбЅђПЃО±ОЅбЅ№ОёОµОЅ ОєО±П„О№бЅЅОЅ, ОґОµОєбЅ±П„бїѓ Оєбѕї бјђП‚ ОіО±бї–О±ОЅ

бјµОєОїО№П„ОїО‡ бјђОЅОЅбЅіО± Оґбѕї О±бЅ– ОЅбЅ»ОєП„О±П‚ П„Оµ ОєО±бЅ¶ бј¤ОјО±П„О± П‡бЅ±О»ОєОµОїП‚ бј„ОєОјП‰ОЅ бјђОє ОіО±бЅ·О·П‚ ОєО±П„О№бЅЅОЅ, ОґОµОєбЅ±П„бїѓ Оєбѕї бјђП‚ П„бЅ±ПЃП„О±ПЃОїОЅ бјµОєОїО№. П„бЅёОЅ ПЂбЅіПЃО№ П‡бЅ±О»ОєОµОїОЅ бј•ПЃОєОїП‚ бјђО»бЅµО»О±П„О±О№О‡ бјЂОјП†бЅ¶ ОґбЅІ ОјО№ОЅ ОЅбЅєОѕ П„ПЃО№ПѓП„ОїО№П‡бЅ¶ ОєбЅіП‡П…П„О±О№ ПЂОµПЃбЅ¶ ОґОµО№ПЃбЅµОЅО‡ О±бЅђП„бЅ°ПЃ бЅ•ПЂОµПЃОёОµ Оібї†П‚ ῥίζαι ПЂОµП†бЅ»О±ПѓО№ ОєО±бЅ¶ бјЂП„ПЃП…ОібЅіП„ОїО№Ої ОёО±О»бЅ±ПѓПѓО·П‚. [As far beneath the earth as heaven is above earth, so far is it from earth to murky Tartarus. For a bronze anvil falling down from heaven nine nights and days would reach the earth upon the tenth. And again, a bronze anvil falling from earth nine nights and days would reach Tartarus upon the tenth. Around it is placed a bronze fence, and night pours around it in triple line as around a neck, while above it grow the roots of the earth and of the barren sea.] Unlike Hesiod’s scepter, these falling anvils refer not to a specific past event but to the general truth that some distances are too great for human beings to measure. Measuring time by means of an object falling through space may be nothing more than an elementary physics lesson, with the proviso that Hesiod seems to assume that heavier objects fall faster than lighter ones.79 But because these falling objects are timed in human terms (i.e., in a finite number of days), they impart a sense of actual or human time into the timeless topography of Tartarus.80 Thus, the notion that time can be measured in the observation of a falling object is part of the more general notion that objects have a temporal dimension, even when they are not in motion. The anvils also contribute to what Johnson calls the “repeating present” of time in Tartarus. The fact that the time it takes to reach Tartarus from earth is always the same (ten days) is analogous to the fact that the geography and topography of Tartarus always remain the same, even if these are difficult to map.81 But the role of the бј„ОєОјП‰ОЅ in Hesiod’s narrative is also complicated by its uncertain derivation. According to Johnson, Page 33 →It has long been suspected that something beyond a simple anvil lurks behind the falling bronze бј„ОєОјП‰ОЅ (722) Hesiod uses to measure this fall. Indo-European cognates mean “stone” but also “sky,” “meteorite,” and “thunderbolt”; the idea that the sky was made of stone or metal perhaps originates from observation of meteorites, which were also thought to be the burnt-out residue of thunderbolts.82

These suspicions indicate a perceived source in the observation of naturally occurring phenomena, such as the falling to earth of a meteorite. In this reading, the falling бј„ОєОјП‰ОЅ positions Hesiod’s claims about mythological space and time in a putatively “real” event, even if those claims are stated in the form of conditionals.83 These conditional statements about a quantifiable period of time constitute a general truth to which the бј„ОєОјП‰ОЅ lends empirical weight.84 More generally, the бј„ОєОјП‰ОЅ demonstrates the ways in which a material object can function simultaneously as a measurement of time and as a means of constituting or attesting to the reality of the past in a mythological context. This simultaneity is most explicit in Hesiod’s account of the ascendancy of Zeus, in which Cronos swallows each of his newborn children in succession, in an attempt to avert the prophecy that he will be overcome by his own son (Theogony 453–506). Following the birth of Zeus, Gaia tricks Cronos by giving him a stone (О»бЅ·ОёОїП‚) wrapped in swaddling clothes, which Cronos proceeds to swallow.85 But “as the years roll on” (бјђПЂО№ПЂО»ОїОјбЅіОЅП‰ОЅ Оґбѕї Page 34 →бјђОЅО№О±П…П„бї¶ОЅ, 493), Gaia tricks Cronos into disgorging the stone, which Zeus then sets up in Pytho or Delphi to be a Пѓбї†ОјО± and a ОёО±бї¦ОјО± (a sign and a wonder) for men of the future (Theogony 498–500).86 П„бЅёОЅ ОјбЅІОЅ О–ОµбЅєП‚ ПѓП„бЅµПЃО№ОѕОµ ОєО±П„бЅ° П‡ОёОїОЅбЅёП‚ ОµбЅђПЃП…ОїОґОµбЅ·О·П‚ О П…ОёОїбї– бјђОЅ бј ОіО±ОёбЅібїѓ ОіП…бЅ±О»ОїО№П‚ бЅ‘ПЂбЅё О О±ПЃОЅО·ПѓПѓОїбї–Ої Пѓбї†Ојбѕї бј”ОјОµОЅ бјђОѕОїПЂбЅ·ПѓП‰, ОёО±бї¦ОјО± ОёОЅО·П„Оїбї–ПѓО№ ОІПЃОїП„Оїбї–ПѓО№. [Zeus fixed [the stone] in the wide-pathed earth At holy Pytho [Delphi], under the glens of Parnassus, To be a sign thereafter [бјђОѕОїПЂбЅ·ПѓП‰], a marvel to mortal men.] There have been many attempts to explain Hesiod’s strange story about the substitute stone. West, for example, suggests that it is connected with the perceived holiness of meteorites or with the prophetic stones in the Orphic Lithica.87 But such explanations only demonstrate again how material Page 35 →objects in narrative seem to demand reference to an extradiscursive reality. Even if we find meteorites and prophetic stones only partially relevant, the meaning of Zeus’ stone—like that of the ἄκμων—is tied to the passing of human time.88 Within the context of Hesiod’s narrative, the substitution of stone for child is explicitly explained in temporal terms: it gives Zeus time to “increase his strength and glorious limbs” and, thus, eventually overcome his all-powerful father (ОјбЅіОЅОїП‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ П†О±бЅ·ОґО№ОјО± ОіП…бї–О± О·бЅ”ОѕОµП„Ої, 492–93).89 That this rationalizing logic is contradicted later in the Theogony, when Athena emerges fully grown from Zeus’ head (Theogony 886–929), only emphasizes the story’s singular quality.90 More specifically, the stone will come to refer to a significant past event—namely, Zeus’ defeat of the older gods—for future generations of men. In fact, the disposition of the stone defines those future generations of men in terms of this event. This helps to explain why the stone is the first object to be sited in a specific and actual locale (Delphi) in the Theogony and why it is the only object in the poem to be called aПѓбї†ОјО±.91 Looked at from this perspective, it is more than an object of simple substitution and more than a mythological enigma. In the narrative of the divine substitution itself—that is, when Gaia disguisesPage 36 → the stone as an infant Zeus and hands it over to Cronos—the language of time shifts between past and future (Theogony 485–91). П„бї· ОґбЅІ ПѓПЂО±ПЃОіО±ОЅбЅ·ПѓО±ПѓО± ОјбЅіОіО±ОЅ О»бЅ·ОёОїОЅ бјђОіОіП…бЅ±О»О№ОѕОµОЅ ОџбЅђПЃО±ОЅбЅ·Оґбїѓ ОјОµОібѕї бј„ОЅО±ОєП„О№, ОёОµбї¶ОЅ ПЂПЃбЅ№П„ОµПЃП‰ОЅ

ОІО±ПѓО№О»бї†О№. П„бЅёОЅ П„бЅ№Оёбѕї бј‘О»бЅјОЅ П‡ОµбЅ·ПЃОµПѓПѓО№ОЅ бј‘бЅґОЅ бјђПѓОєбЅ±П„ОёОµП„Ої ОЅО·ОґбЅ»ОЅ, ПѓПѓП‡бЅіП„О»О№ОїП‚, ОїбЅђОґбѕї бјђОЅбЅ№О·ПѓОµ ОјОµП„бЅ° П†ПЃбЅіПѓО№ОЅ, бЅҐП‚ Оїбј± бЅЂПЂбЅ·ПѓПѓП‰ бјЂОЅП„бЅ¶ О»бЅ·ОёОїП… бј‘бЅёП‚ П…бј±бЅёП‚ бјЂОЅбЅ·ОєО·П„ОїП‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ бјЂОєО·ОґбЅґП‚ О»ОµбЅ·ПЂОµОё бѕї, бЅ… ОјО№ОЅ П„бЅ±П‡бѕї бј”ОјОµО»О»Оµ ОІбЅ·бїѓ ОєО±бЅ¶ П‡ОµПЃПѓбЅ¶ ОґО±ОјбЅ±ПѓПѓО±П‚ П„О№Ојбї†П‚ бјђОѕОµО»бЅ±О±ОЅ, бЅЃ Оґбѕї бјђОЅ бјЂОёО±ОЅбЅ±П„ОїО№ПѓО№ОЅ бјЂОЅбЅ±ОѕОµО№ОЅ. [But after she wrapped a great stone in swaddling clothes, she consigned it to the great king of heaven, the king of the former gods. And taking it up with his hands he thrust it into his belly, Wretch! He did not know in his heart that in place of a Stone his son was left behind [oПЂбЅ·ПѓПѓП‰], unconquered and without care, A [son who] soon [П„бЅ±ОѕО±] was about to overcome him by the strength of his hands And drive him from his honors, and rule over the immortals.] The purpose of the story seems straightforward enough; in the natural course of things, the son will overcome his father. But in the present moment of the event being narrated, the former gods (ОёОµбї¶ОЅ ПЂПЃбЅ№П„ОµПЃП‰ОЅ) are former in relation to two future events: the victory of Zeus and the narration of the poem itself. While the stone’s future is plotted from the time that Zeus sets it up in Delphi, the stone also foregrounds the time of the poem’s enunciation, as well as Hesiod’s position as one of those (future) mortals for whom it will be a Пѓбї†ОјО± and a ОёО±бї¦ОјО±.92 This temporal shift is enhanced by the odd way in which the substitution itself is described, that is, the statement that the son was “left behind” in place of (or instead of) the stone (бЅЂПЂбЅ·ПѓПѓП‰ / бјЂОЅП„бЅ¶ О»бЅ·ОёОїП… бј‘бЅёП‚ П…бј±бЅёП‚В .В .В . О»ОµбЅ·ПЂОµП„Ої). This description explains the disposition of Zeus, who is “unconquered and without care” and has been “hidden in a deep cave” (ОєПЃбЅ»П€ОµОЅВ .В .В .Page 37 →бј„ОЅП„ПЃбїі бјђОЅ бј О»О№ОІбЅ±П„бїі, 482–83).93 But it also points to the absence of the stone from a visible landscape, while qualifying it as something that, like Zeus, can potentially be left behind. Both Zeus and the stone thus become part of a future (бЅЂПЂбЅ·ПѓПѓП‰) defined by what cannot be seen, by Cronos’ ignorance (ОїбЅђОґбѕї бјђОЅбЅ№О·ПѓОµ, ОєП„О»., 488), and by the Muses’ omniscient knowledge (П„бЅ±П‡бѕї бј”ОјОµО»О»Оµ, ОєП„О»., 490–91). In the mythological scheme of things, the stone’s significance will be revealed to men who do not yet exist, in a place whose significance is not yet established. Fixed in Apollo’s precinct in Delphi, it also seems to compete with the implied promise of oracular speech, that is, that the future is knowable. But this promise is compromised by the interplay of two related phenomena: an implied desire for the real thing—for the stone’s extradiscursive, or material, reality—and the possibility that it may no longer exist in the future.94 Pausanias responds to this possibility when, in his PeriГЄgГЄsis, he reports seeing a small stone (О»бЅ·ОёОїП‚ ОїбЅђ ОјбЅіОіО±П‚) in Delphi that, he says, may be the one that was vomited up by Cronos (бј”ПѓП„О№ ОґбЅІ

ОєО±бЅ¶ ОґбЅ№ОѕО± бјђП‚ О±бЅђП„ОїОЅ ОґОїОёбї†ОЅО±О№ ОљПЃбЅ№ОЅбїі П„бЅёОЅ О»бЅ·ОёОїОЅ бјЂОЅП„бЅ¶ П„Оїбї¦ ПЂО±О№ОґбЅ№П‚, ОєО±бЅ¶ бЅЎП‚ О±бЅ–ОёО№П‚ бј¤ОјОµПѓОµОЅ О±бЅђП„бЅёОЅ бЅЃ ОљПЃбЅ№ОЅОїП‚, 10.24.6).95 From Pausanias’ retrospective point of view, Hesiod’s story predicts the founding of Delphi as a preternatural landscape where visible objects function as metonyms for prior significant events and where those events have potential (if necessarily deferred) meaning in the future. At the same time, Pausanias’ uncertainty about the stone’s history (бј”ПѓП„О№ ОґбЅІ ОєО±бЅ¶ ОґбЅ№ОѕО±) illustrates the hermeneutic gap between visible objects in the world and the stories they produce.96 More explicitly, it attests to the fact that only stones with stories can be marvels (ОёО±бЅ»ОјО±П„О±). In this respect, the story of Zeus’ stone anticipates what Paul de Man has called “the proverbial stone” in the history of philosophy.97 Based on the premise that stones exist outside of historical time and prior to culture, they are often invoked within that history to stand for the hard data of Page 38 →empiricism.98 But the idea that they constitute an uncompromised reality is difficult to maintain, as John Frow suggests. There can be no neat distinction between cultural objects and naturally occurring objects. The pile of stones formed by a minor avalanche carries equally with it the possibility of being otherwise recognized; it can, for example, be taken for a cairn or taken to be beautiful. The condition of possibility is the same in each case. The stones, the pebble, exist within the realm of that possibility.99 Echoing the tenets of the new materialism, Frow suggests that stones refer both to a pure materiality and to the possibility of being “otherwise recognized”100—or, more accurately, that a pile of stones is the source of recognizing their cultural content in the shape of a cairn or in their beauty. In choosing to exemplify culture in terms of a memorial for the dead or an aesthetic judgment, Frow implicitly invokes what are arguably archaeology’s most prized sources for what happened in the past: graves and the objects they contain. The more immediate point here, however, is that Hesiod’s text anticipates the persistence of stones in signifying both a resistance to meaning (they are pure materiality) and the potential for making meaning (as cultural artifacts). In the terms employed here, it locates in a protoarchaeological narrative the “condition of possibility” to which Frow refers. In Hesiod’s chronology of Zeus’ rise to power, the stone’s placement in the Delphic landscape, its thaumatic appeal to human eyes, its mediation of past and future, and its transition from myth to history (i.e., from the Theogony Page 39 →to the PeriГЄgГЄsis) make it emblematic of the role of visible objects in creating and mediating the past as a function of narrative. Exemplified by the scepter, the anvil, and the stone, material objects in the Theogony may seem, at first glance, to be nothing more than unrelated data. As I have tried to show, however, their shared roles in referring both to the reality of the past and to the passing of human time are part of the poem’s engagement with its epistemological dilemma, that is, with the problem of telling the truth about events that happened in a distant and mythological past. They both raise the question of what can be known about that past and reveal the contingencies that resist that knowledge. More generally, they exemplify the work of protoarchaeological narratives in presenting visible remains as evidence for a past that has vanished from view.

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Chapter 2 The Hypothetical Past and the Achaean Wall in the Iliad Like ValГ©ry, Proust returns again and again to the mortality of artifacts. What seems eternal, he says at another point, contains within itself the impulse of its own destruction. —Theodor Adorno, “ValГ©ry Proust Museum”101 According to John Camp, walls are the “most enduring evidence of antiquity surviving in the landscape today.”102 As features in the built environment, the remains of walls delimit the lives of ancient humans in both time and space; they give substance to the past. Perhaps it is not surprising that the prominence of walls as archaeological features is shared by their prominence as narrative plot devices. They stand out (as it were) in both contexts. It might even be said that walls occupy a unique position as both signifiers of cultural production and structures within narrative. Between their existence as physical remains and their role in the representation of events (in both poetic texts and history writing), walls stand for and perhaps even epitomize the temporal and ontological categories that distinguish fiction from fact or, in Aristotle’s terms, poetry from history. To return to the categories mentioned in the introduction to the present study, they embody the relationship between empirical observation and linguistic representation in accounting for the past. These premises pertain to the protoarchaeological Page 41 →potential of walls in general and, more specifically, to the Achaean wall’s role in fulfilling this potential in the Iliad. As Andrew Ford has observed, “The strangest object on the ground at Troy is the great defensive wall the Greeks erect in Book 7 of the Iliad, and which is finally destroyed without a trace when the Greeks go home, as we hear in Book 12.”103 This strangeness is due primarily to the fact that, as described in a quotation attributed to Aristotle by Strabo (Geographica 13.1.36 = Rose fr. 162), Homer “fashioned the wall and then made it disappear.” I will return to Strabo’s text below. I want to argue here that the wall’s strangeness is enhanced by the fact that its disappearance takes place in a hypothetical past, that is, a past that, in the present moment of the poem, has not yet happened. This temporal anomaly makes Homer’s account of the Achaean wall especially valuable for investigating the ways in which the past constitutes a receding visual field in the Greek narrative tradition. Similar to Hesiod’s account of Zeus’ stone in the Theogony, the meaning of the wall is expressed in the relationship between what happened in the past and what can be seen—or not seen—in the present. Framed by the question of whether or not it actually existed, the wall’s temporal anomaly not only tests the epistemological and ontological limits of the epic; it also—if less obviously—tests its ethical limits, that is, the achievement of immortal fame, or ОєО»бЅіОїП‚. More specifically, the ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ of the wall demonstrates by analogy that ethical action in the poem is contingent on the possibility that the past can be known.104 This analogy is based in general terms on the relationship between the ability to transcend death, on the one hand, and the ability to ensure something like “enduring evidence of antiquity,” in Camp’s terms, on the other. The questions raised here are how and why the Achaean wall fulfills these complex and related functions in the Iliad and in the history of its reception. This chapter explores the ways in which the account of the total destruction of the wall is linked with the problem of accessing the truth about the past, including the past’s ethical content. The wall’s protoarchaeological effect is expressed in this link between its physical or material existence and the possibility of knowing what happened in the past. Following the indecisive single combat between Ajax and Hector in book 7 of the Iliad, Nestor urges the Greek leaders to call for a cease-fire. This will allow them to gather the corpses for burning on a communal pyre, so that “each man may take the bones home to their children, whenever we go back Page 42 →again to our fatherland” (бЅҐП‚ Оєбѕї бЅЂПѓП„бЅіО± ПЂО±О№ПѓбЅ¶ОЅ бј•ОєО±ПѓП„ОїП‚ ОїбјґОєО±Оґбѕї

бј„Оібїѓ бЅ…П„бѕї бј‚ОЅ О±бЅ–П„Оµ ОЅОµбЅЅОјОµОёО± ПЂО±П„ПЃбЅ·ОґО± ОіО±бї–О±ОЅ, 7.334–35).105 Immediately following this appeal to an uncertain return home, figured in the act of repatriating the bones of the dead, Nestor urges the Greeks to build a wall and ditch around the ships (7.336–43). П„бЅ»ОјОІОїОЅ Оґбѕї бјЂОјП†бЅ¶ ПЂП…ПЃбЅґОЅ бј•ОЅО± П‡ОµбЅ»ОїОјОµОЅ бјђОѕО±ОіО±ОібЅ№ОЅП„ОµП‚ бј„ОєПЃО№П„ОїОЅ бјђОє ПЂОµОґбЅ·ОїП…О‡ ПЂОїП„бЅ¶ Оґбѕї О±бЅђП„бЅёОЅ ОґОµбЅ·ОјОїОјОµОЅ бЅ¦ОєО± ПЂбЅ»ПЃОіОїП…П‚ бЅ‘П€О·О»ОїбЅєП‚ Оµбј¶О»О±ПЃ ОЅО·бї¶ОЅ П„Оµ ОєО±бЅ¶ О±бЅђП„бї¶ОЅ. бјђОЅ Оґбѕї О±бЅђП„Оїбї–ПѓО№ ПЂбЅ»О»О±П‚ ПЂОїО№бЅµПѓОїОјОµОЅ ОµбЅ– бјЂПЃО±ПЃП…бЅ·О±П‚, бЅ„П†ПЃО± ОґО№бѕї О±бЅђП„бЅ±П‰ОЅ бј±ПЂПЂО·О»О±ПѓбЅ·О· бЅЃОґбЅёП‚ ОµбјґО·О‡ бј”ОєП„ОїПѓОёОµОЅ ОґбЅІ ОІО±ОёОµбї–О±ОЅ бЅЂПЃбЅ»ОѕОїОјОµОЅ бјђОіОібЅ»ОёО№ П„бЅ±П†ПЃОїОЅ, ἥ χ’ἵππον ОєО±бЅ¶ О»О±бЅёОЅ бјђПЃП…ОєбЅ±ОєОїО№ бјЂОјП†бЅ¶П‚ бјђОїбї¦ПѓО±, ОјбЅµ ПЂОїП„бѕї бјђПЂО№ОІПЃбЅ·Пѓбїѓ ПЂбЅ№О»ОµОјОїП‚ О¤ПЃбЅЅП‰ОЅ бјЂОіОµПЃбЅЅП‡П‰ОЅ. [And around the pyre let us heap up a single tomb, building it up from the plain; and in front of it let us swiftly build high walls to be a defense for the ships and ourselves. And let us make well-fitted gates within them So that there can be a passageway for driving horses. And outside [the walls] let us dig a deep ditch nearby which, surrounding the walls, can obstruct both horse and men, so that the war of the noble Trojans does not press us down.] The ships, of course, are the only means by which the Greeks can return home, so Nestor’s plan to build a wall around them seems to respond naturally to the uncertainty of that return. The wall’s position in the poem’s temporal landscape is explicitly expressed here in the negative purpose clause (ОјбЅµ ПЂОїП„бѕї бјђПЂО№ОІПЃбЅ·ПѓО·), that is, in the wall’s function as a defense against a hypothetical—and significant—future event. But the proximity of wall, tomb, and ship, a proximity that refers both to their placement in the narrative and to their location on the Trojan plain, constitutes a more complex temporal relationship. If building the wall is implicitly equated with heaping up the tomb, the ships function as a mediating third term; they can be equated either with a tomb or a wall.106 In other words, the Greeks Page 43 →are destined to die in Troy insofar as the destruction of the wall anticipates the destruction of the ships. Dividing the Trojan plain from the open sea, the wall stands, at this point in the poem, for the precarious dividing line between victory and defeat, homecoming and abandonment, and life and death. The equation between the fate of the wall and the fate of the Achaeans is made explicit in Nestor’s expectation that the walls will be a defense for both the ships and the men themselves (Оµбј¶О»О±ПЃ ОЅО·бї¶ОЅ П„Оµ ОєО±бЅ¶ О±бЅђП„бї¶ОЅ, 338).

The wall’s significance in the narrative is given more weight at the end of book 7, where, following the Trojans’ failed attempt to end the war with an offer to return the treasure that Paris had brought home with Helen (7.389–91), Poseidon compares the Achaean wall with the great wall of Troy that he and Apollo had built (7.443–53).107 Оїбјі ОґбЅІ ОёОµОїбЅ¶ ПЂбЅ°ПЃ О–О·ОЅбЅ¶ ОєО±ОёбЅµОјОµОЅОїО№ бјЂПѓП„ОµПЃОїПЂО·П„бї‡ ОёО·Оµбї¦ОЅП„Ої ОјбЅіОіО± бј”ПЃОіОїОЅ бј€П‡О±О№бї¶ОЅ П‡О±О»ОєОїП‡О№П„бЅЅОЅП‰ОЅ. П„Оїбї–ПѓО№ ОґбЅІ ОјбЅ»ОёП‰ОЅ бј¦ПЃП‡Оµ О ОїПѓОµО№ОґбЅ±П‰ОЅ бјђОЅОїПѓбЅ·П‡ОёП‰ОЅО‡ О–Оµбї¦ ПЂбЅ±П„ОµПЃ, бј¦ ῥά П„бЅ·П‚ бјђПѓП„О№ ОІПЃОїП„бї¶ОЅ бјђПЂбѕї бјЂПЂОµбЅ·ПЃОїОЅО± ОіО±бї–О±ОЅ бЅ…П‚ П„О№П‚ бј”П„бѕї бјЂОёО±ОЅбЅ±П„ОїО№ПѓО№ ОЅбЅ№ОїОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ Ојбї†П„О№ОЅ бјђОЅбЅ·П€ОµО№; ОїбЅђП‡ бЅЃПЃбЅ±бѕіП‚ бЅ…П„О№ Оґбѕї О±бЅ–П„Оµ ОєбЅ±ПЃО· ОєОїОјбЅ№П‰ОЅП„ОµП‚ бј€П‡О±О№ОїбЅ¶ П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚ бјђП„ОµО№П‡бЅ·ПѓПѓО±ОЅП„Ої ОЅОµбї¶ОЅ бЅ•ПЂОµПЃ, бјЂОјП†бЅ¶ ОґбЅІ П„бЅ±П†ПЃОїОЅ бј¤О»О±ПѓО±ОЅ, ОїбЅђОґбЅІ ОёОµОїбї–ПѓО№ ОґбЅ№ПѓО±ОЅ ОєО»ОµО№П„бЅ°П‚ бј‘ОєО±П„бЅ№ОјОІО±П‚; П„Оїбї¦ Оґбѕї бј¤П„ОїО№ ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ бј”ПѓП„О±О№ бЅ…ПѓПѓОїОЅ П„бѕї бјђПЂО№ОєбЅ·ОґОЅО±П„О±О№ бј бЅЅП‚О‡ П„Оїбї¦ Оґбѕї бјђПЂО№О»бЅµПѓОїОЅП„О±О№ бЅ… П„бѕї бјђОібЅј ОєО±бЅ¶ О¦Оїбї–ОІОїП‚ бј€ПЂбЅ№О»О»П‰ОЅ ἥρῳ О›О±ОїОјбЅіОґОїОЅП„О№ ПЂОїО»бЅ·ПѓПѓО±ОјОµОЅ бјЂОёО»бЅµПѓО±ОЅП„Оµ. [And the gods sitting beside Zeus, the Lightener, gazed at the great work of the bronze-clad Achaeans. And Poseidon the Earthshaker, began to speak to them: “Father Zeus, is there any mortal on the wide earth who will declare his thought and counsel to the immortals? Don’t you see that again the long-haired Achaeans have built a wall in front of their ships, and have drawn a trench around it, and that they have not given glorious hecatombs to the gods? For sure the fame [ОєО»бЅіОїП‚] of this wall will spread as far as the dawn; Page 44 →and men will forget [бјђПЂО№О»бЅµПѓОїОЅП„О±О№] the [city wall]108 that Phoebus Apollo and I built with toil for the hero Laomedon.]

This debate over the significance of the two walls rests on the question of which one will be remembered and which forgotten—or, in other terms, which one will have a past.109 This question is further expressed in the form of an unusual, if not unique, appeal to the wall’s fame, or ОєО»бЅіОїП‚. In the epic poems, ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ is almost exclusively used as an attribute of human agents.110 In the one other example in which it is an attribute of a physical object (and this may be an interpolation), Nestor’s shield is endowed with ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ that, says Hector, “reaches to heaven” (бјЂПѓПЂбЅ·ОґО± ОќОµПѓП„ОїПЃбЅіО·ОЅ, П„бї†П‚ ОЅбї¦ОЅ ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ ОїбЅђПЃО±ОЅбЅёОЅ бјµОєОµО№, 8.192).111 Of course, the ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ of the wall may be understood as an example of hypallage in which the fame of the wall’s creators, the Greeks, has been transferred to the wall itself. But for this very reason, it has something of a unique status in the poem, one that not even the great wall of Troy can claim.112 As an object of ОєО»бЅіОїП‚, the Achaean wall is also distinguished from other objects and architectural features in the Iliad that, when remarked on, are frequently called бј„П†ОёО№П„ОїОЅ or бј„П†ОёО№П„ОїОЅ О±бј°ОµбЅ·, “imperishable” or, redundantly, “imperishable forever.”113 What emerges from this usage is a discourse Page 45 →of physical objects and architectural features defined by their tendency to decay and be forgotten, on the one hand, and, as a compensatory gesture, by their resistance to destruction (П†ОёбЅ·ОЅП‰), on the other.114 As suggested above, the building of the wall performs this compensatory function in the context of and as a response to the act of heaping the bodies of unidentified warriors on funeral pyres (бјђПЂО№ОЅбЅµОЅОµОїОЅ, 7.428, 431). The ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ of the Achaean wall thus implicitly compensates for the ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ that eludes these unknown warriors.115 In this way, the question of which of the two walls will be remembered and which one will be forgotten—or which one will have a past—links the disposition of the poem’s built environment to its ethical dimension, that is, to the possible attainment of ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ as a means of evaluating and preserving the heroic past. The particular attributes of the wall’s ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ are spatial and temporal extension, encompassed in its comparison with the spreading dawn. Thus, while the literal meaning of ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ is “an act of hearing, ” the comparison with the dawn figures it here not only as a visual phenomenon but, more significantly, as one that constitutes the primary means of reckoning time in the epic. The formulaic appearance of the dawn structures the epic narrative both in qualitative terms (as a perpetual recurrence) and in quantitative terms (as a specific number of days).116 As the only example in Homer in which the dawn is an element of comparison, the simile connects ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ with time that is both eternal and transient. In general terms, ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ oscillates between these two temporal registers in the epics. It refers primarily to the promise of the hero’s transcendent reputation or “fame” that will be achieved in a single day (or dawn), on the day of the hero’s death. We can here recall Achilles’ prophetic words to Lycaon regarding his own death, at Iliad 21.111–13: “There will come a dawn, or early afternoon, or midday when some man will take my life in war” (бј”ПѓПѓОµП„О±О№ бјў бј бЅјП‚ бјў ОґОµбЅ·О»О± бјў ОјбЅіПѓОїОЅ Page 46 →бј¦ОјО±ПЃ).117 Poseidon’s claim that “the fame [ОєО»бЅіОїП‚] of this wall will spread as far as the dawn” operates within this same temporo-semantic range, in which the wall’s ОєО»бЅіОїП‚, like that of the hero, depends on its physical destruction. Gregory Nagy has argued that the attainment of ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ in Homer means “transcending concerns about material wealth and security” through the vehicle of epic poetry. It is what the hero “earns” by dying.118 Most immediately transcended in this process, however, is the hero’s mortal body.119 Put another way, Achilles’ ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ defies destruction; it is бј„П†ОёО№П„ОїОЅ (imperishable), because his physical body is subject to death and decay.120 Zeus’ response to Poseidon’s fear that the Achaean wall will rob the Trojan wall of its ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ can be understood in the context of this interplay between transcendence or eternal fame, on the one hand, and immanence or mortality, on the other (7.454–63). П„бЅёОЅ ОґбЅІ ОјбЅіОібѕї бЅЂП‡ОёбЅµПѓО±П‚ ПЂПЃОїПѓбЅіП†О· ОЅОµП†ОµО»О·ОіОµПЃбЅіП„О± О–ОµбЅ»П‚О‡ бЅў ПЂбЅ№ПЂОїО№, бјОЅОЅОїПѓбЅ·ОіО±О№бѕї ОµбЅђПЃП…ПѓОёбЅіОЅОµП‚, Оїбј·ОїОЅ бј”ОµО№ПЂОµП‚.

бј„О»О»ОїП‚ ОєбЅіОЅ П„О№П‚ П„Оїбї¦П„Ої ОёОµбї¶ОЅ ОґОµбЅ·ПѓОµО№Оµ ОЅбЅ№О·ОјО±, бЅѓП‚ ПѓбЅіОї ПЂОїО»О»бЅёОЅ бјЂП†О±П…ПЃбЅ№П„ОµПЃОїП‚ П‡Оµбї–ПЃбЅ±П‚ П„Оµ ОјбЅіОЅОїП‚ П„ОµО‡ ПѓбЅёОЅ Оґбѕї бј¦ П„ОїО№ ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ бј”ПѓП„О±О№ бЅ…ПѓОїОЅ П„бѕї бјђПЂО№ОєбЅ·ОґОЅО±П„О±О№ бј бЅЅП‚. бј„ОіПЃОµО№ ОјбЅ±ОЅ, бЅ…П„бѕї бј‚ОЅ О±бЅ–П„Оµ ОєбЅ±ПЃО· ОєОїОјбЅ№П‰ОЅП„ОµП‚ бј€П‡О±О№ОїбЅ¶ ОїбјґП‡П‰ОЅП„О±О№ ПѓбЅєОЅ ОЅО·П…ПѓбЅ¶ П†бЅ·О»О·ОЅ бјђП‚ ПЂО±ПЃП„бЅ·ОґО± ОіО±бї–О±ОЅ, П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚ бјЂОЅО±ПЃПЃбЅµОѕО±П‚ П„бЅё ОјбЅІОЅ Оµбј°П‚ бј…О»О± ПЂбѕ¶ОЅ ОєО±П„О±П‡Оµбї¦О±О№, О±бЅ–П„О№П‚ Оґбѕї бј ПЉбЅ№ОЅО± ОјОµОібЅ±О»О·ОЅ П€О±ОјбЅ±ОёОїО№ПѓО№ ОєО±О»бЅ»П€О±О№, бЅҐП‚ ОєбЅіОЅ П„ОїО№ ОјбЅіОіО± П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚ бјЂОјО±О»ОґбЅ»ОЅО·П„О±О№ бј€П‡О±О№бї¶ОЅ. [Then greatly disturbed, Zeus the cloud gatherer said, “Oh! Earthshaker, what have you said! Some other god might fear this thought, one far less powerful than you in both hands and strength; But your fame [ОєО»бЅіОїП‚] will spread as far as the dawn. Page 47 →Now when the long-haired Achaeans return to their dear native land in their ships, take the wall and break it up and heap it all into the sea, and cover [ОєО±О»бЅ»П€О±О№] the great beach again with sand so that the great wall of the Achaeans is destroyed.”]121 Zeus here uses the same comparison to refer to the ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ of Poseidon that Poseidon had used at 7.451 to refer to the ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ of the Achaean wall. In repeating the comparison here and transferring it to the ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ of the god who built the Trojan wall, Zeus’ words infer that the Achaean wall, destined for destruction, will have no ОєО»бЅіОїП‚. As suggested above, however, this conclusion is clearly contradicted by the poem, in which the wall’s destruction and absence are the constituent features of its ОєО»бЅіОїП‚. As James I. Porter notes, The monumental obliteration of the Achaean wall, rather than erasing its memory and fame, quite the contrary ensures that the same wall will go down in the annals of memory as one of the most unforgettable and most famous walls that was ever—or better yet never—constructed.122 (emphasis in the original) A similar paradox holds for the ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ of the heroic warrior. His “immortal fame” can only be

achieved after his death, or, in the language of the poem, after death has “covered” (ОєО±О»бЅ»ПЂП„П‰) him. The implied equation of the destruction of the wall with the death of the hero is supported by the fact that death dominates the semantic range and formulaic instances of ОєО±О»бЅ»ПЂП„П‰ in the epic poems. It is used of the darkness that “covers” the warrior’s eyes at the moment of death (ПѓОєбЅ№П„ОїП‚ бЅ„ПѓПѓОµ ОєбЅ±О»П…П€Оµ) and in the phrase “the end of death covered [him]” (П„бЅіО»ОїП‚ ОёО±ОЅбЅ±П„ОїО№Ої ОєбЅ±О»П…П€Оµ).123 In these expressions, ОєО±О»бЅ»ПЂП„П‰ is euphemistic. It constitutes Page 48 →a rhetorical deferral in which death is a kind of visual absence rather than the cessation of existence. The “death” of the wall, figured in the act of being covered up, thus constitutes a euphemistic and compensatory reference to the death of the Greek and Trojan warriors who, once upon a time, fought around it. Within this complex configuration, the basis of ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ as an oral report is also linked with the wall’s temporal and ontological transformation from visibility to invisibility. In short, the story of the wall’s construction and disappearance is related to the principal conflict in the poem, that between what is possible for epic warriors (ОєО»бЅіОїП‚) and what is certain for all humans (ОёбЅ±ОЅО±П„ОїП‚).124 To return to the framing concept of this book, the wall’s protoarchaeological effect is expressed in ways in which its physical presence exemplifies what is at stake in the poem. I have been arguing that the disposition of the Achaean wall, by virtue of its singular claim to ОєО»бЅіОїП‚, is a key to understanding the ways in which the poem’s temporal, ontological, and ethical dimensions are mutually productive. It remains to situate this discussion within the extended and singular narrative of the wall’s complete and utter destruction (Iliad 12.9–18). П„бЅё ОєО±бЅ¶ ОїбЅ” П„О№ ПЂОїО»бЅєОЅ П‡ПЃбЅ№ОЅОїОЅ бј”ОјПЂОµОґОїОЅ бј¦ОµОЅ. бЅ„П†ПЃО± ОјбЅІОЅ бїћО•ОєП„П‰ПЃ О¶П‰бЅёП‚ бј”О·ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ ОјбЅµОЅО№ бј€П‡О№О»О»ОµбЅєП‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ О ПЃО№бЅ±ОјОїО№Ої бј„ОЅО±ОєП„ОїП‚ бјЂПЂбЅ№ПЃОёО·П„ОїП‚ ПЂбЅ№О»О№П‚ бј”ПЂО»ОµОЅ, П„бЅ№П†ПЃО± ОґбЅІ ОєО±бЅ¶ ОјбЅіОіО± П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚ бј€П‡О±О№бї¶ОЅ бј”ОјПЂОµОґОїОЅ бј¦ОµОЅ. О±бЅђП„бЅ°ПЃ бјђПЂОµбЅ¶ ОєО±П„бЅ° ОјбЅІОЅ О¤ПЃбЅЅП‰ОЅ ОёбЅ±ОЅОїОЅ бЅ…ПѓПѓОїО№ бј„ПЃО№ПѓП„ОїО№, ПЂОїО»О»ОїбЅ¶ Оґбѕї бј€ПЃОіОµбЅ·П‰ОЅ Оїбј± ОјбЅІОЅ ОґбЅ±ОјОµОЅ, Оїбј± ОґбЅІ О»бЅ·ПЂОїОЅП„Ої, ПЂбЅіПЃОёОµП„Ої ОґбЅІ О ПЃО№бЅ±ОјОїО№Ої ПЂбЅ№О»О№П‚ ОґОµОєбЅ±П„бїі бјђОЅО№О±П…П„бї·, бј€ПЃОіОµбї–ОїО№ Оґбѕї бјђОЅ ОЅО·П…ПѓбЅ¶ П†бЅ·О»О·ОЅ бјђП‚ ПЂО±ПЃП„бЅ·Оґбѕї бј”ОІО·ПѓО±ОЅ, ОґбЅґ П„бЅ№П„Оµ ОјО·П„О№бЅ№П‰ОЅП„Ої О ОїПѓОµО№ОґбЅ±П‰ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ бј€ПЂбЅ№О»О»П‰ОЅ П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚ бјЂОјО±О»Оґбї¦ОЅО±О№, ПЂОїП„О±Ојбї¶ОЅ ОјбЅіОЅОїП‚ Оµбј°ПѓО±ОіО±ОібЅ№ОЅП„ОµП‚. [The wall could not endure [бј”ОјПЂОµОґОїОЅ] for long. While Hector was living and Achilles raged and the city of king Priam was still not sacked,

the great wall of the Greeks stood firm [бј”ОјПЂОµОґОїОЅ]. Page 49 →But when those who were the best Trojans had died, and of the many Greeks some had fallen and some were left, and the city of Priam had fallen in the tenth year, and the Greeks had gone back to their dear native land, at that time Poseidon and Apollo planned to destroy the wall, by bringing together the strength of the rivers.] Oscillating between temporal and ontological categories, from future to past and from monumental structure to ruin, the wall will disappear without a trace as Apollo and Poseidon cover it with water and bury it in sand, along with the “many bull-hide shields and helmetsВ .В .В . [of] a generation of men who were half-divine” (12.22–23; cf. 12.105).125 At the level of the plot, the fate of the wall is described while the battle is being waged around it and up until the point when the Trojans, led by Hector, will finally breach it (12.435–41). But the wall’s destruction is recounted from the point of view of a projected future, that is, as a hypothetical past event, before returning to the present moment of the narrative (Iliad 12.27–37). О±бЅђП„бЅёП‚ Оґбѕї бјОЅОЅОїПѓбЅ·ОіО±О№ОїП‚ бј”П‡П‰ОЅ П‡ОµбЅ·ПЃОµПѓПѓО№ П„ПЃбЅ·О±О№ОЅО±ОЅ бјЎОіОµбї–П„ бѕї, бјђОє Оґбѕї бј„ПЃО± ПЂбЅ±ОЅП„О± ОёОµОјОµбЅ·О»О№О± ОєбЅ»ОјО±ПѓО№ ПЂбЅіОјПЂОµ П†О№П„ПЃбї¶ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ О»бЅ±П‰ОЅ, П„бЅ° ОёбЅіПѓО±ОЅ ОјОїОібЅіОїОЅП„ОµП‚ бј€П‡О±О№ОїбЅ·, О»Оµбї–О± Оґбѕї бјђПЂОїбЅ·О·ПѓОµОЅ ПЂО±ПЃбѕї бјЂОібЅ±ПЃПЃОїОїОЅ бј™О»О»бЅµПѓПЂОїОЅП„ОїОЅ, О±бЅ–П„О№П‚ Оґ бј ПЉбЅ№ОЅО± ОјОµОібЅ±О»О·ОЅ П€О±ОјбЅ±ОёОїО№ПѓО№ ОєбЅ±О»П…П€Оµ, П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚ бјЂОјО±О»ОґбЅ»ОЅО±П‚О‡ ПЂОїП„О±ОјОїбЅєП‚ Оґбѕї бј”П„ПЃОµП€Оµ ОЅбЅіОµПѓОёО±О№ ОєбЅ°ПЃ ῥόον, бѕ— ПЂОµПЃ ПЂПЃбЅ№ПѓОёОµОЅ бјµОµОЅ ОєО±О»О»бЅ·ПЃПЃОїОїОЅ бЅ•ОґП‰ПЃ бЅҐП‚ бј„ПЃбѕї бј”ОјОµО»О»ОїОЅ бЅ„ПЂО№ПѓОёОµ О ОїПѓОµО№ОґбЅ±П‰ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ бј€ПЂбЅ№О»О»П‰ОЅ ОёО·ПѓбЅіОјОµОЅО±О№О‡ П„бЅ№П„Оµ Оґбѕї бјЂОјП†бЅ¶ ОјбЅ±П‡О· бјђОЅОїПЂбЅµ П„Оµ ОґОµОґбЅµОµО№ П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚ бјђбїЈОґОјО·П„ОїОЅ, ОєО±ОЅбЅ±П‡О№О¶Оµ ОґбЅІ ОґОїбЅ»ПЃО±П„О± ПЂбЅ»ПЃОіП‰ОЅ ОІО±О»О»бЅ№ОјОµОЅ бѕї. [And the Earthshaker himself, holding

the trident in his hands, led the way and sent into the waves all the foundations of logs and stones the Greeks had set up with toil. He made everything smooth along the strong-flowing Hellespont and again covered [ОєбЅ±О»П…П€Оµ] the great shore with sand, Page 50 →After he had swept away the wall; then he turned the rivers to flow back into the channel, where they had sent their beautiful-flowing water before. This Poseidon and Apollo were going to do in time to come [бЅ„ПЂО№ПѓОёОµ]. But then [П„бЅ№П„Оµ Оґ бѕї] the battle raged on both sides of the well-built wall [П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚ бјђбїЈОґОјО·П„ОїОЅ], and the beams of the towers rang as they were struck.] As suggested above, the wall’s absolute absence, described in terms of being covered or hidden, also implicitly refers to the death of the warriors whom the Iliad would immortalize, with Achilles first among them. This particular cross-reference is explicitly illustrated in the description of Achilles’ battle with the river Scamander. Following the death of Patroclus, Achilles reenters the war and, in a killing rage, clogs the river’s streams with the corpses of Trojans. Calling for help from his brother, the river Simois, Scamander describes the effect of their joint effort in curbing Achilles’ violent onslaught (Iliad 21.308–23).126 П†бЅ·О»Оµ ОєО±ПѓбЅ·ОіОЅО·П„Оµ, ПѓОёбЅіОЅОїП‚ бјЂОЅбЅіПЃОїП‚ бјЂОјП†бЅ№П„ОµПЃОїбЅ· ПЂОµПЃ ПѓП‡бї¶ОјОµОЅ, бјђПЂОµбЅ¶ П„бЅ±П‡О± бј„ПѓП„П… ОјбЅіОіО± О ПЃО№бЅ±ОјОїО№Ої бј„ОЅО±ОєП„ОїП‚ бјђОєПЂбЅіПЃПѓОµО№, О¤ПЃбї¶ОµП‚ ОґбЅІ ОєО±П„бЅ° ОјбЅ№ОёОїОЅ ОїбЅђ ОјОµОЅбЅіОїП…ПѓО№ОЅ. бјЂО»О»бѕї бјђПЂбЅ±ОјП…ОЅОµ П„бЅ±П‡О№ПѓП„О±, ОєО±бЅ¶ бјђОјПЂбЅ·ПЂО»О·ОёО№ ῥέεθρα бЅ•ОґО±П„ОїП‚ бјђОє ПЂО·ОібЅіП‰ОЅ, ПЂбЅ±ОЅП„О±П‚ Оґбѕї бЅЂПЃбЅ№ОёП…ОЅОїОЅ бјђОЅО±бЅ»О»ОїП…П‚, бјµПѓП„О· ОґбЅІ ОјбЅіОіО± Оєбї¦ОјО±, ПЂОїО»бЅєОЅ Оґбѕї бЅЂПЃП…ОјО±ОіОґбЅёОЅ бЅ„ПЃО№ОЅОµ П†О№П„ПЃбї¶ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ О»бЅ±П‰ОЅ, бјµОЅО± ПЂО±бЅ»ПѓОїОјОµОЅ бј„ОіПЃО№ОїОЅ бј„ОЅОґПЃО±, бЅѓП‚ ОґбЅґ ОЅбї¦ОЅ ОєПЃО±П„бЅіОµО№, ОјбЅіОјОїОЅОµОЅ Оґбѕї бЅ… ОіОµ бј¶ПѓО± ОёОµОїбї–ПѓО№. П†О·ОјбЅ¶ ОібЅ°ПЃ ОїбЅ”П„Оµ ОІбЅ·О·ОЅ П‡ПЃО±О№ПѓОјО·ПѓбЅіОјОµОЅ ОїбЅ”П„Оµ П„О№ Оµбј¶ОґОїП‚, ОїбЅ”П„Оµ П„бЅ° П„ОµбЅ»П‡ОµО± ОєО±О»бЅ±, П„бЅ± ПЂОїП… ОјбЅ±О»О± ОЅОµО№бЅ№ОёО№

О»бЅ·ОјОЅО·П‚ ОєОµбЅ·ПѓОµОёбѕї бЅ‘ПЂбѕї бј°О»бЅ»ОїП‚ ОєОµОєО±О»П…ОјОјбЅіОЅО±О‡ ОєбЅ°Оґ ОґбЅі ОјО№ОЅ О±бЅђП„бЅёОЅ Оµбј°О»бЅ»ПѓП‰ П€О±ОјбЅ±ОёОїО№ПѓО№ОЅ бј…О»О№П‚ П‡бЅіПЃО±ОґОїП‚ ПЂОµПЃО№П‡ОµбЅ»О±П‚ ОјП…ПЃбЅ·ОїОЅ, ОїбЅђОґбЅі Оїбј± бЅЂПѓП„бЅібѕї бјђПЂО№ПѓП„бЅµПѓОїОЅП„О±О№ бј€П‡О±О№ОїбЅ¶ бјЂО»О»бЅіОѕО±О№О‡ П„бЅ№ПѓПѓО·ОЅ Оїбј± бј„ПѓО№ОЅ ОєО±ОёбЅ»ПЂОµПЃОёОµ ОєО±О»бЅ»П€П‰. О±бЅђП„Оїбї¦ Оїбј± ОєО±бЅ¶ Пѓбї†ОјО± П„ОµП„ОµбЅ»ОѕОµП„О±О№, ОїбЅђОґбЅі П„бЅ· ОјО№ОЅ П‡ПЃОµбЅј бј”ПѓП„О±О№ П„П…ОјОІОїП‡бЅ№О·П‚, бЅ…П„Оµ ОјО№ОЅ ОёбЅ±ПЂП„П‰ПѓО№ОЅ бј€П‡О±О№ОїбЅ·. Page 51 →[Dear brother, let us both hold back the strength of this man, since he will soon destroy the great city of King Priam, and the Trojans will not curb him in battle. Bring aid as quickly as you can, and fill your streams with water from their sources, and rouse up all your torrents, raise up a great wave, and stir up a great cacophony of logs and stones, so that we can stop this savage man, who now is victorious and thinks that he is equal to the gods. For I say that neither his might will let him prevail, nor his looks nor his beautiful armor, which will lie at the bottom of a marsh, covered [ОєОµОєО±О»П…ОјОјбЅіОЅО±] by slime; and I will enfold him in heaps of sand after I have spread gravel beyond counting over him, and the Achaeans will not know how to care for his bones; such is the silt that I will cover him under [ОєО±О»бЅ»П€П‰]. And his tomb [Пѓбї†ОјО±] will have been built here, and there will be no need of heaping up a tomb, whenever the Achaeans bury him.] The similarities between this passage and the description of the destruction of the Achaean wall in book 12 are evident. The Trojan rivers are the immediate sources of destruction in both cases, and there is a more subtle correlation between the projected absence of Achilles’ tomb, or Пѓбї†ОјО±, and the projected absence of the Achaean wall.127 Just as the wall is described as made of “logs and stones” (П†О№П„ПЃбї¶ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶

О»бЅ±П‰ОЅ, 12.29), the same phrase is used of the materials that Poseidon will stir up.128 The river will cover up the dead hero just as it will cover up the wall. At the same time, that “a great heap of silt will be Akhilleus’ burial-mound,” as Kirk summarizes, goes again to the heart of the epic ethos, that is, to the achievement (or loss) of ОєО»бЅіОїП‚, as exemplified in the choice that Achilles must make.129 Covered (ОєО±О»бЅ»ПЂП„П‰) by sand and gravel, Scamander’s vision of Achilles’ nontomb is part of the same discursive formation as the Achaean wall. Both refer to a hypothetical Page 52 →past characterized by what is not visually available, or, with specific reference to the wall, with what has disappeared from view.130 To the extent that heroic ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ signifies both an acknowledgment of and a struggle against the fact of human mortality, this relationship is also part of the compensatory logic referred to above. If tombs are the most obvious physical manifestations of this struggle (see Iliad 7.84–91), the Achaean wall and the walls of Troy constitute an analogous category in the Iliad.131 In temporal terms, the wall is to the collective past as the tomb is to the past of the individual hero.132 This collective past, expressed in terms of a collective mortality, is invoked again in the midst of Achilles’ battle with the river, when Poseidon reminds Apollo of the tasks the two of them had performed for the treacherous Laomedon. Specifically, he tells Apollo that he had “built a wide and very beautiful wall around the city of the Trojans, so that the city would be unbroken” (бј¦ П„ОїО№ бјђОібЅј О¤ПЃбЅЅОµПѓПѓО№ ПЂбЅ№О»О№ОЅ ПЂбЅіПЃО№ П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚ бј”ОґОµО№ОјО± ОµбЅђПЃбЅ» П„Оµ ОєО±бЅ¶ ОјбЅ±О»О± ОєО±О»бЅ№ОЅ, бјµОЅбѕї бј„ПЃПЃО·ОєП„ОїП‚ ПЂбЅ№О»О№П‚ ОµбјґО·, 21.446–47). As we have seen, this event had already been described in book 7, where Poseidon put the Trojan wall into competition with the wall of the Achaeans. In book 21, the ill treatment the two gods had received from the Trojan king after building the wall fuels Poseidon’s argument against giving aid to the Trojans in the present moment of the poem. In accepting Poseidon’s advice, Apollo responds with a brief but remarkable digression on the ephemerality of human life (21.461–67). П„бЅёОЅ Оґбѕї О±бЅ–П„Оµ ПЂПЃОїПѓбЅіОµО№ПЂОµОЅ бј„ОЅО±Оѕ бј‘ОєбЅ±ОµПЃОіОїП‚ бј€ПЂбЅ№О»О»П‰ОЅО‡ бјОЅОЅОїПѓбЅ·ОіО±О№ бѕї, ОїбЅђОє бј„ОЅ ОјОµ ПѓО±бЅ№П†ПЃОїОЅО± ОјП…ОёбЅµПѓО±О№Ої бј”ОјОјОµОЅО±О№, Оµбј° ОґбЅґ ПѓОїбЅ· ОіОµ ОІПЃОїП„бї¶ОЅ бј•ОЅОµОєО± ПЂП„ОїО»ОµОјбЅ·ОѕП‰ ОґОµО№О»бї¶ОЅ, Оїбјі П†бЅ»О»О»ОїО№ПѓО№ОЅ бјђОїО№ОєбЅ№П„ОµП‚ бј„О»О»ОїП„Оµ ОјбЅіОЅ П„Оµ О¶О±П†О»ОµОібЅіОµП‚ П„ОµО»бЅіОёОїП…ПѓО№ОЅ, бјЂПЃОїбЅ»ПЃО·П‚ ОєО±ПЃПЂбЅёОЅ бј”ОґОїОЅП„ОµП‚, бј„О»О»ОїП„Оµ ОґбЅІ П†ОёО№ОЅбЅ»ОёОїП…ПѓО№ОЅ бјЂОєбЅµПЃО№ОїО№. бјЂО»О»бЅ° П„бЅ±П‡О№ПѓП„О± ПЂО±П…бЅЅОјОµПѓОёО± ОјбЅ±П‡О·П‚О‡ Оїбј± Оґбѕї О±бЅђП„ОїбЅ¶ ОґО·ПЃО№О±бЅ±ПѓОёП‰ОЅ. [And then in turn King Apollo who works from far off, spoke: “Earth Shaker, you would not think that I was of sound mind if I should do battle with you for the sake of mortals, those wretched creatures, who at one time like leaves thrive in the fullness of life [of fire?], eating the produce of the field,

Page 53 →but then waste away and become lifeless. But as quickly as possible let us cease from the fight, and let them fight by themselves.”] The point of Apollo’s response seems obvious: Why should he fight against a fellow god on behalf of mortals who, no matter what aid the gods give them, will die anyway?133 But given the mutual self-definition of humans and gods in the epic, the response also lacks force. Humans die, but while they live, they motivate the intentions and actions of the gods, with whom they may even share genealogies. In the given context, moreover, the fact that humans “waste away and become lifeless [literally, without a heart]” (бјЂОєбЅµПЃО№ОїП‚, 466) is logically, if contrastively, correlated with the notion that Troy will be “unbroken” (бј„ПЃПЃО·ОєП„ОїП‚, 447).134 I am not suggesting that these two terms are etymologically related, of course. Nor does their proximity in the poem emphasize a phonetic and therefore semantic equivalence.135 But insofar as the wall built by the gods guarantees that the city will endure, it is implicitly contrasted with the ephemerality of the human beings for whom it was built. In transferring the adjective “unbroken” from the wall to the city, the poet has effectively equated their potential vulnerability.136 We know that Troy is destined to fall or “break,” a fact alluded to when Apollo subsequently enters the city out of concern that the Greeks will destroy the wall before its allotted time (21.515–17). О±бЅђП„бЅ°ПЃ бј€ПЂбЅ№О»О»П‰ОЅ О¦Оїбї–ОІОїП‚ бјђОґбЅ»ПѓОµП„Ої бїЋО™О»О№ОїОЅ бј±ПЃбЅµОЅО‡ ОјбЅіОјОІО»ОµП„Ої ОібЅ°ПЃ Оїбј± П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚ бјђП‹ОґОјбЅµП„ОїО№Ої ПЂбЅ№О»О·ОїП‚, ОјбЅґ О”О±ОЅО±ОїбЅ¶ ПЂбЅіПЃПѓОµО№О±ОЅ бЅ‘ПЂбЅІПЃ ОјбЅ№ПЃОїОЅ бј¤ОјО±П„О№ ОєОµбЅ·ОЅбїі. Page 54 →[But Phoebus Apollo entered sacred Ilion, for he was concerned that on that day the Danaans would destroy the wall of the well-built city beyond what was ordained.] Here, in the only instance in the epic poems where the epithet “well-built” (бјђбїЈОґОјО·П„ОїП‚) is used of a city, it has arguably been transferred from the city wall (П„ОµбЅ·П‡ОїП‚). In other words, we should expect the text to read “the well-built wall of the city,” rather than “the wall of the well-built city.” This example is perhaps less convincing than the one discussed above, where I have suggested that the adjective “unbroken” constitutes a transference of this sort. But outside this one example, бјђбїЈОґОјО·П„ОїП‚ only applies to specific architectural features in both the Iliad and the Odyssey, that is, to a wall (П„ОµбЅ·П‡ОїП‚), a tower (ПЂбЅ»ПЃОіОїП‚), or an altar (ОІП‰ОјбЅ№П‚).137 In the two times where it describes a wall (П„ОµбЅ·П‡ОїП‚) in the Iliad, it refers to the Achaean wall (П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚ бјђбїЈОґОјО·П„ОїОЅ, 12.36, 137), that is, to the wall that is destined to be utterly destroyed. In Apollo’s concern that the Greeks will destroy the wall of Troy, the wall is a metonym for the city and its people. Thus, while any conclusion based on such a small sample is speculative, these examples, when taken together, suggest that Troy is well built in the same sense that the Achaean wall is well built. The adjective amounts to a euphemism that only anticipates their shared destruction.138 This anticipation is vividly, if ironically, invoked in Priam’s response to Achilles’ killing frenzy. The king calls for the Trojans to come within the walls of the city for protection and then orders the gates to be closed after them for fear that Achilles will “leap inside the wall” (бјђП‚ П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚ бј…О»О·П„О±О№, 21. 536). The progression of events here constitutes an exercise in delayed inevitability and, in the process, focuses attention on the question of what is likely to happen to the city. In the context of this misplaced or counterfactual faith in the endurance of the built environment, Apollo’s simile about human mortality is both true in an absolute sense and prescient in a contingent one. It

exemplifies Proust’s observation, quoted at the beginning of this chapter, that “what seems eternalВ .В .В . contains within itself the impulse of its own destruction.”139 Page 55 →This impulse is not restricted to the narrative content of the poem. Perhaps not surprisingly, it extends to the history of scholarship on the Iliad, in which the historicity of the poem itself is equated with the fate of the wall. In a somewhat circular fashion, the poem’s credibility and consistency rise and fall on the question of whether or not the wall actually existed. In Porter’s succinct summation, At stake in the wallВ .В .В . and underlying all the debates around it, is its basic status as a fictional object, and by extension its exemplary role vis-Г -vis fictional objects generally in the Homeric poems. The Achaean wall cannot help but have this claim to interest by virtue of being an object that once so magnificently and palpably and uniquely—but also, so curiously and suddenly—was and then so utterly is no more.140 (emphasis in the original) With reference to Eustathius’ somewhat enigmatic comments on the fate of the wall (690.63–64 = 2.498.15–17), Porter concludes that it is “an emblem for poetic fiction.” He makes the further observation, with reference to the seminal work of Roman Jakobson, that “ontological ambiguityВ .В .В . appears to be a generic trait of fictionality worldwide.”141 Given the history that Porter outlines, the wall’s “exemplary role vis-Г -vis fictional objects generally in the Homeric poems” is clear. At the same time, however, its “ontological ambiguity” is more than a transhistorical or universal truism. As the history of scholarship on the wall demonstrates, this ambiguity is initiated primarily in the fact that, as narrative plot devices, material objects and architectural features have the unique potential to conjure a phenomenal world that is prior to and outside the text. This potential is implicit in Strabo’s Geographica, the earliest attested commentary on the Achaean wall (13.1.36 = Rose fr. 162). ОєО±бЅ¶ ОјбЅґОЅ П„бЅ№ ОіОµ ОЅО±бЅ»ПѓП„О±ОёОјОїОЅ П„бЅё ОЅбї¦ОЅ бј”П„О№ О»ОµОібЅ№ОјОµОЅОїОЅ ПЂО»О·ПѓбЅ·ОїОЅ ОїбЅ•П„П‰П‚ бјђПѓП„бЅ¶ П„бї†П‚ ОЅбї¦ОЅ ПЂбЅ№О»ОµП‰П‚, бЅҐПѓП„Оµ ОёО±П…ОјбЅ±О¶ОµО№ОЅ Оµбј°ОєбЅ№П„П‰П‚ бј„ОЅ П„О№ОЅО± П„бї¶ОЅ ОјбЅІОЅ П„бї†П‚ бјЂПЂОїОЅОїбЅ·О±П‚ П„бї¶ОЅ ОґбЅІ П„ОїбЅђОЅО±ОЅП„бЅ·ОїОЅ П„бї†П‚ бјЂП€П…П‡бЅ·О±П‚О‡ бјЂПЂОїОЅОїбЅ·О±П‚ ОјбЅіОЅ, Оµбј° П„ОїПѓОїбї¦П„ОїОЅ П‡ПЃбЅ№ОЅОїОЅ бјЂП„ОµбЅ·П‡О№ПѓП„ОїОЅ О±бЅђП„бЅё Оµбј¶П‡ОїОЅ, ПЂО»О·ПѓбЅ·ОїОЅ ОїбЅ”ПѓО·П‚ П„бї†П‚ ПЂбЅ№О»ОµП‰П‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ П„ОїПѓОїбЅ»П„ОїП… ПЂО»бЅµОёОїП…П‚ П„Оїбї¦ П„ бѕїбјђОЅ О±бЅђП„бї‡ ОєО±бЅ¶ П„Оїбї¦ бјђПЂО№ОєОїП…ПЃО№ОєОїбї¦О‡ ОЅОµП‰ПѓП„бЅ¶ ОібЅ°ПЃ ОіОµОіОїОЅбЅіОЅО±О№ П†О·ПѓбЅ¶ П„бЅё П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚, бјў ОїбЅђОґ, бјђОібЅіОЅОµП„Ої, бЅЃ ОґбЅІ ПЂО»бЅ±ПѓО±П‚ ПЂОїО№О·П„бЅґП‚ бј П†бЅ±ОЅО№ПѓОµОЅ, бЅЎП‚ Page 56 →бј€ПЃО№ПѓП„ОїП„бЅіО»О·П‚ П†О·ПѓбЅ·ОЅО‡ бјЂП€П…П‡бЅ·О±П‚ ОґбЅі, Оµбј° ОіОµОЅОїОјбЅіОЅОїП… П„Оїбї¦ П„ОµбЅ·П‡ОїП…П‚ бјђП„ОµО№П‡ОїОјбЅ±П‡ОїП…ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ Оµбј°ПѓбЅіПЂОµПѓОїОЅ Оµбј°П‚ О±бЅђП„бЅё П„бЅё ОЅО±бЅ»ПѓП„О±ОёОјОїОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ ПЂПЃОїПѓОµОјбЅ±П‡ОїОЅП„Ої П„О±бї–П‚ ОЅО±П…ПѓбЅ·ОЅ, бјЂП„ОµбЅ·П‡О№ПѓП„ОїОЅ ОґбЅІ бј”П‡ОїОЅП„ОµП‚ ОїбЅђОє бјђОёбЅ±ПЃПЃОїП…ОЅ ПЂПЃОїПѓО№бЅ№ОЅП„ОµП‚ ПЂОїО»О№ОїПЃОєОµбї–ОЅ ОјО№ОєПЃОїбї¦ П„Оїбї¦ ОґО№О±ПѓП„бЅµОјО±П„ОїП‚ бЅ„ОЅП„ОїП‚. [In fact, that which is now still called the naval station is so near the present city that it is likely [Оµбј°ОєбЅ№П„П‰П‚] that someone would be amazed at [the Greeks’] lack of sense and [the Trojans’] lack of courage. Lack of sense if [the Greeks] kept the naval station unwalled for so long a period of time, when they were near to the city and to so great a multitude, both in the city and among the allies. For [Homer] says that the wall was recently built, or it wasn’t: having fashioned it, the poet made it disappear, as Aristotle says. And lack of courage if [the Trojans], after the wall was built, besieged it and broke into the naval station itself and attacked the ships, but did not

dare to march up and besiege the station when it was un-walled and with only a small interval in between.]

Strabo here marshals Aristotle as an authority in a discussion of the location of the ancient city of Troy (П„бЅё ПЂО±О»О±О№бЅёОЅ бїЋО™О»О№ОїОЅ, 13.1.35) relative to the present-day village (бјЎ П„бї¶ОЅ бјёО»О№бЅіП‰ОЅ ОєбЅЅОјО·, 13.1.35). More specifically, Aristotle’s statement introduces and, it seems, endorses Strabo’s skepticism about the tactical utility of a wall built so late in the war, in the tenth year. Why would the Greeks leave the ships unprotected for so long in the face of such a multitude of enemies?142 Why did the Trojans attack the ships after the wall was built but not before? Aristotle’s comment seems to respond to the inconsistencies enumerated by Strabo, by inferring the nonexistence of the wall outside the poem’s fictional universe, where the inconsistencies themselves arise. In short, Homer made up the wall (бЅЃ ОґбЅІ ПЂО»бЅ±ПѓО±П‚ ПЂОїО№О·П„бЅµП‚) and then made it disappear (бј П†бЅ±ОЅО№ПѓОµОЅ) because it did not really exist.143 As a way of introducing this argument, Strabo begins with the criterion Page 57 →of what is likely (Оµбј°ОєбЅ№П„П‰П‚), that is, that an indefinite “someone” would be amazed at the combatants’ failure to act. These failures are judged in relation to spatial and temporal contingencies: the nearness of the ships to the current city, on the one hand, and the time before and after the building of the wall, on the other. Embedded in a “natural” result clause, what is likely starts from a statement of fact (that the naval station is near the present city) and ends in a series of hypothetical or counterfactual claims. Amazement is the likely or expected response because, given the wall’s existence in the poem, the Greeks did show a lack of sense, and the Trojans did show a lack of courage. But is this the conclusion Strabo endorses? Coming between the two counterfactual statements, the quotation from Aristotle exonerates the Greeks and Trojans on the grounds that, although Homer made the wall, it did not really exist. The hypothetical conclusions to which the wall’s construction within the fictional universe of the poem are likely to lead are thereby mitigated by the fact that it did not exist in reality. These conclusions are essentially tactical, but they also have ethical consequences; бјЂПЂбЅ№ОЅОїО№О± (lack of sense) and бјЂП€П…П‡бЅ·О± (lack of courage) denote the combatants’ failure to take the right action at the right time. Although the quotation attributed to Aristotle can be interpreted as a simple statement of fact (Homer did make the wall and then made it disappear), he is also our earliest source for a rationalizing discourse in which the Achaean wall signifies a competition between historical/archaeological fact and poetic fiction in accounting for the past, a competition based in part on what is likely to happen.144 As suggested above, this rationalizing discourse extends to the proposition that Homer was trying to cover up the fact that there were no physical remains of the wall in his (i.e., Homer’s) own time.145 Strabo’s contribution to this discourse includes the observation that no trace of the ancient city of Troy survives in his own time (Geographica 13.1.38; cf. 13.1.41). ОїбЅђОґбЅІОЅ Оґбѕї бјґП‡ОЅОїП‚ ПѓбЅЅО¶ОµП„О±О№ П„бї†П‚ бјЂПЃП‡О±бЅ·О±П‚ ПЂбЅ№О»ОµП‰П‚. Оµбј°ОєбЅ№П„П‰П‚О‡ бј…П„Оµ ОібЅ°ПЃ бјђОєПЂОµПЂОїПЃОёО·ОјбЅіОЅП‰ОЅ П„бї¶ОЅ ОєбЅ»ОєО»бїі ПЂбЅ№О»ОµП‰ОЅ, ОїбЅђ П„ОµО»бЅіП‰П‚ ОґбЅІ ОєО±П„ОµПѓПЂО±ПѓОјбЅіОЅП‰ОЅ, П„О±бЅ»П„О·П‚ Оґ бѕїбјђОє ОІбЅ±ОёПЃП‰ОЅ бјЂОЅО±П„ОµП„ПЃО±ОјОјбЅіОЅО·П‚, Оїбј± О»бЅ·ОёОїО№ ПЂбЅ±ОЅП„ОµП‚ Оµбј°П‚ П„бЅґОЅ бјђОєОµбЅ·ОЅП‰ОЅ бјЂОЅбЅ±О»О·П€О№ОЅ ОјОµП„О·ОЅбЅіП‡ОёО·ПѓО±ОЅ. [No trace of the ancient city is preserved. This is to be expected. For while the cities all around it were sacked they were not completely Page 58 →dismantled. But because that city was demolished down to its foundations, all the stones were carried from it for rebuilding those other cities.] In response to suggestions made by the Ilians to the contrary, moreover, Strabo enlists Homer himself as proof that the ancient city was in fact wiped out (Geographica 13.1.41).

бїћОџОјО·ПЃОїП‚ ОґбЅІ ῥητῶς П„бЅёОЅ бјЂП†О±ОЅО№ПѓОјбЅёОЅ П„бї†П‚ ПЂбЅ№О»ОµП‰П‚ ОµбјґПЃО·ОєОµОЅ, бј”ПѓПѓОµП„О±О№ бј¦ОјО±ПЃ бЅ…П„О±ОЅ ПЂОїП„бѕї бЅЂО»бЅЅО»бїѓ бїЋО™О»О№ОїП‚ бј±ПЃбЅµ. [Homer explicitly speaks about the obliteration of the city, “There will come a day when sacred Ilios will perish.”] Quoting from Hector’s exchange with Andromache at Iliad 6.448, what is internal to the poem and, moreover, spoken by a character and not by “Homer” is presented by Strabo as proof for what the present topography of the site reveals: because no trace (бјґП‡ОЅОїП‚) of the ancient city survives, it must have been completely destroyed. In the same passage and as further support for this hypothesis, Strabo quotes Iliad 12.15 (Geographica 13.1.41): “The city of Priam was destroyed in the tenth year” (ПЂбЅіПЃОёОµП„Ої ОґбЅІ О ПЃО№бЅ±ОјОїО№Ої ПЂбЅ№О»О№П‚ ОґОµОєбЅ±П„бїі бјђОЅО№О±П…П„бї·). But again the context of the line complicates Strabo’s argument, for it occurs in what might be called the preamble to his detailed description of the total destruction of the Achaean wall (Iliad 12.17ff.). There is, in short, a contradictory logic at play in Strabo’s text. In the case of the Achaean wall, Homer’s account of its total destruction proves that it did not exist. In the case of Troy, Homer’s testimony that the city was obliterated (П„бЅёОЅ бјЂП†О±ОЅО№ПѓОјбЅ№ОЅ) is based on the assumption that it did exist. More surprisingly, Strabo finds evidence for the latter in the context of the former. To say that there is ontological ambiguity at work here seems an understatement. Strabo reads the topography of Troy together with the text of Homer to make propositions about structures that existed in fact and structures that existed in fiction. To reiterate, the source of this ambiguity is the referential potential inherent in architectural features designated variously in Strabo’s text as walls, stones, and the foundations of cities. When he describes the destruction of the ancient city of Troy down to its foundations (бјђОє ОІбЅ±ОёПЃП‰ОЅ), moreover, Strabo is clearly projecting Homer’s description of what happened to the Achaean wall onto the city of Troy. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that Strabo is reiterating Homer’s projection of Page 59 →the destruction of the former onto the latter, even though Strabo seems to doubt the existence of the wall. As Porter says of its function in the Iliad, the Achaean wall is “like a virtual copy of Troy.”146 In Strabo’s text, this function is complicated by the conflicting ontological categories to which each is assigned: one existed, and the other did not. At stake in this complex history is the truth about what actually happened in the distant past and, more specifically, the bases on which that truth can be known. Demonstrated in the negotiation between what the poet says and what the geographer sees, Strabo’s truth claims are based on empirical evidence about the built environment in the present. However, when he states, “No trace of the ancient city is preserved. This is to be expected” (ОїбЅђОґбЅІОЅ Оґбѕї бјґП‡ОЅОїП‚ ПѓбЅЅО¶ОµП„О±О№ П„бї†П‚ бјЂПЃП‡О±бЅ·О±П‚ ПЂбЅ№О»ОµП‰П‚. Оµбј°ОєбЅ№П„П‰П‚, 13.1.38), he again introduces the criterion of what is likely or expected into this history. On first glance, the adverb he uses here, Оµбј°ОєбЅ№П„П‰П‚, simply anticipates and credits an explanation based on empirical fact. The city was dismantled down to its stones, and these were then used as building materials for other cities. As a result, no trace of the ancient city is preserved. The progression of thought and its reliance on concrete material data seem straightforward and convincing. Coming between the declarative statement and the details that support it, moreover, the rhetorical force of Оµбј°ОєбЅ№П„П‰П‚ registers an equivalence between what is likely or expected to happen and what Strabo maintains has happened in fact. At the same time, however, and given the ambiguities discussed above, the passage also registers a certain ambivalence or hesitation about this equivalence. More to the point, it betrays confidence in the power of what is likely or expected (Оµбј°ОєбЅ№П„П‰П‚) in order to substantiate what cannot be proven in fact (that the ancient city existed even though there is no material evidence in the present to support this conclusion). In doing so, Strabo’s text also demonstrates that what is likely or expected is not restricted to propositions about future events. Somewhat paradoxically, it can also be invoked to confirm assertions about what has actually happened in the past.

As Porter notes, “A high proportion of the ancient discussions of the Achaean wall descend, or seem to descend, from Aristotle.”147 Thus, although there is nothing in the extant works of Aristotle to corroborate Strabo’s quotation, the philosopher stands at the beginning of a complicated tradition about the wall’s existence, a tradition in which the ancient city of Troy is Page 60 →also implicated. As suggested above, this tradition includes the temporal and ontological criteria that Aristotle assigns in the Poetics to бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅ·О± and ПЂОїбЅ·О·ПѓО№П‚ as discrete genres, namely, the distinction between what has happened in fact (П„бЅ° ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО±) and what is likely to happen in fiction (ОєО±П„бЅ° П„бЅё Оµбј°ОєбЅ№П‚, 1451a36–38).148 In this respect, Strabo’s inconsistent claims about the past in the Geographica, claims for which both Homer and Aristotle are invoked as sources, are part of an extended discourse that finds its earliest theoretical expression in the Poetics. It is therefore worth spending a few minutes on Aristotle’s distinction between what has happened and what is likely to happen, as it pertains to and perhaps even anticipates Strabo’s ambiguous account of the existence of the Achaean wall and as it contributes to the protoarchaeological effect of its narrative history. Noting what Stephen Halliwell has called the “unpolished state” of the Poetics, it is perhaps no surprise that these criteria often seem contradictory or inconsistent.149 The principal passage is 1451a37–39. П†О±ОЅОµПЃбЅёОЅ ОґбЅІ бјђОє П„бї¶ОЅ Оµбј°ПЃО·ОјбЅіОЅП‰ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ бЅ…П„О№ ОїбЅђ П„бЅё П„бЅ° ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО± О»бЅіОіОµО№ОЅ, П„Оїбї¦П„Ої ПЂОїО№О·П„Оїбї¦ бј”ПЃОіОїОЅ бјђПѓП„О№ОЅ, бјЂО»О»бѕї Оїбј·О± бј‚ОЅ ОібЅіОЅОїО№П„Ої ОєО±бЅ¶ П„бЅ° ОґП…ОЅО±П„бЅ° ОєО±П„бЅ° П„бЅё Оµбј°ОєбЅёП‚ бјў П„бЅё бјЂОЅО±ОіОєО±бї–ОїОЅ. [It is clear from what has been said that a poet’s object is to tell not what has happened but the sorts of things that could have happened and are possible according to what is likely or necessary.] A few lines latter, Aristotle repeats the relevant phrases: “History and poetry differ in this, namely, that the former tells the things that have happened and the latter tells the sort of things that might happen” (бјЂО»О»бЅ° П„ОїбЅ»П„бїі ОґО№О±П†бЅіПЃОµО№, П„бї· П„бЅёОЅ ОјбЅІОЅ П„бЅ° ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО± О»бЅіОіОµО№ОЅ, П„ОїОЅ ОґбЅІ Оїбј·О± бј‚ОЅ ОібЅіОЅОїО№П„Ої, 1451b4–5).150 As periphrases with ОібЅ·ОіОЅОїОјО±О№, these criteria are both temporal and ontological. In defining бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅ·О± and ПЂОїбЅ·О·ПѓО№П‚ as distinct genres, however, they tend to collapse in the Poetics. This is perhaps best illustrated when Aristotle maintains that the tragic poets “adhere to the existing names” (бјђПЂбЅ¶ ОґбЅІ П„бї†П‚ П„ПЃО±ОібїіОґО№О±П‚ П„бї¶ОЅ ОіОµОЅОїОјбЅіОЅП‰ОЅ бЅЂОЅОїОјбЅ±П„П‰ОЅ бјЂОЅП„бЅіП‡ОїОЅП„О±О№, 1451b15–16).151 The Page 61 →problem has to do with П„бї¶ОЅ ОіОµОЅОїОјбЅіОЅП‰ОЅ: does it refer to the names of actual persons or to the traditional names of fictional or mythological characters? In his discussion of this passage, Lucas concludes, The easiest solution is to suppose that A[ristotle], like Thucydides, believed that Greek myth, or much of it, was basically historical, or at least that names like Heracles or Achilles belonged to the class of ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅОїО№, real people, but that he distinguished between legends such as those of Troy or Thebes, and history of recent events like the Persian Wars.152 This often repeated and “easiest” solution relies on the premise that narratives about historical actors do not necessarily constitute historical events153—or, alternatively, that “real people” can be the subjects of fictional narratives. At the level of the tragic plots, or Ојбї¦ОёОїО№, these premises are not necessarily contradictory. But Lucas’ hesitation, expressed in the phrase “at least,” also testifies to the uneasy distinction between actual and hypothetical events defined according to temporal categories, as opposed to generic ones, in the Poetics. This becomes more apparent when Aristotle returns to these criteria to explain the reason or “cause” (О±бјґП„О№ОїОЅ) behind the tragic poets’ use of these “existing” names (1451b16–19). О±бјґП„О№ОїОЅ Оґбѕї бЅ…П„О№ ПЂО№ОёО±ОЅбЅ№ОЅ бјђПѓП„О№ П„бЅё

ОґП…ОЅО±П„бЅ№ОЅ. П„бЅ± ОјбЅІОЅ ОїбЅ–ОЅ ОјбЅґ ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО± ОїбЅ”ПЂП‰ ПЂО№ПѓП„ОµбЅ»ОїОјОµОЅ Оµбј¶ОЅО±О№ ОґП…ОЅО±П„бЅ±, П„бЅ° ОґбЅІ ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО± П†О±ОЅОµПЃбЅёОЅ бЅ…П„О№ ОґП…ОЅО±П„бЅ±, ОїбЅђ ОібЅ°ПЃ бј‚ОЅ бјђОібЅіОЅОµП„Ої, Оµбј° бј¦ОЅ бјЂОґбЅ»ОЅО±П„О±. [The reason for this is that what is possible is credible. Therefore, we do not believe that things that have not happened are possible, but Page 62 →it is clear that what has happened is possible. For it would not have happened if it were impossible.] Although the logic is somewhat circular, this passage clearly echoes the temporal criteria in the earlier passage: what is credible is judged by the criterion of what is possible, on the one hand, and what has or has not happened, on the other. While what is possible (П„бЅё ОґП…ОЅО±П„бЅ№ОЅ) is not further qualified by “what is likely or necessary,” it covers a similar semantic range. These criteria are then reassigned to their respective genres a few lines later, when Aristotle brings the poet and, implicitly, the historian, back into the picture (1451b29–32). Оєбј‚ОЅ бј„ПЃО± ПѓП…ОјОІбї‡ ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО± ПЂОїО№Оµбї–ОЅ, ОїбЅђОёбЅІОЅ бј§П„П„ОїОЅ ПЂОїО№О·П„бЅµП‚ бјђПѓП„О№О‡ П„бї¶ОЅ ОібЅ°ПЃ ОіОµОЅОїОјбЅіОЅП‰ОЅ бј”ОЅО№О± ОїбЅђОґбЅІОЅ ОєП‰О»бЅ»ОµО№ П„ОїО№О±бї¦П„О± Оµбј¶ОЅО±О№ Оїбј·О± бј‚ОЅ Оµбј°ОєбЅёП‚ ОіОµОЅбЅіПѓОёО±О№ ОєО±бЅ¶ ОґП…ОЅО±П„бЅ° ОіОµОЅбЅіПѓОёО±О№, ОєО±Оёбѕї бЅѓ бјђОєОµбї–ОЅОїП‚ О±бЅђП„бї¶ОЅ ПЂОїО№О·П„бЅµП‚ бјђПѓП„О№ОЅ. [Even if [the poet] happens to make things that have happened, he is nonetheless a poet. For there is nothing to prevent some actual occurrences being the sorts of things that are likely to happen and are possible, and it is in virtue of this that that one is the maker of these things.] Here Aristotle admits that the line between what has happened and what might be expected to happen, as the defining characteristics of historical events and poetic events respectively, can be crossed. To return to the matter at hand, this is the line that Strabo confronts when he brings the fates of the Achaean wall and the ancient city of Troy into evidence in the Geographica. Thus, even if we doubt the authenticity of the quotation Strabo attributes to Aristotle (or perhaps especially if we doubt it), the statement that “the poet fashioned the wall and then made it disappear” connects the temporal and ontological variables that Aristotle assigns to genres in the Poetics with those that Strabo assigns to the built environment in the Geographica. The wall straddles the line between fact and fiction in the relationship between its visible remains and the events to which they refer. Buried in a hypothetical past in which it can no longer be seen, the Achaean wall in the Iliad introduces the principal challenge faced by history and archaeology as disciplines in search of visible or enduring proof about what happened in the past. Speaking of the shared objectives of ancient Page 63 →epic and history writing, FranГ§ois Hartog vividly captures this aspect of the wall’s fate. If all human speech deals with death, if men tell stories because they know themselves to be mortal, then the epic and history—set on the boundary between the visible and invisible to call to mind those who are no longer—together play the role of taming death while socializing it.154 “Set on the boundary between the visible and invisible,” the Achaean wall illustrates that what has happened in Aristotle’s terms is never fully available to us or, in the language of the poem, that it is covered up. At the same time, the fate of the wall suggests that the invisibility of the past is the very condition out of which the desire to transcend death—in the achievement of immortal fame—arises, as Hartog implies. The protoarchaeological effect of the Achaean wall is expressed in this relationship between ontological ambiguity, specified in the remains of the built environment, and the ethical dimension of what is humanly possible. Or, to return once again to the categories named above, the narrative history of the wall—from Homer

to Aristotle (?) to Strabo—demonstrates that the past is constituted in an ongoing negotiation between the truth claims of empirical observation, on the one hand, and those of linguistic representation, on the other. This history also reveals how the promise of seeing the past is both produced and deferred in the practice of hearing or reading about it. In saying so, I acknowledge that what it means to “read the past” in the Homeric poems raises a number of questions, including whether the term reading names a literal or a metaphorical practice. These questions and their pertinence to the role of protoarchaeological narratives in the Greek tradition are taken up in the following chapter.

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Chapter 3 Blinded by Time The Past “As If” in the Odyssey Epistemologically, the Greeks always privileged seeing (over hearing) as the mode of knowledge. To see, to see for oneself, and to know were one and the same things. Ontologically, their presence in the world was not a question for them: it was self-evident. To be present, to be there, to see, and to know all go together for the Greeks. —FranГ§ois Hartog, “The Invention of History: The Pre-History of a Concept from Homer to Herodotus”155 The previous chapters have focused on the temporal significance of visible objects and monumental features in the poetic landscape of the Greek past. At several points along the way, the discussion has also included encounters with human eyewitnesses: Hesiod’s vision of the Muses on Helicon, Pausanias’ sighting of the stone in Delphi, and Strabo’s assessment of the existence of the Achaean wall in Troy. In this chapter, I discuss the formative role of Odysseus as an eyewitness to his own past and as a figure who occupies an intermediary position between the two principal claimants to knowing the past and telling the truth about it in Greek narrative: the inspired singer, on the one hand, and the human eyewitness, on the other.156 The focus here is on the ways in which visuality, as the source of the Odyssey’s protoarchaeological effect, is the mediating third term between these two positions. Page 65 →This aspect of the poem is best exemplified in those passages in which Odysseus is compared to a singer and where the comparison is based on the competing claims of each to the visual verification of past events. But in addition to his role as an eyewitness to events, Odysseus is also distinguished from the singer by the quality of his words. Captured in the phrase ОјОїПЃП†бЅґ бјђПЂбЅіП‰ОЅ (“the shape of words,” 11.367), Odysseus’ words are figuratively endowed with a visible quality—a μορφή—that works to corroborate his physical presence at the past events about which he speaks. The implied correspondence between the visible quality of his words and his role as an eyewitness is key to the emergence of the past as a product of human—rather than divine—perception in the poem. The protoarchaeological effect I investigate here thus refers to the ways in which the Odyssey presents the epic past itself as a receding visual field, succeeded by a past that is verified by human sight and constituted in human speech. The Odyssey has been called an “aГ©docentric” poem, in which the divinely inspired singer, or бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚, is at the center of its self-conception.157 This conclusion is based on the presence of two famous bards in the poem, Phemius and Demodocus, and on their perceived roles as exemplars of the bardic art and avatars of the self-conscious poet.158 But if the presence of these singers in the Odyssey is self-conscious, it also signifies an epistemological predicament at the center of the poem. This predicament is epitomized in Odysseus’ well-known comments on the accuracy and effectiveness of Demodocus’ song about the events in Troy in Odyssey 8. Somewhat ironically, his remarks appeal to two sources for the bard’s performance: the divine teaching of the Muses or Apollo, on the one hand, and the firsthand experience of the singer as their mortal agent, on the other (Odyssey 8.487–91; cf. 3.94, 4.324).159 О”О·ОјбЅ№ОґОїОє бѕї, бј”ОѕОїП‡О± ОґбЅµ ПѓОµ ОІПЃОїП„бї¶ОЅ О±бј°ОЅбЅ·О¶ОїОјбѕї бјЃПЂбЅ±ОЅП„П‰ОЅО‡ бјў ПѓбЅі ОіОµ ОњОїбї¦Пѓбѕї бјђОґбЅ·ОґО±ОѕОµ, О”О№бЅёП‚ ПЂбЅ±ПЉП‚, бјў ПѓбЅі Оібѕї бј€ПЂбЅ№О»О»П‰ОЅ.

О»бЅ·О·ОЅ ОібЅ°ПЃ ОєО±П„бЅ° ОєбЅ№ПѓОјОїОЅ бј€П‡О±О№бї¶ОЅ Оїбј¶П„ОїОЅ бјЂОµбЅ·ОґОµО№П‚, Page 66 →бЅ…ПѓПѓбѕї бј”ПЃОѕО±ОЅ П„бѕї бј”ПЂО±ОёбЅ№ОЅ П„Оµ ОєО±бЅ¶ бЅ…ПѓПѓбѕї бјђОјбЅ№ОіО·ПѓО±ОЅ бј€П‡О±О№ОїбЅ·, бЅҐП‚ П„бЅі ПЂОїП… бјў О±бЅђП„бЅёП‚ ПЂО±ПЃОµбЅјОЅ бјў бј„О»О»ОїП… бјЂОєОїбЅ»ПѓО±П‚. [Demodocus, I praise you beyond all mortals; surely either the Muse, child of Zeus, or Apollo taught you. For you sing about the fate of the Achaeans in a very ordered fashion, all the things the Achaeans did and endured and all they suffered as if you yourself were somehow present or heard it from another [who was present].] The irony I refer to above lies in the fact that Demodocus is blind, as the poet tells us earlier: “The Muse loved him [Demodocus] and gave him both a good thing and a bad thing. On the one hand, she deprived him of his eyes, and on the other hand, she gave him sweet song” (П„бЅёОЅ ПЂбЅіПЃО№ ОњОїбї¦Пѓбѕї бјђП†бЅ·О»О·ПѓОµ, ОґбЅ·ОґОїП… Оґбѕї бјЂОіО±ОёбЅ№ОЅ П„Оµ ОєО±ОєбЅ№ОЅ П„ОµО‡ бЅЂП†ОёО±О»Ојбї¶ОЅ ОјбЅІОЅ бј„ОјОµПЃПѓОµ, ОґбЅ·ОґОїП… Оґбѕї бјЎОґОµбї–О±ОЅ бјЂОїО№ОґбЅµОЅ, Odyssey 8.63–64). W. B. Stanford notes, “This is the first appearance in European literature of that typical figure of the Blind Bard.”160 Even if this figure is typical, however, Demodocus’ blindness is a bad thing, a ОєО±ОєбЅ№ОЅ, and there is no indication that this ОєО±ОєбЅ№ОЅ is compensatory or that it is the precondition for any extraordinary perceptual sense. Moreover, not all singers are blind.161 In short, blindness is linked with the “good” gift of song in the epic, but not in any obvious way. The conclusion that the later tradition about the blindness of Homer was “doubtless promoted by this passage” (i.e., 8.63–64), moreover, is only a footnote to the history of biographical (or pseudobiographical) criticism.162 To anticipate what follows, Demodocus’ blindness is not simply an expression of what is typical in the epic tradition. Rather, it implies that the epic events about which he sings are located in a past defined by what can no longer be seen. As a commentary on this hypothesis, Odysseus’ praise of Demodocus also anticipates the notion, commonly held in the scholarly literature on the epic, that the historical bard sang about events as if he were present, that is, as if he could see them. Egbert Bakker, for example, argues, If the [epic] past is something that is remembered, it does not exist Page 67 →in recorded form but owes its existence to the verbalizing, introverted consciousness of the performer that draws it into the present. The past, in fact, becomes “present,” both in a temporal and a spatial sense: it is turned from “then” and “there” into “now” and “here” within the context of a special social event and through the actions of a special, authoritative speaker. The natural and frequent consequence of this situation is that the performer adopts the stance of an eyewitness or sportscast reporter, one who verbalizes things seen, staging the participants in the performance as spectators of the epic events from the past.163 (emphasis in the original) In Bakker’s suggestive analysis, the “introverted consciousness” of the epic performer is the real-time source for making visible—and thus making “present”—the events about which he sings.164 According to Bakker, the performer does so by “transforming visual evidence into language”; in this formulation, visual evidence seems to refer to images in the poet’s mind or memory that precede their description in poetic speech.165 Bakker is right to insist that the performer is a critical figure for understanding the ways in which epic language comments on its own production.166 But the notion that visual images in the mind of the performer precede their description in Page 68 →language, as Bakker contends, is both too literal and too tied to the priority

of the visual image to its linguistic representation.167 While descriptive language and ecphrases are sources of visually vivid content in the epic poems, it remains unclear how the performer turns his auditors into spectators of the epic events. It seems more convincing to conclude that the epic narrative creates the category of visible evidence for the past as a linguistic category, a conclusion that has the advantage of not relying on what we might attribute to the “consciousness” of the performer. I use the term evidence here, as Bakker does, to refer to the truth claims connected with a visual source, but with the caveat that this use, with its implicit appeal to empirical or observable data, is overdetermined. This overdetermination is itself an expression of the fact that arguments for the eternal “present” of the epic narrative—embodied in an original performer of orally derived poems—are expressions of the perceived timelessness of the genre and of Greek antiquity more generally, propositions that lie at the heart of the history of classical scholarship.168 The idea that the epic performer “verbalizes things seen” and, in doing so, brings the past into the present at the moment of performance is a symptom of confronting the poems as literary artifacts. In this respect, the idealized portrait of the oral performer is a response to modern scholars’ own desire to be—in Bakker’s words (quoted above)—“spectators of the epic events from the past.” The related question of what we are doing when we read a work of orally derived poetry is explicitly posed by John Miles Foley in his article “вЂReading’ Homer through Oral Tradition.”169 Summarizing the history of “oral theory” in Homeric studies, Foley begins with the assumption that orally derived poems are fundamentally different from texts composed in literate cultures. Given this difference, he proposes an approach to reading Homer—where the term reading is necessarily put in scare quotes—based on an ability to be “mindful of the roots of the Iliad and Odyssey in their original medium of oral tradition.”170 The particular details of Foley’s argument,Page 69 → based on analyses of formulas, type scenes, and story patterns, are familiar. He adds an extended definition of the term word, to encompass all these formal aspects and to epitomize the fundamental difference between oral and literate forms. These details are less important for the present argument, however, than the implicit proposition that reading the epics—no matter how mindful we are of their oral roots—is an inadequate substitute for experiencing them as originally performed. Given the terms of Foley’s argument, this appraisal of the reader’s mediated position makes sense. But if, as Bakker suggests in a more recent article, “the very notion of вЂoral tradition’ is likely to be a literate construct already,” this effect becomes more complicated.171 In this scenario—no matter what the rate of literacy might have been in antiquity—the effects of reading are inherent in the poems themselves rather than later and secondary. It is therefore a matter not simply of getting back to their oral roots but of accounting for the desire to do so. Using “reading” as a metaphor, Foley’s approach exemplifies the sort of reasoning that comes from confronting the epic as a written text. It illustrates the desire to return to an original oral performance in which—with no little irony—vividness, presentness, and immediacy are the effects of a repetitive and formulaic style. Commenting on this aspect of Parry’s oral theory, Haun Saussy notes, Parry nowhere defines “writing” or “speech,” and the task would doubtless have seemed to him otiose. But in presenting the case for an oral tradition he alludes to certain qualities of writing that establish for him the difference between oral and literate modes of composition. Rousseau saw in orality a guarantee of spatial immediacy, a system of communication which required speaker and hearer to look each other in the eye; Parry transfers this immediacy to the dimension of time. Homer could have composed in a carefully calculated individual style, says Parry, only if “writing materials gave him time to pause” (M. Parry 1971.322), and the fact that word choice in epic style is so regular and predictable indicates the contrary (1971.317, 324). As Saussy goes on to conclude, “What Parry calls вЂformulaic diction’ differs from manual-visual writing only in the means it uses for the same ends. Page 70 →Formulaic diction is oral writing, so to speak.”172 Thus, by means of a familiar hesitancy about writing (“so to speak”), Saussy works through

the plot of the Odyssey in order to show its writerly effects, recognized in part by the fact that orality, whether at the level of form or of content, has little to do with producing immediacy or spontaneousness. As a consequence, the idea that writing compromises this immediacy by giving time to pause is something of a nostalgic fiction. Rather, in Saussy’s revisionist view, the Odyssey is a work in which visible signs, or ПѓбЅµОјО±П„О± (e.g., Odysseus’ scar, the bed he built), are a kind of writing. Such signs make up a truly fantastic writing—singular, permanent, and self-evident. Nothing could be more unlike that potential for functional repetition that assures the ongoing inscription of an oral epic.173 In this view, reading the epic offers a way of understanding specific visible phenomena that both define Odysseus’ past and guarantee his identity. In more general terms—and similar to the scepter in Hesiod’s Theogony—these phenomena differentiate a lived or actual past (Odysseus’) from a mythological or legendary one. In comparing them to a kind of writing or inscription that can be “read,” however, Saussy dematerializes this aspect of their visibility in order to make an argument about compositional technique and genre. My aim here is not to engage with the Homeric question, however, but to note its persistent investment in the authenticity, the originality, and, above all, the idealized present of an oral performance. As a response, reading the oral epic both resists and, somewhat paradoxically, defends that investment. In short, the implied desire for the live or authentic or original performance of the Homeric epic—correlated with the desire to make the epic past visible—is the precondition for theorizing the impossibility of its fulfillment.174 Page 71 →Moreover, the Homeric poems themselves work against the idea of an idealized presence as the aim or consequence of epic performance. In what follows—and as a way of setting up the principal argument about the different epistemological discourses at work in the Odyssey—I consider the ways in which the much-discussed Catalogue of Ships and the teichoscopia in the Iliad provide the bases for this conclusion. Both scenes gesture toward the possibility of seeing the past as an implied consequence of reading about it, where reading names an encounter with visible signs (or scenes) that require interpretation and where the epic narrative acknowledges its own reception as a process of mediation. In doing so, these singular passages offer insight into the protoarchaeological effect of the Odyssey, which, as noted above, is expressed in the competition between the divinely inspired (but blind) poet, on the one hand, and the human eyewitness, on the other. At issue here is the extent to which visual perception constitutes a source of knowledge about the past in the epics. In the well-known proem to the Catalogue of Ships, the narrator explicitly disavows the notion of his own idealized presence, when he contrasts the Muses’ omniscient knowledge and “presence” with the inadequacy of human hearing and naming (Iliad 2.484–93).175 бј”ПѓПЂОµП„Оµ ОЅбї¦ОЅ ОјОїО№, ОњОїбї¦ПѓО±О№ бЅ€О»бЅ»ОјПЂО№О± ОґбЅЅОјО±П„бѕї бј”П‡ОїП…ПѓО±О№ бЅ‘ОјОµбї–П‚ ОібЅ°ПЃ ОёОµО±бЅ· бјђПѓП„Оµ, ПЂбЅ±ПЃОµПѓП„бЅі П„Оµ, бјґПѓП„бЅі П„Оµ ПЂбЅ±ОЅП„О±, бјЎОјОµбї–П‚ ОґбЅІ ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ Оїбј¶ОїОЅ бјЂОєОїбЅ»ОїОјОµОЅ ОїбЅђОґбЅі П„О№ бјґОґОјОµОЅ Оїбјµ П„О№ОЅОµП‚ бјЎОіОµОјбЅ№ОЅОµП‚ О”О±ОЅО±бї¶ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ ОєОїбЅ·ПЃО±ОЅО±О№ бј¦ПѓО±ОЅО‡ ПЂО»О·ОёбЅєОЅ Оґбѕї ОїбЅђОє бј‚ОЅ бјђОібЅј ОјП…ОёбЅµПѓОїОјО±О№ ОїбЅђОґбѕї бЅЂОЅОїОјбЅµОЅП‰, ОїбЅђОґбѕї Оµбјґ ОјОїО№ ОґбЅіОєО± ОјбЅІОЅ ОіО»бї¶ПѓПѓО±О№, ОґбЅіОєО± ОґбЅІ ПѓП„бЅ№ОјО±П„бѕї Оµбј¶ОµОЅ, П†П‰ОЅбЅґ Оґбѕї бј„ПЃПЃО·ОєП„ОїП‚, П‡бЅ±О»ОєОµОїОЅ ОґбЅІ ОјОїО№ бј¦П„ОїПЃ бјђОЅОµбЅ·О·,

Оµбј° ОјбЅґ бЅ€О»П…ОјПЂО№бЅ±ОґОµП‚ ОњОїбї¦ПѓО±О№, О”О№бЅёП‚ О±бј°ОіО№бЅ№П‡ОїО№Ої ОёП…ОіО±П„бЅіПЃОµП‚, ОјОЅО·ПѓО±бЅ·О±Оёбѕї бЅ…ПѓОїО№ бЅ‘ПЂбЅё бїЋО™О»О№ОїОЅ бј¦О»ОёОїОЅО‡ бјЂПЃП‡ОїбЅєП‚ О±бЅ– ОЅО·бї¶ОЅ бјђПЃбЅіП‰ ОЅбї†бЅ±П‚ П„Оµ ПЂПЃОїПЂбЅ±ПѓО±П‚. [Now speak to me Muses who have your homes on Olympus. For you are goddesses, and you are there, and you know [or see] everything, But we only hear the report [ОєО»бЅіОїП‚] and know nothing. Who were the leaders and the lords of the Danaans For I could neither tell nor name the multitude, Not if I had ten tongues and ten mouths Page 72 →And an unbreakable voice, and a heart of bronze, Unless the Olympian Muses, daughters of Zeus of the Aegis, remembered all who came under Ilion; I will speak in turn about the leaders and the ships altogether.] Following the similes that precede, in which the number of Greeks in Troy is compared to the many tribes (бј”ОёОЅОµО± ПЂОїО»О»бЅ±) of migrating birds and swarming insects (2.460–73), this invocation of the Muses is simultaneously an admission and an explanation of the narrator’s lack of the kind of empirical knowledge that can be verified by an eyewitness.176 This lack is revealed and then explained in terms of the sheer quantity of raw data (ПЂбЅ±ОЅП„О±) that tests the limits of human knowledge. As a formal or generic element, catalogues always have this potential for hyperbole, even if this potential is not actualized in every instance.177 As a programmatic utterance, the effect of the proem is to emphasize the inadequacy of human perception as compared to what the Muses know by virtue of their omniscient presence (бЅ‘ОјОµбї–П‚ ОібЅ°ПЃ ОёОµО±бЅ· бјђПѓП„Оµ, ПЂбЅ±ПЃОµПѓП„бЅі П„Оµ, бјґПѓП„бЅі П„Оµ ПЂбЅ±ОЅП„О±, 2.485). The qualitative difference in acquiring knowledge about the past in this passage is based primarily on visual corroboration, as David Elmer argues. One might be tempted to understand the exchange between the Muses as the demand for knowledge by one who is ignorant. However, the inequality between the Muses and the poet is not at all one of knowledge or ignorance, but rather one of different orders of knowledge. We must remember that Оїбј¶ОґО± derives from the root *П‰О№Оґ- “see,” and therefore means not “I know” but “I have seen: therefore I know.” The poet knows only the kleos, the “acoustic renown, ” of heroes, and has seen nothing (ОїбЅђОґбЅі П„О№ бјґОґОјОµОЅ)—this does not mean, however, that he knows nothing. The Muses on the other hand are present as eyewitnesses to the whole of historyВ .В .В . The entirety of the epic tradition, represented by the Muses, is conceived as a visual order of knowledge.178 (emphasis in the original) Page 73 →If we agree with Elmer that the proem to the Catalogue of Ships presents different “orders of knowledge,” it is also the case that there is a single dominant order, namely, sight. The Muses see everything (бјґПѓП„бЅі П„Оµ ПЂбЅ±ОЅП„О±); the narrator sees nothing (ОїбЅђОґбЅі П„О№ бјґОґОјОµОЅ). Calling on the Muses is thus a vehicle for calling attention to the narrator’s or bard’s absence or distance, in visual terms, from the (past) events he narrates. That humans “only hear a report” (ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ Оїбј¶ОїОЅ

бјЂОєОїбЅ»ОїОјОµОЅ) contributes to this hierarchy of sense perception, in which visual proof (as a human capacity) is devalued in order to promote the truth claims of inspired speaking (the prerogative of the bard). As suggested above, Demodocus’ blindness in the Odyssey—to which I will return—is another expression of this promotion. But while we might attribute this devaluation to religious scruple (and its by-product self-deprecation) on the part of the poet, this default to biographical criticism comes at the expense of accounting for the hyperbolic terms of the passage, that is, seeing everything versus seeing nothing. Like the invective Hesiod puts in the mouths of his Muses, this hyperbolic utterance—and we should include here too the appeal to ten tongues and ten mouths—cautions us against taking this hierarchy at face value. Rather, the passage presents a chiastic structure: the poet/bard names (tells, recounts) events in the past but does not see them; the Muses see them but do not name (tell, recount) them. If seeing refers to an unmediated and omniscient knowledge of past events, moreover, naming expresses the impossibility of that knowledge; it testifies to the fact that human/mortal knowledge of the past can only be partial. Elmer goes on to make the suggestive argument that the Catalogue of Ships can be likened to a visual artifact to which an inscription, in the form of an epigram (also called by Elmer a caption or legend), has been affixed. So, for example, commenting on the use of the deictic pronoun ОїбЅ—П„ОїО№ that constitutes the culmination of the catalogue at 2.760 (“these were the leaders and the lords of the Danaans”), Elmer concludes that it functions like “the captioning of an implied image” by which the poet “gestures toward the vast tableau embodied in tradition.” He quotes, with favor, Bakker’s analysis of the pronoun: “Instead of being вЂcontained’ within the narrative, the past becomes now the real thing, a reality before everyone’s eyes at which the poet can point.”179 This is a compelling argument, and Elmer provides a detailed account, Page 74 →supported by the testimony of the scholia, of how the characteristics of a later literate genre (the epigram) are anticipated in the epic. Following Jacques Derrida’s lead, however, Elmer is careful to insist that this anticipation does not mean that the epics were produced with the aid of writing.180 He defines “inscriptional” as “a mode of linguistic reference that points more or less directly to some external object”—without necessarily involving the use of writing. The defining characteristic of the inscription in this sense is that it owes some part of its existence to an object of reference. Somewhat at odds with Bakker’s appeal to the deictic reality of the past, Elmer claims that the epigram or caption in fact “shatters” what he calls “the absolute monumental present.” A certain dialogism is implicit in such epigrams, which no longer exist solely for the sake of the monument, but reach out to the viewer/reader, shattering the absolute monumental present. Thus they seem to speak to the reader, and to answer his inquisitive gaze. Nevertheless, this dialogism is less the result of a real or imagined conversation than a consequence of the distinctive structure of an epigram that no longer has a definitive place, except somewhere between the object and the viewer, as mediator between the two. These epigrams participate in a dialogue not so much because they answer any real demand for knowledge, but because, cut off from the absolute presence of the monument, they must position themselves vis-Г -vis someone else, a second person.181 Elmer’s argument is relevant to the topic at hand in two ways. First, if there is something inscriptional or epigrammatic in the presentation of the Catalogue of Ships (and the teichoscopia), the act of “reading the tableau” to which the inscriptional passage or “caption” refers is equated with a second-order seeing, that is, with what I have referred to in the introduction to this study as a virtual viewer. Another way to put the matter would be to say that reading, as the experience of affixing words to images or objects, comes into being as a response to a visual insufficiency or lack. The inscription is simultaneously a supplement to the image or object (insofar as it refers to it) and a sign of this insufficiency; the catalogue form is particularly suited to this inscriptional effect by virtue of what might be called its conditioned incompleteness.182 Page 75 →Second, the notion that reading the epigram shatters the absolute present of the image or object is pertinent even as it raises the question of what Elmer means by an “absolute present.” This present is

ostensibly opposed to or “shattered” by the (finite?) present of the viewer/reader who “will presumably be present whenever the inscription is activated.”183 It therefore presents a version of Bakker’s notion that in adopting “the stance of an eyewitness,” the oral poet positions his auditors as “spectators of the epic events from the past.” But here too Elmer’s notion of an “absolute monumental present” is an effect of the inscriptional event rather than an inherent condition of the object or image referred to, as he implies. The act of reading both creates and “shatters” this notion, because it exposes the invisibility (or partial visibility) of the past.184 In terms of the broader concerns of this book, the catalogue foregrounds the constitutive interplay between reading (about) and seeing the past in protoarchaeological narratives. A similar situation, if somewhat more complicated, describes the teichoscopia, where Priam asks Helen to identify, in catalogue form, some of the major Greek heroes on the Trojan plain (Iliad 3.146–244).185 That Priam needs to be told who Agamemnon, Odysseus, and the others are after all these years has been a longstanding conundrum for commentators who argue that this anachronism compromises the poem’s credulity or realism. In response, some hypothesize that the scene has been transposed into the “monumental Iliad” from material about the earlier part of the war.186 Kirk explains the anachronism as a feature of oral composition: “A Homer who had been writing out his poem would have made such adjustments; but somehow the oral tradition of a Teikhoskopia must have persuaded the actual Homer, and his audiences, thatВ .В .В . the apparent anomaly could be overlooked or tolerated in the name of tradition.”187 Like the Catalogue of Ships, the teichoscopia relates what might be called old information, that is, information whose significance is out of date or out of sync at the point at Page 76 →which it is presented in the plot.188 But appeals to realism based on notions of psychological coherence, linear chronology, or generic tolerance are not wholly persuasive. It is more productive to understand Priam’s inquiries as a feature of the poem’s epistemological discourse; like the proem to the Catalogue of Ships, it puts the question of knowledge about the past in terms of visual perception.189 Insofar as Priam’s remarks about a particular hero’s physical stature prepare for the question of the latter’s identity and for Helen’s answer, the scene is about visual proof based on Helen’s (prior) knowledge. The introduction to the teichoscopia also functions much like the proem to the Catalogue of Ships, beginning with the Trojan elders’ comment on Helen’s presence among them (Iliad 3.156–60). ОїбЅђ ОЅбЅіОјОµПѓО№П‚ О¤ПЃбї¶О±П‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ бјђП‹ОєОЅбЅµОјО№ОґО±П‚ бј‰П‡О±О№ОїбЅєП‚ П„ОїО№бї‡Оґбѕї бјЂОјП†бЅ¶ ОіП…ОЅО±О№ОєбЅ¶ ПЂОїО»бЅєОЅ П‡ПЃбЅ№ОЅОїОЅ бј„О»ОіОµО± ПЂбЅ±ПѓП‡ОµО№ОЅО‡ О±бј°ОЅбї¶П‚ бјЂОёО±ОЅбЅ±П„бїѓПѓО№ ОёОµбї‡П‚ Оµбј°П‚ бЅ¦ПЂО± бј”ОїО№ОєОµОЅ. бјЂО»О»бЅ° ОєО±бЅ¶ бЅ§П‚, П„ОїбЅ·О· ПЂОµПЃ бјђОїбї¦Пѓбѕї , бјђОЅ ОЅО·П…ПѓбЅ¶ ОЅОµбЅіПѓОёП‰, ОјО·Оґбѕї бјЎОјбї–ОЅ П„ОµОєбЅіОµПѓПѓбЅ· П„бѕї бЅЂПЂбЅ·ПѓПѓП‰ ПЂбї†ОјО± О»бЅ·ПЂОїО№П„Ої. [It is not improper that the Trojans and the well-greaved Achaeans have suffered for such a long time for a woman such as this. She is terribly like the immortal goddesses in her face. But even though she is such a woman, let her go in the ships, So that she not be left as a disaster for us and for the children who come after us.] On one level, the elders’ comment that Helen looks like the “immortal goddesses in her face” is simply

a way of describing her indescribable beauty. But when compared to the poet’s statement, in the proem to the Catalogue of Ships, that the Muses are goddesses (“for you are goddesses,” бЅ‘ОјОµбї–П‚ ОібЅ°ПЃ ОёОµО±бЅ· бјђПѓП„Оµ, Iliad 2.485), we begin to see a pattern of contrastive analogies. There are, of course, other instances in the epic where mortal women are said to be like goddesses in their appearance.190 But insofar as Helen’s naming and Page 77 →description of the heroes on the Trojan plain is an abridged version of the poet/bard’s naming and description of “as many as were the men who came to Troy” (бЅ…ПѓОїО№ бЅ‘ПЂбЅё бїЋО™О»О№ОїОЅ бј¦О»ОёОїОЅ, Iliad 2.492), likening her to the immortal goddesses can be understood in the context of revising this traditional invocation to the Muses. We can also compare the poet’s command to the Muses at the beginning of the Catalogue of Ships (“Speak to me, Muses, you who have your homes on Olympus,” бј”ПѓПЂОµП„Оµ ОЅбї¦ОЅ ОјОїО№, ОњОїбї¦ПѓО±О№ бЅ€О»бЅ»ОјПЂО№О± ОґбЅЅОјО±П„бѕї бј”П‡ОїП…ПѓО±О№,Iliad 2.484) with Priam’s instructions to Helen at the beginning of the teichoscopia (Iliad 3.162–67). ОґОµбї¦ПЃОї ПЂбЅ±ПЃОїО№Оёбѕї бјђО»ОёОїбї¦ПѓО±, П†бЅ·О»ОїОЅ П„бЅіОєОїП‚, бјµО¶ОµП… бјђОјОµбї–Ої, бЅ„П†ПЃО± бјґОґбїѓ ПЂПЃбЅ№П„ОµПЃОїОЅ П„Оµ ПЂбЅ№ПѓО№ОЅ ПЂО·ОїбЅ»П‚ П„Оµ П†бЅ·О»ОїП…П‚ П„ОµО‡ ОїбЅ” П„бЅ· ОјОїО№ О±бј°П„бЅ·О· бјђПѓПѓбЅ·, ОёОµОїбЅ· ОЅбЅ» ОјОїО№ О±бјґП„О№ОїбЅ· Оµбј°ПѓО№ОЅ, Оїбјµ ОјОїО№ бјђП†бЅЅПЃОјО·ПѓО±ОЅ ПЂбЅ№О»ОµОјОїОЅ ПЂОїО»бЅ»ОґО±ОєПЃП…ОЅ бј€П‡О±О№бї¶ОЅО‡ бЅҐП‚ ОјОїО№ ОєО±бЅ¶ П„бЅ№ОЅОґбѕї бј„ОЅОґПЃО± ПЂОµО»бЅЅПЃО№ОїОЅ бјђОѕОїОЅОїОјбЅµОЅбїѓП‚, бЅ…П‚ П„О№П‚ бЅ…Оґбѕї бјђПѓП„бЅ¶ОЅ бј€П‡О±О№бЅёП‚ бјЂОЅбЅґПЃ бј бїЈП‚ П„Оµ ОјбЅіОіО±П‚ П„Оµ. [Come and sit beside me, dear child. So that you can see your former husband, relatives, and friends; In my estimation, you are not the cause, the gods are the cause, Who urged the Achaians’ tearful war against me; And [sit beside me] so that you may tell me who this monster of a man is, This Achaean man who is so powerful and huge.] I admit that there seems to be a world of difference between the poet’s instructions to the Muses and Priam’s instructions to Helen or between the public and conventional character of the former and the private and conversational character of the latter. Yet it is precisely these differences that make their shared formal features significant. The overall effect of these shared features is to emphasize the ways in which Helen is neither like a Muse nor like a divinely inspired singer, as several scholars have argued.191 Thus, for example, Page 78 →Priam’s comment that the gods and not Helen are the causes (О±бјґП„О№ОїО№) of the war echo but invert the poet’s statement at the beginning of the Catalogue that the Muses are the source of his knowledge about the war.192 The effect of saying that Helen looks like the immortal goddesses is similar to the effect of the “as if” statements in the Odyssey that I will be discussing below. In acknowledging that she is not a goddess, the statement also emphasizes the fact that the evidentiary criteria on which her knowledge of past events

is based differ from that of the poet/bard. In contrast to his dependence on the Muses, what she has to say is based—like Odysseus’ account of his exploits in the Odyssey—on her own past experience, manifested primarily in what she sees before her. In saying this, I am not talking about the motivation or intention of characters. Rather, I am interested in how Helen’s attributed likeness to the immortal goddesses is also the source of a temporal ambivalence or uncertainty in the Iliad. This ambivalence is initially expressed in the Trojan elders’ remark that they do not find fault with the Greeks and Trojans for having suffered for such a long time (ПЂОїО»бЅєОЅ П‡ПЃбЅ№ОЅОїОЅ, 3.157) on Helen’s account, as well as in the subsequent remark that she should leave so as not to be a thing of sorrow, or ПЂбї†ОјО±, for the future children of Troy (П„ОµОєбЅіОµПѓПѓбЅ· П„бѕї бЅЂПЂбЅ·ПѓПѓП‰, 3.160). We may take it for granted that a woman’s beauty can have these sorts of longterm or long-lasting effects in the Greek mythological tradition—beginning with Pandora, that “beautiful evil,” in Hesiod’s Theogony (ОєО±О»бЅёОЅ ОєО±ОєбЅ№ОЅ, 585)—or that Helen’s physical appearance mediates between a past described in terms of suffering in war and a future described in terms of children who are yet to be born. But these observations, which are no more than paraphrases of the narrative, should only make us look more closely at what is less obvious, namely, at what the passage tells us about the relationship between visual perception and temporal relations in the poem. When the elders imply that the length of the war and its future effects are a consequence of the fact that Helen looks like the immortal goddesses, their observations prepare for Priam’s statement that the gods—not Helen—are the causes of the war; in both cases, the disastrous effect of her physicalPage 79 → appearance is deflected onto divine agency. But exactly what etiological principles are at work here? Why is there this alternation between blaming Helen’s beauty and salvaging it, and what does this alternation have to do with understanding the past and predicting the future, as suggested in the elders’ remarks? I have already mentioned that the teichoscopia is commonly believed to be a temporal anomaly within the Iliad as a whole. A more constructive way of looking at the episode, however, is to recognize that the teichoscopia is an illustration of the mutually productive pressures of time and narrative. Within this context, visual perception—exemplified in the comment that Helen looks like the immortal goddesses and then in her act of viewing the Greek warriors from the wall—is a persistent, if unstable, variable. As the place of viewing, moreover, the Trojan wall—like the Achaean wall discussed in the previous chapter—is a figure for the effort to stabilize or monumentalize this instability.193 This effort is the source of the teichoscopia’s protoarchaeological effect. Beginning with the elders’ hesitant attitude toward Helen’s beauty, the instability mentioned above takes several forms. It is perhaps most obvious in Priam’s request that Helen sit beside him so that she might see her former husband, relatives, and friends (бЅ„П†ПЃО± бјґОґбїѓ ПЂПЃбЅ№П„ОµПЃбЅ№ОЅ П„Оµ ПЂбЅ№ПѓО№ОЅ ПЂО·ОїбЅ»П‚ П„Оµ П†бЅ·О»ОїП…П‚ П„Оµ, 3.163). That she does not see her former husband illustrates that the teichoscopia is founded on a distinction between what can and cannot be seen and that this episode can be contrasted with the implied comprehensiveness of the Catalogue of Ships. This distinction is obviously linked to the personal history of the observer in this case, that is, to the fact that Menelaus is not Helen’s current husband. I am not suggesting, of course, that Helen does not see Menelaus because she does not want to. Rather, Priam’s unfulfilled request illustrates the difference between the epistemological and temporal omniscience claimed, if only tentatively, by the divinely inspired singer, on the one hand, and the limited and temporally circumscribed position of the human eyewitness (represented here by Helen), on the other.194 As mentioned above, Elmer approaches the teichoscopia in terms of the features it shares with the Catalogue of Ships. The most significant of these are the two epigrams he attributes to Helen (3.178–80, 200–202). His analysis thus offers a surprising solution to Kirk’s anomaly. The exchange between Page 80 →Priam and Helen is not an oversight that the oral poet would have avoided if he had “written out his poem.” Rather, it is characterized by what Elmer refers to as a “dramatization of writing.” [It is] the explicitly deictic element—the actual pointing to the Greek army—which gives the teikhoskopia its unique referential structure, with discourse on one side and referent on the other, of the wall. It is this structure (the congruence with the structuralist opposition signifier/signified is

readily apparent) which makes the scene eminently appropriate as a dramatization or theater of writing.195

Unlike the catalogue’s epigram, however, which refers to a tableau of the Greek leaders and ships, the epigram in the teichoscopia refers to a specific physical object, namely, Helen’s woven tapestry (described at Iliad 3.125–28), as Elmer explains. When [Helen] mounts the Trojan walls, she hardly needs to look out in order to identify the figures; she can simply “read,” or pronounce, the captions she might have applied to her figural representation. In other words, as much as they appear to refer to the vista observed by Priam and the others, her epigrams could as easily refer to her own construction of that scene, a crafted object in its own right.196 Here the act of reading, specified as displacing what is presently before the eyes of the reader (the “vista”) onto an object that has been left behind in Helen’s ОјбЅіОіО±ПЃОїОЅ (the tapestry), names a gap in both spatial and temporal terms. The time and place of reading, in other words, conditions or defers the absolute presence of the eyewitness. To reiterate what I have suggested above, reading once again names the unfulfilled desire for knowledge based on empirical observation. Put more succinctly, reading (about) the past names the impossibility of seeing it. Commentators have noted how the content of Helen’s weaving is recapitulated in Iris’ words as she urges Helen to accompany her to the Trojan wall (Iliad 3.130–35).197 Page 81 →ОґОµбї¦ПЃбѕї бјґОёО№, ОЅбЅ»ОјП†О± П†бЅ·О»О·, бјµОЅО± ОёбЅіПѓОєОµО»О± бј”ПЃОіО± бјґОґО·О±О№ О¤ПЃбЅЅП‰ОЅ Оёбѕї бј±ПЂПЂОїОґбЅ±ОјП‰ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ бј€П‡О±О№бї¶ОЅ П‡О±О»ОєОїП‡О№П„бЅЅОЅП‰ОЅ, Оїбјі ПЂПЃбЅ¶ОЅ бјђПЂбѕї бјЂО»О»бЅµО»ОїО№ПѓО№ П†бЅіПЃОїОЅ ПЂОїО»бЅ»ОґО±ОєПЃП…ОЅ бїЋО‘ПЃО·О± бјђОЅ ПЂОµОґбЅ·бїі, бЅЂО»ОїОїбї–Ої О»О№О»О±О№бЅ№ОјОµОЅОїО№ ПЂОїО»бЅіОјОїО№Ої, Оїбј± ОґбЅґ ОЅбї¦ОЅ бј•О±П„О±О№ ПѓО№Оібї‡, ПЂбЅ№О»ОµОјОїП‚ ОґбЅІ ПЂбЅіПЂО±П…П„О±О№, бјЂПѓПЂбЅ·ПѓО№ ОєОµОєО»О№ОјбЅіОЅОїО№, ПЂО±ПЃбЅ° Оґбѕї бј”ОіП‡ОµО± ОјО±ОєПЃбЅ° ПЂбЅіПЂО·ОіОµОЅ. [Come with me, dear maid, so that you may see the marvelous deeds of the horse-taming Trojans and the bronze-armored Achaeans, Who before were bringing tearful Ares against one another on the plain, desiring deadly warfare, but these men now sit in silence, and the battle has ceased, and they are leaning on their shields, beside which their long spears are fixed.] With reference to the use of the phrase “marvelous deeds” to describe the images embossed on Heracles’ sword belt (Odyssey 11.610), Elmer suggests that “in Iris’s speech the phrase ОёбЅіПѓОєОµО»О± бј”ПЃОіО± indicates the correspondence between the epic narrative and Helen’s

handiwork,” and he likens this correspondence to a mise en abyme.198 For our purposes, the significance of the passage lies less in this correspondence than in the distinction between what the warriors were doing before (Оїбјі ПЂПЃбЅ·ОЅ) and what they are doing now (Оїбј± ОґбЅґ ОЅбї¦ОЅ). In the present moment of the poem, this distinction obviously refers to the interval in the fighting as preparations are made for the one-on-one combat between Paris and Menelaus. But Iris’ words also suggest a more complex distinction between past and present time. In the Homeric poems, the plural pronoun is often used with ПЂПЃбЅ·ОЅ to refer to the general class of “men of former times” and with ОЅбї¦ОЅ to refer to the general class of “men of the present.”199 Here, of Page 82 →course, the men in both clauses are the same men, so the “men of the present” are contrasted with the “men of the past” by virtue of the fact that the former are no longer moving and speaking; they sit in silence, the battle is over, their shields and spears are motionless. If the heroes of epic poetry are defined as “doers of deeds and speakers of words,” as Phoenix states (Iliad 9.443), then these “men of the present” (Оїбј± ОґбЅґ ОЅбї¦ОЅ) are essentially dead. In this sense, this pause in the narrative, figured in silent warriors and fixed weapons, corresponds to the scene as woven into Helen’s tapestry; it is a mise en abyme that is, above all, temporal. As the subject of Helen’s weaving, “the many contests of the horse-taming Trojans and the bronze-armored Achaeans” (ПЂОїО»бЅіО±П‚ Оґ бѕїбјђОЅбЅіПЂО±ПѓПѓОµОЅ бјЂбЅіОёО»ОїП…П‚ О¤ПЃбЅЅП‰ОЅ Оёбѕї бј±ПЂПЂОїОґбЅ±ОјП‰ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ бј€П‡О±бї–П‰ОЅ П‡О±О»ОєОїП‡О№П„бЅЅОЅП‰ОЅ, 3.126–27) comprise a picture of the past delineated by the end of the war. Thus, the tapestry is “double layered” (ОґбЅ·ПЂО»О±Оѕ, 3.126) in a double sense; the adjective describes both the woven object and a layering of time.200 Like the Achaean wall, the tapestry refers to a hypothetical past from the point of view of a projected future. But unlike the wall, this hypothetical past is not so overtly defined in terms of a continuum from visibility to invisibility. Rather, it emerges from a kind of double vision in which what Helen sees from the Trojan wall in the present moment of the poem (the scene on the plain below) is, in effect, memorialized or fixed as a scene from the past (the scene on the tapestry). This double vision can be compared to the effect of confronting the trick drawing of the duck-rabbit that E. H. Gombrich made famous in Art and Illusion. Like the duck-rabbit, the scene that Helen sees from the wall is both the same and different from the scene woven into her tapestry. But if the drawing (now a duck, now a rabbit) demonstrates, as Gombrich explains, that “we cannot experience alternate readings at the same time,” the teichoscopiaPage 83 → demonstrates the fundamental significance of time as a variable in this formulation.201 In this case, the process of switching from one image to another becomes a matter of switching from the present to the past. In other words, the switch not only is a matter of emphasis or perspective but constitutes a radical relocation of the observer in time. The question of why Helen (as opposed to some other character) occupies this position in the Iliad may have to do with her ostensible role in causing the war. But however we answer this question, the act of reading her tapestry (in the form of captions) as she stands on the wall names this perceptual shift, in which reading both creates and mediates the past, as a visible construct. As a result, it is perhaps useful to revise Elmer’s terminology; Helen is not so much a maker of epigrams (an epigrammatopoios) as a reader of the past in visible form. The teichoscopia thus exemplifies the oscillation between seeing the past and reading the past, or between the reality of the past as seen by an eyewitness (the scene from the Trojan wall) and its mimesis as seen and read by a virtual viewer (the scene on the tapestry). More generally, both the Catalogue of Ships and the teichoscopia refute the idea that the effect of epic discourse is to make the past come alive or that the past is, as Anna Bonifazi has put it, “re-enacted in the hic et nunc” of the epic performance.202 Elmer’s argument is thus pertinent to the protoarchaeological effect of the epic poems in several ways. First, if there is something inscriptional or epigrammatic in the presentation of the Catalogue of Ships and the teichoscopia, the act of “reading the tableau” is a way of referring to the epic past as a visual absence. As the experience of affixing words to images or objects, the inscription is simultaneously a supplement to the image or object (in this case, the catalogue and the tapestry) and an explicit acknowledgment that what is narrated cannot be seen. In other words, “reading” in Elmer’s sense is a means of referring to the invisibility of the epic past in the present. This kind of “reading” also points to the theoretical pitfalls of the scholarly faith in an idealized oral

tradition, manifested in the power to turn readers into spectators of the epic events. In contrast, Elmer’s account problematizes the implied link in Homeric studies between the visual vividness of epic language and its oral derivation. But if the Iliad introduces this uncertainty in a few discrete passages Page 84 →(the account of the Achaean wall, the proem to the Catalogue of Ships, the teichoscopia), the Odyssey extends and sustains its implications. To return to Odysseus’ praise of Demodocus with which this chapter began, the notion that the epic performer turns his audience into spectators of the events about which he sings is both invoked and complicated by the quality of Odysseus’ “as if” statement and the resulting paradox of the singer as a blind eyewitness.203 In praising Demodocus “as if” he had been somehow present at the events about which he sings, Odysseus does not say that he sings as if he had seen the sufferings of the Achaeans. Given the bard’s blindness, this would be an intolerable inconsistency.204 Yet visual perception is clearly implied in the reference to Demodocus having been present at the events about which he sings or having heard about them from someone else who was present (бЅҐП‚ П„бЅі ПЂОїП… бјў О±бЅђП„бЅёП‚ ПЂО±ПЃОµбЅјОЅ бјў бј„О»О»ОїП… бјЂОєОїбЅ»ПѓО±П‚, 8.491).205 This interpretation of the passage is corroborated at Odyssey 3.93–95 and 4.323–25, where Telemachus asks Nestor and Menelaus, respectively, about the death of Odysseus; either they saw that event with their “own eyes” or they heard the story from someone else (Оµбјґ ПЂОїП… бЅ„ПЂП‰ПЂО±П‚ бЅЂП†ОёО±О»ОјОїбї–ПѓО№ П„ОµОїбї–ПѓО№ОЅ бјў бј„О»О»ОїП… Ојбї¦ОёОїОЅ бј„ОєОїП…ПѓО±П‚ ПЂО»О±О¶ОїОјбЅіОЅОїП…). Seeing with one’s own eyes seems to be the principal vehicle here of empirical proof about the past, with hearing as a sort of second-order seeing. In Odysseus’ praise of Demodocus, having heard what happened from someone else implies that this interlocutor had seen the event with his own eyes. Page 85 →But the redundancy of seeing events “with the eyes” in Homer is everywhere accompanied by a certain ambivalence. Among the several words used in the epics to refer to eyes (бЅ„ОјОјО±, бЅЂП†ОёО±О»ОјбЅ№П‚, бЅ„ПѓПѓОµ, and ОІО»бЅіП†О±ПЃОїОЅ), бЅЂП†ОёО±О»ОјбЅ№П‚ seems to be the preferred term in passages in which a character is said to see things “with the eyes.” The witnessing power of the бЅЂП†ОёО±О»ОјОїбЅ· is exemplified in the ability of Helen’s drugs to prevent a man from weeping even if he were to see “with his own eyes” (бЅЂП†ОёО±О»ОјОїбї–ПѓО№ОЅ) his kin killed (Odyssey 4.226). Using the same construction, Menelaus says that he has never seen “with his eyes” a man like Odysseus, and Odysseus remarks that he has never seen “with his eyes” anyone like Nausicaa (Odyssey 4.269, 6.160); in the Iliad, Achilles stares in wonder “with his eyes” at Aeneas’ sudden disappearance from the battlefield (20.341–48).206 In all these examples, the redundancy of seeing “with the eyes” points to something that is not seen in the narrative: the killing of loved ones; the man like Odysseus whom Menelaus has never seen; the women with whom Nausicaa is compared; Aeneas in the final example. In short, what one sees “with the eyes” refers to a hypothetical absence rather than to a physical presence.207 Given that the epic singer is the conventionally authorized recorder of a past worth preserving, the equivocation in Odysseus’ remarks to Demodocus is expressed primarily in an unresolved conflict between divine agency (“the Muse or Apollo taught you”) and human agency (“you were present at the events yourself”).208 As we have seen above, this conflict also frames Page 86 →the proem to the Catalogue of Ships in the Iliad. The equivocation may be explained in part by the fact that Odysseus was present at the events recounted in Demodocus’ first and last songs or that Odysseus’ own presence will testify—however ambiguously—to the “truth” of the adventures he will begin to narrate in book 9. In both cases and by an act of displacement, Odysseus’ physical presence at the events in question establishes the evidentiary criterion for relating significant past events ОєО±П„бЅ° ОєбЅ№ПѓОјОїОЅ, that is, in an orderly fashion. This distinction between human and divine agency, expressed in the distinction between sight and blindness and complicated by the contingencies of truth and falsehood, is the source of the Odyssey’s protoarchaeological effect. As suggested above, this distinction is presented in the several passages in the Odyssey where Odysseus himself is compared to a singer, that is, where a human speaker is judged by comparison with a divinely inspired бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚. The most pertinent of these occurs in the midst of Odysseus’ account of his trip to the

underworld, where Alcinoos comments that Odysseus has told his tale, or Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚, “as a singer” would (Odyssey 11.362–76). П„бЅ№ОЅ Оґбѕї О±бЅ–П„бѕї бј€О»ОєбЅ·ОЅОїОїП‚ бјЂПЂО±ОјОµбЅ·ОІОµП„Ої П†бЅЅОЅО·ПѓбЅіОЅ П„ОµО‡ бїѕбЅ¦ бЅ€ОґП…ПѓПѓОµбї¦, П„бЅё ОјбЅІОЅ ОїбЅ” П„бЅ· Пѓбѕї бјђбЅ·ПѓОєОїОјОµОЅ Оµбј°ПѓОїПЃбЅ№П‰ОЅП„ОµП‚ бј ПЂОµПЃОїПЂбї†бЅ± П„бѕї бј”ОјОµОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ бјђПЂбЅ·ОєО»ОїПЂОїОЅ, Оїбј·бЅ± П„Оµ ПЂОїО»О»ОїбЅєП‚ ОІбЅ№ПѓОєОµО№ ОіО±бї–О± ОјбЅіО»О±О№ОЅО± ПЂОїО»П…ПѓПЂОµПЃбЅіО±П‚ бјЂОЅОёПЃбЅЅПЂОїП…П‚ П€ОµбЅ»ОґОµбЅ± П„бѕї бјЂПЃП„бЅ»ОЅОїОЅП„О±П‚, бЅ…ОёОµОЅ ОєбЅі П„О№П‚ ОїП…ОґбЅІ бјґОґОїО№П„ОїО‡ ПѓОїбЅ¶ Оґбѕї бј”ПЂО№ ОјбЅІОЅ ОјОїПЃП†бЅґ бјђПЂбЅіП‰ОЅ, бј”ОЅО№ ОґбЅІ П†ПЃбЅіОЅОµП‚ бјђПѓОёО»О±бЅ·О‡ Ојбї¦ОёОїОЅ Оґбѕї бЅЎП‚ бЅ…П„бѕї бјЂОїО№ОґбЅёП‚ бјђПЂО№ПѓП„О±ОјбЅіОЅП‰П‚ ОєО±П„бЅіО»ОµОѕО±П‚, ПЂбЅ±ОЅП„П‰ОЅ П„бѕї бј€ПЃОіОµбЅ·П‰ОЅ ПѓбЅіОї П„бѕї О±бЅђП„Оїбї¦ ОєбЅµОґОµО± О»П…ОіПЃбЅ±. бјЂО»О»бѕї бј„ОіОµ ОјОїО№ П„бЅ№ОґОµ Оµбј°ПЂбЅІ ОєО±бЅ¶ бјЂП„ПЃОµОєбЅіП‰П‚ ОєО±П„бЅ±О»ОµОѕОїОЅ, Оµбјґ П„О№ОЅО±П‚ бјЂОЅП„О№ОёбЅіП‰ОЅ бј‘П„бЅ±ПЃП‰ОЅ бјґОґОµП‚, Оїбјµ П„ОїО№ бј…Ојбѕї О±бЅђП„бї· бїЋО™О»О№ОїОЅ Оµбј°П‚ бј…Ојбѕї бј•ПЂОїОЅП„Ої ОєО±бЅ¶ О±бЅђП„Оїбї¦ ПЂбЅ№П„ОјОїОЅ бјђПЂбЅіПѓПЂОїОЅ. ОЅбЅєОѕ Оґбѕї ἥδε ОјбЅ±О»О± ОјО±ОєПЃбЅµ, бјЂОёбЅіПѓП†О±П„ОїП‚О‡ ОїбЅђОґбЅі ПЂП‰ бЅҐПЃО· ОµбЅ•ОґОµО№ОЅ бјђОЅ ОјОµОібЅ±ПЃбїі, ПѓбЅє ОґбЅі ОјОїО№ О»бЅіОіОµ ОёбЅіПѓОєОµО»О± бј”ПЃОіО±. ОєО±бЅ· ОєОµОЅ бјђП‚ бј бї¶ Оґбї–О±ОЅ бјЂОЅО±ПѓП‡ОїбЅ·ОјО·ОЅ, бЅ…П„Оµ ОјОїО№ ПѓбЅє П„О»О±бЅ·О·П‚ бјђОЅ ОјОµОібЅ±ПЃбїі П„бЅ° ПѓбЅ° ОєбЅµОґОµО± ОјП…ОёбЅµПѓО±ПѓОёО±О№.’ [And then Alcinoos spoke in return: “O Odysseus, as we look at you we do not liken you to a deceptive or thieving man, the sort that the black earth Page 87 →nourishes in numbers, men who are scattered abroad and make up lies, from which no one could learn [see] anything.209

But the shape of words is upon you, and thoughts within you are noble, And you have told your story [Ојбї¦ОёОїОЅ] skillfully, as a singer would, Your own grievous cares and those of all the Argives. But come and tell me this and speak it truly, whether you saw some of your godlike companions, who followed you when you went to Troy and met their fate. For the night is very long, unending; nor is it yet time to sleep in the ОјбЅіОіО±ПЃОїОЅ, but do tell me about your marvelous deeds. I could stay awake until bright dawn, if only you could bear to tell me in the ОјбЅіОіО±ПЃОїОЅ about your sufferings.”] In her narratological commentary on the poem, Irene de Jong concludes that in comparing Odysseus to a singer, “the Odyssean narrator pays himself” a compliment.210 But this compliment is compromised by the negative comparison of men who tell lies and singers who (presumably) sing the truth, with the implicit indication that Odysseus may be one of the former; the narrator will later remark that Odysseus “can make many false things seem like true things when he speaks” (Odyssey 19.203).211 Although there Page 88 →is no direct indication in the narrative that Odysseus’ journey to Hades is any less credible than the other tales he tells, Alcinoos’ comment hints at an implied incredulity with respect to this particular Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚.212 In short, the simile raises more questions about Odysseus’ truth telling than it answers, and it thus complicates de Jong’s conclusion.213 Of course, the simile does refer implicitly to the singer, or бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚, of the epic itself (бј„ОЅОґПЃО± ОјОїО№ бј”ОЅОЅОµПЂОµ, ОњОїбї¦ПѓО±, Odyssey 1.1.). In this respect, Odysseus is like an бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚ insofar as the poem itself (the Odyssey) is the vehicle of his Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚. But this conclusion becomes more complicated when we look at how Odysseus begins his first-person story in book 9, where he clearly contrasts what he is about to do with the activity of an бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚. It is a good thing, he says to Alcinoos, to listen to the бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚, who is “like the gods in his voice” (ОёОµОїбї–П‚ бјђОЅО±О»бЅ·ОіОєО№ОїП‚ О±бЅђОґбЅµОЅ, 9.4), and to partake of the festivities as he sings (Odyssey 9.1–11).214 “But” (ОґбЅі), he continues, “your ОёП…ОјбЅ№П‚ is bent on asking me about my own grievous cares, with the result that I will groan all the more for my hardships” (ПѓОїбЅ¶ Оґбѕї бјђОјбЅ° ОєбЅµОґОµО± ОёП…ОјбЅёП‚ бјђПЂОµП„ПЃбЅ±ПЂОµП„Ої ПѓП„ОїОЅбЅ№ОµОЅП„О± Н…ОµбјґПЃОµПѓОёбѕї , бЅ„П†ПЃбѕї бј”П„О№ Ојбѕ¶О»О»ОїОЅ бЅЂОґП…ПЃбЅ№ОјОµОЅОїП‚ ПѓП„ОµОЅО±П‡бЅ·О¶П‰, OdysseyPage 89 → 9.12–13).215 Odysseus’ words mark a clear distinction between the singer’s activity and his own. The former brings joy to the “whole people” (Оґбї†ОјОїОЅ бј…ПЂО±ОЅП„О±, Odyssey 9.6); the latter brings greater pain to himself. Moreover, unlike an бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚, who calls on the Muse for inspiration, Odysseus introduces the variable of relative chronology into his tale when he asks, “What shall I tell you first of all, what shall I tell later?” (П„бЅ· ПЂПЃбї¶П„бЅ№ОЅ П„ОїО№ бј”ПЂОµО№П„О±, П„бЅ· Оґбѕї бЅ‘ПѓП„бЅ±П„О№ОїОЅ ОєО±П„О±О»бЅіОѕП‰;, 9.14).216 Although the gods have given him many cares (ОєбЅµОґОµбѕї бјђПЂОµбЅ· ОјОїО№ ПЂОїО»О»бЅ° ОґбЅ№ПѓО±ОЅ ОёОµОїбЅ¶ ОїбЅђПЃО±ОЅбЅ·П‰ОЅОµП‚, 9.15) they have not given him the gift of song (cf. 8.63). Finally, instead of telling someone else’s story, he tells his own (ОµбјґОјбѕї бЅ€ОґП…ПѓОµбЅєП‚ О›О±ОµПЃП„О№бЅ±ОґО·П‚, 9.19). In other words, his tale is not about the ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ бјЂОЅОґПЃбї¶ОЅ (the fame of men) but about the ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ бјЂОЅОґПЃбЅ№П‚ (the fame of one man, himself). Seen in the light of these differences in both form and content, Alcinoos’ simile (бЅЎП‚ бЅ…П„бѕї бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚) cannot simply be explained as a compliment the narrator pays

himself. Rather, it calls attention to the fact that by every criterion established in the epic, Odysseus is not like a singer.217 Page 90 →This conclusion is extended in the fact that the simile is based on the skill with which Odysseus tells his Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚ (Ојбї¦ОёОїОЅ Оґбѕї бЅЎП‚ бЅ…П„бѕї бјЂОїО№ОґбЅёП‚ бјђПЂО№ПѓП„О±ОјбЅіОЅП‰П‚ ОєО±П„бЅіО»ОµОѕО±П‚, Odyssey 11.368). In the epics, the semantic range of бјђПЂбЅ·ПѓП„О±ОјО±О№ is restricted almost exclusively to practical (i.e., physical) skills or accomplishments. These include fighting, dancing, preparing a sacrifice or meal, carpentry, weaving, and medical treatment.218 It is used far less frequently to describe skill in speaking, as it is at Odyssey 11.368 (cf. Iliad 4.404, 15.282, 19.80; Odyssey 8.240), and there is only one other instance in the epics where it is (indirectly) predicated of a Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚.219 At the same time, ОєО±П„О±О»бЅіОіП‰ is routinely used in passages where the truth or accuracy of what is being said by a human speaker is being tested or emphasized.220 This is the verb used by Page 91 →Odysseus at 9.14, when he asks, “What shall I tell you first of all, what shall I tell later?” (П„бЅ· ПЂПЃбї¶П„бЅ№ОЅ П„ОїО№ бј”ПЂОµО№П„О±, П„бЅ· Оґбѕї бЅ‘ПѓП„бЅ±П„О№ОїОЅ ОєО±П„О±О»бЅіОѕбЅј). More immediately, it is the verb used by Alcinoos when he asks Odysseus to tell him “truly” whether he saw any of his comrades in the underworld (бјЂО»О»бѕї бј„ОіОµ ОјОїО№ П„бЅ№ОґОµ Оµбј°ПЂбЅІ ОєО±бЅ¶ бјЂП„ПЃОµОєбЅіП‰П‚ ОєО±П„бЅ±О»ОµОѕОїОЅ, Оµбјґ П„О№ОЅО±П‚ бјЂОЅП„О№ОёбЅіП‰ОЅ бј‘П„бЅ±ПЃП‰ОЅ бјґОґОµП‚, Odyssey 11.370–71).221 That this pairing of ОєО±П„О±О»бЅіОіП‰ and бјђПЂбЅ·ПѓП„О±ОјО±О№ occurs only here (11.368) in the Homeric corpus suggests that the semantic range of both verbs is being stretched to accommodate the simile.222 More to the point, the emphasis on accuracy and skill in terms of human experience and speech (not on divine inspiration) implies, once again, the extent to which Odysseus does not tell his Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚ like a singer. To test this hypothesis, we can turn to the only other time in the Homeric poems where бјђПЂбЅ·ПѓП„О±ОјО±О№ is used in a simile. Interestingly, in this instance too, it is applied to Odysseus, who, when he strings the great bow in the contest that precedes his victory over the suitors, is compared to “a man who is skilled at singing,” that is, to an бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚ (Odyssey 21.404–7).223 бјЂП„бЅ°ПЃ ПЂОїО»бЅ»ОјО·П„О№П‚ бЅ€ОґП…ПѓПѓОµбЅ»П‚, О±бЅђП„О№Оєбѕї бјђПЂОµбЅ¶ ОјбЅіОіО± П„бЅ№ОѕОїОЅ бјђОІбЅ±ПѓП„О±ПѓОµ ОєО±бЅ¶ бјґОґОµ ПЂбЅ±ОЅП„бїѓ, бЅЎП‚ бЅ…П„бѕї бјЂОЅбЅґПЃ П†бЅ№ПЃОјО№ОіОіОїП‚ бјђПЂО№ПѓП„бЅ±ОјОµОЅОїП‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ бјЂОїО№Оґбї†П‚ ῥηϊδίως бјђП„бЅ±ОЅП…ПѓПѓОµ ОЅбЅібїі ПЂОµПЃбЅ¶ ОєбЅ№О»О»ОїПЂО№ П‡ОїПЃОґбЅµОЅ. [But Odysseus of the many wiles, as soon as he had taken up the great bow and looked it all over, like a man who is skilled at [playing] the phorminx224 and singing, he easily stretched the gut around the new peg.] De Jong suggests that “the primary function of the simile is to emphasize the ease with which Odysseus strings the bow,” and she compares it to the simile at Iliad 15.361–66, where the ease with which Apollo overturns the Greek embankment is described by comparison to a child toppling a sand castle.225 It is obvious that the similes are based on the shared ease of performingPage 92 → a physical task. But a more complex set of associations emerges when, based on shared linguistic features rather than on a thematic link (the ease of performing a task), we compare this simile with Alcinoos’ at 11.368–69. In light of what has been said

about the latter, what does the use of бјђПЂбЅ·ПѓП„О±ОјО±О№ tell us about the activity of being like a singer in the poem? To return to the main argument, what do these similes tell us about the discursive and ideological distinctions between blind singers and sighted speakers as witnesses to the truth about the past? In Alcinoos’ simile, бјђПЂбЅ·ПѓП„О±ОјО±О№ (in its adverbial form) refers to the content of Odysseus’ Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚, that is, to his ability to relate skillfully his own cares and those of the Achaeans. In this respect, being like a singer seems to be based on the shared objects of (divine) song and (human) speech (ОєбЅµОґОµО± О»П…ОіПЃбЅ±).226 But this perceived similarity only conceals a more revealing set of differences. For the appeal to practical or human skill in Alcinoos’ simile (бјђПЂО№ПѓП„О±ОјбЅіОЅП‰П‚ ОєО±П„бЅіО»ОµОѕО±П‚, 11.368) implies what then becomes more explicit, namely, that Odysseus’ tale is about events that he has experienced firsthand (unlike a singer).227 In the simile of the bow, moreover, бјђПЂбЅ·ПѓП„О±ОјО±О№ is found within its more customary semantic range of performing a practical or physical task, with the added implication that such a task requires visual acuity: the disguised Odysseus is said by the suitors to be “one who looks (or knows how to look) at bows or who steals them” (бј¦ П„О№П‚ ОёО·О·П„бЅґПЃ ОєО±бЅ¶ бјђПЂбЅ·ОєО»ОїПЂОїП‚ бј”ПЂО»ОµП„Ої П„бЅ№ОѕП‰ОЅ, 21.397), and the narrator remarks (in the passage quoted above) that Odysseus “looked at [the bow] all over” (бјґОґОµ ПЂбЅ±ОЅП„бїѓ, 405).228 Skill is here first measured in terms of visual perception, then Page 93 →uneasily equated with “playing the phorminx and singing,” and finally and more plausibly qualified as the practical ability to string a bow. Thus, while Odysseus may be said to be like a singer to the extent that stringing a bow is like stringing a lyre, the overall effect of the simile is to emphasize that singing and archery are very different activities.229 Obviously, Odysseus does not accompany himself with a musical instrument when he tells his story, and while fighting requires sharp visual acumen (exemplified in stringing the bow and, by extension, shooting an arrow), the herald must help the blind Demodocus find his phorminx (Odyssey 8.66ff.). Both similes thus express a significant dissimilarity, which, enhanced by the presence of бјђПЂбЅ·ПѓП„О±ОјО±О№ in each case, brings us back to the proposition that the Odyssey presents competing epistemological and evidentiary discourses.230 The poem pits the authority of the divinely inspired but blind singer against the immediate presence, physical skill, and visual acumen of the poem’s main character.231 Conversely, the “as if” statement in Odysseus’ comments to Demodocus (Odyssey 8.487–91) works to define the epic singer by his lack of empirical knowledge, that is, by his physical and temporal distance from the events he recounts. This definition will become a point of departure for Socrates’ criticism of the rhapsode in Plato’s Ion.232 To put the matter in more precise terms, Odysseus’ comment that Demodocus sings (бјЂОµбЅ·ОґП‰) about the sufferings of the Achaeans as if he himself had been there (бЅҐП‚ П„бЅі ПЂОїП… бјў О±бЅђП„бЅёП‚ ПЂО±ПЃОµбЅЅОЅ) is the ironic counterpart to Alcinoos’ comment that Odysseus tells (ОєО±П„О±О»бЅіОіП‰) his story as if he were a singer (бЅЎП‚ бЅ…П„бѕї бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚). In the context of praise, the irony lies in the incongruity between the verbs of telling and singing and the evidentiary criteria to which they are attached: Demodocus sings his narrative as if he were present, and Odysseus tells his as if he were a singer. Read together, then, these similes create a chiastic displacement based on what is contrary to fact, that is, that Demodocus was present at the events about which he sings and that Odysseus is a singer about the events at which Page 94 →he was present.233 One effect of this displacement is an implied ambivalence about the presence of an eyewitness speaker (Odysseus) within a form that is ideally and conventionally authorized by a divinely inspired (and traditionally sightless) singer.234 Alcinoos begins his praise of Odysseus’ account by commenting on the effect of looking at Odysseus (бјђбЅ·ПѓОєОїОјОµОЅ Оµбј°ПѓОїПЃбЅ№П‰ОЅП„ОµП‚, 11.363). It may be easy to ignore this introductory gambit, as modern commentaries generally do, or to explain it as a straightforward allusion to the correspondence between Odysseus’ external appearance and his internal disposition. But the evidence for what Alcinoos says he sees—or, rather, for what he says he does not see—makes such a correspondence problematic at best. I do not mean that Alcinoos is being coy or even that he doubts Odysseus’ veracity.235 My point is not about this character’s intention but about the relationship between visual perception (as evidence for past events) and verbal expression in the poem. That relationship is expressed here in terms of what the speaker looks like,

introduced by a negative comparison and then balanced by a positive remark (11.367). This indirect or roundabout method implies both a belief that what you see is what you get and ambivalence about that belief. Direct visual perception as a guide to truthful speech (Odysseus’ and also Alcinoos’) is here first corroborated in the negative but literal comparison with a “deceptive and thieving man,” only to be compromised in the positive but figural comparison with the singer, or бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚. How, then, does the statement that Odysseus tells his story “as if” he were a singer follow from the assertion that he does not look like a liar? The notion that Odysseus is telling the truth is, of course, only implied in the denial that he is a liar. Only by extending this implication do we come to the conclusion that singers sing the truth about the past. But while this conclusion may seem natural, the circuitous route by which it is reached—beginning with a visual cue—makes the situation more complicated. One essential feature Page 95 →of this complication is that the visual cue is transferred by metalepsis from Odysseus’ physical appearance to his words; they have a “shape” (ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ) that—contrasted with his inner disposition, or φρένες—is externalized and, by metaphorical extension, visualized.236 In other words, the effect of Alcinoos’ statements depends on a correspondence between a man’s external (visible) appearance and his words, by virtue of which his inner (unseeable) disposition can be deduced.237 We might compare this externalization with the effect of Helen’s goddess-like beauty in the Iliad, as discussed above. In both cases, a character’s appearance is a manifestation of the poem’s formal and epistemological discourses. In addition to Alcinoos’ speech at Odyssey 11.367, the phrase “the shape of words” (ОјОїПЃП†бЅґ бјђПЂбЅіП‰ОЅ) occurs only one other time in the Homeric poems, namely, in Odysseus’ response to Euryalos’ taunts prior to the athletic contests in Phaiacia. Again here, it is embedded in a comparison with a man’s external appearance, or Оµбј¶ОґОїП‚ (Odyssey 8.169–77).238 бј„О»О»ОїП‚ ОјбЅІОЅ ОібЅ°ПЃ Оµбј¶ОґОїП‚ бјЂОєО№ОґОЅбЅ№П„ОµПЃОїП‚ ПЂбЅіО»ОµО№ бјЂОЅбЅµПЃ, бјЂО»О»бЅ° ОёОµбЅёП‚ ОјОїПЃП†бЅґОЅ бј”ПЂОµПѓО№ ПѓП„бЅіП†ОµО№, Оїбј± ОґбЅі П„бѕї бјђП‚ О±бЅђП„бЅёОЅ, П„ОµПЃПЂбЅ№ОјОµОЅОїО№ О»ОµбЅ»ПѓПѓОїП…ПѓО№ОЅО‡ бЅЃ Оґбѕї бјЂПѓП†О±О»бЅіП‰П‚ бјЂОіОїПЃОµбЅ»ОµО№ О±бј°ОґОїбї– ОјОµО№О»О№П‡бЅ·бїѓ, ОјОµП„бЅ° ОґбЅІ ПЂПЃбЅіПЂОµО№ бјЂОіПЃОїОјбЅіОЅОїО№ПѓО№ОЅ, бјђПЃП‡бЅ№ОјОµОЅОїОЅ Оґбѕї бјЂОЅбЅ° бј„ПѓП„П… ОёОµбЅёОЅ бЅЈП‚ Оµбј°ПѓОїПЃбЅ№П‰ПѓО№ОЅ. бј„О»О»ОїП‚ Оґбѕї О±бЅ– Оµбј¶ОґОїП‚ ОјбЅІОЅ бјЂО»бЅ·ОіОєО№ОїП‚ бјЂОёО±ОЅбЅ±П„ОїО№ПѓО№ОЅ, бјЂО»О»бѕї ОїбЅ” Оїбј± П‡бЅ±ПЃО№П‚ бјЂОјП†О№ПЂОµПЃО№ПѓП„бЅіП†ОµП„О±О№ бјђПЂбЅіОµПѓПѓО№ОЅ, бЅЎП‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ ПѓОїбЅ¶ Оµбј¶ОґОїП‚ ОјбЅІОЅ бјЂПЃО№ПЂПЃОµПЂбЅіП‚, ОїбЅђОґбЅі ОєОµОЅ бј„О»О»П‰П‚ ОїбЅђОґбЅІ ОёОµбЅёП‚ П„ОµбЅ»ОѕОµО№Оµ, ОЅбЅ№ОїОЅ Оґбѕї бјЂПЂОїП†бЅЅО»О№бЅ№П‚ бјђПѓПѓО№. Page 96 →[One man is inferior with respect to his physical appearance, but the god crowns [him?] in respect to the shape of his words, and men

take delight as they look at him. And he speaks unfalteringly with sweet reverence, and he is conspicuous among the people, and they look upon him as a god as he goes through the city. Another man is like the gods with respect to his physical appearance, but grace does not crown him by virtue of his words. And thus while your physical appearance is exceptional, and not even a god could fashion it otherwise, your mind is without substance.]239 Implicitly dependent on a natural correspondence between a man’s words and his appearance, present circumstances demand that Odysseus invert this equation; Euryalos’ poor words do not match his exceptional Оµбј¶ОґОїП‚.240 We have seen the same kind of potential inversion in Alcinoos’ remarks about Odysseus. But the controlling idea once again is that visible evidence, here exemplified in a man’s Оµбј¶ОґОїП‚, is the standard against which other kinds of evidence are to be judged; the inversion only marks the fact that such evidence is contingent and immediate rather than absolute and eternal. As presented here, the inversion also assumes a hierarchy according to which the shape of a man’s words (ОјОїПЃП†бЅґ бј”ПЂОµПѓО№) can trump the visual effect of his body (his Оµбј¶ОґОїП‚). Thus, even a man whose appearance is inferior can be a delight to look on, provided that his words have shape. Moreover, the shape of a man’s words can alter his Оµбј¶ОґОїП‚, with no indication that the opposite is also true (i.e., that a man’s Оµбј¶ОґОїП‚ can alter the shape of his words). Yet it is clear that the principle at work here too is the dominance of visible evidence, whether or not it corroborates an ethical or moral prejudice (e.g., that a well-formed body is the repository of wellformed thoughts). The notion that a man is crowned by his words only enhances the physical and visual aspect of the metaphor.241 Page 97 →I have noted that ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ in Homer is only predicated of words in these two instances in the Odyssey. Moreover, ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ is found only in this phrase; that is, only words designated as бј”ПЂОµО± have a shape, or ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ, in the epics. In his discussion of the etymology of ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ, Chantraine comments somewhat enigmatically that it is “by chance” (par un hazard) that ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ in Homer is predicated of words (бј”ПЂОµО±), and he goes on to note that later authors apply the term generally to the human body or more specifically to the beauty of the body.242 He also implies that this shared quality (beauty) explains why ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ can be predicated of both words and bodies. But the examples that Chantraine cites from later literature do not easily support this conclusion.243 In fact, if we grant by anachronism that physical beauty is the natural or self-evident ground of the metaphorical meaning of ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ in the Homeric epics, we lose sight of the evidentiary context in which the phrase appears.244 Richard Martin issues a similar warning in his influential discussion of the speech terms бј”ПЂОїП‚ and Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚ in the Iliad: “When we do pay attention to context, synonymity [between бј”ПЂОїП‚ and Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚] recedes.”245 Based on the context in which they appear (rather than on thematic or semantic equivalences), Martin has shown that бј”ПЂОїП‚ in Homer has a discrete physical quality, while Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚ refers to a hero’s full-fledged speech act: “[M]uthos is, in Homer, a speech-act indicating authority, performed at length, usually in public, with a focus on full attention to every detail.” In contrast, бј”ПЂОїП‚ is “an Page 98 →utterance, ideally short, accompanying a physical act, and focusing on message, as perceived by the addressee, rather than on performance as enacted by the speaker.”246 He goes on to comment that an бј”ПЂОїП‚ (unlike Ојбї¦ОёОїО№) is an act of private communication that refers to “an item of exchange that is at the same time a physical object, like a weapon.”247 Even this too brief overview of Martin’s argument suggests that the distinction he identifies is epitomized at Odyssey 11.362–69, where Alcinoos says that Odysseus’ бј”ПЂОµО± have shape (ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ) and where, in contrast, Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚ refers to the whole of the speech that Odysseus has spoken “skillfully, as if

[he] were a singer.” Although Martin argues that the plural бј”ПЂОµО± can be a substitute for the singular Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚ in the Iliad, the simile under discussion here seems to rely on a clearly implied difference between the two.248 The basis of this difference is specified in terms of speaking subjects: Odysseus produces бј”ПЂОµО± (emphasized in the phrase ПѓОїбЅ¶ Оґбѕї бј”ПЂО№ ОјбЅІОЅ ОјОїПЃП†бЅґ бјђПЂбЅіП‰ОЅ), while the anonymous singer is the producer of a Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚, or, in Martin’s terms, an account enacted in performance and prefigured by generic conventions.249 Unlike what is produced by this singer with whom he is so unsuccessfully compared, Odysseus’ бј”ПЂОµО± have a shape, or ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ, that, by an act of transference, refers to his own physical presence at the events about which he speaks. In other words, ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ emphasizes the physical quality of бј”ПЂОµО± as an expression of the physical presence of their speaker; his words have shape because he purports to have seen what he is talking about. It is difficult, therefore, to agree with Chantraine that it is by chance that бј”ПЂОµО± are endowed with ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ in the Odyssey. In both instances, as we have seen, the phrase is embedded in a discourse of visible proof, overtly figured in a man’s physical appearance.250 In light of Odysseus’ own physical Page 99 →disguise later in the poem, this figure is decisive for the narrative at large. In this respect, Odysseus’ general statement to Euryalos in book 8 anticipates Alcinoos’ specific comments about Odysseus in book 11, in which the shape of Odysseus’ words (бј”ПЂОµО±) links visual perception as an evidentiary criterion with language as its medium. It may be going too far to suggest that the phrase ОјОїПЃП†бЅґ бјђПЂбЅіП‰ОЅ signifies an inscriptional quality similar to the captions discussed by Elmer. In the context of Alcinoos’ speech, however, this possibility has two related sources. First, insofar as the assertion that Odysseus is like an бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚ means that he is not an бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚, the “shape” of his words implies a mode of verbal expression distinct from that of the singer (as Martin’s analysis of бј”ПЂОµО± also suggests). Second, insofar as Odysseus’ бј”ПЂОµО± refer to his own adventures and actions, they are the products of human (as opposed to divine) agency.251 Unlike the singer’s Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚, moreover, his бј”ПЂОµО± refer to past events that he reputedly once saw with his own eyes. Another way to put the matter would be to say that Odysseus stands in the middle of a continuum that includes the Muses’ “evil” gift of blindness at one end and “seeing with one’s own eyes” at the other. In the Odyssey, the past is located between these two empirical and epistemological discourses, mediated by the act of wandering as both a spatial and a conceptual category. Expressed in the verb ПЂО»бЅ±О¶П‰, this mediating figure is introduced at the very beginning of the poem, where the poet asks the Muse to tell him about an unnamed man “of many shifts or turns” (ПЂОїО»бЅ»П„ПЃОїПЂОїОЅ, 1.1) who has “wandered far and wide” (бЅѓП‚ ОјбЅ±О»О± ПЂОїО»О»бЅ° ПЂО»бЅ±ОіП‡ОёО·, 1.1–2) and who, as a consequence, has “seen the cities of men and has come to know their mind” (ПЂОїО»О»бї¶ОЅ Оґбѕї бјЂОЅОёПЃбЅЅПЂП‰ОЅ бјґОґОµОЅ бј„ПѓП„ОµО± ОєО±бЅ¶ ОЅбЅ№ОїОЅ бј”ОіОЅП‰, 1.3).252 Finally identified at line 20, Odysseus is both the principal wanderer in the poem and, almost predictably, the character whose disguise tests the implied authority of the eyewitness in reporting the truth about the past.253 When the wanderer returns home, the criterion for judging what he says he has seen in the past is transferred to judging the identity of the wanderer himself in Page 100 →the present. Prior to confronting Odysseus in disguise and echoing the words of her son, Telemachus, at Odyssey 3.93–95 and 4.323–25, Penelope invokes the two variables that characterize the plot of the Odyssey and the identity of its main character: the act of wandering, modified by the possibilities and limits of seeing with one’s own eyes (Odyssey 17.508–11). бїЋО•ПЃП‡ОµОї, Оґбї–бѕї О•бЅ”ОјО±О№Оµ, ОєО№бЅјОЅ П„бЅёОЅ ОѕОµбї–ОЅОїОЅ бј„ОЅП‰П‡ОёО№ бјђО»ОёбЅіОјОµОЅ, бЅ„П†ПЃО± П„бЅ· ОјО№ОЅ ПЂПЃОїПѓПЂП„бЅ»ОѕОїОјО±О№ бј Оґбѕї бјђПЃбЅіП‰ОјО±О№ Оµбјґ ПЂОїП… бЅ€ОґП…ПѓПѓбї†ОїП‚ П„О±О»О±ПѓбЅ·П†ПЃОїОЅОїП‚ бј бЅІ ПЂбЅіПЂП…ПѓП„О±О№ бјў бјґОґОµОЅ бЅЂП†ОёО±О»ОјОїбї–ПѓО№О‡ ПЂОїО»П…ПЂО»бЅ±ОіОєП„бїі ОібЅ°ПЃ бј”ОїО№ОєОµ.

[Go, good Eumaeus, and ask the stranger to come here, so that I can greet him and ask him if somehow he has learned of stout-hearted Odysseus or has seen him with his eyes; for he seems like one who has wandered widely.] Penelope’s words simultaneously remind us that Odysseus is a wanderer and point to the fact that, although she will see Odysseus with her own eyes, she will not initially know him. There is certainly irony here, but the full effect of the scene is only realized when Eumaeus answers Penelope and, in the process, compares the beggar (Odysseus in disguise) to a singer, or бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚ (Odyssey 17.512–21). П„бЅґОЅ Оґбѕї бјЂПЂО±ОјОµО№ОІбЅ№ОјОµОЅОїП‚ ПЂПЃОїПѓбЅіП†О·П‚, О•бЅ”ОјО±О№Оµ ПѓП…ОІбї¶П„О±О‡ Оµбј° ОібЅ±ПЃ П„ОїО№, ОІО±ПѓбЅ·О»ОµО№О±, ПѓО№П‰ПЂбЅµПѓОµО№О±ОЅ бј€П‡О±О№ОїбЅ·О‡ Оїбј·бѕї бЅ… ОіОµ ОјП…ОёОµбї–П„О±О№, ОёбЅіО»ОіОїО№П„бЅ№ ОєбЅі П„ОїО№ П†бЅ·О»ОїОЅ бј¦П„ОїПЃ. П„ПЃОµбї–П‚ ОібЅ°ПЃ ОґбЅµ ОјО№ОЅ ОЅбЅ»ОєП„О±П‚ бј”П‡ОїОЅ, П„ПЃбЅ·О± Оґбѕї бј¤ОјО±П„бѕї бј”ПЃП…ОѕО± бјђОЅ ОєО»О№ПѓбЅ·бїѓО‡ ПЂПЃбї¶П„ОїОЅ ОібЅ°ПЃ бј”Ојбѕї бјµОєОµП„Ої ОЅО·бЅёП‚ бјЂПЂОїОґПЃбЅ±П‚О‡ бјЂО»О»бѕї ОїбЅ” ПЂП‰ ОєО±ОєбЅ№П„О·П„О± ОґО№бЅµОЅП…ПѓОµОЅ бјЈОЅ бјЂОіОїПЃОµбЅ»П‰ОЅ. бЅЎП‚ Оґбѕї бЅ…П„бѕї бјЂОїО№ОґбЅёОЅ бјЂОЅбЅґПЃ ПЂОїП„О№ОґбЅіПЃОєОµП„О±О№, бЅ…П‚ П„Оµ ОёОµбї¶ОЅ бј’Оѕ бјЂОµбЅ·ОґОµО№ ОґОµОґО±бЅјП‚ бј”ПЂОµбѕї бј±ОјОµПЃбЅ№ОµОЅП„О± ОІПЃОїП„Оїбї–ПѓО№, П„Оїбї¦ Оґбѕї бј„ОјОїП„ОїОЅ ОјОµОјбЅ±О±ПѓО№ОЅ бјЂОєОїП…бЅіОјОµОЅ, бЅЃПЂПЂОїП„бѕї бјЂОµбЅ·ОґбїѓО‡ бЅЈП‚ бјђОјбЅІ ОєОµбї–ОЅОїП‚ бј”ОёОµО»ОіОµ ПЂО±ПЃбЅµОјОµОЅОїП‚ бјђОЅ ОјОµОібЅ±ПЃОїО№ПѓО№. [Then, swineherd Eumaeus, you replied to her: “Queen, I think the Achaeans should be silent, for whatever he says [ОјП…ОёОµбї–П„О±О№] could charm your dear heart. Page 101 →I had him with me for three nights, and for three days I kept him in my hut. For he came to me first after he escaped from the ship. But not even yet had he finished speaking about his evils. But as when a man gazes upon a singer who sings words that he has learned from the gods and that are pleasing to men,

and they eagerly desire to hear him, whenever he sings, thus did that one charm me as he sat beside me in my ОјО-ОіО±ПЃОїОЅ.”] Eumaeus’ simile is clearly an echo of Alcinoos’ at 11.368, although the two scenes in which the simile is found—just as the characters by whom it is spoken—could not be more different from one another: the lordly company and palatial setting of Alcinoos’ court has little in common with the simple hut of the swineherd. When Eumaeus refers to his own hut as a ОјО-ОіО±ПЃОїОЅ, moreover, it becomes clear that this scene is a lightly drawn parody of the scene in Phaiacia where Alcinoos twice urges Odysseus to tell his tale in his ОјбЅіОіО±ПЃОїОЅ (бјђОЅ ОјОµОібЅ±ПЃбїі, 11.374, 376, quoted above). Perhaps the most obvious effect of comparing the two scenes is to emphasize the fact that the Odysseus whom Eumaeus compares to a singer is a ОѕбЅіОЅОїП‚ in disguise, or, more succinctly, that Eumaeus is to Alcinoos as Odysseus in disguise is to Odysseus in propria persona.254 This analogy may reference the class- and culture-specific differences between the Phaiacian king and the Ithacan swineherd, in which the simplicity and credulity of the latter are highlighted. But more pertinent here is how the simile of the singer functions within this parodic context and, as a consequence, how it contributes to our understanding of the poem’s epistemological and perceptual discourses. As we have seen, when Alcinoos compares Odysseus to an бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚ in book 11, he bases the comparison partly on the propositions that Odysseus does not look like the sort of man who makes up lies (Пѓбѕї ОµбјґПѓОєОїОјОµОЅ Оµбј°ПѓОїПЃбЅ№П‰ОЅП„ОµП‚, ОєП„О»., 11.363–66) and, by extension, that бјЂОїО№ОґОїбЅ· sing the truth. When Eumaeus focuses the effect of the stranger’s speech through the figure of “a man [like Alcinoos] who gazes at a singer” (бЅЎП‚ Оґбѕї бЅ…П„бѕї бјЂОїО№ОґбЅёОЅ бјЂОЅбЅґПЃ ПЂОїП„О№ОґбЅіПЃОєОµП„О±О№, 17.518), he both recalls the skepticism implicit in Alcinoos’ statement (i.e., that Odysseus may be a liar) and distances himself Page 102 →from the false premise that lies at the heart of the simile, namely, that the disguised Odysseus is who he says he is by virtue of what he looks like. When Eumaeus completes the simile by saying that, like a singer, Odysseus “enchanted” him with his story (бЅЈП‚ бјђОјбЅІ ОєОµбї–ОЅОїП‚ бј”ОёОµО»ОіОµ, 17. 521), the effect of that false premise becomes more explicit. In the Odyssey, ОёбЅіО»ОіП‰ (enchant) refers most conspicuously to the magical powers attributed to Circe (10.291, 318, 326; cf. 24.3).255 Based on the link between looking at Odysseus and likening him to a singer, the effect of this scene in Ithaca relies on another inversion.256 If Alcinoos’ simile reveals an idealized confidence in the notion that singers sing the truth, Eumaeus’ recapitulation of the simile reveals the instability inherent in that conclusion: the disguised Odysseus is like a singer because he makes up lies, and Eumaeus is like a man who gazes on a singer, because he is too charmed to see that the beggar is his master. If the Odyssey is “aГ©docentric,” therefore, this is not due in any straightforward way to the selfconsciousness of the poet. If we do attribute it to the poet’s self-consciousness, it is not a simple matter of self-congratulation. Rather, it is hyperbolic and, as a consequence, compensatory. But what is it compensating for? I propose that the Odyssey presents an uneasy coexistence between two evidentiary modes, embodied in the blind singer, on the one hand, and the poem’s sighted protagonist, on the other. The poem’s focus on the socially and culturally authorized role of the former compensates for the bold imposition of the latter.257 The formal expression of this compensatory gesture is the chiastic displacement I have described above, in which “as if” statements (“as if you were somehow present,” “as if you were a singer”) demonstrate its agonistic potential. The hinge of this displacement is the appeal to visual or visually available proof. Conventionally and ideally figured as an ethical equation between a man’s external appearance and his inner (unseen) disposition, this equation is localized in the identity of the (disguised) hero and extended to visual perception as the basis for making truth claims about the past.258 Page 103 →As a witness to his own past, Odysseus’ comparison to an бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚ takes the form of an ironic simile in the service of an epistemological predicament. Expressed in the question of who can tell the truth about the past, the effect of the irony is to acknowledge what might be called a loss of memory. By “loss of memory,” I am referring not to an act of forgetting but to the specific “fading away” (to paraphrase

Herodotus again) of the Daughters of Memory and their divinely inspired singers as the sources and arbiters of the past.259 It is true, of course, that this divine apparatus never fades away completely. But by contrastively qualifying the truth claims of the blinded singer and the sighted speaker, the “as if” similes in the Odyssey bring these two subjects together in order to keep them apart. In doing so, they imply that the time of the divinely inspired (but blind) singer is passing by, or, in other terms, that the epic singer is on his way to becoming the repudiated other of the writers of history.260 In protoarchaeological terms, this transition is already at work in the epics in the competing claims of visual or empirical observation, on the one hand, and poetic inspiration, on the other. In this respect, Odysseus’ praise of Demodocus for telling the story of the Trojan War “as if he were present” can be productively read against Ranke’s famous appeal to “showing” (zeigen) the past “as it actually was” (wie es eigentlich gewesen). Man hat der Historie das Amt, die Vergangenheit zu richten, die Mitwelt zum Nutzen zukГјnftiger Jahre zu belehren, beigemessen: so hoher Aemter unterwindet sich gegenwГ¤rtiger Versuch nicht: er will blos zeigen, wie es eigentlich gewesen. [To history has been given the function of judging the past, of instructing men for the profit of future years. The present attempt does not aspire to such a lofty undertaking. It merely wants to show how it essentially was.]261 Page 104 →Aided by the impersonal construction, the aim of “showing” (zeigen) how the past essentially was may be understood as nothing more than academic German for stating a proposition.262 But the visual metaphor also takes its place as the enabling mechanism of narrative history.263 Ranke’s formulation is less pertinent here, however, than Paul Ricoeur’s commentary on it in Time and Narrative. The wie—which, paradoxically, acts to balance the eigentlich—thus assumes the tropological value of “such as”—interpreted as metaphor, metonymy, synecdoche, and irony. What Hayden White terms the “representative” function of the historical imagination once again borders on the act of providing вЂourselves a figure ofВ .В .В .’ by which the imagination manifests its ocular dimension. The past is what I would have seen, what I would have witnessed if I had been there.264 Ricoeur’s use of “such as” and “as if” statements to allude to the founding principles of nineteenth-century historicism are strikingly similar to those used in Homer, with the notable switch from the second person in Odysseus’ remarks to Demodocus (“as if you yourself had been there”) to the first person in the passage from Ricoeur (“if I had been there”).265 It can be objected that this is no more than a mere coincidence. But if we take seriously the possibility that such statements are a clue to the historicist project, as Ricoeur’s references to the work of Hayden White also recommend, then we are urged to consider their theoretical significance, including their use in Homer. This does not mean taking the epic poems as source texts, Page 105 →nor does it call for compiling a data set of similar “as if” statements.266 It does, however, suggest that Ricoeur’s statements are symptomatic rather than coincidental. As such, these pronouncements give us insight into the rhetorical effect of the “as if” statement in the ancient epic and, in particular, to what Ricoeur refers to as its “ocular dimension.” As I have suggested, Odysseus’ address to Demodocus is a form of displacement that, together with the complementary (not complimentary) assertion that Odysseus tells his story “as a singer would,” points to the instability of the poem’s evidentiary relationship to the past. The poet of the Odyssey alerts us to the fact that the human desire to see or to be present in a past that is not our own is simultaneously the proof of its impossibility. Whether expressed in the methodological error of the historicists or in the display practices of the museum, it is this interplay of indirectness and impossibility that Ricoeur is responding to when he says, “The past is what I

would have seen, what I would have witnessed if I had been there.”267 In the “as-if” statements analyzed above, this interplay is expressed in the formal and epistemological discourses that distinguish the human eyewitness from the blind singer in the Odyssey. Filtered through the long-standing scholarly debate over the production and reception of the epic poems, a debate grounded in questions of presence, authenticity, and immediacy, the epic’s protoarchaeological effect is produced in the mediating practices (singing, telling, reading) that both invoke the promise of seeing the past and defer its fulfillment.

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Chapter 4 “Up to My Time” The Fading of the Past in Herodotus’ Histories This union of two meanings we must regard as of a higher order than mere outward accident; we must suppose historical narrations to have appeared contemporaneously with historical deeds and events. —G. W. F. Hegel, The Philosophy of History268 This chapter explores the role of visible evidence for the past in Herodotus’ Histories, exemplified in the fate of the offerings of the Lydian kings in the Lydian logos. The argument is focused on the temporal, ontological, and epistemological variables at work in the relationship between the oracles given to the Lydian kings and the offerings they inspire. Expressed in terms of a specific temporo-linguistic feature in the Histories—namely, Herodotus’ descriptions of objects that exist up to his own time (бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјОµбї¦, ОјбЅіП‡ПЃО№П‚ бјђОјбЅіОї etc.)—this relationship has to do with how visible phenomena in the present are marshaled by the historian to verify events that happened in the past. In this context, these phrases testify to a particular protoarchaeological effect in the writing of history, one in which the historian’s own experiences of the phenomenal or visible world in the present are constitutive of the historical past. In Herodotus’ own terms, this chapter explores how his account of the Lydian offerings responds to the programmatic metaphor that guides his work, which is to ensure that “the past deeds [П„бЅ° ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО±] of men may not fade with time” (Histories 1.1).269 Page 107 →The “present” in Herodotus’ work is clearly not the idealized present of epic performance but is contemporary with the time of writing the Histories. This difference is decisive. At the same time, however, the epic poems—as discussed above—prefigure the epistemological and temporal variables that inform the approach to the Histories taken here. To begin with, Homer’s account of the Achaean wall in the Iliad establishes a framework for evaluating the evidentiary quality of objects that are still visible in the hic et nunc of the historical narrative. Like the wall, the Lydian offerings are defined by their vulnerability to disappearing over time. As the fate of the Achaean wall speaks to the ethical content of the Iliad, measured in the achievement of heroic ОєО»бЅіОїП‚, so the fate of the Lydian offerings extends to the ethical content of the Histories, that is, to the achievement of human prosperity, or ОµбЅђОґО±О№ОјОїОЅбЅ·О·. Finally, if the destruction of the wall is viewed from the perspective of a hypothetical past, the historian’s temporal belatedness with respect to the visible remains he describes is the source of a similar temporal predicament.270 In both cases, the present is defined in terms of a competition between preserving the past and losing sight of the past as a result of the inevitable decay of the material/visible world. Before turning to Herodotus’ text, I want to locate this discussion within current and ongoing debates over the connection between the historical past and the historical text in the philosophy of history.271 Doing so acknowledges the contemporary perspective that frames the argument and foregrounds the question of what it means to read Herodotus’ text in our own time. I begin with Frank Ankersmit’s distinction between “looking at” and “looking through” the historical text, as a succinct expression of the epistemological dilemma that lies at the heart of historical narrative since the linguistic turn, namely, the relationship between the reality of the past and the rhetorical structures that shape that reality. In the present context, this relationship is expressed as a function of the rhetorical strategies that invest visible or material objects with temporal meaning; Ankersmit’s visual metaphors are themselves manifestations of this investment. To better understand this function, I then turn briefly to the relationship between what Alois Riegl has called the “age-value” and the “historical value” of artifacts and monuments. Formulated in the context of early twentieth-century debates within the discipline of art history, Riegl’s terms are adapted here

to the temporal effects of objects and artifacts in Greek narrative history. Together, these two sets of conceptual categories provide the basis for exploring the ontological, epistemological,Page 108 → and temporal dimensions of objects and artifacts that Herodotus defines by the fact that they exist “up to my time.” In History and Tropology, under the auspices of what has been called the new historiography, Ankersmit argues that the historical text is “no longer a layer through which one looks (either at a past reality or at the historian’s authorial intention), but something which the historiographer must look at.”272 The activity of looking at the historical text is presumably shorthand for poststructuralist and psychoanalytic approaches to language and narrative, aimed at apprehending their hidden or latent content. According to Ankersmit, “A historically uncontaminated, transcendentally knowing subject looks вЂthrough the text’ at a past reality which lies behind it.” Conversely, looking at the historical text means noticing that it is not a transparent window on a set of preexisting real events and that events are endowed with historical reality by virtue of the text’s mediating practices; transparency is an effect of rhetoric.273 But even if historiographers no longer look through their texts, what JГјrgen Pieters has called the “ontological level of the past itself” is a recurring point of reference in the discipline.274 I want to draw attention, however, to Ankersmit’s own rhetorical strategy, that is, his seemingly natural and inevitable use of visual metaphors to describe this advance in historiographical thinking.275 If “a transcendentally knowing subject” looks through the historical text, what sort of subject looks at it? If both subjects are readers, how do we differentiate between the subject for whom reading history summons a past reality and the one for whom it activates a skeptical response to such a summons? This question rests, in turn, on identifying the time-dependent characteristics that define remains and ruins as such in historical narrative. Addressed to the problem of justifying the preservation of monuments (which include all classes of artifacts), this definition forms the basis of Alois Riegl’s 1903 essay “The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Character and Its Origin.”276 Riegl’s arguments are not concerned with narrative history per se. But as Michael Gubser suggests, “the concept of history” is central to Riegl’s work. Page 109 →Time was not simply one topic among the many that held Riegl’s attention; his oeuvre can be read as a sustained investigation of the concept of history itself, a steady effort to grasp history and time in artistic form—to treat art as time’s visible surface.277 The importance of Riegl’s essay for the discipline of art history has been well documented by scholars in the field.278 Its significance in the current context is due not to its arguments about the relationship between formalism and representation in the history of art but to its focus on what Gubser suggestively calls “time’s visible surface.” According to Gubser, Riegl identified “two distinct notions of time: time as a historical construct, and time as a phenomenon embedded in artifacts.”279 More significantly, these notions of time are imbued with notions of value, that is, with what Riegl called the “historical value” (historischer Wert) of monuments, on the one hand, and their “age-value” (Alterswert) on the other. Although Riegl assigns these temporal values to the nineteenth and twentieth centuries respectively, their theoretical implications extend beyond these chronological parameters.280 In Riegl’s account, historical value and age-value intersect on synchronic and diachronic axes; the former is the effect of a singular moment in the past, while the latter emerges through time. Age-value appreciates the past for itself, while historical value singles out one moment in the developmental continuum of the past and places it before our eyes as if it belonged to the presentВ .В .В . While age-value is based solely on the passage of time, historical value, though it could not exist without recognizing time’s passage, nevertheless wishes to suspend time. Intentional commemorative value simply makes claim to immortality, to an eternal present and an unceasing state of becoming. It thereby battles the natural processes of decay that militate against the fulfillment of its claims.281

Page 110 →Riegl explains that if historical value gestures toward an “eternal present,” age-value gestures toward its own ephemerality, that is, to the future disappearance of the monument or artifact in question. It is probably fair to say that ruins appear more picturesque the more advanced their state of decay: as decay progresses, age-value becomes less extensive, that is to say, evoked less and less by fewer and fewer remains, but is therefore all the more intensive in its impact on the beholder. Of course, the process has its limits. When finally nothing remains, then the effect vanishes completely. A shapeless pile of rubble is no longer able to convey age-value; there must be at least a recognizable trace of the original form, that is, of man’s handiwork, whereas rubble alone reveals no trace of the original creation.282 Derived from developmental and progressist premises, these values invoke the human capacity to preserve monuments or artifacts, on the one hand, and the monuments’ natural and inevitable tendency to decay and disappear, on the other.283 In addition to these temporal and existential categories, the two values also comprise spatial orientations: historical value is an effect of “localized historical memories” (lokalisierte historische Erinnerungen), while age-value is an effect of a “non localized presentation of time” (nicht lokalisierte Vorstellung der Zeit).284 This spatiotemporal localization is necessarily specified from the point of view of an observer, whose response to the monument or artifact is either analytical (in the case of historical value) or emotional (in the case of agevalue).285 As a subject in space and time, in other words, the viewer of the monument is, in Riegl’s account, the arbiter of the value of Page 111 →the past, where that value is realized in a negotiation between the eternal and the ephemeral and between objective (historical) knowledge and subjective (emotional) response.286 Riegl’s “pile of rubble” speaks to the recurring appearance of rocks and stones in assessing the meaning of the past in relation to what is seen in the present (as discussed in chapter 1 of this study). Finally, Riegl distinguishes between what he calls “intentional” (gewollte) and “unintentional” (ungewollte) monuments. In general terms, intentional monuments are invested with historical value at the time of their making, while unintentional monuments are invested with age-value over time. To the class of intentional monuments belong only those works which recall a specific moment or complex of moments from the past. The class of historical monuments is enlarged to include those which still refer to a particular moment but the choice of that moment is left to our subjective preference. Finally, the category of monuments of age-value embraces every artifact without regard to its original significance and purpose, as long as it reveals the passage of a considerable period of time.287 The distinction made here between intentional and unintentional monuments is clearly not absolute. Unintentional monuments, which are presumably not made to last, can nevertheless express historical value (the singular value of intentional monuments), simply by virtue of their continued, if diminishing, existence. As Gubser observes, “Unintentional monumentsВ .В .В . have historical value as a result of their ability to register the passage of time, to show the visible traces of origin and age-value.”288 If this leaves us with a somewhat fuzzy picture of the relationship of intention to value in Riegl’s scheme, it also suggests that age-value is the necessary precondition of historical value; only things that have lasted into the present (wherever we locate that present), regardless of the intention of their original makers, can be invested with historical value. To summarize, Riegl proposes three sets of interlocking concepts combining ontological, temporal, and evaluative criteria. Beginning with the Page 112 →distinction between their makers’ intent at the point of origin, monuments and artifacts are perceived as such by an observer whose own position in time is the basis for judging their age-value or historical value. These values rest, in turn, on their subjection or resistance to decay, where such resistance is the particular task of the historian. It is the task of the historian [Aufgabe des Historikers] to make up, with all available means, for the damage [LГјcken] nature has wrought in monuments over time. The symptoms of decay

[Auflösung] which are the essence of age-value must be thoroughly removed for the sake of its historical value. This must be done not to the monument itself, but only to a copy or a mental reconstruction of it.289

The conservationist aims of Riegl the art historian are in full view here. It is clear too that Riegl is interested in preserving the integrity of monuments as actual or visible structures and not in their narrative descriptions. But the words that the translators render here as “mental reconstruction” mean, more literally, “thoughts and words”: “Nur darf dies nicht am Denkmal selbst geschehen, sondern an einer Kopie oder bloГџ in Gedanken und Worten.”290 In other words, Riegl suggests that historical value can be realized in verbal descriptions that restore the monument in question to its original and intentional form. Furthermore, he suggests that while age-value is essential, historical value is gained at its expense. Thus, even though Riegl’s essay is not concerned with narrative history, it provides a useful conceptual vocabulary for assigning value to descriptions of monuments and artifacts in history writing. To return to Ankersmit’s terms, the relationship between age-value and historical value can be understood as loosely analogous to the relationship between “looking through” and “looking at” the historical text. The basis of the analogy is the ever-receding image of an object or feature whose essential ephemerality both enables and resists its historical value. The ability to see the reality of the past, in other words, is both evoked and resisted by the presence of the text. In what follows, these ideas are the basis for analyzing Herodotus’ descriptions of objects and features that exist “up to my time” as constitutive of the Histories’ protoarchaeological effect. This analysis includes attention to the value of reading history as a mediation between the relentless passing of time and the historian’s obligation to preserve what remains of the past. Page 113 →In Herodotus in Context, Rosalind Thomas cautions against “assuming that what [Herodotus] вЂsaw’ was exactly what we would see if transported suddenly to the same spot.”291 This cautionary note is well taken. For contemporary writers and thinkers, the metaphor of seeing what happened in the past is rooted in media that rely on photographic technologies, with their perceived relationship to the real. As a consequence of these media, the past has become naturalized as a visible phenomenon.292 The desire to “see what Herodotus saw,” in other words, can be understood as an effect of this postphotographic form of eyewitnessing, with its implicit claim to a closer visual proximity to the truth about the past.293 But the concept and consequences of seeing the historical past in the present can be traced back to Herodotus.294 Carolyn Dewald notes that Herodotus is “the first extant Greek author whose stated purpose is to record ta genomena, that is, facts and events.”295 In a related article, she remarks on the “widespread pattern in Herodotus—the vivid but highly ambiguous relationship between material, tangible things and their meanings within the larger narrative.”296 As a complement to Dewald’s insights, Thomas suggests that Herodotus’ explicit methodological Page 114 →formulation of observable, testable evidence, including his use of analogy from visible to invisible data, owes much to the Hippocratics.297 Both scholars allude to the fact that Herodotus’ narrative verifies past events through its attention to objects, bodies, architectural features, and descriptive facts, that is, to the material or visible phenomena that those events have left behind. Thus, regardless of whatever we believe to have been Herodotus’ influences for the authority of visible evidence (e.g., the Hippocratic texts), his method of inquiry is indebted to that authority even or perhaps especially when what is visible is ambiguous in the Histories, as Dewald demonstrates. This brings us to Herodotus’ well-known programmatic statement at the beginning of the Histories (1.1–5).298 бј©ПЃОїОґбЅ№П„ОїП… бј‰О»О№ОєО±ПЃОЅО·ПѓПѓбЅіОїП‚ бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅ·О·П‚ бјЂПЂбЅ№ОґОµОѕО№П‚ ἥδε, бЅЎП‚ ОјбЅµП„Оµ П„бЅ° ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО± бјђОѕ бјЂОЅОёПЃбЅЅПЂП‰ОЅ П„бї· П‡ПЃбЅ№ОЅбїі бјђОѕбЅ·П„О·О»О± ОібЅіОЅО·П„О±О№, ОјбЅµП„Оµ бј”ПЃОіО± ОјОµОібЅ±О»О± П„Оµ ОєО±О№ ОёП‰ОјО±ПѓП„бЅ±, П„бЅ° ОјбЅІОЅ бїћО•О»О»О·ПѓО№, П„бЅ° ОґбЅІ ОІО±ПЃОІбЅ±ПЃОїО№ПѓО№

бјЂПЂОїОґОµП‡ОёбЅіОЅП„О± бјЂОєО»Оµбѕ¶ ОібЅіОЅО·П„О±О№, П„бЅ± П„Оµ бј„О»О»О± ОєО±бЅ¶ ОґО№бѕї бјЈОЅ О±бј°П„бЅ·О·ОЅ бјђПЂОїО»бЅіОјО·ПѓО±ОЅ бјЂО»О»бЅµО»ОїО№ПѓО№. [This is the exposition of the inquiry of Herodotus the Halicarnassian, so that the past actions of men may not fade with time, and so that the great and marvelous deeds brought forth by the Hellenes and the barbarians may not be without fame, and especially the cause for which they went to war with each other.] Unlike the epic poet whose aim is to sing the exploits of the individual gods and heroes, Herodotus’ stated aim is to narrate the collective past actions of human beings (П„бЅ° ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО± бјђОѕ бјЂОЅОёПЃбЅЅПЂП‰ОЅ).299 What further distinguishes Page 115 →the facts and events about which he writes is epitomized in the phrase with which the purpose clause culminates, “so that the past actionsВ .В .В . may not fade with time” (П„бї· П‡ПЃбЅ№ОЅбїі бјђОѕбЅ·П„О·О»О±). The idea that the deeds, or ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО±, of human beings can fade with time may seem only natural.300 But the phrase is uncommon in the literary sources, and most later combinations of бјђОѕбЅ·П„О·О»ОїП‚ and П‡ПЃбЅ№ОЅОїП‚ seem to be indebted to Herodotus. Pausanias uses the adjective twice in the PeriГЄgГЄsis, both times in explicit references to visible phenomena; Pausanias’ role in the present argument is discussed in more detail below.301 In short, the metaphor of fading with time seems to emerge with the writing of Herodotean бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅ·О·, where it implicitly equates П„бЅ° ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО± with visible evidence and acknowledges or establishes the corrosive effect of time on that evidence.302 Herodotus’ references to things that exist “up to my time” (as the phrases Page 116 →are commonly translated) exemplify this process in the Histories. As the preferred English translation of the phrases бјђП‚ бјђОјбЅі or бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјОµбї¦, “up to my time” emphasizes their implied temporal content over the subject of the personal pronoun.303 A more literal translation refers to the historical past as a series of receding points of view relative to a “me” that establishes a contemporary baseline.304 I refer to “point of view” here to emphasize the fact that these phrases are often used in the Histories to refer to the visual remains of material objects or architectural features.305 It is therefore no surprise that they are also common in Pausanias’ PeriГЄgГЄsis.306 Noting that these phrases are most often used with a past tense (usually the imperfect) in Herodotus, Wolfgang RГ¶sler suggests that “the writer’s вЂown time’ seems to be set both in the present and in the past.” He concludes that, as a consequence, Herodotus historicizes his own time; that is, he presents it from the point of view of a future reader.307 In fact, RГ¶sler takes this temporal framing as further evidence that the Histories were meant to be read rather than heard. Page 117 →The writer’s glance back at himself coincides with the perspective of a future reader, whose perception of the Histories as a work from the past is anticipated in the text. One hardly needs to add that this would have been quite impossible in an oral delivery.308 RГ¶sler’s conclusion that this sort of anticipation is “quite impossible” in a work meant for oral delivery is arguably overstated.309 Of greater significance here, however, is the fact that visible phenomena are the source of this anticipation in the Histories, including their role in summoning future readers. As a consequence, reading history constitutes a tacit acknowledgment that the past is what is no longer or only partially visible, or, in Herodotus’ words, that it fades with time. This is one way of interpreting RГ¶sler’s compelling point that Herodotus historicizes his own work from the point of view of a future reader. But if the expression бјђП‚ бјђОјбЅі equates that reader with a “me” who can, in principle, see the visible proof of prior events, it also emphasizes the metonymic or figural nature of that equation.310 Following his introductory summary of the legendary or traditional events that initiated the conflict between barbarians and Greeks (1.1–4), Herodotus begins his history proper with the story of Croesus.311 He prefaces

this beginning Page 118 →with another programmatic statement about cities that exist “in my time.” This is the first occurrence of the phrase бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјОµбї¦ in the Histories (1.5.3–6.1). П„О±бї¦П„О± ОјбЅіОЅ ОЅП…ОЅ О бЅіПЃПѓО±О№ П„Оµ ОєО±бЅ¶ О¦ОїбЅ·ОЅО№ОєОµП‚ О»бЅіОіОїП…ПѓО№. бјђОібЅј ОґбЅІ ПЂОµПЃбЅ¶ ОјбЅІОЅ П„ОїбЅ»П„П‰ОЅ ОїбЅђОє бј”ПЃП‡ОїОјО±О№ бјђПЃбЅіП‰ОЅ бЅЎП‚ ОїбЅ•П„П‰П‚ бјў бј„О»О»П‰П‚ ОєП‰П‚ П„О±бї¦П„О± бјђОібЅіОЅОµП„Ої, П„бЅёОЅ ОґбЅІ Оїбј¶ОґО± О±бЅђП„бЅёП‚ ПЂПЃбї¶П„ОїОЅ бЅ‘ПЂбЅ±ПЃОѕО±ОЅП„О± бјЂОґбЅ·ОєП‰ОЅ бј”ПЃОіП‰ОЅ бјђП‚ П„ОїбЅєП‚ бїћО•О»О»О·ОЅО±П‚, П„Оїбї¦П„ОїОЅ ПѓО·ОјбЅµОЅО±П‚ ПЂПЃОїОІбЅµПѓОїОјО±О№ бјђП‚ П„бЅё ПЂПЃбЅ№ПѓП‰ П„Оїбї¦ О»бЅ№ОіОїП…, бЅЃОјОїбЅ·П‰П‚ ПѓОјО№ОєПЃбЅ° ОєО±бЅ¶ ОјОµОібЅ±О»О± бј„ПѓП„ОµО± бјЂОЅОёПЃбЅЅПЂП‰ОЅ бјђПЂОµОѕО№бЅЅОЅ. П„бЅ° ОібЅ°ПЃ П„бЅё ПЂбЅ±О»О±О№ ОјОµОібЅ±О»О± бј¦ОЅ, П„бЅ° ПЂОїО»О»бЅ° О±бЅђП„бї¶ОЅ ПѓОјО№ОєПЃбЅ° ОібЅіОіОїОЅОµ, П„бЅ° ОґбЅІ бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјОµбї¦ бј¦ОЅ ОјОµОібЅ±О»О±, ПЂПЃбЅ№П„ОµПЃОїОЅ бј¦ОЅ ПѓОјО№ОєПЃбЅ±. П„бЅґОЅ бјЂОЅОёПЃП‰ПЂО·бЅ·О·ОЅ бЅ¦ОЅ бјђПЂО№ПѓП„бЅ±ОјОµОЅОїП‚ ОµбЅђОґО±О№ОјОїОЅбЅ·О·ОЅ ОїбЅђОґО±Ојбѕ¶ бјђОЅ П„бЅ П…П„бї· ОјбЅіОЅОїП…ПѓО±ОЅ бјђПЂО№ОјОЅбЅµПѓОїОјО±О№ бјЂОјП†ОїП„бЅіПЃП‰ОЅ бЅЃОјОїбЅ·П‰П‚. [These are the things that the Persians and the Phoenicians say. For my part, I am not going to say that these things were as stated or otherwise, but having identified the man who I myself know first began to commit unjust acts against the Greeks, I shall advance further into my account, detailing the small and great cities of men alike. For many of those that were once great have become small; and those that are great in my time [бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјОµбї¦] were small before. Knowing therefore that human prosperity [ОµбЅђОґО±О№ОјОїОЅбЅ·О·] never remains in the same state, I will mention both alike. The progression of thought in this chapter is not easy to follow but starts by establishing the authority of the narrator, based on his skepticism about what others have said, together with his own knowledge of temporally relative data. These data include specific knowledge about the first barbarian who committed unjust acts against the Greeks, followed by a general statement about the temporal variables that guide his narrative, or logos. As we will come to find out, Croesus is not only the first barbarian to commit unjust acts against the Greeks; his is also the first story in the Histories to illustrate the truism that “human prosperity [ОµбЅђОґО±О№ОјОїОЅбЅ·О·] never remains in the same state.”312 But how does the relative greatness and smallness of cities (бј„ПѓП„ОµО±) contribute to this truism? The implied equation between what Page 119 →happens to cities and what happens to men—that is, that their fortunes change over time—makes sense. H. R. Immerwahr notes that “the whole passage has a connection with the language of geographical literature, in which the eudaimonia of cities is a standard topic.”313 But the roots of this connection are not certain. Nor does it fully explain the programmatic function of the relative sizes of cities (бј„ПѓП„ОµО±) in the Histories.314 At the beginning of the Odyssey, Odysseus is described as a man who “saw the cities and knew the mind(s) of many men,” where бј„ПѓП„ОµО± are the object of a verb of seeing (ПЂОїО»О»бї¶ОЅ бјЂОЅОёПЃбЅЅПЂП‰ОЅ бјґОґОµОЅ бј„ПѓП„ОµО± ОєО±бЅ¶ ОЅбЅ№ОїОЅ бј”ОіОЅП‰, 1.3).315 Herodotus preserves this visible aspect of бј„ПѓП„П… in his description of the events leading up to the assault and final destruction of Sardis at the hands of the Persians (ПЂбѕ¶ОЅ П„бЅё бј„ПѓП„П… бјђПЂОїПЃОёбЅіОµП„Ої,1.84.5).316 These events are governed by the physical topography of the city and the ability to see where the acropolis is vulnerable. Herodotus does not indicate whether the size of cities to which he refers in his programmatic statement is quantitative (demographic or topographic) or qualitative (having to do with power).317 This very lack of specificity gives the passage its programmatic value. Drawing on the ethnographic effect of seeing cities in the epic, this value seems to be measured in the temporal effects of seeing their remains in the Histories.318 Exactly how this programmatic value is linked to the ethical content of the narrative—that is, to the struggle for εὐδαιμονίη—is, as suggested above, only implicit at this point. Nonetheless, the passage establishes the utility of visible remains for exemplifying that struggle in the

relationship between what happened in the past (П„бЅ° ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО±) and what is visible in the present (бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјОµбї¦). As suggested at the beginning of this chapter, a more detailed account of this relationship is given in the narrative of the offerings made by the Page 120 →Lydian kings in Greece, beginning with those of Gyges. After murdering Candaules, Gyges made gold and silver offerings to Delphi in thanks to the oracle for deciding the issue of the Lydian kingship in his favor (1.13–14). But this decision exacted a price: the Pythia added that the Heracleidae would take vengeance for the murder of Candaules in the fifth generation.319 We here enter into a scholarly debate about the timing and authenticity of the oracles and its consequences for interpreting the significance of the Lydian offerings in the Histories. To begin with, the precision of the prediction as it is brought to pass in Herodotus’ account of the downfall of Croesus suggests that it was made ex eventu.320 Following out this conclusion, Joseph Fontenrose believes that all the Lydian oracles, beginning with those of Gyges, are “not genuine.”321 Harriet Flower responds, If one starts by assuming that the oracles quoted by Herodotus are all later fiction, presumably invented by the priests at Delphi to enhance the prestige of Pythian Apollo, and moreover, that they bear no resemblance to any oracle ever given, they cannot be seen as part of a valid oral tradition in any way reflecting Croesus’ relations with Delphi. Flower goes on to suggest that Herodotus “clearly believed that Delphi had issued such oracles.”322 What Herodotus may have believed, however, is not a valid test of the authenticity of the oracles, even if we could know it. After summarizing previous scholarship, Lisa Maurizio suggests that “a notion of [the Delphic oracles’] authenticity amounts to little more than a subjective notion of plausibility.”323 She concludes that the debate over the authenticity of oracles that were more than one hundred years old by the time Herodotus records them tells us more about the limits of the evidence than about what the Pythia may have actually said and when she may have said it. For our purposes, this debate over the authenticity of the oracles raises Page 121 →analogous questions about the authenticity of Gyges’ offerings. If the oracles are fictional, can the offerings be real? Alternatively, does Herodotus describe the offerings in order to authenticate the (fictional) oracles? In other words, we confront here again the kind of archaeological positivism called forth by descriptions of visible phenomena in texts. Whether the oracles are genuine or fake, however, they serve the narrative purpose of justifying Gyges’ offerings as expressions of piety. In doing so, they may also suppress the possibility that Delphi’s political capital (whatever it may have been) could be bought by a foreign entity.324 However we parse them, questions about what the historian believed, what the oracles actually said and when, and what Delphi was or was not selling reveal how the offerings of the Lydian kings are emblematic of the ontological, epistemological, and ethical issues that structure the Lydian logos.325 These issues take their most complex form in the account of the offerings of Croesus, which include 117 gold ingots, a lion made of ten talents of gold, numerous gold and silver vessels, and a golden shield and spear that Herodotus says still exist in Thebes “up to my time” (бјђП‚ бјђОјбЅі, Histories 1.51–52).326 I take the phrase “up to my time,” coming at the end of the account, to refer not only to the shield and spear in Thebes but to all the enumerated objects. The phrase thus divides the offerings into two categories: those that exist “up to my time” and those that do not. The second category, consisting of objects that were known about but had disappeared by the time that Herodotus was writing the Histories, sounds a cautionary note in the scholarly debate over whether or not Croesus’ offerings actually existed. Parke and Wormell state, for example, “The overwhelming bounty of Croesus to Delphi must be accepted as a fact.”327 Leaving aside a logic that implicitly equates quantity with existence, this conclusion is another example of the Page 122 →kind of archaeological positivism elicited by descriptions of physical objects in narrative. It also, if ironically, diminishes the protoarchaeological effect of those objects, since their function in the Histories is simply explained by the fact that they actually did exist.328 At this point in the narrative, the list of Croesus’ offerings has less to do with their actual existence, however,

than with their mediating role between the two oracles that lead to the king’s disastrous decision to go to war against the Persians. As Hartog has observed, the oracles structure the narrative of Croesus’ fall from power. The repeated interventions of the Pythia are the leading threads of the plot or, to use a different image, play the role of a periodizing principle (the oracles succeeding one another). So the oracle functions as an organizing pattern of the narrative, as a reservoir of meaning and as a principle of intelligibility, with the familiar phrase: “Since it was necessary that misfortune befell him.”329 This organizing pattern is key to the protoarchaeological effect of Croesus’ offerings, including the ethical dimension of that effect, expressed in the phrase “since it was necessary that misfortune befell him.” As Hartog suggests, moreover, the principal variable in the presentation of the offerings is time, including both how the objects themselves are affected by time and their placement in the chronology of events in the Lydian logos. Between the time they were dedicated and the time Herodotus describes them, Croesus’ offerings have been moved, their origins have become obscured, or they have undergone some physical change.330 The large gold and silver bowls have been moved due to the burning of the temple of Apollo at Delphi.331 The dedication inscribed on the golden sprinkling vessel has been falsified.332 Page 123 →The maker of the mixing bowl is left to an uncertain oral tradition (П†О±ПѓбЅ¶, 1.51.3), as is the identification of the statue, or ОµбјґОґП‰О»ОїОЅ, of the woman said to be Croesus’ baker (О»бЅіОіОїП…ПѓО№, 1.51.5).333 Finally, and most significantly, the golden lion has been substantially reduced in size, again due to the burning of the temple (1.50.3). ОїбЅ—П„ОїП‚ бЅЃ О»бЅіП‰ОЅ, бјђПЂОµбЅ·П„Оµ ОєО±П„ОµОєО±бЅ·ОµП„Ої бЅЃ бјђОЅ О”ОµО»П†Оїбї–ПѓО№ ОЅО·бЅ№П‚, ОєО±П„бЅіПЂОµПѓОµ бјЂПЂбЅё П„бї¶ОЅ бјЎОјО№ПЂО»О№ОЅОёбЅ·П‰ОЅ (бјђПЂбЅ¶ ОібЅ°ПЃ П„ОїбЅ»П„ОїО№ПѓО№ бјµОґПЃП…П„Ої), ОєО±бЅ¶ ОЅбї¦ОЅ ОєОµбї–П„О±О№ бјђОЅ П„бї· ОљОїПЃО№ОЅОёбЅ·П‰ОЅ ОёО·ПѓО±П…ПЃбї·, бј•О»ОєП‰ОЅ ПѓП„О±ОёОјбЅёОЅ бј•ОІОґОїОјОїОЅ бјЎОјО№П„бЅ±О»О±ОЅП„ОїОЅ, бјЂПЂОµП„бЅ±ОєО· ОібЅ°ПЃ О±бЅђП„Оїбї¦ П„бЅіП„О±ПЃП„ОїОЅ бјЎОјО№П„бЅ±О»О±ОЅП„ОїОЅ. [When the temple of Delphi was burnt, this lion fell from the ingots on which it stood; and now it is in the treasury of the Corinthians but weighs only six talents and a half, for the fire melted away three and a half talents.]334 By the time Herodotus makes his list, in other words, the objects he describes have become something different (or less) than Croesus’ offerings, facilitated by the burning of the temple of Delphi.335 This event is clearly an important Page 124 →reference point in the narrative, even though Herodotus has very little to say about it; he only tells us later that the fire was self-generated (О±бЅђП„бЅ№ОјО±П„ОїП‚ ОєО±П„ОµОєбЅ±О·, 2.180.1). Evidence for the burning of the temple is spotty or late. Pausanias (PeriГЄgГЄsis 10.5.13) dates the event to 548 /47, perhaps two years before the defeat of Croesus and the fall of Sardis.336 Parke argues that Pausanias’ dating is problematic because Herodotus makes no mention of the fact that such an event would be ominous for Croesus’ fortunes in his war against Cyrus.337 Parke bases this conclusion on the “superstition” that links the fate of material objects with the fate of their owners or, in this case, the fate of those who dedicated them.338 Similar to the implied link between the ОµбЅђОґО±О№ОјОїОЅбЅ·О· of cities and their citizens, however, this link is more complex than “superstition” allows. We cannot know, of course, whether Herodotus believed that the fire preceded the destruction of Sardis. But his narrative elides this sequence of events in order to focus on the changes that the objects have undergone rather than on the predictive potential of those changes. If anything, Herodotus has turned this predictive potential into hindsight. Gregory Crane concludes that “every Greek who visited Delphi after the fall of Sardis and gazed upon the spectacular dedications of Kroisos must have, at some level, been sensitive to the problem which Kroisos’ fate posed.”339 Presumably, this sensitivity has to do with the knowledge that great wealth and ostentatious piety are not the sources of ОµбЅђОґО±О№ОјОїОЅбЅ·О·, or, to return to Herodotus’ programmatic statement, that “human prosperity never remains in the same state” (1.5.3–6.1). If the dedications had already been ravaged by fire or otherwise moved or altered, the meaning of Croesus’ fate would be expressed

not so much in the spectacular nature of his dedications as in their mutability and ephemerality. Thus, the overall effect of quantifying and qualifying Croesus’ offerings in the Histories is not simply to verify their historicity or, by extension, to verify the authority of the historian.340 Page 125 →Rather, they verify the contingencies—notably, if somewhat ironically, that of time itself—that beset such notions as historical veracity and authority.341 Moreover, while the list of Croesus’ offerings may be said to lend empirical weight to Herodotus’ account of the oracles Croesus received and to their interpretation, it also demonstrates that the interpretation of objects has something in common with the interpretation of oracles; the meaning of both comes with time. If moreover, the implied promise of oracles is that the future is knowable, the implied promise of physical remains is that the past is knowable. Positioned between the deferred consequences of divinely inspired prediction and the inevitability of physical decay, however, Croesus’ offerings stand as proof that the fulfillment of both promises is always conditional. This conclusion is best demonstrated in the intertextual context that frames the fate of the “great silver bowl on a stand of welded iron” that Croesus’ father, Alyattes, dedicated at Delphi (ОєПЃО·П„бї†ПЃбЅ± П„Оµ бјЂПЃОібЅ»ПЃОµОїОЅ ОјбЅіОіО±ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ бЅ‘ПЂОїОєПЃО·П„О·ПЃбЅ·ОґО№ОїОЅ ПѓО№ОґбЅµПЃОµОїОЅ ОєОїО»О»О·П„бЅ№ОЅ, Histories 1.25.2). ОёбЅіО·П‚ бј„ОѕО№ОїОЅ ОґО№бЅ° ПЂбЅ±ОЅП„П‰ОЅ П„бї¶ОЅ бјђОЅ О”ОµО»П†Оїбї–ПѓО№ бјЂОЅО±ОёО·ОјбЅ±П„П‰ОЅ, О“О»О±бЅ»ОєОїП… П„Оїбї¦ О§бЅ·ОїП… ПЂОїбЅ·О·ОјО±, бЅѓП‚ ОјОїбї¦ОЅОїП‚ ОґбЅґ ПЂбЅ±ОЅП„П‰ОЅ бјЂОЅОёПЃбЅЅПЂП‰ОЅ ПѓО№ОґбЅµПЃОїП… ОєбЅ№О»О»О·ПѓО№ОЅ бјђОѕОµбї¦ПЃОµ. [This is a thing worth seeing of all the offerings in Delphi, it is the work of Glaucus the Chian, who alone of all men discovered the welding of iron.] Centuries later, Pausanias will report that “nothing was left of the dedications sent by the kings of Lydia” with the exception of this iron stand, which he describes in great detail (PeriГЄgГЄsis 10.16.1–2).342 П„бї¶ОЅ ОґбЅІ бјЂОЅО±ОёО·ОјбЅ±П„П‰ОЅ бјѓ Оїбј± ОІО±ПѓО№О»Оµбї–П‚ бјЂПЂбЅіПѓП„ОµО№О»О±ОЅ Оїбј± О›П…Оґбї¶ОЅ ОїбЅђОґбЅІОЅ бј”П„О№ бј¦ОЅ О±бЅђП„бї¶ОЅ Оµбј° ОјбЅґ ПѓО№ОґО·ПЃОїбї¦ОЅ ОјбЅ№ОЅОїОЅ П„бЅё бЅ‘ПЂбЅ№ОёО·ОјО± П„Оїбї¦ Page 126 →бј€О»П…бЅ±П„П„ОїП… ОєПЃО±П„бї†ПЃОїП‚. П„Оїбї¦П„Ої О“О»О±бЅ»ОєОїП… ОјбЅіОЅ бјђПѓП„О№ОЅ бј”ПЃОіОїОЅ П„Оїбї¦ О§бЅ·ОїП…, ПѓО№ОґбЅµПЃОїП… ОєбЅ№О»О»О·ПѓО№ОЅ бјЂОЅОґПЃбЅёП‚ ОµбЅ‘ПЃбЅ№ОЅП„ОїП‚О‡ бј”О»О±ПѓОјО± ОґбЅІ бј•ОєО±ПѓП„ОїОЅ П„Оїбї¦ бЅ‘ПЂОїОёбЅµОјО±П„ОїП‚ бјђО»бЅ±ПѓОјО±П„О№ бј„О»О»бїі ПЂПЃОїПѓОµП‡бЅІП‚ ОїбЅђ ПЂОµПЃбЅ№ОЅО±О№П‚ бјђПѓП„бЅ¶ОЅ бјў ОєбЅіОЅП„ПЃОїО№П‚, ОјбЅ№ОЅО· ОґбЅІ бјЎ ОєбЅ№О»О»О± ПѓП…ОЅбЅіП‡ОµО№ П„Оµ ОєО±бЅ¶ бј”ПѓП„О№ОЅ О±бЅ•П„О· П„бї· ПѓО№ОґбЅµПЃбїі ОґОµПѓОјбЅ№П‚. ПѓП‡бї†ОјО± ОґбЅІ П„Оїбї¦ бЅ‘ПЂОїОёбЅµОјО±П„ОїП‚ ОєО±П„бЅ° ПЂбЅ»ПЃОіОїОЅ ОјбЅ±О»О№ПѓП„О± бјђП‚ ОјбЅ»ОїП…ПЃОїОЅ бјЂОЅО№бЅ№ОЅП„О± бјЂПЂбЅё ОµбЅђПЃП…П„бЅіПЃОїП… П„Оїбї¦ ОєбЅ±П„П‰О‡ бј‘ОєбЅ±ПѓП„О· ОґбЅІ ПЂО»ОµП…ПЃбЅ° П„Оїбї¦ бЅ‘ПЂОїОёбЅµОјО±П„ОїП‚ ОїбЅђ ОґО№бЅ° ПЂбЅ±ПѓО·П‚ ПЂбЅіП†ПЃО±ОєП„О±бЅ¶ бјЂО»О»бЅ± Оµбј°ПѓО№ОЅ О±бј± ПЂО»бЅ±ОіО№О±О№ П„Оїбї¦ ПѓО№ОґбЅµПЃОїП… О¶бї¶ОЅО±О№ бЅҐПѓПЂОµПЃ бјђОЅ ОєО»бЅ·ОјО±ОєО№ Оїбј± бјЂОЅО±ОІО±ПѓОјОїбЅ·. П„бЅ° ОґбЅІ бјђО»бЅ±ПѓОјО±П„О± П„Оїбї¦ ПѓО№ОґбЅµПЃОїП… П„бЅ° бЅЂПЃОёбЅ° бјЂОЅбЅіПѓП„ПЃО±ПЂП„О±О№ ОєО±П„бЅ° П„бЅ° бј„ОєПЃО± бјђП‚ П„бЅё бјђОєП„бЅ№П‚, ОєО±бЅ¶ бј•ОґПЃО± П„Оїбї¦П„Ої бј¦ОЅ П„бї· ОєПЃО±П„бї†ПЃО№. [Of the offerings that the kings of Lydia dedicated, there was nothing except the stand of iron for the bowl of Alyattes. This is the work of Glaucus the Chian, the man who discovered the welding of iron. Each plate of the stand is fastened to another plate, not with bolts or rivets, but only the welding holds it together, and this is the fastening for the iron. The shape of the stand is very much like a tower,

wider at the bottom and rising to a narrow top. Each side of the stand is not solid throughout, but strips of iron are turned sideways, just like the rungs of a ladder. And the plates of iron that are straight up and down are turned outward at the top, and this was the seat for the bowl.]

Pausanias is clearly indebted to Herodotus for his description of the stand and the missing bowl. But what exactly is the effect of this debt? When Pausanias states that the stand is all that is left of the offerings of the Lydian kings, he seems to corroborate Herodotus’ statement that of all the offerings in Delphi, the stand was something worth seeing (ОёбЅіО·П‚ бј„ОѕО№ОїОЅ). Indeed, Pausanias’ detailed description of the stand’s unique physical appearance constitutes the proof of that worthiness. But when Parke and Wormell suggest that the stand may have survived because it was not made of a precious metal (and therefore had not been melted down), they complicate this debt. For according to this modern hypothesis, the stand survived not because it was a thing worth seeing (i.e., not for its aesthetic value) but because it was not worth very much at all.343 In a kind of inversion, the stand’s intrinsic value is here the basis of an archaeological positivism based on the conclusion that its worthlessness is Page 127 →the source of its longevity. And here again this kind of positivism raises more questions than it answers. Did Pausanias actually see the object he describes, and if so, is this object the stand that was actually dedicated by Alyattes? These questions are clearly impossible to answer and are raised here only to point to what is assumed in the work of Herodotus, Pausanias, and modern scholars—namely, that there should be something left of the offerings of the Lydian kings.344 We can compare this kind of positivism—defined as a desire to endow these objects with presence—with the analogous desire for the original oral performance of the epics. K. W. Arafat’s belief in the veracity of Pausanias’ account of Alyattes’ stand exemplifies this assumption: “The fact that Herodotos mentions the object should not lead us to doubt that Pausanias saw the stand for himself, described its technique, and observed in person that the bowl was no longer on it.”345 Arafat is here relying on two further assumptions: that Pausanias’ claim to autopsy is reliable and that this claim is not compromised by the fact that Pausanias had read Herodotus.346 The second assumption is meant to refute the implicit counterclaim—that is, that the authority of Herodotus compels Pausanias to mention and elaborate on the stand even though neither it nor the bowl existed in his (Pausanias’) own time. As noted above, Pausanias’ attribution of the stand to Alyattes and to Glaucon of Chios is clearly indebted to Herodotus. Pausanias adds descriptive details that not only corroborate what he had read in Herodotus (i.e., that the stand is worth seeing) but also serve to substantiate his own implicit claim to having seen it himself. Arafat’s first assumption, that Pausanias’ autopsy is reliable, can be understood as falling under the spell of this aspect of the description. But the description of the stand can also account for the counterclaim, that Pausanias’ knowledge of Herodotus’ text makes his own eyewitness report suspect: the added details seem to protest too much. in fact, Arafat gives us very little reason not to doubt Pausanias. But again, the question is not about what Pausanias actually saw but about the effect of what he reports to have seen as a consequence of having Page 128 →read the Histories. To begin with, the statement that, with the exception of Alyattes’ stand, nothing of the offerings of the Lydian kings was still in existence (ОїбЅђОґбЅІОЅ бј”П„О№ бј¦ОЅ О±бЅђП„бї¶ОЅ, 10.16.1) is the corollary to the fact that virtually nothing about the kings’ activities in Greece is recounted in Pausanias’ work.347 This lacuna has been attributed to Pausanias’ wish to distance himself from his ancestors’ unjust acts against the Greeks. William Hutton invokes this wish to explain Pausanias’ seemingly self-serving statement that he personally knew of a Lydian man named Adrastus who “came as a private individual to help the Greeks” in the Lamian War (Оїбј¶ОґО± ОґбЅІ ОєО±бЅ¶ бј„ОЅОґПЃО± О±бЅђП„бЅёП‚ О›П…ОґбЅёОЅ бїЋО‘ОґПЃО±ПѓП„ОїОЅ бј°ОґбЅ·бѕі ОєО±бЅ¶ ОїбЅђОє бјЂПЂбЅё П„Оїбї¦ ОєОїО№ОЅОїбї¦ П„Оїбї¦ О›П…Оґбї¶ОЅ бјЂОјбЅ»ОЅО±ОЅП„О± бїћО•О»О»О·ПѓО№, PeriГЄgГЄsis 7.6.6). As a native of Lydia himself, Pausanias may well have appreciated the way [his] latter-day compatriot’s actions toward the Greeks (trying to help them win freedom rather than trying to

take away their freedom) went some way toward redeeming the Lydians from the legacy of Croesus, and he would have particularly enjoyed the irony of the fact that the later Lydian’s name, Adrastos, was the same as the hapless suppliant who brought misfortune to Croesus by killing his son unintentionally.348

In contrast, Arafat comments, “Indeed if, as is almost certain, Pausanias was a Lydian himself, he may well have made a particular point of seeing the offerings of the kings of Lydia.”349 Thus, the fact that Pausanias may have been a Lydian is invoked in the scholarship to explain both the absence of a detailed account of the Lydian kings in the PeriГЄgГЄsis (he wanted to distance himself from their crimes against Greece) and the presence of a detailed account of one of their offerings (he wanted to see their offerings). Put this Page 129 →way, these explanations seem incompatible, if not entirely contradictory. But taken together, they suggest that Pausanias’ description of the stand of Alyattes does not simply attest to the metalworking skills of his ancestors (pace Arafat).350 Because the stand survives as the base for an object that no longer exists (ОєО±бЅ¶ бј•ОґПЃО± П„Оїбї¦П„Ої бј¦ОЅ П„бї· ОєПЃО±П„бї†ПЃО№, 10.16.2), its use value has been supplanted by its temporal value, measured in the fact that it has lasted up until the time of Pausanias. The statement that nothing else was left of the offerings of the Lydian kings is a form of negative autopsy that finds its analogue in the suppression of Herodotus’ Lydian logos.351 In both instances, Pausanias’ account of this fragmentary remnant epitomizes his position as a reader of Herodotus caught between the epistemological claims of autopsy, on the one hand, and those of narrative history, on the other.352 His account of the stand of Alyattes is thus structured by a protoarchaeological correlation between what can be seen in the present and what can be said—that is, written—about the past.353 Returning to the Lydian logos, Herodotus invokes a similar correlation between what remains of Croesus’ offerings and the writing of history. A second account of the offerings comes after the narrative of Croesus’ defeat at the hands of Cyrus and the Persians (1.92.1–3). ОљПЃОїбЅ·Пѓбїі ОґбЅі бјђПѓП„бЅ¶ ОєО±бЅ¶ бј„О»О»О± бјЂОЅО±ОёбЅµОјО±П„О± бјђОЅ П„бї‡ бј™О»О»бЅ±ОґО№ ПЂОїО»О»бЅ° ОєО±бЅ¶ ОїбЅђ П„бЅ° Оµбј°ПЃО·ОјбЅіОЅО± ОјОїбї¦ОЅО±, бјђОЅ ОјбЅІОЅ ОібЅ°ПЃ ОбЅµОІбїѓПѓО№ П„бї‡ПѓО№ О’ОїО№П‰П„бї¶ОЅ П„ПЃбЅ·ПЂОїП…П‚ П‡ПЃбЅ»ПѓОµОїП‚, П„бЅёОЅ бјЂОЅбЅіОёО·ОєОµ П„бї· бј€ПЂбЅ№О»О»П‰ОЅО№ П„бї· бјёПѓОјО·ОЅбЅ·бїі, бјђОЅ ОґбЅІ бјП†бЅіПѓбїі О±бјµ П„Оµ ОІбЅ№ОµП‚ О±бј± П‡ПЃбЅ»ПѓОµО±О№ ОєО±бЅ¶ П„бї¶ОЅ ОєО№бЅ№ОЅП‰ОЅ О±бј± ПЂОїО»О»О±бЅ·, бјђОЅ ОґбЅІ О ПЃОїОЅО·бЅ·О·П‚ П„бї†П‚ бјђОЅ О”ОµО»П†Оїбї–ПѓО№ бјЂПѓПЂбЅ¶П‚ П‡ПЃП…ПѓбЅіО· ОјОµОібЅ±О»О·. П„О±бї¦П„О± ОјбЅІОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ бј”П„О№ бјђП‚ бјђОјбЅІ бј¦ОЅ ПЂОµПЃО№ОµбЅ№ОЅП„О±, П„бЅ° Оґбѕї бјђОѕО±ПЂбЅ№О»П‰О»Оµ П„бї¶ОЅ бјЂОЅО±ОёО·ОјбЅ±П„П‰ОЅО‡ [There are many offerings of Croesus in Hellas, and not only those that have been spoken of. There is a golden tripod at Thebes in Boeotia, which he dedicated to Apollo of Ismenus; at Ephesus there are the Page 130 →oxen of gold and the greater part of the pillars; and in the temple of Proneia at Delphi, a great golden shield. All these survived up until my time [бјђП‚ бјђОјбЅі], but other offerings were utterly destroyed.] This chapter brings the story of Croesus to an end.354 The first question raised is why Herodotus goes back in time, to the story of Croesus’ rise to power, after Croesus has been defeated. To put the question another way, why aren’t all of Croesus’ dedications explained and described at 1.51–52? The dedications are there vowed in exchange for a future event that, unlike his war against the Persians, will turn out in Croesus’ favor (cf. ПЂПЃбЅёП‚ бј‘П‰П…П„Оїбї¦, 1.75.2).355 Thus, his dedications are the objects through which his assumption of power is viewed in the aftermath of his loss of power. In formal terms, the narrative links the survival of the dedications with what has been said about them, or, more

accurately, with what has been written about them. I here refer to RГ¶sler’s argument that Herodotus uses both ОіПЃбЅ±П†П‰ and О»бЅіОіП‰ to mean “to write,” and I add бј”ПЃП‰ to this list.356 This link is emphasized in the closing sentences of 1.92.4. П„бЅ№П„Оµ П„ПЃбЅ№ПЂбїі П„бї· Оµбј°ПЃО·ОјбЅіОЅбїі бјЂОЅбЅіОёО·ОєОµ, бјђП‚ П„бЅ° ОµбјґПЃО·П„О±О№. ОєО±бЅ¶ ПЂОµПЃбЅ¶ ОјбЅІОЅ бјЂОЅО±ОёО·ОјбЅ±П„П‰ОЅ П„ОїПѓО±бї¦П„О± Оµбј°ПЃбЅµПѓОёП‰. [[Croesus] then dedicated [his property] in the manner spoken of [П„ПЃбЅ№ПЂбїі П„бї· Оµбј°ПЃО·ОјбЅіОЅбїі] and in the places stated [ОµбјґПЃО·П„О±О№]. And let this much be said [Оµбј°ПЃбЅµПѓОёП‰] about the dedications.] Although Оµбј°ПЃбЅµПѓОёП‰ is “a common form of Herodotean closure,” the polyptoton here, with бј”ПЃП‰ in the perfect, works to emphasize the finality, authority, and completeness of what Herodotus has written about the dedications.357 Page 131 →It also emphasizes the extent to which the dedications are the defining feature, the connecting thread, and the culminating referent in the narrative of Croesus’ hubris, his relations with Greece, his rise to power, and his final defeat. Why? As the scholarly debate over the offerings shows, archaeological positivism does not get us very far. The answer is not simply that Croesus did in fact dedicate the offerings in the manner and in the places reported by Herodotus. In fact, the effect of the polyptoton is to protest against the counterclaim that their existence cannot be proven in what has been written about them. This counterclaim takes us back to the statement with which Herodotus begins the chapter: “There are many offerings of Croesus in Hellas, and not only those which have been written about” (ОљПЃОїбЅ·Пѓбїі ОґбЅі бј”ПѓП„О№ ОєО±бЅ¶ бј„О»О»О± бјЂОЅО±ОёбЅµОјО±П„О± бјђОЅ П„бї‡бј™О»О»бЅ±ОґО№ ПЂОїО»О»бЅ° ОєО±бЅ¶ ОїбЅђ П„бЅ° Оµбј°ПЃО·ОјбЅіОЅО± ОјОїбї¦ОЅО±, 1.92.1).358 Here бј”ПЃП‰ (Оµбј°ПЃО·ОјбЅіОЅО±) introduces a category of dedications that have not yet been written about and that, in contrast to those that have been “utterly destroyed,” have “survived up until my time [бјђП‚ бјђОјбЅі].”359 Thus, there are four categories of Croesus’ dedications in the Histories: those that have been written about, those that have not (or not yet) been written about, those that exist “up to my time,” and those that have been utterly destroyed. These categories seem to constitute two sets of binaries in which an object’s existence or survival is correlated with what has been written—or not written—about it. But this is too simple. In this passage, the enumerated objects—beginning with the golden tripod at Thebes—constitute a category of offerings that have not yet been written about and that exist “up to my time.” As suggested above, that these objects, going back to a time before Croesus was king (ПЂПЃбЅ¶ОЅ бјў ОІО±ПѓО№О»Оµбї¦ПѓО±О№, 1.92.2), are enumerated after the account of his downfall serves to undermine their ability to ward off that disastrous event. The assertion that they still exist in Herodotus’ own time only accentuates their failure to do so and, by extension, the folly of Croesus’ hubristic faith in the permanence of his wealth and empire. Finally, there is the category of offerings that have been “utterly destroyed” (П„бЅ° δ’ бјђОѕО±ПЂбЅ№О»П‰О»Оµ, 1.92.2).360 Defined by the fact that they have not survivedPage 132 → “up to my time,” these objects constitute a radical kind of protoarchaeology, in which the meaning of the past is measured in relation not to the existence of visible remains in the present but to their absence. As we have seen, this predicament and its effects are anticipated in Homer’s account of the Achaean wall.361 In drawing our attention in the Histories to a correlation between what has been written about the offerings and their existence бјђП‚ бјђОјбЅі, Herodotus opens up what Hayden White has called “the gap between historical events and the language used to represent them.”362 In the terms used above, the offerings’ disposition points to a negative correlation between empirical observation and linguistic representation in constituting the past. This correlation is expressed here in the fact that the objects’ destruction is all that can be written about them, and the historian’s necessarily limited ability to record what has happened in the past (П„бЅ° ОіОµОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅО±) is epitomized in this brief but significant allusion to objects that no longer exist. In addition to telling Croesus that he will destroy a great empire, the oracles had also admonished him to “find

the most powerful of the Greeks and make them his friends” (П„ОїбЅєП‚ ОґбЅІ бј™О»О»бЅµОЅП‰ОЅ ОґП…ОЅО±П„П‰П„бЅ±П„ОїП…П‚ ПѓП…ОЅОµОІОїбЅ»О»ОµП…бЅ№ОЅ Оїбј± бјђОѕОµП…ПЃбЅ№ОЅП„О± П†бЅ·О»ОїП…П‚ ПЂПЃОїПѓОёбЅіПѓОёО±О№, 1.53.3). Believing these Greeks to be the Spartans, Croesus sends them unspecified gifts and messengers who ask them to be his “friend and ally” (П†бЅ·О»ОїП‚В .В .В . ПѓбЅ»ОјОјО±П‡ОїП‚, 1.69.2).363 The Spartans are predisposed to do so, says Herodotus, because Croesus had earlier given them a gift of gold to adorn the statue of Apollo on the Thornax. The narrative then turns our attention to the great bowl that the Spartans sent Croesus as the token of their planned alliance. Here, however, the bowl’s temporal referent is not the implied present time of the historian (бјђП‚ бјђОјбЅі) but the “lateness” of its arrival in Sardis (Histories 1.70.1–3). П„ОїбЅ»П„П‰ОЅ П„Оµ бЅ¦ОЅ ОµбјµОЅОµОєОµОЅ Оїбј± О›О±ОєОµОґО±О№ОјбЅ№ОЅО№ОїО№ П„бЅґОЅ ПѓП…ОјОјО±П‡бЅ·О·ОЅ бјђОґбЅіОѕО±ОЅП„Ої, ОєО±бЅ¶ бЅ…П„О№ бјђОє ПЂбЅ±ОЅП„П‰ОЅ ПѓП†бЅіО±П‚ ПЂПЃОїОєПЃбЅ·ОЅО±П‚ бј™О»О»бЅµОЅП‰ОЅ О±бј±ПЃбЅіОµП„Ої П†бЅ·О»ОїП…П‚. ОєО±бЅ¶ П„Оїбї¦П„Ої ОјбЅІОЅ О±бЅђП„ОїбЅ¶ бј¦ПѓО±ОЅ бј•П„ОїО№ОјОїО№ бјђПЂО±ОіОіОµбЅ·О»О±ОЅП„О№, П„Оїбї¦П„Ої ОґбЅІ ПЂОїО№О·ПѓбЅ±ОјОµОЅОїО№ ОєПЃО·П„бї†ПЃО± П‡бЅ±О»ОєОµОїОЅ О¶бїіОґбЅ·П‰ОЅ П„Оµ бј”ОѕП‰ОёОµОЅ ПЂО»бЅµПѓО±ОЅП„ОµП‚ ПЂОµПЃбЅ¶ П„бЅё П‡Оµбї–О»ОїП‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ ОјОµОібЅіОёОµПЉ П„ПЃО№О·ОєОїПѓбЅ·ОїП…П‚ бјЂОјП†ОїПЃбЅіО±П‚ П‡П‰ПЃбЅіОїОЅП„О± бј¦ОіОїОЅ Оґбї¶ПЃОїОЅ ОІОїП…О»бЅ№ОјОµОЅОїО№ бјЂОЅП„О№ОґОїбї¦ОЅО±О№ ОљПЃОїбЅ·Пѓбїі. ОїбЅ—П„ОїП‚ бЅЃ ОєПЃО·П„бЅґПЃ ОїбЅђОє бјЂПЂбЅ·ОєОµП„Ої бјђП‚ ОЈбЅ±ПЃОґО№П‚ Page 133 →ОґО№бѕї О±бј°П„бЅ·О±П‚ ОґО№П†О±ПѓбЅ·О±П‚ О»ОµОіОїОјбЅіОЅО±П‚ П„бЅ±ПѓОґОµО‡ Оїбј± ОјбЅІОЅ О›О±ОєОµОґО±О№ОјбЅ№ОЅО№ОїО№ О»бЅіОіОїП…ПѓО№, бЅЎП‚ бјђПЂОµбЅ·П„Оµ бјЂОібЅ№ОјОµОЅОїП‚ бјђП‚ П„бЅ°П‚ ОЈбЅ±ПЃОґО№П‚ бЅЃ ОєПЃО·П„бЅґПЃ бјђОібЅ·ОЅОµП„Ої ОєО±П„бЅ° П„бЅґОЅ ОЈО±ОјбЅ·О·ОЅ, ПЂП…ОёбЅ№ОјОµОЅОїО№ ОЈбЅ±ОјО№ОїО№ бјЂПЂОµО»ОїбЅ·О±П„Ої О±бЅђП„бЅёОЅ ОЅО·П…ПѓбЅ¶ ОјО±ОєПЃбї‡ПѓО№ бјђПЂО№ПЂО»бЅЅПѓО±ОЅП„ОµП‚О‡ О±бЅђП„ОїбЅ¶ ОґбЅІ ОЈбЅ±ОјО№ОїО№ О»бЅіОіОїП…ПѓО№ бЅЎП‚ бјђПЂОµбЅ·П„Оµ бЅ‘ПѓП„бЅіПЃО·ПѓО±ОЅ Оїбј± бј„ОіОїОЅП„ОµП‚ П„бї¶ОЅ О›О±ОєОµОґО±О№ОјОїОЅбЅ·П‰ОЅ П„бЅёОЅ ОєПЃО·П„бї†ПЃО±, бјђПЂП…ОЅОёбЅ±ОЅОїОЅП„Ої ОґбЅІ ОЈбЅ±ПЃОґО№П‚ П„Оµ ОєО±бЅ¶ ОљПЃОїбї–ПѓОїОЅ бјЎО»П‰ОєбЅіОЅО±О№, бјЂПЂбЅіОґОїОЅП„Ої П„бЅёОЅ ОєПЃО·П„бї†ПЃО± бјђОЅ ОЈбЅ±Ојбїі, бј°ОґО№бЅЅП„О±П‚ ОґбЅІ бј„ОЅОґПЃО±П‚ ПЂПЃО№О±ОјбЅіОЅОїП…П‚ бјЂОЅО±ОёОµбї–ОЅО±бЅ· ОјО№ОЅ бјђП‚ П„бЅё бїћО—ПЃО±О№ОїОЅО‡ П„бЅ±П‡О± ОґбЅІ бј‚ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ Оїбј± бјЂПЂОїОґбЅ№ОјОµОЅОїО№ О»бЅіОіОїО№ОµОЅ, бјЂПЂО№ОєбЅ№ОјОµОЅОїО№ бјђП‚ ОЈПЂбЅ±ПЃП„О·ОЅ, бЅЎП‚ бјЂПЂО±О№ПЃОµОёОµбЅ·О·ПѓО±ОЅ бЅ‘ПЂбЅё ОЈО±ОјбЅ·П‰ОЅ. ОєО±П„бЅ° ОјбЅіОЅ ОЅП…ОЅ П„бЅёОЅ ОєПЃО·П„бї†ПЃО± ОїбЅ•П„П‰П‚ бј”ПѓП‡Оµ. [For this reason, and because he had chosen them as his friends before all the other Greeks, the Lacedaemonians accepted the alliance. On the one hand, they themselves were prepared to do his bidding, and on the other, they made a bowl of bronze, engraved around the rim outside with figures, and large enough to hold three hundred amphorae of liquid, and they brought it with the intention of making a gift in return to Croesus.В This bowl never reached Sardis, for which two reasons are given: the Lacedaemonians tell me that when the bowl was near Samos on its way to Sardis, the Samians descended upon them in long ships and carried it off;В but the Samians themselves say that the Lacedaemonians who were bringing the bowl, coming too late [бЅ‘ПѓП„бЅіПЃО·ПѓО±ОЅ] and learning that Sardis and Croesus were taken, sold it in Samos to certain private men, who set it up in the temple of Hera. And it may be that the sellers of the bowl, when they returned to Sparta, said that they had been robbed of it by the Samians. Such is the tale about the bowl.] In this account, the chronology of events is tied to the journey of the Spartans’ gift and to competing stories

about its final fate. The bowl thus has both a metonymic relationship to a past event (the doomed alliance between the Lydians and the Spartans) and a proleptic relationship to the defeat of Croesus and the fall of Sardis.364 In the middle of this story, the displacement by which the bowl assumes the action of its agents contributes to this metonymic effect: the bowl itself (rather than the Spartans who are transporting it) “never reached Sardis” or was “near Samos.” This rhetorical displacement may be common, but it nonetheless transfers the focus of Page 134 →the story from the Spartans to the bowl.365 Several questions are thus raised. Does the narrative imply that the Spartans, in making the bowl, had deliberately delayed their advance to Sardis and so were not all that “ready” to do Croesus’ bidding (бј•П„ОїО№ОјОїО№ бјђПЂО±ОіОіОµбЅ·О»О±ОЅП„О№), or is the point that the bowl is an inadequate substitute for the military aid that Croesus now desperately needs?366 Does the Spartans’ failure to deliver the bowl indict them for greed and dishonesty, or does it implicitly commend them for refusing to serve the Lydian monarch, despite their professed willingness to do so? Finally, does the possibility of a successful Samian attack undermine Croesus’ conclusion that the Spartans were the “most powerful” of the Greeks? The inability to give definitive answers to any of these questions only emphasizes the complexities that underlie the story of the bowl’s journey. It also reveals that the meaning of the bowl cannot be reduced to the fact that the Spartans had actually sent it or to the fact that Herodotus believed that the Spartans had sent it. The more relevant question is why the bowl signifies both the bad timing of the Spartans and the future defeat of Croesus. The answer to this question is linked in part to the “twofold reasons” (ОґО№бѕї О±бј°П„бЅ·О±П‚ ОґО№П†О±ПѓбЅ·О±П‚ О»ОµОіОїОјбЅіОЅО±П‚ П„бЅ±ПѓОґОµ) that explain why the bowl never reached Sardis: either the Samians stole it or the Spartans sold it. Based on the logical conclusion that if the Spartan emissaries had sold the bowl, they would lie and say that it had been taken from them by force, Herodotus corroborates the Samian version. But the Samian version, like the Spartan version, is clearly self-serving. Herodotus might have substantiated his assumption by claiming that he had actually seen the bowl in the temple of Hera, that is, that it existed “up to my time” (бјђП‚ бјђОјбЅі). But he does not.367 Page 135 →In endorsing the logic of the Samians’ version of the bowl’s journey, Herodotus also corroborates their assertion that the Spartans were too late in bringing aid to Sardis (бЅ‘ПѓП„бЅіПЃО·ПѓО±ОЅ). This belatedness is a key element in the narrative.368 Although different from Croesus’ misguided interpretation of the oracle’s statement that he would destroy a great empire, we find here that he also gained nothing in making the most powerful of the Greeks his allies. This is not stated outright but is expressed in the Spartans’ failure to deliver the bowl, the twofold reasons for that failure, and the logic of the lie about what happened to the bowl. In short, the bowl’s late arrival in Sardis is emblematic of the relationship between the temporal and ethical dimensions of the logos, brought together in Croesus’ belief in the predictive power of oracles and his subsequent downfall. This relationship is the basis of the bowl’s protoarchaeological effect. An additional category of protoarchaeological narrative in the Histories is manifested in descriptions of objects and features that the historian says he himself has seen. Not surprisingly, this category is represented in the ethnographic part of the work and is exemplified in Herodotus’ famous description of the Egyptian labyrinth in book 2 (Histories 2.148.5; cf. 2.148.6, 2.147.2).369 П„бЅ° ОјбЅІОЅ ОЅП…ОЅ ОјОµП„бЅіП‰ПЃО± П„бї¶ОЅ Оїбј°ОєО·ОјбЅ±П„П‰ОЅ О±бЅђП„ОїбЅ· П„Оµ бЅЎПЃбї¶ОјОµОЅ ОґО№ОµОѕО№бЅ№ОЅП„ОµП‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ О±бЅђП„ОїбЅ¶ ОёОµО·ПѓбЅ±ОјОµОЅОїО№ О»бЅіОіОїОјОµОЅ, П„бЅ° ОґбЅІ О±бЅђП„бї¶ОЅ бЅђПЂбЅ№ОіО±О№О± О»бЅ№ОіОїО№ПѓО№ бјђПЂП…ОЅОёО±ОЅбЅ№ОјОµОёО±. [Now on the one hand, we ourselves saw the upper chambers as we passed through them, and we speak from having seen them ourselves, but we learned about the lower chambers by reports.] The effect of the contrast between what Herodotus says he saw and what he says he learned by report (О»бЅ№ОіОїО№ПѓО№) is to privilege the veracity of the former Page 136 →over the latter, where П„бЅ° ОјбЅіОЅ and П„бЅ° ОґбЅі signify a hierarchy rather than an equation. Commenting on the differences between Herodotus’ description of the labyrinth and Strabo’s, How and Wells note,

It would be impossible to construct a building [the labyrinth] according to the description of either H[erodotus] or Strabo; and it is obvious that a “labyrinth” defies description, at any rate by a mere visitor led through part of it as was H[erodotus]. It is therefore needless to account for the contradictions, &c., by supposed later additions to the labyrinth during the 450 years between the visits of the two travelers.370 The question here, however, is not whether Herodotus (or Strabo) is an unreliable source for reconstructing the labyrinth but why Herodotus insists on having personally seen what is so obviously resistant to visual corroboration.371 This appeal to strict empirical observation is clearly hyperbolic, expressed here in the close repetition of the phrases that refer to what “we ourselves saw” (О±бЅђП„ОїбЅ· П„Оµ бЅЎПЃбї¶ОјОµОЅВ .В .В . О±бЅђП„ОїбЅ¶ ОёОµО·ПѓбЅ±ОјОµОЅОїО№). This chapter begins with the statement that Herodotus has seen the labyrinth, which, he says, is “beyond telling” (П„бЅёОЅ бјђОібЅј бј¤ОґО· Оµбј¶ОґОїОЅ О»бЅ№ОіОїП… ОјбЅіО¶П‰, 2.148.1).372 At 2.148.6, he insists again that “we ourselves saw the upper chambers which are greater than the works of humans” (П„бЅ° ОґбЅІ бј„ОЅП‰ ОјбЅіО¶ОїОЅО± бјЂОЅОёПЃП‰ПЂО·бЅ·П‰ОЅ бј”ПЃОіП‰ОЅ О±бЅђП„ОїбЅ¶ бЅЎПЃбї¶ОјОµОЅ). In short, there are no fewer than four references to the fact that Herodotus’ account of the labyrinth is based on his own role as a first-person eyewitness. At the same time, however, the description of the building and especially Page 137 →of the upper chambers, with their courts and colonnades, is almost entirely lacking in detail. We are told about the number of courts (twelve) and chambers (three thousand), the stone roof, the walls covered with unspecified carvings (Оїбј± ОґбЅІ П„Оїбї–П‡ОїО№ П„бЅ»ПЂП‰ОЅ бјђОіОіОµОіО»П…ОјОјбЅіОЅП‰ОЅ ПЂО»бЅіОїО№, 2.148.7), and the white pillar peristyle.373 But while the failure to describe these large-scale architectural features in greater detail may prove that the labyrinth is indeed “beyond telling” and “greater than the works of humans,” it also puts pressure on Herodotus’ repeated claim to have seen them himself. This latter claim both verifies and compensates for the former; paradoxically, only an eyewitness can vouch for an inability to describe in words what he has seen, and the very magnitude of the structure clearly defies visual corroboration by any one set of eyes. Is there a relationship between Herodotus’ claim that the labyrinth defies description and his insistence that he has seen it himself? Or, in the terms referred to above, what does this passage tell us about the relationship between empirical observation and linguistic representation in the Histories? This question can be approached in light of Herodotus’ so-called second preface in book 2 (2.99.1).374 ОјбЅіП‡ПЃО№ ОјбЅІОЅ П„ОїбЅ»П„ОїП… бЅ„П€О№П‚ П„Оµ бјђОјбЅґ ОєО±бЅ¶ ОіОЅбЅЅОјО· ОєО±бЅ¶ бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅ·О· П„О±бї¦П„О± О»бЅіОіОїП…ПѓбЅ± бјђПѓП„О№, П„бЅё ОґбЅІ бјЂПЂбЅё П„Оїбї¦ОґОµ О‘бј°ОіП…ПЂП„бЅ·ОїП…П‚ бј”ПЃП‡ОїОјО±О№ О»бЅ№ОіОїП…П‚ бјђПЃбЅіП‰ОЅ ОєО±П„бЅ° П„бЅ° бј¤ОєОїП…ОїОЅО‡ ПЂПЃОїПѓбЅіПѓП„О±О№ ОґбЅі П„О№ О±бЅђП„Оїбї–ПѓО№ ОєО±бЅ¶ П„бї†П‚ бјђОјбї†П‚ бЅ„П€О№ОїП‚. Оњбї–ОЅО± П„бЅёОЅ ПЂПЃбї¶П„ОїОЅ ОІО±ПѓО№О»ОµбЅ»ПѓО±ОЅП„О± О‘бј°ОібЅ»ПЂП„ОїП… Оїбј± бј±ПЃбЅіОµП‚ бј”О»ОµОіОїОЅ П„Оїбї¦П„Ої ОјбЅІОЅ бјЂПЂОїОіОµП†П…ПЃбї¶ПѓО±О№ ОєО±бЅ¶ П„бЅґОЅ ОњбЅіОјП†О№ОЅ. [Up to this point my бЅ„П€О№П‚ and judgment and inquiry are saying these things, but from this point onward I am going to tell the Egyptian accounts according to things that I heard; added to these will be something of my own бЅ„П€О№П‚. The priests said that Min was the first king of Egypt and that he separated Memphis from the Nile by a dam.]375 Page 138 →Both the preface with which the Histories begins and this passage begin with an appeal to бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅ·О·, followed by a temporally structured narrative based on the report of a collective informant (the Persian О»бЅ№ОіО№ОїО№ and the Egyptian priests respectively). But the later passage also introduces a distinction between two kinds of historical evidence, one based on the firsthand authority of the narrator (in which his бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅ·О· forms a triad with his бЅ„П€О№П‚ and ОіОЅбЅЅОјО·) and one filtered through a third party (the Egyptians). These two categories are not rigidly maintained, however; they are colored by a certain

equivocation. To begin with, Herodotus distances himself from what his бЅ„П€О№П‚, ОіОЅбЅЅОјО·, and бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅ·О· “say” (О»бЅіОіОїП…ПѓО±), particularly when compared with direct authorial “I say” statements.376 What these three sources “say” is implicitly equated with the numerous “they say” attributions in the narrative at large, including what the Egyptian priests “have said” (бј”О»ОµОіОїОЅ) in the sentence that follows. The preface thus shows Herodotus grappling with competing means of verifying his narrative and, more specifically, with his own role in a verification process that recognizes—to use White’s term again—a “gap” between what he sees and what he says (or writes). To return to the question raised above, the description of the labyrinth that follows this second preface responds to Herodotus’ promise to expand on what the Egyptian priests say by including “something of what I have seen.” At the same time, however, the equivocation expressed in what his бЅ„П€О№П‚ “says”—that is, the acknowledgment that seeing is a means of saying—compromises the evidentiary value of empirical observation. In this respect, Herodotus’ twice repeated reference to “my” бЅ„П€О№П‚ anticipates his repeated claims to having seen the labyrinth in the later chapter. In both cases, the hyperbole connected with visible proof is an acknowledgment that such proof is necessarily partial and contingent; the uncertainty expressed in “something” (П„О№) contributes to this effect. In light of these observations, what is the epistemological and evidentiary value of бЅ„П€О№П‚ in theHistories? Herodotus uses бЅ„П€О№П‚ rather frequently, if not exclusively, to refer to a dream or vision followed by an account of the dream’s role in motivating the decisions of the dreamer as a historical actor.377 Thus, we can rephrase Page 139 →the question and ask about the relationship between бЅ„П€О№П‚ as a dream or vision and бЅ„П€О№П‚ as an evidentiary criterion in theHistories. It is clear that an бЅ„П€О№П‚, like an oracle, is taken to be a portent of future events.378 Croesus’ “vision from a dream” (бЅ„П€О№П‚ бЅЂОЅОµбЅ·ПЃОїП…, 1.38.1), for example, tells him that his son Atys will be short-lived and, more specifically, that he will be killed by an iron spear. This бЅ„П€О№П‚ then inaugurates a chain of events that begins with Atys’ death and culminates with the taking of Sardis and the capture of Croesus. Refusing to let Atys take part in the fatal boar hunt, Croesus argues that Atys is his only child and that his other, unnamed child “does not exist” for him (1.38.2). Оµбј·П‚ ОібЅ°ПЃ ОјОїО№ ОјОїбї¦ОЅОїП‚ П„П…ОіП‡бЅ±ОЅОµО№П‚ бјђбЅјОЅ ПЂО±бї–П‚О‡ П„бЅёОЅ ОібЅ°ПЃ ОґбЅґ бј•П„ОµПЃОїОЅ ОґО№ОµП†ОёО±ПЃОјбЅіОЅОїОЅ П„бЅґОЅ бјЂОєОїбЅґОЅ ОїбЅђОє Оµбј¶ОЅО±бЅ· ОјОїО№ О»ОїОібЅ·О¶ОїОјО±О№. [And you are my one and only son; for in my reckoning that other one who is ruined [with respect to his hearing] does not exist for me.]379 As the source of these statements, the dream elicits two conclusions that will both turn out to be false.380 Once Atys is dead, he is no longer Croesus’ only son, and in what can be called the crystallization of a historical event, the miraculous and timely speech of his other son will prevent the Persians from killing Croesus. It seems that Croesus’ judgment about his two sons anticipates his interpretation of the oracle that tells him he will destroy a great Page 140 →empire; he is wrong on both counts. This anticipation is borne out in the narrative at large, where the unnamed son’s miraculous speech is immediately followed by the historian’s observation that, as the oracle had predicted, Croesus had put an end to his own great empire (ОєО±П„бЅ° П„бЅё П‡ПЃО·ПѓП„бЅµПЃО№ОїОЅ П„Оµ ОєО±П„О±ПЂО±бЅ»ПѓО±ОЅП„О± П„бЅґОЅ бј‘П‰П…П„Оїбї¦ ОјОµОібЅ±О»О·ОЅ бј„ПЃП‡бЅµОЅ, 1.86.1).381 Two general points can be made. First, as an explanatory mechanism in the Histories, an бЅ„П€О№П‚ бЅЂОЅОµбЅ·ПЃОїП… operates much like an oracle; both predict events whose effects in the course of the historical narrative demonstrate the limits of predictability. Thus, while Atys is in fact killed by an iron spear as the бЅ„П€О№П‚ had foretold, his death is only a pretext for the historical role of Croesus’ other, rejected son. Second, while dreams and oracles initiate historical events in Herodotus’ narrative, they are, in the end,

subordinated to the historical narrative itself; they ultimately serve to elevate the reader of history over the dreamer or diviner.382 Positioned between an appeal to objects and visible features that exist “up to my time, ” on the one hand, and an account that will include “something of my own бЅ„П€О№П‚,” on the other, the reader confronts the Histories through the eyes of a “me” who was present in the past. But this evidentiary framing is complicated. If Herodotus’ “glance back at himself coincides with the perspective of a future reader,” as RГ¶sler contends, it also suggests that reading history is equated with the impossibility of seeing it.383 In an account of how the work of Thucydides differs from that of Herodotus, Hartog observes, From Thucydidean dissection to the ideal of a positivist history wherein the historian would be no more than an eye (a reader more than a spectator), there appears a path (of aporia) on which historiographyPage 141 → has forever been traveling: that of the historian as “voyeur.” It is at the point where, epistemologically with Thucydides, sight rises to the highest rank that the historian, for the purpose of naming his activity, challenges the historiГЄ of his predecessor Herodotus (where nonetheless etymology was mixing seeing and knowing) by making use of the verb suggrapheinВ .В .В . Written history is no longer a manifestation of historiГЄ but an inscription, a draft, and a composition.384 Hartog here refers to the first words of Thucydides’ History, where the historian says that he “wrote the war of the Peloponnesians and Athenians;” “the war” is there the direct object of the verb “to write” (ООїП…ОєП…ОґбЅ·ОґО·П‚ бј€ОёО·ОЅО±бї–ОїП‚ ОѕП…ОЅбЅіОіПЃО±П€Оµ П„бЅёОЅ ПЂбЅ№О»ОµОјОїОЅ П„бї¶ОЅ О ОµО»ОїПЂОїОЅОЅО·ПѓбЅ·П‰ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ бј€ОёО·ОЅО±бЅ·П‰ОЅ, 1.1.1).385 Reviewing the connections between the prefaces of Herodotus and Thucydides, J. Moles concludes that “Thucydides’ own detailed and intense engagement with Herodotus in 1.1–23 is clearly at least mainly with [Herodotus’] text, rather than with Herodotus’ oral performances or even his readings (if he gave readings).”386 If this is correct, Thucydides’ insistence on his role as a writer of the war is conditioned partly by the fact that he is a reader of Herodotus’ work.387 Reading the Histories has made Thucydides a different kind of writer, one committed to stripping his work of the appearance of fiction, or П„бЅё ОјП…Оёбї¶ОґО·П‚ (1.22.4). Although the repeated references to visual perception in Hartog’s account are somewhat impressionistic, they are also related to the distinction he makes between Thucydides’ work as “an inscription, a draft, and a composition” and Herodotus’ бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅ·О·. Seeming to link the fact that “sight rises to the highest rank” in the History to Thucydides’ claim that he wrote it, Hartog appears to credit the historian with the idea that writing—or rather Page 142 →Thucydides’ kind of writing—is the vehicle of direct and credible empirical observation. The added implication is that Thucydides’ writing closes—or at least narrows—“the gap between historical events and the language used to represent them.”388 Hartog leaves open the question of just how “sight rises to the highest rank” in the History.389 But his observations illustrate how reading and writing narrative history are persistently tied to a notion of seeing the historical past. Expressed in the interplay between the materiality of Croesus’ offerings and their ephemerality, this notion extends to the principal, if elusive, aim of narrative history, namely, to preserve what happened in the past, or, in Herodotus’ words, to prevent the past actions of humans from fading with time. As singular features within the Histories, the offerings exemplify the fact that evidence for the past, in all its forms, is subject to decay and may eventually disappear. This fact points in two directions; it demonstrates why history is important and why it can only be selective and incomplete. The sources of this conclusion are illuminated by the general concepts presented in Ankersmit’s philosophy of history and Riegl’s history of art. In introducing these modern concepts into the argument, however, I am not suggesting that the Histories anticipate them. Rather, they provide a useful means of thinking about the ways in which the fate of Croesus’ offerings reflects on what it means to write and read history. In Ankersmit’s terms, that fate responds to the implied assumption that history can provide readers with a

transparent window onto a past reality. The changes undergone by the offerings over time and up to the time of the historian both invoke this metaphor—literalized in the offerings’ visual survival—and expose its limitations.Page 143 → In the process, what Ankersmit calls looking at the historical text becomes an effect of the reader’s realization that she cannot look through it. Comprising both historical value and age-value (as Riegl defines these terms), the fate of Croesus’ offerings also illuminates the relationship between the passing of time and the ethical content of the Histories. As features essential to the Lydian logos (the source of their historical value) and defined by the fact that they are subject to the effects of time (the source of their age-value), the offerings constitute a concrete analogue to the events that lead to Croesus’ downfall. Introduced by the dictum that human prosperity (ОµбЅђОґО±О№ОјОїОЅбЅ·О·) never remains in the same state (1.5.4), those events are also emblematic of the ethical framing of the Histories overall.390 Within this framework, Croesus’ misguided confidence in what the future will bring is prefigured in what happens to the offerings he dedicates in response to the oracles. As a means of signaling the value of the past, the assertion that the offerings were (or were not) still visible up to Herodotus’ own time confirms the distinctive utility of protoarchaeological narratives in the writing of history and extends the force of the dictum to our own time.

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Chapter 5 Tragedy Vanishes Reading the Past in Aristophanes’ Frogs What we have done with the dead Shelley and with all the other dead bodies that appear in romantic literatureВ .В .В . is simply to bury them, to bury them in their own texts made into epitaphs and monumental graves. They have been made into statues for the benefit of future archaeologists “digging the grounds for the new foundations” of their own monuments. —Paul de Man, The Rhetoric of Romanticism391 The last forty years have seen the emergence of scholarship that attempts to read Attic drama as a visual medium, that is, to understand the extant dramatic texts in the context of Athens’ physical environment, as live performance texts, or in their relationship to the visual arts. Drawing on a variety of disciplines and methodologies, this work demonstrates that the interplay between verbal sign and visual referent in dramatic texts presents a particular challenge to interpretation.392 Insofar as the dramatic text refers simultaneously to prior and future phenomena—that is, to the plot and (in principle) to the play in performance—it brings a special set of temporal and referential conditions to bear on what Hayden White has called “the content of the form.”393 In comparison with the other genres discussed so far, dramatic texts also offer a unique window on the ways in which visual perception Page 145 →in experience is related to visual perception in texts. Framed by the deaths of two tragic poets, Aristophanes’ Frogs opens this window in the dialogic relationship between reading a tragedy and watching one where the latter activity takes place in a visually receding past. This conclusion, structured once again by the conflict between empirical or visual observation and linguistic representation in constituting the past, is the basis of the comedy’s protoarchaeological effect. As I will argue below, Frogs equates reading the tragic text with the invisibility of an idealized past where the past refers both to the tragedies as prior performances and to the content of their plots, or Ојбї¦ОёОїО№. Framed by the katabasis, Frogs presents tragedy as a “dead” medium located in an irrecoverable past and anatomized in a contest between words and things.394 Constituted (partly) by the reused remains of tragic texts, this contest is key to Frogs’ status as a foundational work of literary and cultural criticism.395 Before turning to Frogs, however, I want to briefly situate the present discussion in the context of a long-standing conundrum in the study of ancient drama, namely, what can be known about its visible aspect, or what Aristotle, in the Poetics, calls tragic бЅ„П€О№П‚.396 As a response to this conundrum, vase paintings take pride of place in providing clues to sets, props, and costuming. But the evidence is neither conclusive nor comprehensive.397 Similarly, the Page 146 →repertoire of bodily gestures used in Attic drama, what linguists refer to as the “paralinguistic” features of utterances, is mostly guesswork. We are also faced with the possibility that every utterance in the dramatic text may, in the words of John Lyons, “contain non-linguistic information which contradicts the information that is linguistically encoded in the utterance signal.”398 What is written in a play text, in other words, may not correspond to what was enacted or seen in the ancient theater. But the fact that evidence for the visible aspect of the plays is uncertain does not prevent us from exploring how visuality, as an effect of visual description and emplotment, functions in the play texts themselves. In fact, that we are unable to confidently envision the plays as originally performed invites us to think about the dramatic texts as sources of a particular kind of visual absence.399 This absence is figured in the triangulation of three subject positions in the case of drama: characters, readers, and spectators. Readers can, of course, be spectators, and vice versa. But taking them as distinct subjects allows us to untangle the relationship between drama as text and drama as a hypothetical performance. This relationship can be further refined in terms of how these three subjects experience the plot, or Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚, of the play. In the case of

readers, this experience takes two forms: they are potential spectators of the actual play in performance, on the one hand, and virtual spectators of the visual content of the text, on the other.400 Of course, these two kinds of visual experience can blend into one another, since, as already noted, the visual references in the text can be clues to what spectators potentially see in the theater.401 But this interaction between readers and spectators is key Page 147 →to analyzing the temporal and visual dimensions of drama. In the context of this book, this interaction focuses attention on what it means to see the past, where the past comprises both a given play’s dramatic date (usually the mythological past) and its date of performance. The significance of this interaction as an effect of reading the dramatic texts has been largely overshadowed by research on literacy in Athens in the fifth century.402 In Theatre in Ancient Greek Society, for example, J. R. Green argues that while the dramatic poets necessarily wrote out their play texts, their audiences were not necessarily (or wholly) literate. [Greek] theatreВ .В .В . needs a written text for it to exist at all, but we must recognize that for much of the fifth century the audience was still largely at the point of transition from being an “oral” society.403 According to Green, this transitional phase is proven in the fact that the reading public is a small subset of the audience for Attic drama. There is nothing inherently contradictory in this argument, but it leaves open the question of how the very existence of the Greek theater depends on the written text. I realize that I may be giving more weight to Green’s statement than is warranted. But it is representative of the scholarly consensus both about the utility of the text as the source of the performance and about the related Page 148 →level of literacy in Athens in the fifth century. In a similar vein, Sebastiana Nervegna states, “One suspects that actors (at least those who revived old drama) relied more on memory than texts.”404 In addition to begging the question of what activates an actor’s memory, the persistent dissociation of reading (or literacy more broadly) from the activities of performing and watching plays reinforces the primacy of the play in performance as the product of an “’oral’ [or mostly oral] society.” While the assumption that only a small subset of the population of Athens was literate in the fifth century may undermine the importance of readers as consumers of ancient drama, it does not easily accord with equally persistent arguments for widespread public participation in the dramatic productions. Martin Revermann, for example, building on the work of Green, notes the growing “democratization of chorality in Athens,” including dramatic chorality, in the fifth century.405 If we accept Revermann’s conclusion that a significant number of Athenian citizens served as choreutai and that many (if not all) of these individuals came from the educated classes, the assumption that the dramatic texts were intended for a small reading public distinct from the individuals who performed in the plays loses some of its validity.406 The further implicit assumption that those who watched the plays would not know them from having read the texts also becomes less persuasive. Of course, we have scant evidence for how actors and members of the chorus learned or rehearsed their roles.407 But to the extent that performers were also Page 149 →members of the theater audience, it follows that some significant subset of those who attended the theater had also read the play text.408 Regardless of the size of the literate population in Athens in the fifth century, then, it seems reasonable to assume that drama was experienced in the city as both a performance to be watched and a text to be read. Xanthias’ famous joke in Frogs (303–4) about the unfortunate mistake of Hegelochus may provide anecdotal evidence for this conclusion. In reference to his role as the protagonist in Euripides’ Orestes, produced three years before Frogs, the actor is mocked for having said ОіО±О»бї†ОЅ (ferret?) instead of the elided form of ОіО±О»бЅµОЅО± (calm things) in the line “I see once again calm things from the waves” (бјђОє ОєП…ОјбЅ±П„П‰ОЅ ОібЅ°ПЃ О±бЅ–ОёО№П‚ О±бЅ– ОіО±О»бЅµОЅбѕї бЅЃПЃбї¶, Orestes 279). This mispronunciation is assumed by scholars to refer to a slip of the actor’s tongue at the moment he uttered the word in performance. But it may also refer to a slip in orthographic terms; that is, the joke may be that Hegelochus had misread the script.409 In referring to a visual misperception (бЅЃПЃбї¶), the joke also depends on a slippage between what is written in the text and what would have been seen in performance. The literalization of the metaphor (“I see waves” becomes “I see a ferret”) refers to the uncertain relationship between the

play as text and the play as a visual enactment.410 Two points relating to the present discussion follow from these brief observations. First, insofar as the dramatic text is always only an approximation of its hypothetical enactment, it exposes the inadequacy of what Joseph Roach calls the “schematized opposition of literacy and orality as transcendent categories.”411 Rather, the written text and its “oral” performance are Page 150 →dynamically and mutually self-generating phenomena. Second, as a feature of the hypothetical play in performance, visuality is again the mediating third term between the written text and its enactment in the theater; this seems to be what W. B. Worthen refers to when he speaks of “the visible texture of verbal citation” in play texts.412 The desire to see the play in performance is thus an effect both of the visual or material references in the text itself and of its (the text’s) reference to the hypothetical play in performance. In temporal terms, this desire is produced in the time of reading. I use the phrase “time of reading” here to refer to the experience of reading tragic texts in Aristophanes’ Frogs.413 But its use is situated within a broader, if fragmentary, history that can be pieced together from various later sources. Among these is the fascinating account of the so-called Letter Tragedy (ОіПЃО±ОјОјО±П„О№ОєбЅґ П„ПЃО±ОібїіОґбЅ·О±) attributed to “Callias the Athenian,” a comic playwright of the late fifth or early fourth century. Fragments of this work are preserved in Athenaeus’ second-century CE Deipnosophistae, where they are said to have been culled from a book of riddles attributed to the fourth-century Aristotelian philosopher Clearchus of Soli.414 Triply embedded in a text (the Letter Tragedy) within a text (the riddles of Clearchus) within a text (Athenaeus’ Deipnosophistae), the play’s reception is further complicated by the fact that both it and the work of Clearchus are no longer extant.415 But as a topic of conversation in Deipnosophistae, Callias’ play contributes to the history of Athenian drama as a text-based medium going back to the late fifth or early fourth century. Ralph Rosen’s remarks suggest the extent to which Callias’ text continued to summon readers: “We cannot,Page 151 → of course, tell whether [the commentary on Callias’ text as quoted in Deipnosophistae] reflects the reading and excerpting practices of Athenaeus or his source Clearchus, but in either case one gets the impression of a critic reading a text of the play and offering a commentary on it as he reads.”416 Joseph A. Smith argues that the puzzle or riddle in Callias’ play is based on the distinction between letters (ПѓП„ОїО№П‡Оµбї–О±) as the inscriptions of their names (i.e., alpha, beta, etc.) and letters (ОіПЃО±П†О±бЅ·) as the components of discernible lexical items.417 He concludes that Letter Tragedy (which he calls Alphabet Tragedy) anticipates no functional literacy beyond knowing the names of the letters of the alphabetВ .В .В . Callias’ fragments as we have them place no demand on an audience for visual recognition of letters. As the modern-day struggle to unpack Clearchus’ textualization of Callias’ script itself testifies, thinking of dramatic texts only in their visual, printed form actually impedes getting jokes. This might give those who look to Alphabet Tragedy as demonstrative proof of a new, changing relationship between ancient readers and their texts, now startlingly reified and visual, some reason to pause and reevaluate.418 This conclusion, in which Smith appeals to an original oral/visual performance as the basis for making sense of Callias’ text, provides further support for his assertion that Callias “intended” his text to be performed. This latter assertion then becomes the basis for a negative assessment of general literacy in Callias’ time, the late fifth or early fourth century BCE. Together, these conclusions constitute something of a circular argument, in which rates of literacy and an author’s intention—both of which are unknown variables—are mutually reinforcing. Smith also recognizes that these conclusions are based on his own “modern-day” attempt to “unpack” Callias’ joke from reading its fragments in Athenaeus’ text. Thus, getting the joke does not depend on seeing the play in performance. Rather, the hypothetical play in performance is the pretext for getting the joke as a consequence of reading the text. In short, Callias’ Letter Tragedy epitomizes the temporal, ontological, and hermeneutical variables at work in Page 152 →the relationship between reading the dramatic text and its hypothetical enactment.

Theodorus the Cynic alludes to this relationship more specifically in Deipnosophistae, when he asserts that, according to Clearchus, Callias’ Letter Tragedy was the source from which “Euripides in Medea and Sophocles in Oedipus made their songs and arrangement” (бјЂП†бѕї бј§П‚ ПЂОїО№бї†ПѓО±О№ П„бЅ° ОјбЅіО»О· ОєО±бЅ¶ П„бЅґОЅ ОґО№бЅ±ОёОµПѓО№ОЅ О•бЅђПЃО№ПЂбЅ·ОґО·ОЅ бјђОЅ ОњО·ОґОµбЅ·бѕі ОєО±бЅ¶ ОЈОїП†ОїОєО»бЅіО± П„бЅёОЅ Оџбј°ОґбЅ·ПЂОїП…ОЅ, Deipnosophistae 276a). As a statement about poetic composition, this assertion is clearly ridiculous. It is also historically suspect, since it seems most likely that Callias composed his play late in the fifth century, after the known performances of these plays by Sophocles and Euripides.419 But Theodorus’ hyperbole also implies that perhaps as early as the late fifth century, the most famous plays by the canonical Athenian tragedians were thought of as literary artifacts, even to the point of comically reducing them to deciphering the letters of the alphabet.420 Whether or not this is also evidence for increasing rates of literacy in fifth-century Athens remains a matter of speculation.421 By the second century CE, of course, reading is the principal medium for what David Braund refers to as Athenaeus’ “profound and extensive concern with the past.”422 Theodorus’ comment may simply be an expression of this fact. If Letter Tragedy testifies—however speculatively—to the increasing “textualization” of drama in the fifth century, this process is endowed with the authority of history in pseudo-Plutarch’s well-known anecdote about Lycurgus’Page 153 → law requiring that the plays of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides be written down and deposited in the public archive in Athens (Ps.-Plu., Vit. dec. or. 841 F).423 П„бЅёОЅ ОґбЅі, бЅЎП‚ П‡О±О»Оєбѕ¶П‚ Оµбј°ОєбЅ№ОЅО±П‚ бјЂОЅО±ОёОµбї–ОЅО±О№ П„бї¶ОЅ ПЂОїО№О·П„бї¶ОЅ, О‘бј°ПѓП‡бЅ»О»ОїП…, ОЈОїП†ОїОєО»бЅіОїП…П‚, О•бЅђПЃО№ПЂбЅ·ОґОїП…, ОєО±бЅ¶ П„бЅ°П‚ П„ПЃО±ОібїіОґбЅ·О±П‚ О±бЅђП„бї¶ОЅ бјђОЅ ОєОїО№ОЅбї· ОіПЃО±П€О±ОјбЅіОЅОїП…П‚ П†П…О»бЅ±П„П„ОµО№ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ П„бЅёОЅ П„бї†П‚ ПЂбЅ№О»ОµП‰П‚ ОіПЃО±ОјОјО±П„бЅіО± ПЂО±ПЃО±ОЅО±ОіО№ОЅбЅЅПѓОєОµО№ОЅ П„Оїбї–П‚ бЅ‘ПЂОїОєПЃО№ОЅОїОјбЅіОЅОїО№П‚О‡ ОїбЅђОє бјђОѕОµбї–ОЅО±О№ ОібЅ°ПЃ ПЂО±ПЃбѕї О±бЅђП„бЅ°П‚ бЅ‘ПЂОїОєПЃбЅ·ОЅОµПѓОёО±О№. [[Another of his laws stipulated] that the city should set up bronze statues of the poets, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, and that it guard their tragedies once they had been fairly written out and that the secretary of the city read them out to the actors, for the law prohibited acting out [versions of the tragedies] other than these.] This story suggests that by at least the last third of the fourth century, the play texts had become distinct from, if not superior to, their performances. Whatever political benefits may have motivated Lycurgus, moreover, his act of preservation is also a defense, however illusory, against actors’ mistakes in performance, like the one attributed to Hegelochus in Frogs. Pseudo-Plutarch is explicit about this defensive aspect of the law: it was intended to prevent actors from deviating from the standardized versions of the play texts (ОїбЅђОє бјђОѕОµбї–ОЅО±О№ ОібЅ°ПЃ ПЂО±ПЃбѕї О±бЅђП„бЅ°П‚ бЅ‘ПЂОїОєПЃбЅ·ОЅОµПѓОёО±О№).424 But if the purpose of establishing definitive play texts was to guarantee the authenticity and accuracy of the plays in performance, reading those texts becomes a substitute for seeing and hearing the plays.425 Analogously, the bronze statues of Page 154 →the three great tragedians function as visual analogues to the textual stability demanded by the law.426 Produced at the end of the fifth century, Frogs treats Athenian tragedy in terms of a conflict between textualization and visualization, or, in more concrete terms, between the experience of reading a tragedy and the experience of watching one. At the very beginning of the play, Dionysus explains, in a much-discussed passage, that his presence at Heracles’ door is due to a sudden desire (ПЂбЅ№ОёОїП‚) brought on by reading Euripides’ Andromeda (Frogs 52–54). ОєО±бЅ¶ Оґбї†П„бѕї бјђПЂбЅ¶ П„бї†П‚ ОЅОµбЅјП‚ бјЂОЅО±ОіО№ОіОЅбЅЅПѓОєОїОЅП„бЅ· ОјОїО№ П„бЅґОЅ бј€ОЅОґПЃОїОјбЅіОґО±ОЅ ПЂПЃбЅёП‚ бјђОјО±П…П„бЅёОЅ бјђОѕО±бЅ·П†ОЅО·П‚

ПЂбЅ№ОёОїП‚ П„бЅґОЅ ОєО±ПЃОґбЅ·О±ОЅ бјђПЂбЅ±П„О±ОѕОµ ПЂбї¶П‚ ОїбјґОµО№ ПѓП†бЅ№ОґПЃО±. [And then, while I was on that ship, and reading Andromeda to myself, a desire suddenly struck my heart, you know how strong.] In what seems to be one of the “earliest examples of solitary reading” in ancient Greek, the desire (ПЂбЅ№ОёОїП‚) that reading Euripides’ tragedy elicits in Dionysus is the emotion that motivates the plot.427 But how are we to understand the source—or, more accurately, the medium—of that desire, that is, reading (бјЂОЅО±ОіО№ОіОЅбЅЅПѓОєОїОЅП„бЅ· ОјОїО№)? As we might expect from what has been said above, a cautionary note prevails in the scholarship on Frogs. Arguing for the significance of the comedy in the history of literary criticism, Richard Hunter notes that “the critical habitВ .В .В . has in fact affected the way dramas are written.”428 But he is quick to divorce this critical habit from writing and reading as its source. Page 155 →We may also be tempted to think that [the process of critical engagement] demands or requires, not only time, but also written texts which can be studied and re-consulted as problems are pored over. Caution is, however, necessary. We are all lectores scrupulosi now, and we are inclined to retroject our practices into antiquity. The tradition of posing and solving critical “problems” will have had deep roots in the oral culture of the symposium, and we must avoid overfine distinctions between what is possible with an oral, performance tradition and what requires written texts. Nevertheless, the very clear foreshadowing in the Frogs of later critical practices makes it more than tempting to use our hindsight to see here the dramatization of the birth of a particular kind of criticism, one usually traced from Aristotle to Alexandria and on into the scholia and later antiquity. Dionysus, we know, is an avid reader of tragic texts (Frogs 52–3), and Euripides’ impatience with choral performances points in the same direction—before long texts would be produced which did indeed omit the choral parts; is his the impatience of the reader?429 Hunter leaves his perceptive question unanswered, and his position on the relationship between writing, reading, and “the process of critical engagement” is unclear. Implicitly engaged in upholding the primacy of the plays in performance, Hunter seems reluctant to attribute the critical discourse he identifies in its nascent form in Frogs to the fact that the play was produced with the aid of writing and to the possibility that its critical reception was a matter of reading. Instead, insights into that critical discourse are attributed to hindsight, beginning with Aristotle as the original lector scrupulosus.430 Hunter’s conclusions about the history of critical questions and about the importance of Frogs to that history are illuminating and persuasive. In pointing out his ambivalence toward reading and writing as variables in that history, I am not suggesting that these are necessary to the kind of critical engagement he adumbrates. Rather, I am suggesting that the critical discourse in Frogs is an effect of its own self-reflexive mode of production.431 I Page 156 →therefore take seriously Dionysus’ paradigmatic position as an “avid reader” of tragedy, where the god’s reading is not simply a technical skill but a sign of the receding significance—from the comic poet’s point of view—of tragedy as a performance medium. In Hunter’s terms, if the Aristophanic Euripides’ impatience with choral performance in drama is a sign of the impatience of the reader (who would presumably feel slowed down by the lyric parts), that impatience extends to tragedy as the visual enactment of the old Ојбї¦ОёОїО№ (cf. Poetics 1453a17–22). What naturally emerges from this impatience is the critical and political dynamism of the comic present. Commenting on Frogs as a classicizing work, a work that is “retrospective, tinged with nostalgia, venerating, canonizing, and so on,” James I. Porter links this classicizing tendency with “the dynamics of reading and performing the voice of a past author.”432 As the basis of Dionysus’ desire for Euripides, Porter explains,

reading Andromeda becomes emblematic of this tendency. [C]lassicizers who enjoy a readerly relation to their authors are protected by the disavowed knowledge that the presence they pursue will forever elude them. They are screened from their desire by the very same object that acts as the screen of their desire: the text they are reading. Classicism thrives on this disavowed fantasy.433 (emphasis in the original) As Porter goes on to argue, Frogs both enacts and critiques this fantasy. To be sure, the greatest source of evidence for the classicism aimed at in [Frogs] is the least recoverable. For behind everything is the lost but inferable evidence of the theatrics themselves, the tragic voicings and gesture, which would have guaranteed the authenticity of the experience to an audience bent on recapturing a former literary greatness.434 If reading is the source and expression of a desire to recapture “a former literary greatness” or to hear “the voiceprint of the author,” the play text introduces a different, if related, modality of desire.435 Anticipating Aristotle’s ambivalence toward бЅ„П€О№П‚ in thePoetics—to which I will return below—Dionysus’Page 157 → desire for Euripides in Frogs may be understood in terms of recapturing a former literary greatness.436 But insofar as that former greatness is realized as a form of visible enactment, Frogs equates reading the play text with the invisibility of this idealized past. In this sense, Porter’s image of the screen is an especially apt metaphor for reading the play as the symptom of this disavowed fantasy. To be more succinct, reading tragedy refers to the fact that the desire to recapture the genre’s former greatness is the definitive proof of its loss. In the scholarship on Frogs, the question of Dionysus’ role as a reader has been subsumed, to a large degree, under another question: why does this particular play, Andromeda, awaken Dionysus’ desire? This question was first raised in a scholion: “Why not another of the recently produced and beautiful dramas, namely, Hypsipyle, Phoenissae, Antiope?”437 Subjecting mythological time to the demands of absolute chronology, the scholiast also wonders why Dionysus did not desire a more recently produced play; Andromeda had been produced in 412. Taking this question seriously has been the basis for the history of its reception. In an important article, Pavlos Sfyroeras comments, What seems to trigger the scholiast’s question, namely the temporal distance between comic production and cited tragedy, never poses an insurmountable problem for Aristophanes or presumably his audience. This can be demonstrated for example by the parody of Telephus (438 B.C.E.) thirteen years later, in Acharnians (425 B.C.E.), and even twenty-seven years later, in Thesmophoriazusae (411 B.C.E.).438 This problem may not have been insurmountable for Aristophanes or his audience, but it does raise the more difficult question of the source of their knowledge of the parodied tragedy. It is more succinct to ask, pace the scholiast, whether the date of the production of the prior play is decisive. I will return to this point below. Sfyroeras’ main argument includes a detailed analysis of the intertextual and intratextual connections between Andromeda and Frogs, which, mediated through Thesmophoriazousae, demonstrate how the Page 158 →comedy’s mythological, metatheatrical, political, and historical references are illuminated by the proposition that Dionysus plays the role of Andromeda to Euripides’ Perseus in Frogs.439 Sfyroeras’ careful readings of Frogs and Thesmophoriazousae, together with the scant evidence for the text of Andromeda, allow him to reach conclusions based on details as discrete as shared lexical items.440 Interestingly, he demonstrates that the significance of “the temporal distance between comic production and cited tragedy” is reduced—if not eliminated—when reading is the medium of a critical practice. His own approach is thus a metacommentary on Aristophanes’ conceit in Frogs. In the course of his reading, Sfyroeras makes two related points that are also relevant here. First, with reference to Plato’s Cratylus 420a, he notes, “In general, the root poth- of the nouns pothos/pothГЄ and the verb

potheГґ indicates intense nostalgic longing for someone or something absent or lost.”441 That this nostalgic longing often pertains to a woman’s desire for a man helps Sfyroeras make the case that Dionysus plays the feminine part in the recasting of Andromeda in Frogs.442 Second, citing the work of Jesper Svenbro, Sfyroeras connects this nostalgic longing with the activity of reading: “pothos, which essentially consists in nostalgic recollection of something currentlyPage 159 → not at hand [is] therefore, like the act of reading itself, .В .В .В founded on absence.”443 He elaborates, Not unlike pothos, which implies recollection rather than immediate perception, the act of reading aboard a warship defines Dionysus’ experience of Andromeda as indirect and secondary: it does not consist in dramatic enactment but entails the intervention of a different medium. Through an analogous kind of mediation, by reading Andromeda and longing for its author, Dionysus does not merely evoke this Euripidean tragedy directly but replicates specifically its Aristophanic reflection. Thus Euripides’ Andromeda, not by itself but through the comic filter of Thesmophoriazusae, underlies Frogs, and its recollection prompts the spectators to compare Dionysus to MnesilochusAndromeda, Euripides to Perseus.444 This is an original and persuasive argument. But if Thesmophoriazousae and, through it, Andromeda are recollected in Frogs, what exactly is the source of that recollection? As Sfyroeras notes somewhat in passing, “it does not consist in dramatic enactment.” In other words, Dionysus’ ПЂбЅ№ОёОїП‚ is not awakened by his desire to see the play in performance. This might be explained by the fact that tragedies were generally not produced more than once in the fifth century; a desire to see the play again is not likely to be fulfilled. But this fact does not fully explain the effect of Dionysus’ shipboard reading. The god’s desire takes several possible shapes. Heracles naturally places it in the erotic register: does Dionysus desire a woman, a boy, a man; has he done it with Cleisthenes? (54–59). As Dionysus says, it may be “small, like Molon” (55), or it may be sudden, like the desire for “a bowl of soup” (62).445 But in the end, reading the play awakens a more predictable desire, if one less easily satisfied—namely, a desire for Andromeda’s playwright, Euripides (П„ОїО№ОїП…П„ОїПѓбЅ¶ П„ОїбЅ·ОЅП…ОЅ ОјОµ ОґО±ПЃОґбЅ±ПЂП„ОµО№ ПЂбЅ№ОёОїП‚ О•бЅђПЃО№ПЂбЅ·ОґОїП…, 66–67). The crucial fact that Euripides is dead is made explicit when Heracles responds by asking if Dionysus wants to have sex with a dead man (ОєО±бЅ¶ П„О±бї¦П„О± П„Оїбї¦ П„ОµОёОЅО·ОєбЅ№П„ОїП‚В .В .В .В , 67).446 Page 160 →As the invocation of absence and longing, reading Andromeda is thus not only a means of signaling the mediating presence of Thesmophoriazousae. By way of a charismatic displacement (of the playwright for his play), reading the play is also a way of signaling the absence (death) of Euripides as its author/writer. The intertextual and intratextual references that Sfyroeras identifies so convincingly, moreover, suggest that Aristophanes was working from the texts of both Thesmophoriazousae and Andromeda. The primary source of recollection, like the activity (reading) that initiates it, is textual. So the question is not about how much time had elapsed between the performance of Andromeda and that of Frogs; this question only attests again to the primacy of the play in performance in the history of scholarship going back to the scholiast. Rather, as the source of a sudden (бјђОѕО±бЅ·П†ОЅО·П‚) desire for a dead playwright, reading Andromeda renders the play in performance obsolete. In generic terms, the comedy is a vehicle for demonstrating that, as a text to be read, tragedy is no longer worth watching. In this somewhat radical understanding of the comedy and as a response to reading Andromeda, Dionysus’ ПЂбЅ№ОёОїП‚ is not simply the sign of an intense nostalgic longing. Rather, in the context of the comedy, the god’s desire for tragedy (both the play and its dead playwright) is part of a critique of the genre as a source of nostalgic longing. The act of reading tragedy (as a substitute for seeing it in its original performance) evokes this longing in the process of debunking it. According to Dionysus, “the good tragic poets no longer exist, and those who do exist are bad” (ОґбЅіОїОјО±О№ ПЂОїО№О·П„Оїбї¦ ОґОµОѕО№Оїбї¦ Н… Оїбј± ОјбЅІОЅ ОібЅ°ПЃ ОїбЅђОєбЅіП„ бѕїОµбј°ПѓбЅ·ОЅ, Оїбј± Оґбѕї бЅ„ОЅП„ОµП‚ ОєО±ОєОїбЅ·, 71–72). This condemnation, which is simultaneously aesthetic, moral, and biographical, suggests that reading the tragic text signifies, in comic terms and like the death and impossible resurrection of the best tragic poets, the passing away of tragedy as a publicly witnessed performance medium.447 Sommerstein comments, “One would have thought the deck of a trireme a

far from ideal environment for [reading plays].”448 But in addition to Sfyroeras’ insightful conclusion that “reading aboard a warship defines Dionysus’ experience of Andromeda as indirect and secondary,” the shipboard location is also the spatial analogue of the ambivalence Frogs shows toward tragedy as a source of public instruction.449 The deck of Page 161 →a trireme may be an ideal place to read the play, because it is so far removed from the center of the city and its theater.450 It is also a spatial analogue to the fact that no good (ОґОµОѕО№бЅ№П‚) poet exists in the city. As the comedy progresses, moreover, the criteria for what made the old poets good are up for grabs. The ambivalence of Frogs toward tragedy as a performance medium is most vividly and persistently demonstrated in the play’s dense textualization of the genre, that is, tragedy’s constant submission to fragmentation, misquotation, paraphrase, and comic emendation.451 Paratragedy is a distinct and common feature of Aristophanic comedy, of course.452 What distinguishes Frogs is the extent to which citation is constitutive of the parody, beginning early in the play and culminating in the great contest or бјЂОібЅЅОЅ.453 Scholars take it for granted that these citations, or quoted passages, necessarily refer to their original utterance in performance.454 Thus, for example, according to Dover, Page 162 →Aristophanes does not set the audience an examination of the type “Give the context ofВ .В .В .В ,” but tries to amuse simultaneously anyone who remembers the original and anyone who does not. Many members of the audience will have seen the tragedies which he parodies, and he will naturally have given prominence to passages which he knew had made the deepest impression and passed into circulation as catch-phrases or as wise or shocking sayings.455 Dover summarizes the evidence for the possession of and attitudes toward books in the fifth century and concludes, “It is clear that Frogs was produced at a time when the dissemination of books was increasing rapidly.”456 Dover here both acknowledges and downplays the possibility that, in addition to having seen the plays in performance, Aristophanes’ audience may have been familiar with the passages in question from the play texts.457 It seems plausible that the success of Aristophanes’ parodies will have relied on the expectation that there were those in his audience who may have seen the tragedies, those who may have read them, and those who may have done both.458 Whatever sort of book the chorus have in mind when they say that, because each member of the audience has one, each member understands “clever things” (бјђПѓП„ПЃО±П„ОµП…ОјбЅіОЅОїО№ ОібЅ±ПЃ Оµбј°ПѓО№, ОІО№ОІО»бЅ·ОїОЅ П„бѕї бј”П‡П‰ОЅ бј•ОєО±ПѓП„ОїП‚ ОјО±ОЅОёбЅ±ОЅОµО№ П„бЅ° ОґОµОѕО№бЅ±, Frogs 1113–14), the clear implication is that reading is a commonly recognized and therefore easily parodied activity in Athens, no matter how many readers may have been in Aristophanes’ audience.459 Page 163 →Insofar as reading the play text is a substitute for watching a tragedy, the comic battle of the dead tragic poets points to the death of tragedy as a live performance medium.460 I realize that live performance is a modern term. But it expresses very well, without pressing the anachronism, the point I am trying to make: that as a consequence of reading Andromeda, Dionysus’ ПЂбЅ№ОёОїП‚ for Euripides locates the activity and effects of seeing and hearing the tragedies in an irrecoverable past.461 Figured in Dionysus’ trip to Hades to bring back a dead poet, moreover, the comedy both gestures toward the existence of a transcendent (or immortal!) viewing subject and parodies that subject in the impossible premise that humans can be brought back to life. Of course, what compensates for this impossibility is hearing and seeing the tragedies in their comic, if necessarily fragmented and disjointed, form. As we will see, this compensatory gesture is also literalized in the role of visible or material phenomena in Frogs.462 Specified in the relationship between Page 164 →words and objects and contextualized in the distinction between reading a tragedy (in the present) and seeing one (in the past), these phenomena are the basis of the comedy’s protoarchaeological effect.463 As noted above, the textualization of tragedy in Frogs begins early in the play. After lambasting the one-chorus playwrights whose works have “quickly departed” (бјѓ П†ПЃОїбї¦ОґО± Оёбѕ¶П„П„ОїОЅ, 94–95), Dionysus attempts to explain to Heracles what he means by a “creative poet” (ОібЅ№ОЅО№ОјОїОЅ ОґбЅІ ПЂОїО№О·П„бЅµОЅ, 96). Dionysus offers three phrases, or ῥήματα, by means of illustration (98–102).

бЅЎОґбЅ¶ ОібЅ№ОЅО№ОјОїОЅ, бЅ…ПѓП„О№П‚ П†ОёбЅіОіОѕОµП„О±О№ П„ОїО№ОїП…П„ОїОЅбЅ· П„О№ ПЂО±ПЃО±ОєОµОєО№ОЅОґП…ОЅОµП…ОјбЅіОЅОїОЅ, О±бј°ОёбЅіПЃО± О”О№бЅёП‚ ОґП‰ОјбЅ±П„О№ОїОЅ бјў П‡ПЃбЅ№ОЅОїП… ПЂбЅ№ОґО±, бјў П†ПЃбЅіОЅО± ОјбЅІОЅ ОїбЅђОє бјђОёбЅіО»ОїП…ПѓО±ОЅ бЅЂОјбЅ№ПѓО±О№ ОєО±Оёбѕї бј±ОµПЃбї¶ОЅ, ОіО»бї¶П„П„О±ОЅ Оґбѕї бјђПЂО№ОїПЃОєбЅµПѓО±ПѓО±ОЅ бј°ОґбЅ·бѕі П„бї†П‚ П†ПЃОµОЅбЅ№П‚. [Creative like this, someone who says some really risky sort of thing like this: “bedroom of Zeus in the air” or “foot of time” or “mind that does not wish to swear by sacrificial offerings and tongue that swears without using its mind.”] These miscellaneous phrases, plucked out of three plays by Euripides, may have “passed into circulation as catch-phrases or as wise or shocking sayings,” as Dover suggests.464 But their recognition value within the comedy requires further analysis.465 When the first two phrases are repeated verbatim by Xanthias (or Dionysus) at line 311, this circulation becomes internal to Frogs itself; tragic citation is an intrinsic feature of the comic script.466 At the same time, however, these three examples are each of a different order; only “foot of time” is an exact quotation of a phrase from a choral ode in the recent and posthumously produced Bacchae (888).467 Commenting on Page 165 →the third example, Dover notes its difference from the text of Hippolytus and concludes that “Dionysus is made ridiculous by his inability to recall it correctly; his paraphrase includes six (characteristically comic) resolutions of long positions.”468 Of course, we could also say that Dionysus enlivens the tragic verse by means of this comic variation. If the joke is caught between what Dionysus says and what the audience knows to be correct from having seen and heard the plays in performance, the god’s incorrect citations also become a way of signaling the fact that knowledge of those original productions is receding with time.469 If we are to assume that the implied audience knows the correct lines and if, in fact, this is a defining feature of that audience, we have to ask about the source of that correct or exact knowledge. Is that source the plays in their past performances, the written play texts, or both? In approaching this question, it becomes clear that the “creative poet” and the subject of бЅ…ПѓП„О№П‚ П†ОёбЅіОіОѕОµП„О±О№ in line 98 is, of course, Aristophanes.470 While the incorrect or misquoted lines from Euripides’ plays may make the god of tragedy look ridiculous, they make the comic poet look good, that is, creative (ОібЅ№ОЅО№ОјОїП‚). While these lines seem to invoke the original performances of the tragedies to which they ostensibly belong, moreover, their effect is due to their incorporation—like so many bits and pieces—into the comic poet’s script. Quotation, in other words, implies a textual practice. If tragic quotations constitute fragmentary comic filler, material objects play an analogous role in Frogs.471 The comedy’s incorporation of tragic words and phrases, in other words, is analogous to its incorporation of objects. This analogy is not just based on a shared referential quality. It extends to the comedy’s temporal and ethical realms (the latter culminating in the appeal to save the city of Athens), which together form the basis of its protoarchaeological effect. In the central бјЂОібЅЅОЅ of the play, Euripides famously says Page 166 →that he taught the Athenians to take better care of their household affairs (Оїбј°ОєОµбї–О± ПЂПЃбЅ±ОіОјО±П„О±, 959), to which Dionysus replies with some examples (Frogs 980–88).472 ОЅбЅґ П„ОїбЅєП‚ ОёОµОїбЅ»П‚, ОЅбї¦ОЅ ОіОїбї¦ОЅ бј€ОёО·ОЅО±бЅ·П‰ОЅ бј…ПЂО±П‚ П„О№П‚ Оµбј°ПѓО№бЅјОЅ

ОєбЅіОєПЃО±ОіОµ ПЂПЃбЅёП‚ П„ОїбЅєП‚ Оїбј°ОєбЅіП„О±П‚ О¶О·П„Оµбї– П„ОµО‡ ПЂОїбї¦ бѕїПѓП„О№ОЅ бјЎ П‡бЅ»П„ПЃО±; П„бЅ·П‚ П„бЅґОЅ ОєОµП†О±О»бЅґОЅ бјЂПЂОµОґбЅµОґОїОєОµОЅ П„бї†П‚ ОјО±О№ОЅбЅ·ОґОїП‚; П„бЅё П„ПЃбЅ»ОІО»О№ОїОЅ П„бЅё ПЂОµПЃП…ПѓО№ОЅбЅёОЅ П„бЅіОёОЅО·ОєбЅі ОјОїО№О‡ ПЂОїбї¦ П„бЅё ПѓОєбЅ№ПЃОїОґОїОЅ П„бЅё П‡ОёО№О¶О№ОЅбЅ№ОЅ; П„бЅ·П‚ П„бї†П‚ бјђО»бЅ±О±П‚ ПЂО±ПЃбЅіП„ПЃО±ОіОµОЅ; [Yes, by the gods, now every Athenian goes home [from the theater] and screams at his slaves looking for answers: “Where is my pot? Who’s eaten the head off my fish? My bowl from last year died. Where is yesterday’s garlic? Who has nibbled on the olive?”] Dionysus’ commentary is based on the equation of literal language and mundane things and on the mimetic consequences of Euripides’ art: you are what you watch.473 The noteworthy exception is the metaphorical death of the “bowl from last year.” Dover notes that “τέθνηκε вЂperish’ can be used of abstract entities (e.g., О»бЅ№ОіОїО№, A. Ch. 846), but is not used elsewhere of inanimate objects.”474 So while Dionysus is allowed this figural use of the verb, its uniqueness only highlights the concrete ordinariness of the noun. According to Dionysus, watching a Euripidean tragedy occasions not thinking deep thoughts but going home and organizing the pantry. Page 167 →Explaining why Hades presents an uneven playing field for the contest between himself and Euripides, Aeschylus memorably cries foul because, unlike Euripides’ poetry, his own poetry had not died with him (бЅ…П„О№ бјЎ ПЂОїОЇО·ПѓО№П‚ ОїбЅђП‡бЅ¶ ПѓП…ОЅП„бЅіОёОЅО·ОєбЅі ОјОїО№, П„ОїбЅ»П„бїі ОґбЅІ ПѓП…ОЅП„бЅіОёОЅО·ОєОµОЅ, Frogs 868–69).475 There is plenty of Aeschylus’ poetry in the comic underworld, of course. But in addition to the Euripidean spectator who laments the death of his bowl (П„бЅіОёОЅО·ОєОµ, 986) these are the only examples in the play of finite forms of ОёОЅбї„ПѓОєП‰. This lexical link—in which the fate of tragic poetry is implicitly equated with the fate of a bowl—may seem exaggerated. But in a plot that takes place in Hades, all “dead” things form a class of comparable objects. That Euripides is the only principal character to be specifically referred to as a dead man in the play (П„ОµОёОЅО·ОєбЅ№П„ОїП‚, 67; П„ОµОёОЅО·ОєбЅ№П„О±, 1476) completes the lexical affiliation in which the tragic poet, his poetry, and the bowl of his implied spectator meet the same fate. These explicit attributions—that Euripides is dead and so is his poetry—may also anticipate Dionysus’ choice of Aeschylus at the play’s end; I return to this choice below. The only other dead man (П„ОµОёОЅО·ОєбЅ№П„О±, 171) in Frogs is the anonymous corpse—a sort of

every-dead-man—that Dionysus cannot hire to carry his baggage. This scene brings us back to the beginning of the play and to the business about whether Xanthias or the donkey is carrying the baggage that he and Dionysus have brought to Hades with them (Frogs 24–32). In addition to the pseudophilosophical and linguistic parody involved in the question of who is carrying what, both scenes raise the question of exactly what this baggage is. Neither Dionysus nor Xanthias ever seem to use any of this stuff, which is variously referred to as ПѓОєОµбЅ»О·, “implements” (12, 15, 108, 497, 521, 627); ПѓП„ПЃбЅЅОјО±П„О±, “bedding” (165, 439, 502, 525, 596); and ПѓОєОµП…бЅ±ПЃО№О±, “small implements” (172).476 The question of who is carrying this baggage is clearly part of the exchange of identity between Dionysus and Xanthias as master and slave once they enter the land of the dead. But this social commentary is only one—albeit important—aspect of the meaning of these miscellaneous and ill-defined things or implements in the Page 168 →play. In general, the act of carrying things (ПѓОєОµбЅ»О· П†бЅіПЃОµО№ОЅ, 15) is the stuff of some well-worn jokes (П„О№ П„бї¶ОЅ Оµбј°П‰ОёбЅ№П„П‰ОЅ, 1). But this comic business has another side to it. According to Greek custom, the dead were buried with objects that archaeologists now conventionally call grave goods; these objects make up a substantial part of the archaeological record.477 The business in the opening scene of Frogs may refer to this practice, that is, to the absurdity that Dionysus—even though a god—is carrying his own grave goods to Hades.478 Whatever they may have been, however, these objects provide a visual analogue to the objectification of tragic words and phrases in the play. These props also draw the attention of readers of the comedy to the distinction between the play as text and the play as a hypothetical performance in which the props would presumably be physically present on stage.479 When we recall that Dionysus makes his trip to the underworld to bring back the dead Euripides (66–67), the things he is carrying with him take on an additional meaning. Hades is very much a Euripidean milieu in the play, a place where the creature comforts of home are offered or withheld and where the inhabitants are most concerned with their common personal possessions (548–78). Dionysus’ desire for Euripides is a conceit for presenting Hades as a materialist’s paradise (or nightmare) inhabited by creatures principally interested in the objects and foods stolen by Heracles on his earlier journey. This is the larger context for the equation of tragic words with everyday things in the play, with Dionysus following Euripides’ lead. When Euripides rebukes Aeschylus for saying the same thing twice in the prologue to the Choephorae, for example, Dionysus equates the redundancy with a couple of everyday objects (1158–59). Page 169 →ОЅбЅґ П„бЅёОЅ О”О№ бѕї, бЅҐПѓПЂОµПЃ Оібѕї Оµбјґ П„О№П‚ ОµбјґПЂОїО№ ОіОµбЅ·П„ОїОЅО№ П‡ПЃбї†ПѓОїОЅ ПѓбЅє ОјбЅ±ОєП„ПЃО±ОЅ, Оµбј° ОґбЅІ ОІОїбЅ»О»ОµО№, ОєбЅ±ПЃОґОїПЂОїОЅ. [Yes, by Zeus, as if a man said to his neighbor, lend me a kneading trough and, if you please, a kneading vessel.] A bit later, Aeschylus vows to “chop up” Euripides’ phrases “word by word” (ОєО±П„бѕї бј”ПЂОїП‚ ОібЅі ПѓОїП… ОєОЅбЅ·ПѓП‰ П„бЅё ῥῆμ᾿ бј•ОєО±ПѓП„ОїОЅ, 1198–99). In the most sustained substitution of words for things, he replaces about-to-be-spoken phrases from Euripides’ prologues with the famous substitution “lost his little oil bottle” (О»О·ОєбЅ»ОёО№ОїОЅ бјЂПЂбЅЅО»ОµПѓОµОЅ, 1200ff.). The white-ground О»бЅµОєП…ОёОїП‚ is the most common type of vessel found in classical burials, so this substitution may be another example of tragic words being linked with funereal things in Frogs.480 As tragic filler—and in addition to whatever it means to say that a character lost his little bottle—the phrase again suggests that, from the comedy’s point of view, tragedy is a dead or dying art.481 When Aeschylus injects the phrase into Euripides’ prologues, he proves himself to be the equal of his rival whom he accuses of fitting any old thing—a little sheepskin, a bottle of oil, or a sack—into a poetic/iambic line (ПЂОїО№Оµбї–П‚ ОібЅ°ПЃ ОїбЅ•П„П‰П‚ бЅҐПѓП„бѕї бјђОЅО±ПЃОјбЅ№П„П„ОµО№ОЅ бј…ПЂО±ОЅВ .В .В .В , 1201–4). The criticism is just as easily—if ironically—charged against himself as

against Euripides. Coming just after the chorus comments on the spectators’ ability to understand the finer points of the contest because each one has his “little book” (ОІО№ОІО»бЅ·ОїОЅ, 1114), this conclusion is also implicitly linked with the critique of tragedy as a textual medium. The ethical implications of this conclusion are foregrounded in the implied negative comparison of Euripides’ everyday objects (among which Page 170 →we can include the О»бЅµОєП…ОёОїП‚) with the kinds of things that signify an idealized Greek past. The preservation of this past is claimed by Aeschylus on behalf of his own plays. As a survivor of the Persian Wars and the author of Seven against Thebes, he argues that he bequeathed to the city tragic spectators who were also fearless warriors (1016–17).482 бјЂО»О»бЅ° ПЂОЅбЅіОїОЅП„О±П‚ ОґбЅ№ПЃП… ОєО±бЅ¶ О»бЅ№ОіП‡О±П‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ О»ОµП…ОєОїО»бЅ№П†ОїП…П‚ П„ПЃП…П†О±О»ОµбЅ·О±П‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ ПЂбЅµО»О·ОєО±П‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ ОєОЅО·Ојбї–ОґО±П‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ ОёП…ОјОїбЅєП‚ бј‘ПЂП„О±ОІОїОµбЅ·ОїП…П‚. [Euripides received from me] men who breathed spears and javelins and white-plumed helmets And headgear and greaves and hearts of seven-fold oxhide.] Compared to the pots, pans, and fish heads that Dionysus puts in the mouths of Euripides’ putative spectators, Aeschylus’ tragic equipment promotes the quest for glory in battle above concern for the vicissitudes of everyday life. It also consists of lexical items borrowed from the Homeric poems. The Euripidean spectator who laments the metaphorical “death” of his bowl is met here by an earlier breed of Aeschylean spectator, breathing spears, javelins, and helmets and inspired by the poems of Homer.483 Thus, material objects in Frogs can be talked about in terms of two competing temporal and ontological discourses. On the one hand, the play links Aeschylus with high figural language and the objects of an outmoded or faux nostalgic militarism. On the other, it links Euripides with (mostly) literal language and the mundane objects of everyday life.484 The consequences of these pairings, including their ethical implications, are brought to a head in Dionysus’ belated decision to “save” Athens by revivifying Aeschylus (бјЎ ПЂбЅ№О»О№П‚ ПѓП‰ОёОµбї–ПѓО±, Frogs 1419; cf. 1436). In opting to bring the older poet back to life, Dionysus seems to promote the virtues of a rhetorical and idealized past and to leave to molder Euripides’ jugs and bowls, his fish heads and garlic, and his little bottle of oil. But his decision only raises the question of the Page 171 →efficacy of that idealized past and of tragedy as its acknowledged medium.485 Having anatomized and reduced the plays of both Aeschylus and Euripides to bits and pieces of text, does Frogs finally elevate one poet over the other? Any answer to this question has to confront this anatomizing practice and the distinction it sets up between tragedy as text and tragedy as a hypothetical performance. It is perhaps not surprising that there is no scholarly consensus on the question of why Dionysus chooses to resurrect Aeschylus. Attributing the choice to the fact that Euripides is “both a cause and symptom of moral and political decline” in Athens in the fifth century, Richard Hunter concludes that “it is inconceivable that there should be an eventual winner other than Aeschylus.”486 But what seems “inconceivable” also raises the question of whether either poet is capable of saving the city and, more generally, the question of whether the comedy takes tragedy seriously as a form of political and moral instruction. Stephen Halliwell reads Dionysus’ choice as evidence for the failure of Frogs to provide a “coherent tragic poetics,” despite the fact that this is the putative basis of the comedy’s plot. It is hard to see how Aristophanes could have gone much further in stripping the god’s eventual choice of any comprehensible basis. The momentum of the scene carries it toward a sense that the verdict is a comic enactment, but also a comic overcoming, of the god’s failure to find a coherent

tragic poetics: not just his failure to identify his own reasons for a decision, but the failure of the contest to clinch a compelling way of judging between such different playwrights as Aeschylus and Euripides. The choice of Aeschylus is presented as the very reverse of an act of intelligible or rationalizable “criticism.”487

Page 172 →I take this aesthetic failure as further evidence for the argument that tragedy is presented as a failed medium in Frogs. The absence of any reliable criteria for judging tragedy, epitomized in whatever choice Dionysus makes, is an indication that, from the comic point of view, the tragic genre is no longer relevant. At the same time, however, the god’s decision to bring back Aeschylus, with his helmets and greaves, is an expression of nostalgia fed by panic; a city that needs a dead poet is doomed.488 The comic eccentricities associated with this militaristic past, moreover, only serve to undermine its potential relevance to Athens following the Sicilian catastrophe.489 In short, it is a past whose resurrection is the proof of its irrevocable loss, or, in the driving metaphor of the comedy, its “death.” In this sense again, nostalgia, defined as the desire for an irrecoverable past, is the repudiated response to tragedy in Frogs. The equation between the death of tragedy and its textualization is made more explicit near the end of Frogs, when Dionysus responds to Euripides’ complaint about being left behind in Hades in favor of Aeschylus. Once again, Dionysus’ first line is an abbreviated quotation from a fragmentary play—or possibly from two fragmentary plays—by Euripides (Frogs 1476–78).490 EU: бЅ¦ ПѓП‡бЅіП„О»О№Оµ, ПЂОµПЃО№бЅ№П€ОµО№ ОјОµ ОґбЅґ П„ОµОёОЅО·ОєбЅ№П„О±; DI: П„бЅ·П‚ Оґбѕї Оїбј¶ОґОµОЅ Оµбј° П„бЅё О¶бї†ОЅ ОјбЅіОЅ бјђПѓП„О№ ОєО±П„ОёО±ОЅОµбї–ОЅ, П„бЅё ПЂОЅОµбї–ОЅ ОґбЅІ ОґОµО№ПЂОЅОµбї–ОЅ, П„бЅё ОґбЅІ ОєО±ОёОµбЅ»ОґОµО№ОЅ ОєбїґОґО№ОїОЅ; [EU: O you wretch, will you overlook the fact that I am dead? DI: Who knows if living is dying, Or breathing is dining, or sleeping is a sheepskin?] Aristophanes here incorporates an old piece of tragic verbiage that, as Aeschylus says earlier, died with the younger poet (Frogs 868–69). Of course, Page 173 →the poetry of Aeschylus is also “dead” in Frogs, since all tragic citations in the comedy, illustrated most vividly by the ῥήματα that are weighed on a scale in the final contest (1365–1410), are no more than linguistic filler plugged in more or less at random.491 This anatomizing practice foregrounds the problem of linguistic reference, literalized in the passage above as a series of questions based on improbable equivalencies. More specifically, the wordplay that constitutes the comic contribution to the Euripidean tag (line 1478) depends on equivalencies of sound (repeated consonants and syllables) that are contrasted with unheard-of equivalencies in sense. That “breathing is dining” and that “sleeping is a sheepskin” are true only in the sense that each pair shares phonetic material, as exemplified in ПЂОЅОµбї–ОЅ and ОґОµО№ПЂОЅОµбї–ОЅ.492 The articular infinitives that denote the activities of breathing, dining, and sleeping, capped off by the sheepskin (cf. 1201), also objectify the verbal material, while the fact that referring to breathing and sleeping are other ways of referring to living and dying illustrates the contingent nature of the relationship of words to things in the comedy. This contingency is perhaps most obvious in the misalignment of the common truism that sleeping is like dying, where the equivalence is both inferred and deferred in the fact that ОєО±П„ОёО±ОЅОµбї–ОЅ (to die) is phonetically most similar to ОєО±ОёОµбЅ»ОґОµО№ОЅ (to sleep).493 As a response to the fact that Euripides is dead, moreover, Dionysus’ question “Who knows ifВ .В .В .В ?” (П„бЅ·П‚ Оґбѕї Оїбј¶ОґОµОЅ Оµбј°В .В .В .В ;) explicitly points to tragedy’s inability to provide a stable and common public discourse. In

the role of a frustrated lexicographer, Dionysus’ lack of certainty about the meaning of life and death implies that, from the comedy’s point of view, the civic benefit of tragedy as a visually “alive” performance medium has been lost.494 If this conclusion is implicit in the passage discussed above, it becomes explicit in the torchlight procession with which Frogs ends (1526–33). Aeschylus’ monumental Oresteia, produced fifty-three years earlier, had, of course, ended with a similar procession. There, the Eumenides—like Aeschylus in Frogs—are entrusted with the task of “saving the city,” although with clearer mandates than those given to Aeschylus. To fulfill their function, moreover, Page 174 →they must dwell underground and are escorted to their new realm by Athena at the end of Eumenides (ОєО±П„бЅ° Оібї†П‚, 1008; ОєО±П„бЅ° П‡ОёОїОЅбЅ№П‚, 1023).495 In Frogs, the katabasis of the Kindly Ones is reversed and parodied in the rising up of Aeschylus “into the light” (бјђП‚ П†бЅ±ОїП‚ бЅЂПЃОЅП…ОјбЅіОЅбїі, 1529). This reversal may seem to exalt the tragic poet, who, in contrast to the goddesses, is poised to save the city by going up instead of going down. But the parody cautions against too easily accepting this conclusion.496 As Athena escorts the Eumenides to their new home at the end of Eumenides, she encourages the citizens of Athens to be optimistic: “May there be good thoughts among the citizens for good things done” (ОµбјґО· Оґбѕї бјЂОіО±Оёбї¶ОЅ бјЂОіО±ОёбЅґ ОґО№бЅ±ОЅОїО№О± ПЂОїО»бЅ·П„О±О№П‚, Eumenides 1012–13). This gnomic statement is recalled at the very end of Frogs, where the chorus addresses the deities beneath the earth (ОґО±бЅ·ОјОїОЅОµП‚ Оїбј± ОєО±П„бЅ° ОіО±бЅ·О±П‚, Frogs 1529) and asks them to “give to the city good thoughts in the pursuit of great goods” (П„бї‡ ОґбЅІ ПЂбЅ№О»ОµО№ ОјОµОібЅ±О»П‰ОЅ бјЂОіО±Оёбї¶ОЅ бјЂОіО±ОёбЅ°П‚ бјђПЂО№ОЅОїбЅ·О±П‚, Frogs 1530). We might take this near quotation as proof that the resurrection of Aeschylus in Frogs constitutes a straightforward endorsement of his tragic vision, including his vision of Athens in the Oresteia.497 Perhaps the underground ОґО±бЅ·ОјОїОЅОµП‚ even refer to the Eumenides.498 But the hope expressed in the request is compromised by the fact that it is simply another piece of tragic filler. In short, Dionysus’ choice of Aeschylus can be explained by the fact that it provides a neat pretext for Aristophanes’ parody of Eumenides. Together with the fact of chronology, this near quotation also suggests again that the implied audience of Frogs is made up of readers of the text of the Oresteia rather than viewers of its original performance. As an afterthought coming on the heels of the indecisive poetic contest that precedes, Dionysus’ wish to bring back the poet who can “save the city” is, finally, an expression of tragedy’s failure.499 No tragic poet—perhaps least Page 175 →of all the poet of the Oresteia—is capable of saving the city in its current political and military predicament. When Aeschylus says that Euripides will have to recite his poetry, because it “died with him” (бЅ…П„О№ бјЎ ПЂОїбЅ·О·ПѓО№П‚ ОїбЅђП‡бЅ¶ ПѓП…ОЅП„бЅіОёОЅО·ОєбЅі ОјОїО№, П„ОїбЅ»П„бїі ОґбЅІ ПѓП…ОЅП„бЅіОёОЅО·ОєОµОЅ, бЅҐПѓОёбѕї бј•ОѕОµО№ О»бЅіОіОµО№ОЅ, 868–69), he offers a succinct equivalence between the death throes of the genre and its literate form; in Hades, Euripides can only recite lines from his plays that were themselves, he says, “filtered from books” (бјЂПЂбЅё ОІО№ОІО»бЅ·П‰ОЅ бјЂПЂО·Оёбї¶ОЅ, 943). In this environment, Dionysus’ final and seemingly unexpected decision to resurrect Aeschylus takes us back to an earlier age of tragedy, but the result is not uplifting. Reduced to bits and pieces of text and epitomized in an array of miscellaneous objects, tragedy is finally the stuff of comedy. Referring both to a desire to see the tragedies in their original past performances and to the impossibility of fulfilling that desire, this “stuff” is the source of Frogs’ protoarchaeological effect. If Frogs invites this conclusion through the processes of textualization and anatomization discussed here, it also anticipates a text no less central to the serious interpretation of Attic drama than Aristotle’s Poetics. In returning briefly to the Poetics, my intent is to suggest that Aristotle’s ambivalence toward бЅ„П€О№П‚, or the visual aspect of tragedy, is an effect of the emergence of the dramatic text as a literary artifact. This ambivalence is determined first by the philosopher’s position as a reader of tragic texts, or, in Hunter’s words quoted above, by his position as a lector scrupulosus.500 If, as I have suggested for Frogs, this emergence is related to tragedy’s fading efficacy as a “live” performance medium at the end of the fifth century (at least in the eyes of the comic poet), Aristotle’s treatment of tragic бЅ„П€О№П‚ inPoetics provides a

theoretical basis for this hypothesis.501 Page 176 →While Aristotle may have had firsthand knowledge of the fifth-century plays in revival or may have known contemporaries of Sophocles and Euripides, these biographical data only speak to the expectation that Aristotle provides his readers with less-mediated access to the original plays in performance.502 While it may seem obvious that the Poetics owes its authority to the fact that it was written in the afterglow of the fifth century, that philosophical work’s formative and persistent position in a genealogy of statements about tragedy is an effect of its own place in time.503 As “the first major theorist of dramatic poetry,”504 Aristotle informs us not only about the formal aspects of the genre but also about reading and watching as competing means of accessing and evaluating fifth-century tragedy. While бЅ„П€О№П‚ is one of the six constituent parts of tragedy listed in thePoetics, Aristotle qualifies it in a way that makes its inclusion in the list ambiguous at best (1450b16–20). Page 177 →бјЎ ОґбЅІ бЅ„П€О№П‚ П€П…П‡О±ОіП‰ОіО№ОєбЅёОЅ ОјбЅіОЅ, бјЂП„ОµП‡ОЅбЅ№П„О±П„ОїОЅ ОґбЅІ ОєО±бЅ¶ ἥκιστα Оїбј°ОєОµбї–ОїОЅ П„бї†П‚ ПЂОїО№О·П„О№Оєбї†П‚О‡ бјЎ ОібЅ°ПЃ П„бї†П‚ П„ПЃО±ОібїіОґбЅ·О±П‚ ОґбЅ»ОЅО±ОјО№П‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ бј„ОЅОµП… бјЂОібї¶ОЅОїП‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ бЅ‘ПЂОїОєПЃО№П„бї¶ОЅ бј”ПѓП„О№ОЅ, бј”П„О№ ОґбЅІ ОєП…ПЃО№П‰П„бЅіПЃО± ПЂОµПЃбЅ¶ П„бЅґОЅ бјЂПЂОµПЃОіО±ПѓбЅ·О±ОЅ П„бї¶ОЅ бЅ„П€ОµП‰ОЅ бјЎ П„Оїбї¦ ПѓОєОµП…ОїПЂОїО№Оїбї¦ П„бЅіП‡ОЅО· П„бї†П‚ П„бї¶ОЅ ПЂОїО№О·П„бї¶ОЅ бјђПѓП„О№ОЅ. [The visual aspect [of tragedy] is soul inducing, but it is the most unskilled and the least proper [effect] of poetry. For the power of tragedy exists without the contest and the actors, and the art of the prop maker has greater authority with respect to the achievement of visual aspects [П„бї¶ОЅ бЅ„П€ОµП‰ОЅ] than does that of the poets.] Modified by the rare adjective П€П…П‡О±ОіП‰ОіО№ОєбЅ№П‚, the ability of бЅ„П€О№П‚ to induce the soul is, it seems, the measure of its poetic failure; or, rather, it is the measure by which the poet’s skill (П„бЅіП‡ОЅО·) is found wanting.505 Aristotle here acknowledges the desire to see a tragedy enacted, but only in order to repudiate that desire. The visual aspect may be one of tragedy’s constituent parts, but the power (ОґбЅ»ОЅО±ОјО№П‚) of the genre resides elsewhere.506 This repudiation is specified in more detail when Aristotle famously comments that the proper effects of tragedy can be experienced without seeing a play, by hearing the events (П„бЅ° ПЂПЃбЅ±ОіОјО±П„О±, Poetics 1453b3–7) and, more specifically, through reading (ОґбЅ·О± П„Оїбї¦ бјЂОЅО±ОіО№ОЅбЅЅПѓОєОµО№ОЅ, 1462a12–13). He thus seems to supplement Plato’s critique of ОјбЅ·ОјО·ПѓО№П‚, or imitation, in general and of tragic ОјбЅ·ОјО·ПѓО№П‚ in particular.507 But whereas Plato is concerned with the negative effects of impersonation by citizens in the ПЂбЅ№О»О№П‚, Aristotle connects the visual aspect of tragedy with the actions or events that constitute the Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚, or plot (бјЎ П„бї¶ОЅ ПЂПЃО±ОіОјбЅ±П„П‰ОЅ ПѓбЅ»ПѓП„О±ПѓО№П‚, Poetics 1450a15; cf. 1453b3–6). Tragedy, says Aristotle, is “an imitation not of men but of an action and of life” (бјЎ ОібЅ°ПЃ П„ПЃО±ОібїіОґбЅ·О± ОјбЅ·ОјО·ПѓбЅ·П‚ бјђПѓП„О№ОЅ ОїбЅђОє бјЂОЅОёПЃбЅЅПЂП‰ОЅ бјЂО»О»бЅ° ПЂПЃбЅ±ОѕОµП‰ОЅ Page 178 →ОєО±бЅ¶ ОІбЅ·ОїП…, Poetics 1450a16–24; cf. 1447b30, 1449b31–34, 1450b3–4).508 Further on, Aristotle gives an even more concrete definition: “The events [П„бЅ° ПЂПЃбЅ±ОіОјО±П„О±] and the plot [Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚] are the aim or end [П„бЅіО»ОїП‚] of tragedy, and the П„бЅіО»ОїП‚ is the greatest thing of all. Without ПЂПЃбЅ±ОѕО№П‚ there could be no tragedy” (Poetics 1450a21–23). What, then, does Aristotle mean when he talks about reading or hearing the events instead of seeing them? The more difficult question to answer may be why he introduces this option in the first place.509 These questions draw attention to the position of the tragic spectator in Aristotle’s account. It seems clear that Aristotle does not mean that “seeing” the play from reading or hearing the text read aloud is a plausible

substitute for seeing the play in performance; that is, he is not talking about the substitution of one visual regime (the mind’s eye) for another (the bodily eye).510 Rather, he makes a distinction between the visual aspect of the play (бЅ„П€О№П‚) and the events that make up the plot, exemplified by the “plot of theOedipus” (П„бЅёОЅ П„Оїбї¦ Оџбј°ОґбЅ·ПЂОїП… Ојбї¦ОёОїОЅ, Poetics 1453b6–7).511 If the former is overdone, the proper pleasure of the play is compromised. But if the latter is well constructed (with, per 1459a17–24, a beginning, middle, and end), it can produce this pleasure without any visual aspect (ОґОµбї– ОібЅ°ПЃ ОєО±бЅ¶ бј„ОЅОµП… П„Оїбї¦ бЅЃПЃбѕ¶ОЅ ОїбЅ•П„П‰ ПѓП…ОЅОµПѓП„бЅ±ОЅО±О№ П„бЅёОЅ Ојбї¦ОёОїОЅ, 1453b3–4). We are here meant to take the phrase “without seeing” (бј„ОЅОµП… П„Оїбї¦ бЅЃПЃбѕ¶ОЅ) in its literal and absolute Page 179 →sense. While this distinction maintains the autonomy of the plot as distinct from the script, it also allows us to preserve the positive value that Aristotle accords to бЅ„П€О№П‚ as a necessary—if not always properly controlled—part of the play in performance.512 How, then, does the discourse of not seeing (бј„ОЅОµП… П„Оїбї¦ бЅЃПЃбѕ¶ОЅ) function in the Poetics, and what are the effects of that discourse? I base my response to this question on four related claims. First, Aristotle’s ambivalence toward бЅ„П€О№П‚ as a constituent feature of drama signifies his own distance in time from the fifth-century plays as they were originally performed in Athens.513 Second, his insistence on the primacy of the plot, which is not to be equated with the play text or script, disavows this literal seeing, in order to elevate a theoretical approach to tragedy’s effects.514 Third, in the Poetics, reading refers not simply to the literal or alphabetic decipherment of the play text but to the activity that enables this theoretical approach. Finally, insofar as reading is equated with not seeing the plays in performance (i.e., with the absence of бЅ„П€О№П‚), it also names a compensatory gesture in which the hypothetical spectator of the tragic plot is a figure for the irretrievable absence of the actual spectator of the original play in performance.515 Page 180 →Aristotle nowhere explicitly refers to the ability to “see” the play from reading the text, of course. But he does say that in order to avoid unfortunate contradictions, the poet must keep the events “before his eyes” while constructing plots and putting them into words (Poetics 1455a22–25).516 ОґОµбї– ОґбЅІ П„ОїбЅєП‚ ОјбЅ»ОёОїП…П‚ ПѓП…ОЅО№ПѓП„бЅ±ОЅО±О№ ОєО±бЅ¶ П„бї‡ О»бЅіОѕОµО№ ПѓП…ОЅО±ПЂОµПЃОібЅ±О¶ОµПѓОёО±О№ бЅ…П„О№ ОјбЅ±О»О№ПѓП„О± ПЂПЃбЅё бЅЂОјОјбЅ±П„П‰ОЅ П„О№ОёбЅіОјОµОЅОїОЅО‡ ОїбЅ•П„П‰ ОібЅ°ПЃ бј‚ОЅ бјђОЅО±ПЃОібЅіПѓП„О±П„О± бЅЃ бЅЃПЃбї¶ОЅ бЅҐПѓПЂОµПЃ ПЂО±ПЃбѕї О±бЅђП„Оїбї–П‚ ОіО№ОіОЅбЅ№ОјОµОЅОїП‚ П„Оїбї–П‚ ПЂПЃО±П„П„ОїОјбЅіОЅОїО№П‚ ОµбЅ‘ПЃбЅ·ПѓОєОїО№ П„бЅё ПЂПЃбЅіПЂОїОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ ἥκιστα бј‚ОЅ О»О±ОЅОёбЅ±ОЅОїО№ П„бЅ° бЅ‘ПЂОµОЅО±ОЅП„бЅ·О±. [In order to construct plots and to work them out in words, it is necessary that the poet keep [the plots] as closely as possible before his eyes; for in this way seeing them as vividly as possible, just as someone who is beside those who are engaged in doing the actions, he would find what is fitting and would be least likely to overlook contradictions.] Here Aristotle echoes but recasts Odysseus’ statement to the blind Demodocus in the Odyssey and its subsequent reformulation in the figure of the first-person eyewitness in the historians. The important difference is that Aristotle is not talking about events that precede their representation in an absolute chronological sense.517 He is talking about the events that constitute Ојбї¦ОёОїО№ (tragic plots) and that, unlike the events in history writing, must conform to the laws of plausibility and necessity (Poetics 1451a36–b9).518 In this passage, the ability to see these events has a purely pragmatic function, in which the eyes of the poet control what will be seen in the hypothetical performance.519 Page 181 →The example of Amphiaraus, who made an entry or exit that failed when seen “on the stage” (бјђПЂбЅ¶ ОґбЅІ П„бї†П‚ ПѓОєО·ОЅбї†П‚, 1455a28), verifies the limited and pragmatic aspects of this injunction (1455a27–29).520

бЅЃ ОібЅ°ПЃ бј€ОјП†О№бЅ±ПЃО±ОїП‚ бјђОѕ бј±ОµПЃОїбї¦ бјЂОЅбї„ОµО№, бЅѓ ОјбЅґ бЅЃПЃбї¶ОЅП„О± бјђО»бЅ±ОЅОёО±ОЅОµОЅ, бјђПЂбЅ¶ ОґбЅІ П„бї†П‚ ПѓОєО·ОЅбї†П‚ бјђОѕбЅіПЂОµПѓОµОЅ ОґП…ПѓП‡ОµПЃО±ОЅбЅ±ОЅП„П‰ОЅ П„Оїбї¦П„Ої П„бї¶ОЅ ОёОµО±П„бї¶ОЅ. [For Amphiaraus was returning from a shrine, which escaped the notice of the one not seeing, but it failed on the stage because the spectators were annoyed by it.]521 The principal question raised by this passage is who serves as the subject of ОјбЅґ бЅЃПЃбї¶ОЅП„О± (the one not seeing). Most editors take the phrase to refer to the poet or to the spectator, with the implication either that the former failed to visualize the scene in his mind’s eye or that the latter did not see what was happening on stage with his bodily eye. In contrast, Lucas explains that since ОјбЅµ “should give a conditional or generic force,” it must refer to “вЂanyone who did not see it’, i.e., to those who read it.” This implies, he goes on to comment, that “many people would read the play and never see it.”522 Lucas supports his reading by taking ОґбЅі as adversative in the following sentence; doing so specifies a distinction between the reader (i.e., the one who does not see) and the spectator (i.e., the one who does see, the ОёОµО±П„бЅµП‚). Several suggestive points follow from this debate in the scholarly literature. First, whether ОјбЅґ бЅЃПЃбї¶ОЅП„О± refers to the poet or to the spectator, this kind of seeing (or not seeing) has nothing to do with an idealized visual imagination. Rather, it demonstrates that seeing the play in performance can interrupt the plot and may even be a source of annoyance or displeasure for the audience (ОґП…ПѓП‡ОµПЃО±ОЅбЅ±ОЅП„П‰ОЅ П„Оїбї¦П„Ої П„бї¶ОЅ ОёОµО±П„бї¶ОЅ, Poetics 1455a28–29). Page 182 →What the poet does not see, then, is the prospect of the play’s future failure, realized in visible contradictions. The spectator’s literal presence at the play in performance is necessary less for recognizing its proper effects than for recognizing its improper ones (as in the case of Hegelochus, discussed above). If, however, ОјбЅґ бЅЃПЃбї¶ОЅП„О± refers, as Lucas contends, to the reader of the play—that is, if it is another way of saying бј„ОЅОµП… П„Оїбї¦ бЅЃПЃбѕ¶ОЅ (1453b3–4)—it exemplifies again how, in the Poetics, reading is equated with or defined in terms of not seeing. As the basis for this equation, moreover, not seeing the original play in performance specifies more generally an inability to see the past in a doubled sense; it refers both to the play in performance as a past event and to the mythological events that constitute the plot. We are still faced with the question of exactly what Aristotle means in this passage when he talks about reading. The text is less than precise (Poetics 1462a11–18). бј”П„О№ бјЎ П„ПЃО±ОібїіОґбЅ·О± ОєО±бЅ¶ бј„ОЅОµП… ОєО№ОЅбЅµПѓОµП‰П‚ ПЂОїО№Оµбї– П„бЅё О±бЅ‘П„бї†П‚, бЅҐПѓПЂОµПЃ бјЎ бјђПЂОїПЂОїО№бЅ·О±О‡ ОґО№бЅ° ОібЅ°ПЃ П„Оїбї¦ бјЂОЅО±ОіО№ОЅбЅЅПѓОєОµО№ОЅ П†О±ОЅОµПЃбЅ° бЅЃПЂОїбЅ·О± П„бЅ·П‚ бјђПѓП„О№ОЅО‡523 Оµбј° ОїбЅ–ОЅ бјђПѓП„О№ П„бЅ± Оібѕї бј„О»О»О± ОєПЃОµбЅ·П„П„П‰ОЅ, П„Оїбї¦П„бЅ№ ОіОµ ОїбЅђОє бјЂОЅО±ОіОєО±бї–ОїОЅ О±бЅђП„бї‡ бЅ‘ПЂбЅ±ПЃП‡ОµО№ОЅ. бј”ПЂОµО№П„О± ОґО№бЅ№П„О№ ПЂбЅ±ОЅП„бѕї бј”П‡ОµО№ бЅ…ПѓО±ПЂОµПЃ бјЎ бјђПЂОїПЂОїО№бЅ·О± (ОєО±бЅ¶ ОібЅ°ПЃ П„бї· ОјбЅіП„ПЃбїі бј”ОѕОµПѓП„О№ П‡ПЃбї†ПѓОёО±О№), ОєО±бЅ¶ бј”П„О№ ОїбЅђ ОјО№ОєПЃбЅёОЅ ОјбЅіПЃОїП‚ П„бЅґОЅ ОјОїП…ПѓО№ОєбЅґОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ П„бЅ°П‚ бЅ„П€ОµО№П‚, ОґО№бѕї бј§П‚ О±бј± бјЎОґОїОЅО±бЅ¶ ПѓП…ОЅбЅ·ПѓП„О±ОЅП„О±О№ бјђОЅО±ПЃОібЅіПѓП„О±П„О±О‡ Оµбј¶П„О± ОєО±бЅ¶ П„бЅё бјђОЅО±ПЃОібЅІП‚ бј”П‡ОµО№ ОєО±бЅ¶ бјђОЅ П„бї‡ бјЂОЅО±ОіОЅбЅЅПѓОµО№ ОєО±бЅ¶ бјђПЂбЅ¶ П„бї¶ОЅ бј”ПЃОіП‰ОЅ.524 [Tragedy produces its effect (its own thing) even without movement, just like epic; for through reading it is apparent what sort of thing it is. If it is therefore better in other respects, it is not necessary that this is particular to it.525 It therefore has all the elements that epic has—including the use of meter—and further music [and бЅ„П€ОµО№П‚] have no little part to play, through which the pleasure is most vividly confirmed;Page 183 → and this vividness is available both in reading and in practice [бјђПЂбЅ¶ П„бї¶ОЅ бј”ПЃОіП‰ОЅ].]

Although it may seem obvious that Aristotle is referring to reading the script, the comparison is focused again on the magnitude and unity of Ојбї¦ОёОїО№ and ПЂПЃбЅ±ОѕОµО№П‚, that is, on the events that constitute the plot rather than on the scripted dialogue. In the passage quoted above, the phrase бјђПЂбЅ¶ П„бї¶ОЅ бј”ПЃОіП‰ОЅ is commonly taken to refer to the play in performance or “in practice,” where we are to assume that it encompasses both the verbal enactment of the script (as recitation or reading out loud) and the visual enactment of the events that make up the plot (actors in costume etc.).526 But just as the former would be a kind of redundancy if бјђОЅ П„бї‡ бјЂОЅО±ОіОЅбЅЅПѓОµО№ were to refer to reading the script, so the latter implies that бјђОЅ П„бї‡ бјЂОЅО±ОіОЅбЅЅПѓОµО№ is a kind of euphemism for not seeing the events enacted, as protection against both the poet’s failure and the spectator’s disappointment. At stake is the integrity and plausibility of the plot against the unpredictability and instability of the hypothetical play in performance as an enactment of the script. It is worth stating again that the problem here is not with the political dangers inherent in the recitation of the dialogue as impersonation, as it is—with no little irony—in Plato. Rather the problem here has to do with transcending the practical limitations of the play in performance by providing a theoretical approach to tragedy as a literary form.527 As suggested above, Aristotle’s ambivalence toward tragic бЅ„П€О№П‚ is a symptom of his own distance in time from the original performances of the fifth-century tragedies whose aesthetic and cultural idealization he inaugurates. His response to this predicament is not to reenvision the plays in performance through reading the scripts but to deny the need to do so by insisting on the dominance of the plot. As a result, the proper effects of tragedy are not tied to the temporal and ontological contingencies of the play in performance. Rather, by promoting the dominance of the plot over its enactment, Page 184 →Aristotle privileges the position of the reader over that of the spectator; for Aristotle, reading refers to the recognition that the original plays in performance belong to an unrecoverable or, more pointedly, to an invisible past (epitomized in the phrase бј„ОЅОµП… П„Оїбї¦ бЅЃПЃбѕ¶ОЅ).528 Caught between these two subject positions (reader and spectator) is the recognition that the desire to see the Greek past is always an aftereffect of its mediating practices. This recognition makes Frogs a work of literary criticism avant la lettre, that is, in advance of but also anticipating Aristotle’s Poetics. The fact that tragedy is the focus of critical attention in both works may simply be due to the dominance of the genre as a “serious” and celebrated public art form. But this critical activity is also tied to the unique relationship between the dramatic text and the hypothetical play in performance and, more specifically, to the transformation of the dramatic script (intended for performance) into a dramatic text (intended for reading). Expressed in the comedy’s view of tragedy as no more than bits and pieces of a dying art, this transformation is implicit in Frogs, explicit in pseudoPlutarch’s anecdote about Lycurgus’ legislation, and exemplified in the Poetics, in which Aristotle’s position as a reader of the great tragedies of the fifth century is the means of guaranteeing—again with some irony—their status as dominant and even universal art forms.529 As Johanna Hanink summarizes, the Aristotle of the Poetics “repeatedly shows himself to be under the spell of the classical past.”530 But insofar as this spell is the effect of not seeing (бј„ОЅОµП… П„Оїбї¦ бЅЃПЃбѕ¶ОЅ) the fifth-century plays in their original performances, its power is already fading in Frogs. Expressed in the competition between reading a Page 185 →tragedy and seeing one, the protoarchaeological effect of Frogs extends to a more general competition between seeing and reading as dominant ways of knowing and evaluating the past. In the following epilogue, I focus on this competition between seeing and reading—or between what is visible and what is legible—in a discussion of how contemporary archaeologists write about their discipline and their objects of study. This leap from the ancient texts to the modern discipline is a questionably long one. But if “protoarchaeological” is a useful concept, its usefulness is measured in the application of the anachronism.

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Epilogue Reading the Past The reader is the very space in which are inscribed, without any of them being lost, all the citations out of which a writing is made; the unity of the text is not in its origin but in its destination. —Roland Barthes531 In the previous chapters, I have defined protoarchaeological narratives as those in which the past is conceptualized in a negotiation between empirical observation and linguistic representation in a variety of ancient Greek genres. I have also suggested that reading—both as a conceptual category and as a practice—functions within these narratives as an acknowledgment that the past is constituted in what can no longer be seen. To return again to Herodotus’ metaphor, reading refers to the past as a congeries of narrativized objects and events that fades with time. In this epilogue, I explore the ontological and epistemological implications that the metaphor of “reading the past” holds in recent archaeological scholarship. As a trope aimed at bridging the gap between archaeological objects in the world and their description in language, this metaphor is—in Michel de Certeau’s useful phrase—a “condition of [the discipline’s] production.”532 The metaphor emerges out of the “linguistic turn” in the humanities and social sciences and, more specifically, Page 187 →the importation of poststructuralism into postprocessual archaeology. But in this case, the turn might more aptly be called a spiral that takes us back to the role of material or visible phenomena as evidence for the past in the protoarchaeological narratives discussed in the previous chapters. In different terms, the metaphor of “reading the past” is a symptom of the struggle, inherent within the discipline of archaeology, between the demands of positivism and those of narrative coherence. I begin with Eberhard W. Sauer’s 2004 edited volume, Archaeology and Ancient History: Breaking Down the Boundaries. The stated aim of this volume is to arrive at a greater truth about what actually happened in the past, by “integrating” or “transcending” the two disciplines named in its title.533 Underlying this aim is the implicit—if pervasive—assumption that textual (or literary) evidence for the past must be approached with a greater degree of skepticism than material evidence and, by extension, that material remains provide more immediate and reliable information about past events. At the same time, however, the editor acknowledges that both textual and material sources require interpretation, and the essays implicitly argue for more collaborative research among specialists in both disciplines. In this regard, the book makes what Richard Martin calls the problem of “the vase and the poem” into a problem for the disciplines of archaeology and ancient history.534 But the “boundaries” that separate these disciplines, patrolled by the distinction between material and textual sources, tend to deflect the more general question of material objects or visible phenomena as subjects of narrativization. As suggested above, a principal boundary is set by the proposition that archaeological artifacts—as opposed to texts—provide what Stefan Hauser, writing in Brill’s New Pauly Online in 2007, has called “tangible evidence for the past” (haptisches Zeugnis der Vergangenheit).535 As a version of the weighted quality of material and textual sources—according to which Page 188 →visible, tangible objects provide more direct evidence for the past than do texts—this claim raises the question of how artifacts can be evidence for the past prior to what is said or written about them. In general, archaeological discourse is framed by this relationship between the ontological and epistemological value of its objects, on the one hand, and the means of expressing that value, on the other. Put more succinctly, it is framed by the relationship of words to things. In general terms, the metaphor of “reading the past” in archaeological scholarship brings together the three constituent features of protoarchaeological narratives as discussed in the previous chapters: visual (and tangible) experience, narrative emplotment, and the past as a conceptual category. Its adoption in the discipline is

exemplified in the most recent edition of Ian Hodder and Scott Hutson’s Reading the Past: Current Approaches to Interpretation and Archaeology. As a deservedly influential work of postprocessual archaeology, defined as a critical response to the discipline’s prior claims to scientific objectivity, this book offers a number of valuable observations on the relationship between objects and texts as sources of evidence for what happened in the past. As might be expected in this context, it begins, somewhat ambivalently, with the tangibility of archaeological artifacts. Although the [archaeological] evidence does not exist with any objectivity, it does nevertheless exist in the real world—it is tangible and it is there, like it or not. Whatever our perceptions or world view, we are constrained by the evidence, and brought up against its concretenessВ .В .В . So even within our own subjective perspectives, we often find it difficult to make our coherent arguments correspond to the evidence.536 These brief comments provide a succinct summary of what might be called the archaeologist’s dilemma, expressed as an uneasy equation between objectivity and concreteness. At the same time, Hodder and Hutson’s somewhat defensive tone (“like it or not”) and their overdetermined references to “evidence” attest simultaneously to a desire to preserve the ontological integrity of archaeological Page 189 →objects as such and to a resistance to that integrity.537 While acknowledging that “archaeological evidence” cannot be approached objectively, Hodder and Hutson also insist that such evidence necessarily imposes constraints on interpretation, or, as expressed here, on the archaeologist’s subjective perspective.538 While the “concreteness” of the evidence makes an implicit claim to objective analysis, the authors necessarily allow that the “coherent arguments” that follow from that analysis may not—in the end—correspond to the evidence. In short, this complicated set of statements, in which the desire to preserve the materiality of archaeological artifacts is expressed in terms of their tangibility, is implicitly correlated with the artifacts’ resistance to narrative coherence or “coherent arguments.” Hodder and Hutson confront this resistance more directly in their conclusions about the relationship of objects to texts. We are on better footing when reading material culture partly because material culture is not as abstract or complex as text. Text is complex because it is designed to express complex ideas and thoughts, and has to be fairly precise and comprehensive. But there are no grammars and dictionaries of material culture language. Material culture symbols are often more ambiguous than their verbal counterparts, and what can be said with them is normally much simpler. Also the material symbols are durable, restricting flexibility. In many ways material culture is not a language at all—it is more clearly action and practice in the world, and these pragmatic concerns have a great influence on the symbolic meanings of material culture. In so far as material culture is a language, it is a simple one when compared to written or spoken language. For these varied reasons, material culture texts are easier to decipher than those written documents for which we do not know the language. This is why archaeologists have had some success in “reading” material culture, even though they have rarely been explicit about the “grammar” which they are assuming.539 In a book about the difficulty of interpreting or “reading” the past through its material remains, this late assertion that artifacts are at once less complex Page 190 →and more ambiguous than texts is somewhat surprising. So too is Hodder and Hutson’s conclusion, on the following page, that “text is only a metaphor, not an analogy, for material culture,” where the phrase “only a metaphor” implies a preference for analogy, on the assumption that analogy constitutes a more scientific mode of explanation.540 How should we understand this qualified appeal to assigning meaning to the past through its material remains, where the relative ease of reading those remains is measured against the impossible task of reading texts in unknown languages? To begin with, the assertion that “text is complex because it is designed to express complex ideas and

thoughts” (emphasis added) is open to further discussion on two related grounds. First, it attributes complexity to the a priori intention of an author, rather than to the reader or to an interplay between the two. Hence, reading material remains is difficult not because they are less complex than texts but because they are not intended to be complex. Second, insofar as Hodder and Hutson explicitly argue that the meaning of archaeological artifacts is located partly in the intention of an original maker or user, the idea that texts are more complex because they are designed to be so has the implicit effect of denying complex ideas and thoughts to this maker/user.541 Thus, the example of reading unknown languages becomes a way of sidestepping the issue. The real difficulties lie in reading languages that we do know.542 If, however, we agree, for the sake of argument, that texts are more complex than artifacts, figural language (including metaphor) clearly contributes to this complexity. If we agree, further, with the claim of Hodder and Hutson that texts are less ambiguous than material remains, this must be so because those remains are not figural, that is, because “what you see is what you get.” Of course, this conclusion can only be put forward based on the kinds of questions that the archaeologist, or “reader,” asks of the objects in question. The premise that material remains are “easier to decipher” than texts, for example, elicits questions that minimize the material remains’ unintentional or latent content. Even though the term material culture is common in academic discourse, its repeated use in the passage quoted above (nine times in as many sentences) contributes to this premise by making the Page 191 →implicit claim that material remains have cultural meaning prior to what is said or written about them.543 In short, these passages point to a methodological impasse in which the authors find themselves as writers of their own texts. This impasse is also expressed in the fact that Hodder and Hutson have very little to say about the utility of contemporary literary or historical texts, that is, about the difference between prehistorical and historical archaeology, even though they want to posit the meaning of archaeological objects and features partly in the intention of an original producer or user.544 The point here is not that such texts are records of past intentions (of the author or anyone else) or that such intentions constitute the meaning of the past. Rather, this resistance to reading texts as an adjunct to “reading” artifacts is a symptom of the fact that, in James I. Porter’s words, “Ideals have a way of seducing us with their very non-locatability.”545 The non-locatability of the intention of an original social subject is here the source of this resistance. To be fair, Hodder and Hutson do admit that intention is located both in the mind of the past social actor and in the mind of the archaeologist.546 They are aware of the political implications of their idealism, that is, that the present attribution of intention to past actors is never neutral. But in eliding the possibility that contemporary literary or historical texts may reveal something about those past intentions, Hodder and Hutson also defend the prediscursive integrity of their objects. The methodological impasse introduced by the evidentiary value of reading objects is taken a step further in the authors’ counterfactual conclusion that if texts are objects to be read, archaeological artifacts are not texts. Page 192 →While archaeologists may read material culture, we do not read it as if it were text. There are distinct differences between material culture and spoken or written language, differences which need to be researched further. Material culture often appears to be simpler but more ambiguous than language, and, in comparison to speech, it often seems more fixed and durable. In addition, most words are arbitrary signifiers of the concepts signifiedВ .В .В . in contrast to the majority of words, many material culture signs are iconic or indexical. These and other differences imply that archaeologists have to develop their own theory and method for reading their own particular data.547 Here we come back, somewhat circuitously, to the question of tangible evidence, expressed in the conclusion that archaeological artifacts are “more fixed and durable” than speech. Again, this conclusion raises a number of questions. First, the notion that material phenomena are more permanent than ephemeral speech is not directly relevant to the metaphor of “reading the past” based on an analogy with reading written texts, even if somewhat inconsistently.548 Second, while texts may be less fixed and durable than speech, they are like material remains insofar as they too are subject to physical and temporal contingencies. In short, the comparison with spoken language obscures the fact that texts are also artifacts. This then leads to a form of disciplinary protectionism expressed in terms of archaeologists’ “own theory and method for reading their own

particular data” (emphasis added).549 More difficult is the related claim that material remains are less arbitrary than words. To begin with, reading is only partially a matter of deciphering individual words whose relationship to a given referent may be arbitrary, although the principle of the arbitrariness of the sign in Saussurean linguistics has succumbed to poststructuralist critique.550 As a vehicle of meaning, Page 193 →moreover, reading is a process of predication, subordination, figuration, and narration. The idea that an individual material object is analogous to an individual word is also logically compromised by the claim that the former is less arbitrary than the latter.551 This is where we come to Hodder and Hutson’s brief appraisal of historical archaeology. Historical archaeology is an “easier” approach. Here the data are richly networked, much survives, and there are many leads that can be followed through, even in the absence of literary texts, which themselves only provide another context in which to look for similarities and differences. The same problems remain—of having to define whether the written context is relevant to the other contexts (e.g., the archeological layers), and of deciding whether similarities between two contexts (written and non-written) imply the same or different meanings.552 If words and, by extension, written texts are more arbitrary than objects, however, historical archaeology should be more and not less difficult to “read” than prehistorical archaeology.553 The idea that the former is “easier” implies, moreover, that archaeological objects and contemporary texts simplyPage 194 → serve as illustrations of one another.554 There is resistance, in other words, to the possibility that the existence of contemporary literary or historical texts may make the work of the historical archaeologist less easy, both because meaning is not confined to the mind of an original author and because texts are not simply illustrations of objects. Somewhat paradoxically, then, this resistance works, again, in defense of the persistent empiricism of the discipline, founded on the prediscursive reality of visible and tangible objects positioned in an original place and time.555 The related premise that reading texts is a poor substitute for “reading” objects compromises the force of the metaphor. For different, if obvious, reasons, this premise also informs the work of prehistoric archaeologists who adopt a phenomenological approach to the field. Christopher Tilley, for example, offers the following relevant summary in the context of interpreting prehistoric stone monuments: The aim of phenomenological analysis is to produce a fresh understanding of place and landscape through an evocative thick linguistic redescription stemming from our carnal experience. This involves attempting to exploit to the full the tropic nature of our language in such a way as to see the invisible in the visible, the intangible in the tangible. The mode of expression must resonate with that which it seeks to express.556 In this summary, we confront again the attributes of visibility and tangibility as sources of meaning, where meaning is then explicitly equated with what is invisible and intangible. We can note too how, by catachresis, seeing (rather than touching) what is intangible turns phenomenology into a branch of metaphysics in which sense perception—vision in particular—is a means of accessing what is beyond or unavailable to the senses. This phenomenological paradox is then extended in the related assertion that “carnal experience” Page 195 →is the source of language’s ability to access noncarnal experience through a “thick linguistic redescription” that “resonates” with its content.557 Implicit in Tilley’s suggestive analysis is the idea that the absence of contemporary written records contributes to this carnal experience by guaranteeing the ontological integrity of prehistoric remains. In response, the archaeologist’s attempt to, in Tilley’s words, “exploit to the full the tropic nature of our language” implicitly compensates for what preliterate humans might have written about the objects and monuments they left behind, had they been able to do so.558 While this suggestion is exaggerated, it calls attention to the complicated relationship between language and perception in phenomenological analyses of prehistoric remains. In more general terms, it illustrates the competition between seeing objects and reading texts

(made up, in this case, of the archaeologist’s “thick linguistic redescription”) as the principal means of accessing and assessing the prehistoric past. This competition is explored in different terms in an article in which Robert W. Preucel and Alexander A. Bauer review the scholarship on the importation of semiology and structuralism into archaeological theory and argue for the particular applicability of Peircean semiology for imparting meaning to artifacts.559 Once again, however, the specific details of this argument are less important than the authors’ more general assumptions about the relationship between language and the material world. We also believe that it is impossible to construct a theory of material culture without also considering how that material is used and Page 196 →talked about in discursive practice—we cannot ignore the relationships between words and things. Indeed, linguistic anthropologists have conversely acknowledged the “materiality” of linguistic utterance, and that sound itself, as a material object, may convey meanings beyond the semantic.560 The notion that a theory of material culture necessarily refers to a discursive practice makes sense. But the claim made by linguistic anthropologists that “linguistic utterance” has “materiality” says less about the relationship between words and things than about an extended definition of materiality, as indicated by the scare quotes around this word in the preceding passage. Even if we grant that the sounds of linguistic utterances have materiality, moreover, the material quality of words preserved in writing requires its own set of analytic or interpretive tools, focused on the practice of reading (as opposed to hearing). In short, the analogy between language and material culture offered here requires a more clearly articulated set of terms and concepts. More pertinent to the present discussion is the fact that Preucel and Bauer implicitly contradict the analogy between words and things—“the вЂmateriality’ of linguistic utterance”—when they insist on the now familiar uniqueness of material culture. This claim is made in their concluding paragraph. Material culture is tightly interwoven with language, and shares many of its semiotic properties. What makes material culture unique, however, is its perdurable materiality and its ability to transform or maintain its meaning over time, dependent on context. What makes archaeology unique is its focus on the long-term and, therefore, it occupies a special position for the study of the unfolding of the semiotic chain within a longer time frame.561 Even in the context of arguing for an “archaeological semiotic,” the notion that objects have a “perdurable materiality” is a means of referring to and maintaining their ontological, or prediscursive, reality.562 At the same time, language, like material culture as it is described here, has the “ability to transform or maintain its meaning over time, dependent on context.” The “perdurable materiality” of material remains is also subject to revision, since physical objects and features necessarily change over time. As we have seen, Page 197 →this process is a feature of those protoarchaeological narratives in which physical objects are defined by their tendency to decay and disappear. An implicit resistance to this tendency is expressed in Preucel and Bauer’s claim for archaeology’s unique focus on the long term. The combined appeals to perdurability and longevity thus both resist and compensate for the interrelated ontological and temporal contingencies that beset archaeological objects as such. The implicit claim that archaeological objects exist prior to and outside of language, moreover, raises the question of what it means to equate such objects with linguistic signs within a semiotic system. Preucel and Bauer, for example, argue, We can place the artefact (or building, etc.) in place of the Sign, which may have different meanings or may indicate different phenomena or Objects behind it.563 This may not amount to a contradiction, but together with the claim that linguistic utterances are objects, the further claim that objects are linguistic signs limits their unique “perdurable materiality.” In short, the relationship between words and things is complicated in Preucel and Bauer’s argument by an implicit desire

to preserve the prediscursive materiality of objects even while equating them with language. Behind this complication lies the assumption that objects can be read despite their materiality. To rephrase the terms used by the authors, if language can convey meaning “beyond the semantic,” objects can convey meaning beyond the material. But how do they do so? The analogy between words and things and the metaphor of reading that supports it are employed—however amibivalently—to answer this question. But within the frame of the overall argument, an object’s legibility seems to be gained by sacrificing its materiality (i.e., its tangibility and visibility). This formulation may be overly schematic. But it sums up the principal object of critique in BjГёrnar Olsen’s 2010 book, In Defense of Things: Archaeology and the Ontology of Objects. As the title indicates, Olsen launches—in the name of the discipline of archaeology—an aggressive defense of the materiality of objects, coupled with a resistance to their conflation with language in postprocessualism, or, in his words, a resistance to the idea that objects are simply “a means to reveal something else.”564 Olsen wants to challengePage 198 → “the taken-for-granted primacy of language as the means for coming to grips with the world,” and he criticizes the presumption that archaeological artifacts are “traces of an absent presence.”565 In reviewing what he refers to as modernity’s dismissal and suspicion of the materiality of objects more generally, epitomized in the Marxist critique of materialism, Olsen amasses evidence for “the very effective history of thing oblivion and displacement in Western thinking.”566 The result of this history, he concludes, is that archaeological artifacts have “increasingly been covered up by the piles of epistemologies invented to make them as transparent and compliant as possible, in which their role is never to be themselves вЂbut always, always to represent something else’ (Brown 2003:82).”567 It is not possible to discuss Olsen’s complex argument in great detail here. But several points pertain to the present discussion. To begin with, the main premise of Olsen’s book, that things or objects have been relegated to “oblivion and displacement,” seems overstated.568 Clearly, things—including artifacts, architectural features, everyday objects, and so on—have a long history in “Western thinking.” Olsen’s unqualified statements to the contrary may simply be a provocation. In fact, Olsen admits that archaeology presents a singular counterexample to this history. Saying that material culture has been ignored in the social and human sciences is utterly unfair to one discipline that has stubbornly continued to engage with things: archaeologyВ .В .В . Archaeology is the foremost discipline of things.569 As Olsen then goes on to argue, however, the materiality of objects has been compromised, even within archaeology, by their subjection to language, or, more pointedly, by the now familiar equation of objects with texts. Olsen summarizes archaeological research in the last two decades of the twentieth century. Page 199 →Literary analogies abounded: reading the past (Hodder 1986), reading material culture (Tilley 1990a), material culture as text (Tilley 1991; see Preucel 2006:138–42)В .В .В . One way of seeing this development is that the conception of things became further and further removed from their own intrinsic material qualities—in other words, that conceiving of things qua things became far less attractive than conceiving of them as text, symbol, and narrative.570 (emphasis in the original) Familiar in this context and echoing the postprocessualists is Olsen’s defense of the unique durability of things as constituent features of the past. But in Olsen’s account, durability is marshaled against the effects of these literary or textual analogies. Contrary to actions, performances, and speech, things last. There are, of course, differences in their duration, but the past still present cannot be accounted for without the lasting and gathering quality of things. Despite temporary discontinuities in human involvement, things are and can be approached again and again to be constitutive of new actions and memories. Due to their persistence, the (past) material world is always directed ahead of itself into our present and future.571 (emphasis in the

original)

As we have seen, the postprocessualists also struggled to defend the empirical base of the discipline, even as they employed text-based metaphors to refer to the process of assigning meaning to their objects. This defense is epitomized in Hodder and Hutsen’s observation (quoted above) that material culture “is tangible and it is there, like it or not.” Here, however, that defense is part of a resistance to such metaphors, or to what Olsen calls the “tyranny of the text.”572 While Olsen also rejects “the humanist and anthropocentric legacy” of postprocessual archaeology, the idea that “the material world is always directed ahead of itself into our present and future” seems to be in alignment with this legacy.573 These temporal dimensions are decidedlyPage 200 → anthropocentric. Thus, while it makes sense to propose that the aim of reading objects results in their dematerialization, the meaning of “things qua things” and the means by which we might access that meaning remain unclear. We are in something of a catch-22. As a response to this predicament, Olsen concedes that material objects and texts may be analogous by means of a “reversed analogy: on text as thing.” Following Roland Barthes’ distinction between writerly and readerly texts, Olsen bases this reversal on the assumption that the text in this analogy “resists domination and transparency.”574 Even if this reversal gets us closer to “things qua things,” it still relies on an equation with texts and, by extension, on the metaphor of reading. A more subtle example is provided in Olsen’s conclusion that “we encounter things as (pre)labeled, as enveloped by layers of linguistic meaningВ .В .В . the outcome of which is the silencing of things themselves.”575 The criticism directed at linguistic meaning defaults here to the metaphor of letting things speak for themselves. In these examples, the desire to escape language-based analogies and metaphors seems to turn back on itself.576 Olsen’s complex account of the relationship between objects and language within contemporary archaeological discourse can be summarized, as suggested above, in the question of whether the materiality or tangibility of artifacts is necessarily sacrificed to their legibility.577 As we have seen, a defense of the prediscursive nature of artifacts is a persistent feature of the discipline, in both prehistoric and historical archaeology. This persistence is even evident in the work of the postprocessualists, for whom the analogy between objects and texts and the metaphor of reading the past are commonly invoked as a challenge to the empirical biases of their processual forebearers. It is not that arguments for the material or empirical bases of artifacts prior to their inscription in language is unjustified. But to turn the tables a bit, Olsen’s book demonstrates the extent to which this argument is motivated by a suspicion of (primarily written) language.578 To reverse Page 201 →Olsen’s terms, what is ignored are the ways in which protoarchaeological narratives prefigure the temporal, epistemological, and ontological variables that define archaeology as a discipline. As suggested in the introduction to this book, the question then becomes not whether objects and texts are different or similar by nature nor whether one necessarily comes before or after the other. Rather, the question has to do with why the distinctions between objects and texts, including the disciplinary investment in those distinctions, have been formulated. One way to approach this question is to consider the history of visual and material phenomena in narrative, that is, the tradition of what I have been calling protoarchaeological narratives in the ancient Greek texts. To say that these narratives constitute a tradition may be an exaggeration. But insofar as they all explore the relationship between visuality (or materiality), temporality, and narrativity, they form an interconnected, if historically and generically diverse, group of texts. In works as distinct from one another as Hesiod’s Theogony, Homer’s epics, Herodotus’ Histories, and Aristophanes’ Frogs, we find an interest in how perceptions of the phenomenal world in the present inform characters’ and narrators’ ability to know and evaluate what happened in the past. What Olsen critically refers to as the “literary analogies” that dematerialize archaeological objects can be understood more productively as part of a genealogy of narrative forms, in which the past is confronted as a receding visual field. In this respect—to return to the conundrum identified by Froeyman—“the past itself” is produced not in the unbridgeable gap between empirical observation and linguistic representation but in their dialogic interplay. As discussed throughout the present study, this interplay is the defining feature of protoarchaeological

narratives, and as I hope to have shown in this epilogue, it conditions the ways in which archaeologists talk about their discipline. To return to the formulation discussed in the introduction, the human past—both as a conceptual category and as an object of disciplinary study—is formed in the negotiation between words and things, or between linguistic representation and empirical observation. Epitomized in the archaeologists’ metaphor of “reading the past,” this negotiation—somewhat paradoxically—is a symptom of our desire to see the past in the present. Protoarchaeological narratives in the ancient Greek tradition alert us both to the sources and consequences of this desire and to the limits of its fulfillment.

Footnotes 1. Cf. Bennett (1995) 6 on the modern museum involvement “in the practice of вЂshowing and telling’: that is, of exhibiting artifacts and/or persons in a manner calculated to embody and communicate specific cultural meanings and values.” See also Mason (2006) 18; Shanks (2001) 288–90. On the history and political work of museums in the West, see C. Whitehead (2009), esp. chapter 1; Rectanus (2006); Fyfe (2006); Mason (2006); Henning (2006) chapter 1; Bennett (1995) chapter 1. 2. Cf. Heidegger (1996) 348 (380 in the Niemeyer edition): “’The antiquities’ preserved in museums (for example, household things) belong to a вЂtime past’ [vergangenen Zeit], and are yet still objectively present in the вЂpresent’ [Gegenwart].” See the comments of Ricoeur (1984–88) 3:119–26. See also Grethlein (2008) 45–47; Olsen (2010) 114–15. 3. Cf. Osborne (2011) 17 on the proposition that visual images “offer different insights into those same aspects of the past about which historians already write on the basis of text.” This seems plausible but raises the question of what constitute the “same aspects of the past.” 4. Tamen (2001) 6. 5. Tamen (2001) 59. The embedded quote is from Cesare Ripa, Iconologia overo descrittione di diverse imagini cavate dall’antichitГ , e di propria inventione (1603; rpt., Olms: Hildesheim, 1970) 1. Tamen defines reduction as “the movement through which neurology becomes theology, the positing of an absolute equivalence between talking about relationships between objects and the senses and talking about relationships between God and ourselves” (18). 6. It will be immediately recognized that the conflict between these forces is the basis of recent legal and political battles among museum personnel in the United States and Europe over the provenance and ownership of ancient Greek and Roman artifacts. Macdonald (2006) 4 discusses museums in the context of the “culture wars.” 7. Mason (2006) 27. Cf. Bal (1992); Osborne (2011) 12–13. 8. Cf. C. Whitehead (2009) 27 on the ways in which objects in museums produce a particular “narrative, ” presumably both about the objects themselves and about the conditions that resulted in their display. Whitehead (36–38) also sounds a useful cautionary note about the analogy between the museum and the text, based on an oversimplification. 9. Preziosi and Farago (2004) 4. 10. Cf. BГјhler (1990) 401 on the hypothesis that metaphor is related to an “urge to conceal” that originates in taboo. BГјhler rightly discounts the evolutionary aspect of this hypothesis, but the idea that concealment is an effect of metaphor—or that what cannot be said is subjected to euphemism—is suggestive. 11. It will be obvious that this approach is indebted to psychoanalytical approaches to reading in literary studies, that is, to “symptomatic” reading, with its distinction between manifest and latent content. More recent attention to what is called “surface reading” employs a metaphor that resonates more explicitly with archaeological practice. On surface reading, see Best and Marcus (2009), in which the authors make persistent use of visual metaphors. I am grateful to an anonymous reader for suggesting the pertinence of this analogy to this discussion. 12. Preziosi (2006) 54. 13. Cf. duBois (1996) 10. 14. Cf. Tilley (1991) 7 on the “deadening verbal and visual catalogue of the empiricist archaeological text.” See also Olsen (1990) 195–96. Also pertinent to this discussion is the use of cameras in museums where looking through the camera competes with looking at the object. 15. Mason (2006) 22 expresses this hesitancy when acknowledging that “reading” objects may make them meaningless: “A more positive understanding of poststructuralism is to accept that the real world exists but to acknowledge that it will always be mediated by the signifying systems we inhabit. Similarly, for poststructuralist-inspired museologists to argue that the meanings of objects are inseparable from the context of their display and interpretation is not the same as saying that they are meaningless.” 16. Cf. Whitley (2013) on objects as “heirlooms” in Iron Age contexts. As Whitley argues, these

objects have “biographies” that link their various owners over time. I am grateful to an anonymous reader for drawing my attention to Whitley’s article. On Mycenaean “heirlooms,” see also Palaima (2004); (1999) 440. 17. On this “gap,” see H. White (2002) xiii. 18. I discuss Herodotus’ metaphor in greater detail in chapter 4. 19. I am very grateful to an anonymous reader for suggesting the present book’s subtitle, Classics between History and Archaeology, which signals this disciplinary interest. 20. In Bassi (2016), I discuss the relationship between visual perception and temporal meaning in Thucydides’ History. 21. See Aristotle, Poetics 1451a37–39. I discuss this passage in greater detail in chapter 2. 22. Laurence (2004), 103, 109. Laurence notes that this role is “a subject to date uninvestigated” (109). See also Laurence (1998) 2. 23. Martin (2008) 321. Cf. the remarks of Porter (2003) 65–66 on the traditional hierarchical relationship between ancient literary studies (at the top) and classical archaeology (at the bottom)—the former considered to be a direct conduit to the “Classical Mind,’” the latter “uninhabited by minds.” As Porter notes, this hierarchy of texts and artifacts is slowly being dismantled. Cf. Osborne (2011) 17–18. 24. See, for example, the remarks of Nevett (2005) on the use of archaeological and textual evidence for the ancient Greek house. Noting the distinction between “descriptive” and “interpretive” approaches to the subject—and the need for both—Nevett nonetheless privileges the archaeological over the textual. My point here is not to criticize Nevett’s method but to draw attention to her discussion as an instance of the ongoing evidentiary debate discussed above. 25. Martin (2008) 321, 322, 325, 331, 334. Cf. Osborne (2011) chapter 1 on the relative value of “art and text” as historical evidence. Osborne begins by maintaining that “the structures required by language are necessarily more formal than those required by images” and that “the fundamentally arbitrary relationship between words and things means that words require and produce classifications which images, which are not entirely arbitrary signs, are always liable to undermine” (2). If I understand his meaning—which includes a slippage between images and things—Osborne assumes that the relationship between things and their referents is less arbitrary than the relationship between words and their referents. In the epilogue to the present book, I discuss the relative arbitrary nature of objects and texts in the context of archaeological theory. 26. Martin (2008) 334. 27. Martin (2008) 324. 28. See Readings (1996) for a relevant critique of interdisciplinarity in the modern university. 29. Martin (2008) 341. More recently, Porter (2010) chapter 9 addresses the aesthetic effects of “speaking objects” in what Porter terms the euphonist tradition. 30. Cf. Findlen (1998) 95: “From the fourteenth century onward, Italian humanists saw the past as an embodied presence. Material knowledge, in the form of ancient literary artifacts, coins, statue fragments, and Greek, Roman, Egyptian, and Etruscan ruins, shaped the idea of culture in ways that conditioned attitudes toward more modern objects.” 31. Cf. Shapin and Schaffer (1985) 69 on what the authors call the “literary technology” that produced “virtual” witnesses to scientific experiments in England in the seventeenth century. See also Shapin (1984) 508–9; Dear (1991); Holmes (1991); Bann (1990) 130–32 (on the relationship between antiquarian collecting practices and literary production in the eighteenth century). 32. Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, talk for the Research Group in Visual and Performance Studies, UC Santa Cruz, 2000. Hodder (2012) 4–5 similarly challenges the “inertness” of material objects. Cf. Serres (1995) 87: “The object, for us, makes our history slow.” 33. The bibliography on the role of memory in Greek cultural production is extensive. I have found the following most helpful: Vernant ([1965] 1983); Detienne (1996); Finley (1975); Moran (1975); Martin (1989) 77–88; Small and Tatum (1995); Shrimpton (1997); Alcock (2002), esp. chapter 1. Alcock (2002) 16–35 discusses the uses and abuses of social or political memory as an explanatory phenomenon. Referring to a selection of stories about memories of past events, Alcock notes how “physical world and tangible objects prompted and guided the course of memory; each possessed strong material correlates.”

Tatum (1995) 167 notes, “Material objects play a crucial role in human memory’s construction of its sense of the past.” For more general scholarship on memory, see Bergson ([1912] 2004); Yates (1966); Halbwachs (1992). Bakker (2008) 65–66 briefly discusses the ways in which memory is “historically contingent.” Minchin (2001, 2008) applies the findings of cognitive science to the question of how memory works in the Homeric poems. This is a potentially interesting area of research, and Minchin makes some useful observations about oral performance. But the argument relies on appeals to everyday life and everyday discourse and, consequentially, on a transhistorical understanding of memory. Scholarship on the Homeric epics includes a slippage between memory as a plot device and memory as the vehicle of oral composition/performance, a slippage that has become the basis for making statements about everyday or social reality in the archaic period. 34. Grethlein (2010) 12. Grethlein’s close readings are suggestive. But his arguments often seem to blur memory and history—for example, in his notions that memory produces an “idea of history” (10) or that chance, in its various forms, motivates (or impedes) both memory and history. 35. In discussing the history of trauma, Ankersmit (2005) 4 notes “the use of the term memory where we previously preferred to speak of вЂHistory’ or of вЂthe past.’ This new idiom suggests an interesting shift in the nature of contemporary historical consciousness.” According to Ankersmit, this shift is guided by the “experience of the past” in which experience is not limited to sensory perception but also includes “such a thing as вЂintellectual experience’” (5–7). It is not clear how memory and “intellectual experience” are related in Ankersmit’s argument. But this shift may be understood not only in terms of the “nature of historical consciousness” but also as a return to a “preference” for memory in explaining the past, a preference exemplified in scholarship on orally derived poetry. 36. Bakker (2002) 11 note 21. 37. Cf. Bahrani (2003) 94: “What we imagine as two entirely opposite realms are actually interdependent. Binary oppositions, we should recall, work by the suppression of one term in favor of another.” I am suggesting here that, together, the two terms of the oral-literate binary suppress an unnamed third term, visuality. 38. Foster (1988) ix, cited by Nelson (2000) 2. See also Davis (2004). On the use of visuality to refer, in archaeological discourse, to “the description and imaging of the way sights and visual fields change with the location of the viewer,” see Olsen (2010) 30–32. 39. On the distinction between subject-centered and world-centered approaches to visual perception, see Orlandi (2014) chapter 1. 40. BГјhler (1990) 156. 41. In narratological terms, de Jong (2012) xii defines a “focalizer” as “the person (the narrator or a character) through whose вЂeyes’ the events and persons of a narrative are вЂseen.’” The visual metaphors signified by the single quotes around the words eyes and seen in this definition illustrate both the terms of the relationship I am trying to describe and a certain lack of precision in narratological terminology. 42. Froeyman (2012) 394. See also Pieters (2000) 28 on the “ontological level of the past itself” as a recurring point of reference in the philosophy of history. 43. Cf. Martin (2008) 316. 44. See Oliver (2000) 2–24; Crawford (1983), esp. 80–136 (Millar’s essay on epigraphy). 45. On the persistence of visual metaphors in Western epistemology, see Jay (1993) chapter 1, together with Brodsky’s pertinent remarks in her 1996 review of Jay’s book. 46. Hamilakis (2007) 9. 47. Cf. Veyne (1988) 8: “Often early historians and even those of today cite still visible monuments from the pastВ .В .В . less as proof for their assertions than as illustrations that take on the light and brightness of history more than they actually illuminate it.” 48. Hauser (2007) 1. 49. W. C. Williams (2001) 55. On Williams’ poem, see Brown (2003) 192. Williams is presumably making a pun on Greek О»бѕ¶О±П‚ (stone) and О»О±бЅ№П‚ (people). Cf. Pindar, Ol. 9.44–56; Ehoeae (frs. 2–6 and 234 M-W); Apollonius of Rhodes (3.1088–89); Ovid, Met. (for the myth of Deucalion, the flood, and the creation of humans from stones). See also Scodel (1982) 43; Schwenger (2004) 138,

quoting Shklovsky (1965) 12: “Art exists that one may recover the sensation of life; it exists to make one feel things, to make the stone stony.” 50. On the opening lines of Near Eastern and Greek cosmogonies, see LГіpez-Ruiz (2012). 51. On ecphrasis, see Webb (2009), with Simon Goldhill’s review in Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2009.10.05. JГЎs Elsner (2007) discusses tragedy as the basis of ecphrastic passages in Philostratus’ Imagines. See also W. J. T. Mitchell (1994) 151–82. Whitley (2013) 399 makes an important distinction between ecphrastic and “biographical” objects. 52. Simpson and Lazenby (1970) 1. 53. For a useful overview of the question of Homeric historicity on the basis of archaeology, see Yamauchi (2004). See, more recently, Whitley (2013) 399–400 on the boar’s tusk helmet as an “entangled object” in the Iliad and in the archaeological record. 54. On this topic with respect to the Iliad, see Grethlein (2006a) 166–73. 55. Brown (2004) 7. 56. Appadurai (1986) 36. See also Jay (1996). On disciplinary debts to the study of things, see Daston (2004) 16–17. See also Olsen (2010) 93 on Appadurai (2010) 36 and on fetishism. Henning (2006) 31–32 provides a useful, if brief, commentary on the fetish as an object of display (in department stores). 57. Brown (2004) 5. Cf. Bielek-Robson (2000) 78: “Because human existence is conditioned existence, it would be impossible without things, and things would be a heap of unrelated articles, a non-world, if they were not the conditioners of human existence.” Cf. Riegl (1901) 17–18, noting that “the objective perception [Auffassung] of objects isВ .В .В . always already subjective.” On the resistance of “things” to disciplines and classifications, see Daston (2004) 10; Tamen (2001) 5. Plotz (2005) provides a good overview of the field. 58. Cf. Brown (2003) 16: “I am interestedВ .В .В . in the way that objects become figures of thought and of speech, and in the way that narrative form reinvests the subject/object dialectic with its temporal dimension.” But “temporal dimension” here seems to refer to literary history (as on p. 17). 59. Daston (2004) 17. 60. M. L. West (1966) on line 26 points to Odyssey 18.53 as a possible parallel; disguised as a beggar, Odysseus is ruled by the demands of his stomach. Katz and Volk (2000) connect the reference to bellies in line 26 with attested “belly-prophets” and conclude that the Muses are “referring to the role that [Hesiod] is about to play, his role as a recipient or, rather, a receptacle of inspiration” (127). The force of Оїбј¶ОїОЅ is explained by the conclusion “that human beings do not become poets through their own doing, but are mere mouthpieces of the divinity, mediums to be possessed, just like the lowlier бјђОіОіО±ПѓП„ПЃбЅ·ОјП…ОёОїО№.” In either case, the poet’s mortality is a limiting factor of his identity. 61. Calame (1995) 66. See also Nagy (1992); Clay (1988); Stoddard (2004) 81–85. 62. This innovation may be said to be an extension of Homer’s famously professed inability, without the help of the Muses, to enumerate all the Greeks who came to Troy, even if he had “ten tongues and ten mouths” (Iliad 2.488–93). The Homeric narrator does not name himself, of course, but he does invoke a “real communication situation,” in Calame’s terms. See also Purves (2010) 36–38 on this passage in the Iliad. 63. M. L. West (1966) 159. Calame (1995) 58–59 (in a section titled “Hesiod’s Encounter with the Muses: An Authentic Vision?”) enumerates the several features that West attributes to visions in antiquity, yet Calame leaves out the fifth: “The god gives the man a visible token of his вЂcall.’ Hesiod is given a staff; Archilochus a lyre.” It is unclear what motivates this omission; it seems to me that this “visible token” is essential to answering the question Calame is posing. On this passage, see also Lopez-Ruiz (2010) 53–54. Cf. Winter (2000) 23–24 on the dream of Gilgamesh (in a fragment dated to the Old Babylonian period) in which the hero envisions an ax. 64. Lopez-Ruiz (2010) 77, 184–85. See also Delgado (1986) 16, with the references cited there; Segal (1994) 140. 65. M. L. West (1966) on line 30 states (with reference to Pindar, Isth. 3/4.56, Call. fr. 26.5, and Eust. 6.18.25) that “rhapsodes in post-Homeric times often carry a laurel wand, normally called a ῥάβδος.” West goes on to note, “If the rhapsode has no lyre, he must have something else to hold, to set him apart from the rest of the company and to focus their attention.” See also Nagy

(1990b) 258; Segal (1994) 139–41. 66. On бјЂО»О·ОёбЅіО± in the Theogony, see Stoddard (2004) 82 and Nagy (1992). See also Lopez-Ruiz (2010) 74, suggesting that бјЂО»О·ОёбЅіО± may refer to “the unqualified вЂreal’ truths conveyed in didactic and oracular formations.” 67. Cf. Ready (2008) 490 on the related effect of the genealogies of armor and weapons in the Homeric poems. 68. In an effort to explain why the poet does not include the phrase “things that are” in describing the gift of celebratory song he receives from the Muses, Clay (1988) 330, with note 31, argues that the phrase П„бЅ± П„ бѕїбјђПѓПѓбЅ№ОјОµОЅО± ПЂПЃбЅ№ П„бѕї бјђбЅ№ОЅП„О± (things that will be and that were before) refers to immortal or eternal things, that the phrase П„бЅ± П„бѕї бјђбЅ№ОЅП„О± (things that are) refers to mortal things, and, thus, that the omission of the latter in line 32 is due to the fact that the Muses need not grant Hesiod the ability to sing about what he already knows. Clay also suggests that “things that will be and things that have been before” are not two distinct categories—which would require the repetition of the article—but encompass the totality of divine knowledge of past and future. In short, while the Muses are credited with knowing both ephemeral and eternal things (line 38) the poet only needs their divine aid in order to sing about the latter. Stoddard (2004) 80–81 extends Clay’s argument to explain the distinction between бј”П„П…ОјО± and бјЂО»О·ОёО-О± inTheogony 27–28. 69. Heiden (2007) summarizes the extensive scholarship on this passage. Based on an overview of the use of бЅЃОјОїбї–ОїП‚ in early epic, he concludes that it does not mean something like a generalized “resemblance” and that, as a consequence, “the Muses told Hesiod that they spoke only the truth, because even their lies were somehow equivalent to truth” (171). Under this interpretation, the poet puts these words in the mouth of the Muses in order to deflect his audience from thinking that his songs are “mere lies,” even though they may seem incredible (171). This makes sense. But I think that Heiden does not take sufficient account of the adversative ОґО- that introduces line 28, together with the phrase “when we want to” (бјґОґОјОµОЅ Оґбѕї ОµбЅ–П„бѕї бјђОёбЅіО»П‰ОјОµОЅ бјЂО»О·ОёбЅіО± ОіО·ПЃбЅ»ПѓО±ПѓОёО±О№, 28). In other words, the notion that the Muses always tell the truth (as Heiden suggests) is compromised by the temporal qualifier. 70. On the proverb and its parallels in Northwest Semitic literature, see Lopez-Ruiz (2010) 56–83, with her appendix. Also, Stoddard (2004) 87, with note 57; M. L. West (1966) 167–69. 71. Nagy (1990a) 200, cited in Lopez-Ruiz (2010) 62–63. See also Watkins (1995) 162–64 on an Iranian source (cited in Lopez-Ruiz [2010] 63); Burnett (1991) 284 note 39. At Odyssey 19.163, Penelope, asking the Stranger (Odysseus in disguise) about his lineage, remarks, “For you are not [born] from an oak of ancient story or from a stone” (ОїбЅђ ОібЅ°ПЃ бјЂПЂбЅё ОґПЃП…бЅ№П‚ бјђПѓПѓО№ ПЂО±О»О±О№П†бЅ±П„ОїП… ОїбЅђОґбѕї бјЂПЂбЅё ПЂбЅіП„ПЃО·П‚). At Iliad 22.126, Hector, agonizing over whether or not to face Achilles, remarks, “It is now impossible to converse with him from an oak or a rockВ .В .В . as a youth and a maiden do” (ОїбЅђ ОјбЅіОЅ ПЂП‰П‚ ОЅбї¦ОЅ бј”ПѓП„О№ОЅ бјЂПЂбЅё ОґПЃП…бЅёП‚ ОїбЅђОґбѕї бјЂПЂбЅё ПЂбЅіП„ПЃО·П‚ П„бї· бЅЂО±ПЃО№О¶бЅіОјОµОЅО±О№, ОєП„О».). The syntactical and grammatical similarities in these Homeric examples speak to the proverbial status of the phrase, including its use in negative comparisons. Cf. M. L. West (1966) 168–69. 72. Lopez-Ruiz (2010) 79–80. 73. M. L. West (1966) 168. 74. On the possibility that line 35 is an allusion to trees and stones as “physical objects,” see LopezRuiz (2010) 81, together with the archaeological evidence presented in her appendix. 75. One anonymous reader of this manuscript suggestively noted that “the oak and the rock are important because they are objects that could have signified but did not—they remain unmarked, like the dirt or rubble that the archaeologist passes over.” That the meaning of the proverb is out of reach to us does not mean, of course, that it was out of reach to Hesiod and his audience. But the analogy nicely captures the material basis of the proverb’s enigmatic reference to a prior reality. 76. On this topographical “digression” and questions relating to its “authenticity,” see M. L. West (1966) ad loc.; the quotation is from p. 358. See also Johnson (1999) 10. Cf. Fabian (1983) 106 on the notion of “visualism,” in which knowledge of the world is guaranteed by “quantification and diagrammatic representation.” Fabian defines visualism as “a cultural, ideological bias toward vision

as the вЂnoblest sense’ and toward geometry qua graphic-spatial conceptualization as the most вЂexact’ way of communicating knowledge.” 77. Johnson (1999) 27. See also Purves (2004) 163–64. 78. On the authenticity of the underworld description, see M. L. West (1966) on lines 720–819; Johnson (1999) 10. Cf. Herodotus, Histories 1.165, where the Ionians throw lumps of iron into the sea and swear that they will not approach Phocaea “until the iron appears on the surface” (ПЂПЃбЅ¶ОЅ бјў П„бЅёОЅ ОјбЅ»ОґПЃОїОЅ П„Оїбї¦П„ОїОЅ бјЂОЅО±П†О±ОЅбї†ОЅО±О№). This event is also referred to in [Aristotle], Ath. Pol. 23.5. 79. M. L. West (1966) ad loc. notes, “Aristotle believed that the heavier an object is, the faster it falls (cf. Phys. 216a13, etc.), and this was no doubt generally assumed to be the case in antiquity.” See also Johnson (1999) 13. 80. See de Jauregui (2013) 55–57 on the “cyclic conception of human days [in Hesiod’s Works and Days] as opposed to the heroic conception of one decisive day that changes everything” (57). 81. Johnson (1999) 13. Cf. Purves (2006) 198. 82. Johnson (1999) 13. M. L. West (1966) ad loc. concludes that the бј„ОєОјП‰ОЅ is simply an anvil. See also Beckwith (1998), esp. 92, with note 4. 83. A comprehensive study of time in the Theogony would take account of similar conditional constructions. At lines 836–38, for example, the poet speculates about what might have happened if Typhoeus had been victorious instead of Zeus: “And now an undoable deed would have happened on that day, and he [Typhoeus] would have ruled over mortals and immortals, if the father of men and gods had not kept his mind sharp” (ОєО±бЅ¶ ОЅбЅ» ОєОµОЅ бј”ПЂО»ОµП„Ої бј”ПЃОіОїОЅ бјЂОјбЅµП‡О±ОЅОїОЅ бј¤ОјО±П„О№ ОєОµбЅ·ОЅбїі ОєО±бЅ· ОєОµОЅ бЅ… ОіОµ ОёОЅО·П„Оїбї–ПѓО№ ОєО±бЅ¶ бјЂОёО±ОЅбЅ±П„ОїО№ПѓО№ОЅ бј„ОЅО±ОѕОµОЅ Оµбј° ОјбЅґ бј„ПЃбѕї бЅЂОѕбЅє ОЅбЅ№О·ПѓОµ ПЂО±П„бЅґПЃ бјЂОЅОґПЃбї¶ОЅ П„Оµ ОёОµбї¶ОЅ П„Оµ). Despite the fact that ОєО±бЅ¶ ОЅбЅ» ОєОµОЅВ .В .В . Оµбј° ОјбЅµ is a “common epic formula” (M. L. West [1966] ad loc.), this seems to be the only example of a past contrary-to-fact condition in the Theogony. Cf. Theogony 488, where Cronos did not know (ОїбЅђОґбѕї бјђОЅбЅ№О·ПѓОµ ОјОµП„бЅ° П†ПЃОµПѓбЅ·ОЅ) that Zeus was going to overcome him. On Theogony 720–25, see Stoddard (2004) 136–41. 84. The fact that бј„ОєОјП‰ОЅ occupies the spondaic sixth foot of the hexameter in both occurrences in the Theogony (722, 724) lends formal “weight” to its literal weight. 85. There is only one other О»бЅ·ОёОїП‚ in the Hesiodic corpus. At Erga 624, the plural refers to rocks that are used to dry-dock a ship. The word ПЂбЅіП„ПЃО· (noun and adjective) is more common and is used of rocks as natural outcroppings (i.e., the rock from which the waters of the Styx flow, at Theogony 785–92) or as weapons (i.e., those of Cottus, Briareos, and Gyes, at Theogony 715). The proverbial use of ПЂбЅіП„ПЃО· at Theogony 35 has been shown by Lopez-Ruiz (2010) chapter 2 to have Near Eastern antecedents; Lopez-Ruiz also draws important parallels between proverbs, riddles, and oracular speech as a way of understanding the proverb in the context of Hesiod’s poem. The meaning of the О»бЅ·ОёОїП‚ at Delphi may be as enigmatic as that of any proverb or oracle, with the crucial difference that its meaning—as described in the poem—is contingent on its being seen in situ. Whether or not a qualitative semantic difference is maintained in archaic texts between О»бЅ·ОёОїО№ and ПЂбЅіП„ПЃО· is difficult to say. 86. This story includes the Theogony’s only reference by the poet in propria persona to “things that will be.” It is based on a visual clue for a past event that is then projected into and “fixed” in the future (бјђОѕОїПЂбЅ·ПѓП‰). There are two other occurrences of бЅЂПЂбЅ·ПѓПѓП‰ in the Theogony. At 182, Cronos throws Ouranos’ genitals “behind” him (бјђОѕОїПЂбЅ·ПѓП‰). Does this mean that he also throws them into the future, where the blood will give rise to various beings “as the years succeed one another” (ПЂОµПЃО№ПЂО»ОїОјбЅіОЅП‰ОЅ Оґбѕї бјђОЅО№О±П…П„бї¶ОЅ, 184)? At 210, Ouranos says that vengeance will come to the Titans in the future (ОјОµП„бЅ№ПЂО№ПѓОёОµОЅ). Cf. Iliad 6.357–58, where Helen tells Hector that she and Paris will be “things of song for men in the future” (бЅЎП‚ ОєО±бЅ¶ бЅЂПЂбЅ·ПѓПѓП‰ бјЂОЅОёПЃбЅЅПЂОїО№ПѓО№ πελώμεθ’ бјЂОїбЅ·ОґО№ОјОїО№ бјђПѓПѓОїОјбЅіОЅОїО№ПѓО№ОЅ). In terms of our own spatiotemporal orientation, it is as if the ancient

Greeks walked forward while facing backward, much like the divided humans described by Aristophanes in Plato’s Symposium, where the metaphor of seeing the past is illustrated in the human being’s ability to “see” his own wound. See LSJ on бЅЂПЂбЅ·ПѓПѓП‰ (2), with the T scholion on Iliad 18.250, and the analysis of Dunkel (1982–83). 87. M. L. West (1966) 303 wonders whether “the Delphic stone too was supposed to have mantic properties.” On the worship of sacred stones, cf. M. L. West (1983) 167; Frazer (1965) 6:354–55. Cook (1964) 1:520 note 2 discusses representations of Zeus as a stone. On the бЅЂОјП†О±О»бЅ№П‚ at Delphi and its associations with the stone set up by Zeus, see Delcourt (1955) 144–49; Parke and Wormell (1956) 6–7; Roux (1976) 31–33; Sourvinou-Inwood (1991) 235–36. Davidson (1995) 363–69 provides an overview of the scholarship on the passage. Jeffrey (1990) 255 discusses an inscribed stone from Metapontion (uncertainly dated to 550–525 BCE) that he takes to be “a sacred stone of the kind seen by Pausanias at Pharai in Achaia, which he rightly recognized to be relics of the early tradition of aniconic stone worship (vii.22.4).” In the Gilgamesh poem, Gilgamesh has a dream about a “rock from the sky.” This dream foreshadows the coming of Enkidu and is the first of two dreams Gilgamesh has about this event. This strange story, told by Shamhat the harlot, is certainly different from the story of the stone in the Theogony. Yet there are significant correspondences between the two: the comparison of the rock to a baby, the role of the mother in its transformation, and the fact that the rock is made the “equal” of her son. See the translation of George (2003) tablet I.243–300; cf. tablet II.43. Ford (1992) 155 lists stories from the Old Testament in which “stones and stelesВ .В .В . behave like fixed signs and witnesses.” 88. Cf. Grethlein (2006a) 163–64 on references in the Iliad to stones that “no one today could lift” (5.302–4; 12.381–83, 445–49; 20.285–87). Grethlein draws two conclusions from this comparison: (1) that the epic past and the present become immediately contrasted with each other and (2) that the past is shown to be greater than the present. These conclusions are obvious except that they rest on the properties of stones. 89. Another explanation for the stone is provided at 496, where Cronos vomits up his offspring because he has been “vanquished by the arts and might of his son” (ОЅО№ОєО·ОёОµбЅ¶П‚ П„бЅіП‡ОЅбїѓПѓО№ ОІбЅ·О·П†О№ П„Оµ ПЂО±О№ОґбЅёП‚ бј‘Оїбї–Ої). Zeus is somehow instrumental here in making his father disgorge his brothers and sisters; this would presumably be impossible if he himself had been swallowed. The line is rejected by some editors. M. L. West (1966) ad loc. accepts it based on comparison with the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite 22–23. 90. There is nothing, in other words, to prevent Zeus from emerging fully grown—with all his bodily strength—from his father’s belly (ОЅО·ОґбЅ»П‚, 487). On the story of Metis and the birth of Athena, see M. L. West (1966) ad loc. Cf. the birth of Apollo in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo115–20. 91. On the Пѓбї†ОјО± as a portent and a grave in Homer, see D. Steiner (1995) 208–9. Steiner’s 1995 article discusses the structural links in literary texts between blinding, stoning, and stone monuments. As a “prominent site,” the stone in Delphi fits the pattern she lays out, with a twist; it is a “lasting reminder” of the false “imprisonment” of Zeus in Cronos’ belly and of Zeus’ triumph over the “criminal.” Cf. the death-like or petrifying effects that the waters of the Styx have on the gods in the Theogony; these waters flow “from a rock” (бјђОє ПЂбЅіП„ПЃО·П‚, Theogony 786, 792). The alternate reading of ПЂбї†ОјО± for Пѓбї†ОјО± at line 500 seems unlikely, if for no other reason than that it makes for a strange pairing with ОёО±бї¦ОјО±. Both Пѓбї†ОјО± and ОёО±бї¦ОјО± form phrases with бј°ОґбЅіПѓОёО±О№, the latter at Theogony 575 and 581; these are discussed in Prier (1989) 109. Pandora is described in the Theogony as both a ОёО±бї¦ОјО± and a ПЂбї†ОјО±, at lines 588 and 592 respectively, but the case of Pandora only makes it more difficult to understand in what sense a О»бЅ·ОёОїП‚ would be a ПЂбї†ОјО±. Cf. Hartog (2000) 395 on the relevant relationship between бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅіП‰ and ПѓО·ОјО±бЅ·ОЅП‰. 92. On anachrony in the Theogony, see Stoddard (2004) chapter 5. Stoddard argues that anachrony in the poem is an expression of the “difference between the вЂtimeless’ existence of the gods and the time-bound life of men” (128). 93. See chapter 2 on the euphemistic analogy between “covering” (ОєО±О»бЅ»ПЂП„П‰) and death in the Iliad; ОєПЃбЅ»ПЂП„П‰ here occupies a similar semantic range. 94. Davidson (1995) 365–66 remarks, “[The] reference to the subsequent history of the stone

presumably reflects an interest in it as a cult object already in Hesiod’s own time.” 95. Cf. Pausanias’ reflections at PeriГЄgГЄsis 8.33.1 on the ephemerality of the built environment. 96. Benjamin (1999) 83 notes, “Pausanias produced his topography of Greece around A.D. 200, at a time when the cult sites and many other monuments had begun to fall into ruin.” Benjamin’s statement suggests a relationship between the ephemerality of the material world and the production of narrative as an act of preservation or, more succinctly, that writing about objects is initiated by their falling into ruin. 97. De Man (1986) 49. 98. The most well-known example is the anecdote in Boswell (1992) 296 about Dr. Johnson, who, in response to Berkeley’s argument for the “non-existence of matter,” kicked a stone and said, “I refute it thus.” The anecdote has less to say about the materiality of the phenomenal world, however, than about the relationship of language to that world. On the anecdote, see Quine (1960) 17–18; Silver (1993) 447. Cf. Latour (2004) 159: “The problem with philosophers is that because their jobs are so hard they drink a lot of coffee and thus use in their arguments an inordinate quantity of pots, mugs, and jars—to which, sometimes, they might add the occasional rock.” For relevant remarks in different contexts, see Olsen (2010) 125; Ober (2005) 183–211. 99. Frow (2004) 359. Cf. Heidegger (1971) 169; Schwenger (2004) 148–49. The remarks of Frow (2004) 348 on the poem “Pebble” by the Polish poet Zbigniew Herbert are also of interest: “This is the paradox of any fascination with the thingness of things: that things posited in themselves, in their distinctness from intention, representation, figuration, or relation, are thereby filled with an imputed interiority and, in their very lack of meaning, with a вЂpebbly meaning’ which is at once full and inaccessible.” 100. Cf. Grethlein (2008) 34; Ober (1995). See also Porter (2010) 483–87 on Posidippus’ epigrams about “stones” as evidence for the overrating of О»ОµПЂП„бЅ№П„О·П‚ (“the slender, the polished, and the refined”) as the defining feature of Hellenistic literary aesthetics. 101. Adorno (1983) 178 (on Proust’s representation of the art museum). 102. Camp (2000) 41. See, more recently, Morris and Papadopoulos (2005) 155. In a critique of previous scholarship on the so-called archaic wall of Athens, Papadopoulos (2008) demonstrates the pitfalls of Camp’s conclusion. 103. Ford (1992) 147. See also Scodel (1982); Maitland (1999) 3–4. 104. Scodel (1982) 48 note 1 notes that the wall’s destruction involves the destruction of ОєО»бЅіОїП‚. 105. For the conclusion that 7.334–35 are an interpolation, based on a confusion of burial practices, see M. L. West (1969) 259; Porter (2011) 7–8. 106. For a similar collocation of walls, ships, and tombs in Thucydides, see Bassi (2007) 190–96. Cf. Grethlein (2006a) 148: “Als Medium des Ruhms gleicht die Mauer nicht nur den GrГ¤bern, sondern auch dem Epos.” Grethlein goes on to argue that the wall can be understood as a substitute (Ersatz) for Achilles (149). See also Goldhill (2007) 144–47. 107. Kirk (1990) ad loc. summarizes the arguments for taking these verses to be an interpolation; none is decisive. 108. ПЂОїО»бЅ·О¶П‰ is found only one other time in Homer (Iliad 20.217), where it means “to build a city,” specifically to build the city of Troy. I take it to have this same sense here, where building a wall is equated with building a city. 109. Grethlein (2008) refers to epic poetry as “an act of memory” (27) and argues that walls and tombs within the epic narrative have a “commemorative function” that “keep[s] the past alive” (29 note 17). For a similar approach, see Bakker (1997); Bakker’s work is not mentioned by Grethlein. Cf. Goldhill (2007) for a pertinent discussion of the symbolic significance of the walls of Troy and Thebes in Aeschylus and Euripides. 110. For example, consider the phrase ОєО»бЅіО± бјЂОЅОґПЃбї¶ОЅ at Iliad 9.189 and 524 and Odyssey 8.73. Cf. Odyssey 23.137, where ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ is attributed to the killing of the suitors (ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ . . . П†бЅ№ОЅОїП…). A. T. Edwards (1985) 71–93 offers a general overview of ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ and its sources in the Homeric poems. See also Nagy (1990a) 26. 111. On Nestor’s shield, see Kirk (1990) ad loc. It can be noted that not even the arms made for

Achilles by Hephaestus, including the famous shield, have κλέος. These are called κλύτα τεύχεα (19.10) and ἀγλαὰ δῶρα (19.18), and the former formulaic expression is found ten times in the Iliad (and twice in the Odyssey). 112. The Trojan walls are nowhere explicitly endowed with κλέος in the Iliad, although they are once referred to as “renowned walls” (κλυτὰ τείχεα, 21.295). 113. Agamemnon’s “paternal” scepter is ἄφθιτον (σκῆπτρον πατρώιͅον ἄφθιτον αἰεί, 2.46, 186); the palace of Poseidon is ἄφθιτον αἰεί (κλυτὰ δώματα . . . ἄφθιτον αἰεί, 13.21–22); the throne made by Hephaestus is ἄφθιτον αἰεί (καλὸν θρόνον ἄφθιτον αἰεί, 14.328); the house of Hephaestus is ἄφθιτον (δόμον . . . ἄφθιτον, 18.369–70); the wheel rim of the goddesses’ war chariot is ἄφθιτος (ἴτυς ἄφθιτος, 5.724). The remaining two examples of ἄφθιτος in the Iliad refer to Zeus’ “counsels” (ἄφθιτα μήδεα, 24.88) and, of course, to Achilles’ unique “fame” (κλέος ἄφθιτον, 9.413). On this phrase, including a discussion of the “typical” application of ἄφθιτος to material objects, see Volk (2002) 66–67 and the sources cited there. Cf. Finkelberg (1986) 4, with note 16. 114. See Garcia (2013) 8–12 for the relevant conclusion that ἄφθιτος indicates a “notyet-completed process.” 115. Cf. Sinos (1980) 47 on the warrior’s tomb as the physical and visible manifestation of his κλέος in the Iliad. Sinos is cited by Nagy (1990a) 215. 116. In its formulaic expressions, the dawn “approaches” (βαίνω), “spreads” (κίδναμαι), “rises” (ὄρνυμι), “comes” (ἔρχομαι), and so on, but it most frequently “appears” (φαίνω). The dawn is also the principal means of measuring a specific number of days, as in “on the twelfth dawn” (Iliad 1.493). Cf. Radin (1988). 117. Cf. de Jauregui (2013) 39–50 on the deictic expression “on this day” in Homer. De Jauregui argues for a distinction between ἦμαρ and ἡμέρη based on the implied fulfillment of what that day is purported to bring. He further notes the possibility that “Homer and his audience, when using the expression ἤματι τῷδε, were probably conscious of its possible use to depict visions of immortality for at least some chosen heroes” (55). He does not discuss Iliad 21.110–13. 118. Nagy (1990a) 123, 138. The locus classicus is the speech in which Achilles rejects Agamemnon’s gifts (9.378–416). See Ready (2007) 19–21. 119. See the discussion of Nagy (1990a) 85–121 on the disposition of the body after death in Indic and Greek contexts. 120. Cf. the compound φθισίμβροτος (mortal destroying), used of battle (μάχη) at Iliad 13.339 and of Athena’s aegis at Odyssey 22.297. The epithet is discussed by Russo, FernandezGaliano, and Heubeck (1992) 271. 121. Sand is a proverbial figure for an incalculable number. Thus, for example, Herodotus reports that the Pythia responds to Croesus, “I know the number of grains of sand and the extent of the sea” (οἷδα δ᾿ ἐγὼ ψάμμου τ᾿ ἀριθμὸν καὶ μέτρα θαλάσσης, Histories 1.47.3). Sand here comprises an accumulation of data that implicitly guarantees the truth of the enigmatic oracle that follows. Cf. Pindar, Ol. 2.98; Aristophanes, Lysistrata 1261. 122. Porter (2011) 19. 123. For the expression “darkness covered his eyes” (σκότος ὄσσε κάλυψε), seeIliad 4.461, 6.11, 13.577, 14.519, 15.578, 16.316, 16.325, 20.393, and 21.181, where κάλυψε is in the same metrical position as καλύψαι at 7.462 and as κάλυψε at 12.31. For “the end of death covered [him]” (τέλος θανάτοιο κάλυψε), seeIliad 5.553, 16.502, 16.855, 22.361. For a similar example, see Iliad 12.116, where the death of Asius is described: “[A]n ill-named fate covered him up entirely” (μιν μοῖρα δυσώνυμος ἀμφεκάλυψεν). See also Iliad 3.442, 14.294 of love (ἐρῶς). 124. The fundamental distinction between the two walls—namely, that one was made by the gods and the

other by men—reinforces the sacred status of the Trojan wall and strengthens the connection I am making here between the destruction of the Achaean wall and human mortality. As I will argue below, the fate of the Achaean wall also—if ironically—anticipates the fall of Troy. Even a sacred edifice is subject to destruction. 125. See Ford (1992) 149 on ἡμιθέοι as “a word one uses in speaking of heroes from a distance, contemplating the heroic age retrospectively as something apart, utterly remote in time.” See also Porter (2011) 31–32; Taplin (1992) 139–40. 126. On this battle, see Fenno (2005) 498–503. 127. Cf. Ford (1992) 153–54 on the “antifunereal” aspects of this passage. See also the brief remarks of Grethlein (2006a) 150, with note 345. 128. Watkins (2002) connects the “logs and stones” in Homer with the “oak and stone” proverb in Hesiod but argues that φιτρός and λάος are connected with culture, as opposed to nature. Watkins is cited by Lopez-Ruiz (2010) 28. 129. The quotation is from Kirk (1993) ad loc. Cf. Nagy (1990a) 215–17 on the σῆμα (tomb) as a “reminder of kleos” (217). See also Purves (2010) 80–84. 130. Garcia (2013) 109–10 and 148–57 comes to a similar conclusion but with different emphases. 131. See Porter (2010) 464–76 on the aesthetics of funerary inscriptions as “speaking objects” (470). 132. Cf. Ready (2007) 19. 133. Leaf (1960) ad loc. believes that these lines are a “deliberate parody” of the famous simile of the leaves at Iliad 6.146–49. On the leaves simile in the Iliad as an expression of Schicksalkontingenz, see Grethlein (2006a) 84–97. 134. In the seven other occurrences in the Iliad in addition to 21.447, ἄρρηκτος is predicated of physical or material phenomena: see 13.37 (πέδας), 13.360 (πεῖραρ), 14.56 and 14.68 (εἶλαρ), 15.20 (δεσμός), 20.150 (νεφέλη). The same is true for the two occurrences in the Odyssey, at 10.4 (τεῖχος) and 8.275 (δεσμός). This fact makes the narrator’s appeal to an “unbroken voice” in the proem to the Catalogue of Ships at Iliad 2.490 all the more vivid (φωνὴ δ᾿ ἄρρηκτος). Together with “ten tongues and ten mouths and a heart of bronze” (2.489–90), this metaphorical usage figures the work of the mortal poet in terms of physical attributes, in contrast to the Muses’ gift of memory. In general terms, this contrast both draws attention to and implicitly resists the ephemerality of mortal existence. More specifically, the figure of the poet’s “unbroken voice”—a voice he lacks—signals the possibility that the epic poem will disappear, like walls and cities. I discuss this passage in more detail in chapter 3. 135. On the semantic effects of contiguity in poetry, see Jakobson (1960). 136. Garcia (2013) 113–30 reaches a similar conclusion. See also Porter (2010) 479 on the ephemerality of epic song. 137. Iliad 12.36, 12.137, 21.516, 1.448, 12.154, 16.700, 22.195; Odyssey 7.100, 20.302, 22.24, 22.126. Cf. Porter (2011) 5, with note 9. 138. Porter (2011) 30–31 comments on the “different styles” attributed to the Achaean wall in Homer, that is, that it is both flimsy and stately. I attribute this inconsistency to the point I am making here, namely, that the wall’s oscillation between being well built and utterly destroyed is a key to its function in the poem’s temporal and ethical landscape, in which the walls of Troy are necessary comparanda. 139. Proust as quoted by Adorno (1983) 178. 140. Porter (2011) 5. Porter offers a detailed and comprehensive account of ancient and modern scholarship on the wall. I summarize this history in Bassi (2005a) 21–23. 141. Porter (2011) 17, with reference to Jakobson (1960) 371. 142. Garcia (2013) 101–4 concludes that Achilles’ absence from the battlefield explains why the wall is built in the tenth year of the war. His reading explicitly connects the fate of the wall with the fate of Achilles and, further, with the “entire heroic age which is to come to an end” (109). 143. On Strabo’s debts to and assessment of Homer as a source, see Dueck (2000) 31–40. Strabo refers to Homer as the “founder [ἀρχηγέτης] of geographical science” (1.1.2). But he also famously remarks, “Homer leaves us to guess about most things. And it is necessary to arbitrate

between his statements and those of the others” (13.1.1; see also 7.3.6). His account of the Achaean wall finds Strabo negotiating between these two views of Homer. 144. Cf. Porter (2011) 32. 145. Cf. Scodel (1982) 33, with note 2. 146. Porter (2011) 3. 147. Porter (2011) 32. 148. It may be relevant that Strabo claims to have written a historical work, which he calls his “Historical Memoranda” (бЅ‘ПЂОїОјОЅбЅµОјО±П„О± бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃО№ОєбЅ±), prior to the Geographica (Geographica 1.1.23). 149. Halliwell (1998) 28. On the reception history of the Poetics, see also Halliwell (1992). 150. For the translation of Оїбј·О± бј‚ОЅ ОібЅіОЅОїО№П„Ої in this passage, see Lucas (1968) ad loc. Moles (1993) 107–9 discusses Aristotle’s distinction between ПЂОїбЅ·О·ПѓО№П‚ and бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅ·О± as it is anticipated in the works of Herodotus and Thucydides. 151. In the Poetics, both Alcibiades (the exemplary figure of бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅ·О±) and the heroes of tragedy are described as those who have “suffered or done terrible things” (бјў ПЂО±ОёОµбї–ОЅ ОґОµО№ОЅбЅ° бјў ПЂОїбї–О·ПѓО±О№, 1453a22; cf. П„бј° бј”ПЂПЃО±ОѕОµОЅ бјў П„бЅ· бј”ПЂО±ОёОµОЅ at 1451b11). In other words, the line between the historical and the fictional (or the actual and the possible) is blurred here in terms of both past actors and past events. On the choice of Alcibiades, see Halliwell (1998) 105–12; Hornblower (1987) 10, 38; Else (1963) 304 note 9; Ste. Croix (1992) 24–29. 152. Lucas (1968) ad loc. See also Else (1963) 303–4; Finley (1975) 14. For a relevant discussion of debates over the relative aesthetic and historical merits of the works of Herodotus and Thucydides among nineteenth-century German historians, see Muhlack (2011). 153. Kurke (2011) 368, with note 34, discusses the “alignment of prose with вЂfact’ and poetry with вЂfiction’” in the history of classical scholarship. The assumption that the Greeks, as in Lucas’ formulation, believed that myth (presumably the stuff of poetry) was “basically historical”—an assumption also common in the history of scholarship—does not contradict this alignment. But it does expose the limits of myth as a heuristic device, as Kurke’s reading of the meaning of О»ОїОіОїПЂОїО№бЅ№П‚ in Herodotus demonstrates. 154. Hartog (1992) 85. 155. Hartog (2000) 386, citing Brague (1988) 28 and Clay (1983) 12–13. 156. Cf. Nagy (1990b) 242, who notes the emphasis on human responsibility in the Odyssey in comparison with the Iliad: “The notion that mortals are responsible for the misfortunes that they suffer as retribution for their wickedness is a prominent one in the Odyssey, setting it apart from the Iliad, which stresses the Will of Zeus as the force that controls the plot of the epic.” 157. Svenbro (1976) 25, with note 68, credits the neologism to a forthcoming article by Francoise FrontisiDucroux titled “HomГЁre et le temps retrouvГ©.” To date, I have been unable to find this article. Cf. Segal (1994) 124–25. Ford (1992) 121 comes to a similar conclusion but with a different emphasis. 158. On the figure of the singer in his social context in Homer, see Svenbro (1976) section 1.1. 159. Cf. Pucci (1987) 228–35 on the “indecision about the specific responsibility of the Muse” in the Odyssey. Stoddard (2004) 96–97 argues for the Hesiodic narrator’s “independence and separation from the Muses” and concludes that the Theogony differs from the Homeric poems in that the Muses inspire Hesiod to “sing his own words.” Odysseus’ tales represent another level of independence from the Muses: at the level of the plot, he tells his own story in his own words. 160. Stanford (1959) ad loc. The concept of “European literature” here is both anachronistic and reductive. See also Heubeck, West, and Hainsworth (1988) ad loc. 161. Graziosi (2002) chapter 4 reviews the sources for and scholarship on the blindness of Homer. On the tradition of blind singers in general, see Bowra (1964) 420–22. 162. Cf. Heubeck, West, and Hainsworth (1988) on 8.64. 163. Bakker (1997) 15. This approach to the poems is also related to the rhetorical tradition, in which visual cues are recommended as an aid to memory. See Obricht (1997) 159–67 for a brief overview of the topic, including the relevant bibliography; Kennedy (1994) 123–24; Minchin (2008) 12–13. Boedeker (1998) 189 offers relevant comments on the juxtaposition of legendary and recent events in Athenian public

art as a “way of seeing the present as analogous to the [heroic] past.” Lissarrague (1989) 46 argues that contemporary warriors are depicted as epic heroes on fifth-century vases. The effect is a visual blurring of the mythological past and present reality. 164. Bakker (1997) 15. 165. Bakker (1993) 15–17. Bakker notes, “Epic narrators in performance, too, are interpreters, not of visual evidence in their physical here and now, but of visual evidence provided by their memory” (17). 166. More recent work in discourse analysis and cognitive science research compares Homeric diction with “everyday language.” For example, Bonifazi (2008) 36 notes, “The first goal of the present work is to show that Homeric language includes several discourse markers [that] behave in epic diction exactly as in everyday language.” Bonifazi’s careful analysis of these discourse markers is useful, but the argument begs the question of the meaning of “everyday” language. In a similar vein, Minchin (2008) chapter 3 discusses the “descriptive segments” in the Homeric poems “from a cognitive point of view” (131) and in comparison with “everyday” language. Of interest here is what she refers to as the “histories” that accompany these segments. But her analyses, for example, of the description of Agamemon’s scepter (120–21) do not go much beyond generalization—she maintains that such descriptions “keep us involved in the tale” (130)—and plot summary. Cf. Scodel (2002) 65: “[Epic narrative] exists outside the social pressures that constrain ordinary human speech, and its distance from the everyday guarantees its truth.” The “everyday” is here invoked as proof of the truth of epic. In all its manifestations, the category of the “everyday” serves as an undertheorized comparandum to epic speech or performance. 167. Cf. Neer (2002) 30 on empiricist and idealist notions that “the meaning of a text or imageВ .В .В . precede[s] its вЂrealization’ in form.” 168. Cf. Curtius ([1953] 1991) 13–16 for appeals to the “timeless present” of European literature (beginning with Homer, of course) and to the notion that understanding the visible remains of the past (i.e., the Parthenon frieze) requires little “mental effort.” Andersen (1987) discusses the “timelessness” of mythological paradigms in Homer. It is interesting to note how arguments about the “timelessness” of the epic are implicitly weakened by more recent scholarship that aligns Homeric poetry with “everyday” speech. See above, note 12. 169. J. M. Foley (2007). Cf. Berger (1984) 67 on an analogous desire to “listen to Socrates” when reading the Platonic dialogues. 170. J. M. Foley (2007) 21. 171. Bakker (2008) 65. Cf. Porter (2006a) 313 on writing and orality as “mutually reinforcingВ .В .В . categories.” 172. Saussy (1996) 306–7, with reference to Rousseau (1968). Cf. Saussy (1996) 312: “And from the point of view that writing makes possible, it is when writing is not available to Homer that his epics find themselves in the position Socrates attributes to writing per se in Plato’s dialogue on writing and memory, the Phaedrus—namely the sad condition of вЂdrifting all over the place, getting into the hands not only of those who understand them, but equally of those who have no business with them; .В .В .В and when they are ill-treated and unfairly abused they always need their parent to come to their aid, being unable to defend or help themselves.’” 173. Saussy (1996) 330, with note 36. Cf. Minchin (2008) 118, arguing that because the Odyssey differs from the Iliad in its descriptive passages, it “does indeed appear closer to literary discourse in a written tradition than does the Iliad.” Minchin explains this in terms of the difference between the plot structures of the two poems. 174. Cf. Auslander (1999) on “liveness” as a cultural category, its relation to “mediatized” cultural forms (i.e., television), and its importance for theater studies. 175. On this passage, see Pucci (1987) 219, with note 13; Martin (1989) 223–24; Minchin (2001) 79–80; Minchin (2008) 25–26. 176. M. Edwards (1980) discusses the basic recurring structure of the catalogue entries. See also Pucci (1996); Simpson and Lazenby (1970). Cf. the list of the heroines who appear to Odysseus at Odyssey 11.225–329, where each entry is introduced by the phrase “I saw” (бјґОґОїОЅ); this is noted by Edwards (1980) 101 note 47. Minchin (2008) chapter 2 discusses the ways in which the catalogue and list facilitate and demonstrate the poet’s feat of memorization.

177. Cf. 11.218, 14.508, 16.112, where the Muses are called on with the same phrase (ἔσπετε νῦν μοι, Μοῦσαι, Ὀλύμπια δώματ᾿ ἔχουσαι). As Kirk (1985)167 notes, these passages “usually involv[e] a list of some kind.” 178. Elmer (2005) 27. 179. Elmer (2005) 28, quoting Bakker (1999) 8. Cf. Stewart (1993) 48–49. Contrary to Bakker, Stewart persuasively argues that the tableau “effectively speaks to the distance between the context at hand and the narrated context; it is possible only through representation, since it offers a complete closure of a text framed off from the ongoing reality that surrounds it.” 180. Derrida (1997). 181. Elmer (2005) 17, with Svenbro (1993) 37, cited by Elmer. 182. By “conditioned incompleteness,” I mean that the catalogue is always subject to leaving something out. Cf. Stewart (1993) 52: “when language attempts to describe the concrete, it is caught in an infinitely self-effacing gesture of inadequacy, a gesture which speaks to the gaps between our modes of cognition—those gaps between the sensual, the visual, and the linguistic.” 183. Elmer (2005) 14. 184. This dilemma is also expressed in passages in which, as Elmer (2005) 25–26 has argued, there is “an equivalence” between epic narrative and artifact. His examples are Odysseus’ reference to the sword belt on which Heracles’ deeds are figured (Odyssey 11.610) and the tapestry of Helen (Iliad 3.125–28). Cf. Ford (2002) chapter 4 on the relationship between artifacts and song in Simonides. 185. For a general discussion of the debates surrounding the teichoscopia, including “the apparent anachronism of Priam’s enquiries,” see Kirk (1985) 286–88. 186. See Kirk (1985) 286. 187. Kirk (1985) 287. Cf. Nagy (1996) chap. 1 on the related notions of authenticity and the “actual” poet. 188. Slatkin (2007) 26–27 notes how the “sudden vision of Helen puts the poem’s internal clock, as well as nature’s temporal ordinance, temporarily on hold” (26). 189. Lynn-George (1988) 31 offers a compelling account of the complex relationship of the present to the past in the teichoscopia. I am grateful to an anonymous reader for calling my attention to LynnGeorge’s book. 190. Individual women are compared to goddesses (plural) three other times in the Iliad, but with the phase ἐϊκυῖα θεῇσι (8.305 [Castianeira], 11.638 [Hecamede], 19.286 [Briseis]); in the Odyssey, the phrase is found once (7.291 [Nausicaa]). Elmer (2005) 29–31 discusses the evidence for lines 3.156–58 as an epigram for Zeuxis’ Helen: “Zeuxis could not have found a more appropriate text for this purpose, for in Homer, too, the lines serve as a kind of caption: they represent the linguistic response to the spectacle of Helen’s appearance—they are a spontaneous legend provided by the Trojan elders” (30). 191. Cf. Clader (1976) 9 on Helen as “the author of what is essentially a second catalogue.” See also Jenkins (1999) 220, with note 33, on Helen as an epic poet. Arguing against Clader and Jenkins, Elmer (2005) 22–23 suggests that Helen’s role in the teichoscopia is less that of a singer than that of an epigrammatist. I will return to Elmer’s argument below. 192. Cf. Odyssey 1.32–43, where Zeus comments on the propensity of mortals to blame the gods for the evil things that happen to them (θεοὺς βροτοὶ αἰτιόωνται, Odyssey 1.32). The counterclaim, that men are responsible for what happens to them, is then illustrated by the disastrous consequences of Aegisthus’ refusal to take the gods’ advice. In effectively contradicting Priam’s comment to Helen in the Iliad, Zeus’ comment in the Odyssey suggests a shift in etiological focus between the two poems (from gods to men) or at least recognition of the consequences of such a shift. 193. Cf. Elmer (2005) 13: “The teikhoskopia is constructed in such a way as to emphasize the gap between the words spoken on the wall and the Greeks on the plain below (the wall itself is the most concrete symbol of the radical divide between the Trojan and the Greek spheres).” 194. Cf. Elmer (2005) 2 on Helen’s commonly perceived role as a “figure for self-conscious reflection on the nature of poetry itself.” 195. Elmer (2005) 13 note 39; Elmer does not refer to Kirk in this article.

196. Elmer (2005) 25. 197. Elmer (2005) 24–25. 198. Elmer (2005) 25. Cf. Odyssey 11.374, where Alcinoos refers to Odysseus’ deeds as ОёбЅіПѓОєОµО»О± бј”ПЃОіО±. On the uncertain meaning of ОёбЅіПѓОєОµО»О± (divinely inspired?), see Heubeck and Hoekstra (1989) ad loc. 199. For Оїбј± ПЂПЃбЅ·ОЅ referring to “men of former times,” see Iliad 3.132; Odyssey 6.4. More common are constructions with ОЅбї¦ОЅ and ОІПЃОїП„бЅ№П‚ to specify “men of the present”: see Iliad 1.272, 5.304, 12.383, 12.449, 20.287; Odyssey 8.222. See also Odyssey 24.82–84, where the shade of Agamemnon says that the tomb of Achilles, Patroclus, and Antilochus will be seen by “men who exist now and those who will be born afterwards” (П„Оїбї–П‚ Оїбјі ОЅбї¦ОЅ ОіОµОібЅ±ПѓО№ ОєО±бЅ¶ Оїбјі ОјОµП„бЅ№ПЂО№ПѓОёОµОЅ бј”ПѓОїОЅП„О±О№). Grethlein (2008) 29 remarks, “By marking a place that is relevant in the present, the tomb inscribes the memory of a dead person into everyday reality.” This statement seems straightforward. But it also raises the question of memory as a feature of “everyday reality” in the epic. On this question, see above, p. 13, with note 33. 200. Cf. Odyssey 19.241, where Odysseus in disguise describes for Penelope the cloak that he gave to вЂOdysseus’ as a ОґбЅ·ПЂО»О±ОєО±В .В .В . ПЂОїПЃП†П…ПЃбЅіО·ОЅ; this same cloak is called ОґО№ПЂО»бї† at 19.225–26. At Iliad 23.243–44, Achilles orders that Patroclus’ bones be “wrapped in a double layer of fatВ .В .В . until I myself am hidden in Hades” (ОґбЅ·ПЂО»О±ОєО± ОґО·ОјбЅ№ОЅВ .В .В . Оµбј°П‚ бЅ… ОєОµОЅ О±бЅђП„бЅёП‚ бјђОібЅјОЅ бјЊПЉОґО№ ОєОµбЅ»ОёП‰ОјО±О№). In the only other example of ОґбЅ·ПЂО»О±Оѕ in Homer, it describes the tapestry that Andromache is weaving when, as the poet tells us, she does not yet know that Hector has been killed (ОґбЅ·ПЂО»О±ОєО± ПЂОїПЃП†П…ПЃбЅіО·ОЅ, Iliad 22.441). In all these examples—and in very different contexts—δίπλαξ expresses the kind of doubleness or layering I am describing here, that is, one that refers simultaneously to a physical object and to some aspect of the narrative in which it is found. In the case of Patroclus’ bones and Andromache’s weaving, this doubleness is clearly temporal and has to do with the time of death. In the case of Odysseus’ lying tale, Odysseus is “doubled” both ontologically and temporally: he is both Odysseus and the Stranger, and he exists both in the present moment and twenty years ago, at the moment when the Stranger last saw “Odysseus” (19.221–23). 201. Gombrich ([1960] 2000) 5. 202. Bonifazi (2008) 61, following Bakker, states, “The ones who вЂsee’ with the mind’s eye actions, faces, and details about mythical deeds, and who shift between different distances and different focuses, are without turning their own gaze spectators of a past that is re-enacted in the hic et nunc. Both the performer and the listener belong to this group.” Bonifazi takes this metaphor further by stating that “Homeric epic can be seen as a cinema running in the poet’s mind” (48). 203. See Iser (1993) 12–21 on “as if” constructions as a feature of fictional narratives. By virtue of this feature, says Iser, “the reality represented in the text is not meant to represent reality; it is a pointer to something that it is not, although its function is to make that something conceivable” (13). Iser’s argument is focused on the effect of the fictive as it “hover[s] between the real and the imaginary” (20). In the Odyssey, the literal “as-if” constructions point to competing epistemological modes and position the past between the real and the imaginary. On Iser, see Grethlein (2006a) 199–204, concluding that, with respect to the Iliad, this “as if” condition describes the tension between expectation and experience not only in the narrative but also in its reception. 204. Cf. Ford (1992) 122: “This passage [Odyssey 8.487–98] is often read as an indirect claim for the вЂtruth’ of the poetic tale from an actual eyewitness, but we have seen that any basis for such judgments would have been inaccessible to Homer’s audience.” Ford is right to question the appeal to “truth” in this passage, where truth is equated with “factuality.” But judgments based on an eyewitness account were certainly accessible to Homer’s audience (in Ford’s terms). Cf. Slatkin (2007) 24–25 on examples in the Iliad in which “the act of seeing arrests, suspends, or dilates poetic action, authorizing the inner life of its characters” (23). Bowie (2001a) 62–63 briefly alludes to Odyssey 8.488–91 in a discussion of the emergence of history writing. 205. It may be pertinent that the expression “to see the light of the sun” (бЅЃПЃбѕ¶ОЅ П†бЅ±ОїП‚ бј ОµО»бЅ·ОїО№Ої) means to “be alive,” as (with no little irony) at Odyssey 10.498, where

Odysseus tells Circe that, in contemplating his impending journey to Hades, he no longer wishes “to live and to see the light of the sun” (ОїбЅђОґбЅІ ОЅбЅ» ОјОїО№ Оєбї†ПЃ бј¤ОёОµО»бѕї бј”П„О№ О¶бЅЅОµО№ОЅ ОєО±бЅ¶ бЅЃПЃбѕ¶ОЅ П†бЅ±ОїП‚ бј ОµО»бЅ·ОїО№Ої). Cf. Odyssey 4.539–40; Mimnermus 1.8. The metaphor seems to be based on the belief that being (present) is a function of visual perception. 206. On this last passage, see Bakker (1993) 16–17. 207. In contrast to бЅЂП†ОёО±О»ОјОїбЅ·, бЅ„ОјОјО±П„О± seem to refer exclusively to the physical organs not so much through which men see as by which men are themselves recognized; that is, they attest to the visible identity of singular individuals. The first appearance in the Iliad is the well-known passage in which Achilles says that Agamemnon has the “eyes” of a dog (бЅ„ОјОјО±П„О±, 1.225). At the other end of the spectrum, the dead Patroclus appears to Achilles and is said to be “like himself in stature and eyes [бЅ„ОјОјО±П„О±] and voice” (Iliad 23.66). In the Odyssey, Athena—in the guise of Mentes—remarks that Telemachus is like Odysseus with respect to “his head and his beautiful eyes” (бЅ„ОјОјО±П„О±, 1.208). In these examples, the eyes make truth claims not as instruments of visual verification but as attributes of identity based on likeness. As kinds of evidence, Homeric бЅ„ОјОјО±П„О± mirror in the eyes of the observed the truth revealed through the eyes of the interested observer. Cf. Chantraine (2009) 782: “Omma n. designe ce qui est concernГ© par l’action de voir, la capacitГ© de voir (cf. Pl. Theat. 156 d–e, oГ№ le mot est distinguГ© de бЅЂП†ОёО±О»ОјбЅ№П‚ et de бЅ„П€О№П‚), d’oГ№ вЂregard, oeil,’ surtout au pl., plus rarement, вЂce que l’on voir, ’ employГ© aussi pour dГ©signer le soleil, la lumiГЁre” (etc.). 208. The appeal to Apollo and the Muses at Odyssey 8.487–89 seems to have less to do with the content of what Demodocus sings than with its form; the divinities taught the bard how to sing ОєО±П„бЅ° ОєбЅ№ПѓОјОїОЅ. Conversely, the content of what he sings is more immediately verified in the simile of his being present. In other words, the distinction between divine inspiration and human knowledge is implicitly expressed in terms of a distinction between form and content. This distinction is confronted in Plato’s Ion (530b10–c1), where Socrates distinguishes between the rhapsode’s knowledge of the “verses only” (П„бЅ° бј”ПЂО·) of Homer and his “thought” (ОґО№О±ОЅОїбЅ·О±). On the phrase ОєО±П„бЅ° ОєбЅ№ПѓОјОїОЅ, which scholars variously take to refer to form or content (or both simultaneously), see von Reden (1995) 36; Ford (2002) 35–39; Scodel (2002) 65, with reference to Finkelberg (1998) 131–60. 209. Stanford (1959) ad loc., commenting on the meaning of бЅ…ОёОµОЅ at 11.366, notes with approval that “M.R., comparing Thucydides’ phrase бјђОѕ бјЂОµО»бЅіОіОєП„П‰ОЅ, takes this as вЂfrom sources which [=бјђОє П„ОїО№ОїбЅ»П„П‰ОЅ бјѓ] no one could see [i.e., test] for himself.’” Cf. Ford (1992) 124 note 53; and Montiglio (2005) 92. Dougherty (2001) 43–53 argues that the image of the “deceptive and thieving man” in this passage is a means of equating pirates with bad poets. 210. De Jong (2001) 286; cf. 191. See also Ford (1992) 122–25; Graziosi (2002) 138–42; Ford (2002) 30; Peradotto (1990) 92–93; Bakker (2013) 3–13. I am grateful to an anonymous reader for drawing my attention to Bakker’s book. 211. On this phrase, see Stoddard (2004) 85. See also Ready (2008) 481–85, suggesting that the simile evokes “two different concepts of the truth (i.e., memories and actual events)” (485); Heiden (2007) 166–68. On the difference between the so-called “lying” tales that Odysseus tells on Ithaca and the “true” adventure stories that he tells to the Phaiacians in books 9–12, see Dougherty (2001) 73–77. In general, the бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚ is an ambiguous figure in the poem, exemplified by the anonymous бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚ whom Agamemnon leaves to watch over (бј”ПЃП…ПѓОёО±О№) Clytemnestra (Odyssey 3.266–75). Stanford (1959) remarks on 3.267 that the singer plays a “virtuous partВ .В .В . as propaganda for H.’s own profession. He does not appear in either Pindar’s version of the story in Pythian 11 or in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon.” See also de Jong (2001) 82–83. But the fact that this singer fails to fulfill his obligation is hardly evidence of his “virtuous part.” Hardie (2000) 166 mentions the comment of the Homeric scholion that “the бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚ left in charge of Clytemnestra had no О±бј°ОґОїбї–О±, i.e., he was a eunuch.” Hardie also reviews the evidence for an etymological connection between Оїбј¶ОґО± and бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚ (both alpha intensive and alpha privative) that, he argues, had its origins in Homer. In this context, he refers to Alcinoos’ praise of

Odysseus’ “transparent truthfulness as a narrator” at Odyssey 11.368 (165). In addition to begging the question of “transparency,” however, Hardie’s evidence proves that the question of whether or not singers “know” anything was fraught with uncertainty. In the first reference to song in the Odyssey, Telemachus complains that the suitors care too much (it seems) about the κιθάρα and song (Odyssey 1.159). Although he tells Penelope not to blame the singers for the content of their song (Odyssey 1.345–60) and even tells the suitors to be quiet so that they might listen to Phemius (Odyssey 1.368–71), Telemachus’ initial observation weakens the conclusion that the poet is paying himself a compliment. In short—despite the perceived interest in etymology among later authors—the singer in the Odyssey is less a foil for self-congratulation than (keeping with the biographical fiction) a figure of selfdoubt. Cf. Nagy (1996) 112–13 on the definition of ἀοιδός. On the difference between the singers Phemius and Demodocus in the Odyssey, see Svenbro (1976) 21–24. Ford (2002) 6–8 discusses Telemachus’ remarks about singers as part of the social history of literary criticism. 212. Odysseus does say to Circe, “No man has ever yet gone to Hades in a black ship” (εἰς Ἄϊδος δ᾿ οὔ πώ τις ἀφίκετο νηὶ μελαίνῃ, Odyssey 10.502). But that such a journey is unprecedented does not indicate that it is less credible. Cf. Plato, Rep. 614b2, where Socrates introduces the story of Er’s sojourn in Hades as follows: “What I am going to tell you won’t be like the tale [ἀπόλογος] told to Alcinoos.” On Plato’s use of myth, see Murray (1999), esp. 257. 213. Cf. Montiglio (2005) 95, with note 14. Montiglio concludes that Alcinoos “compares [Odysseus] to a poet because he thinks that his story is both beautifully told and factually true.” What Alcinoos may think is impossible to know, of course; what he says (in the similes), however, expresses ambiguity about both the form and the content of Odysseus’ story. 214. This is the phrase used by Telemachus to describe the singer at Odyssey 1.370–71: ἐπεὶ τό γε καλὸν ἀκουέμεν ἐστὶν ἀοιδοῦ τοιοῦδ᾿ οἷος ὅδ᾿ ἐστί, θεοῖς ἐναλίγκιος αὐδήν. Cf. Odyssey 22.344–53, where Phemius, who is begging Odysseus to spare his life, remarks, “The god has implanted in my mind all sorts of poems, and I am fit to sing for you as [I am fit to sing] for a god” (ἔοικα δέ τοι παραείδειν ὥς τε θεῷ, 22.348–49). I take this to be a plausible translation of lines that have generated a lot of uncertainty. See Russo, Fernandez-Galiano, and Heubeck (1992) ad loc.; Pucci (1987) 228–33. But the point here is that singers are routinely described—and self-described—as the recipients of divine investment in their art. 215. Huebeck and Hoekstra (1989) ad loc. explain the sequence of ideas as follows: “Odysseus means: although it is indeed lovely to hear a bard perform (3–4), if your heart is now moved (ἐπετράπετο), Alcinous, to ask me to sing of my own misfortune (viii 572ff.), it may bring you joy, but it will increase my sorrow still further.” But Odysseus does not refer to what he is about to say as “singing.” Rather, the two activities, that of the singer and that of Odysseus, are clearly differentiated. The question remains why the commentators collapse the two. 216. The chronological anxiety or self-consciousness expressed in the question “What shall I tell you first” and so on appears to be unique to Odysseus and to the Odyssey. The closest parallel is found in the Iliad, where the narrator asks, “Who was the first to be slain, and who last . . . ?” (Iliad 5.703, 11.299; cf. 16.692). Odysseus’ question is unique both because it is directed toward himself and because it is concerned with the chronology of telling a story in general rather than with the chronology of comparable actions (i.e., the order of battle casualties). At the beginning of the Odyssey, the singer calls on the Muse to tell Odysseus’ story “from some point, from whatever point you will” (τῶν ἁμόθεν γε, Odyssey 1.10). On this phrase, see Heubeck, West, and Hainsworth (1988) ad loc. At the beginning of the Iliad, the singer calls on the Muse to sing (it seems) from the point at which Agamemnon and Achilles first quarreled (ἐξ οὗ δὴ τὰ πρῶτα διαστήτην ἐρίσαντε, κτλ., Iliad 1.6), on which see Kirk (1985) ad loc. Thus, narrative chronology is clearly a feature of the epic proem, with the Muses as the arbiters of where to begin in both poems. But the proem to the Odyssey is also striking for its rather cavalier attitude in contrast to Odysseus’ pointed interest in ordering the events of his own story. In this respect, a distinction is again drawn between the singer of the Odyssey and its protagonist.

217. Cf. Tsagalis (2003) 51: “It is through memory that Odysseus becomes an ἀοιδός.” Here again, an appeal to memory obfuscates rather than illuminates. Cf. Bakker (2013) chapter 1. Ready (2008) presents a comprehensive overview of the types of comparative figures found in the Homeric poems. Ready describes the simile as a comparison where there is an “unbridgeable ontological gap between” the tenor and vehicle, as, for example, when a man is compared to an animal. According to Ready, the introductory words ὡς ὅτε (as in the comparison of Odysseus with an ἀοιδός) only introduce similes (461–62), although Ready does not discuss the simile in question in his article. The notion of an ontological gap between Odysseus and a singer supports my conclusion, though it seems more likely that the figure fits the category that Ready refers to as a “likeness,” where “the proximity of tenor and vehicle is of particular thematic or rhetorical significance” (461). But Ready insists that ὡς ὅτε “never introduce[s] a likeness” (474). 218. See Dougherty (2001) 32–35 on Odysseus’ construction of his raft at Odyssey 5.244–57. Noting that “Odysseus’ work on the raft is knowledgeable” (ἐπισταμένως, 245), Dougherty goes on to comment, “The goddess Calypso represents the divine or traditional component of raft-building; she provides the raw materials that all rafts are made of . . . , but Odysseus himself must figure out how to build and steer the raft in order to get home, drawing on his skills, knowledge, and familiarity with tools” (35). Dougherty argues convincingly that the building of the raft “corresponds to the techniques of producing oral poetry.” Although I am arguing here that Odysseus is not like a singer, I too rely on the distinction, specified by Dougherty, between divine and human knowledge. See also Montiglio (2005) 96–97, noting that “the originality of Odysseus’ performance (a first-person narrative based on his own experience as a wanderer rather than a third-person narrative inspired by the Muse) destabilizes its audience.” But Montiglio does not specify the epistemological sources of this destabilization. 219. Cf. Iliad 14.90–94, where Odysseus criticizes Agamemnon’s μῦθος because it does not conform to that of a man who would “know how” (ὅς τις ἐπίσταιτο) to speak what is right. 220. So, for example, in the first appearance of the verb in the Iliad, Agamemnon tells Nestor that he has not lied about his “madness”: ὦ γέρον, οὔ τι ψεῦδος ἐμὰς ἄτας κατέλεξας (Iliad 9.115; cf. 19.186). In the Odyssey, Odysseus is often the firstperson subject of the verb. At Odyssey 7.297, he tells Alcinoos, “All I have told you is true” (ταῦτά τοι ἀχνύμενός περ ἀληθείην κατέλεξα); at Odyssey 10.16 (= 12.35), Odysseus says to Alcinoos that he told Aiolos “all the tale [of the Trojan expedition] according to what is proportionate” (καὶ μὲν ἐγὼ τῷ πάντα κατὰ μοῖραν κατέλεξα). The same verb is also used by Odysseus when he asks Demodocus to sing of the Trojan horse at 8.496–98: “If you tell me these things according to what is proportionate, I shall immediately tell all men how the god willingly granted you divine song” (αἲ κεν δή μοι ταῦτα κατὰ μοῖραν καταλέξῃς, αὐτίκ᾿ ἐγὼ πᾶσιν μυθήσομαι ἀνθρώποισιν, ὡς ἂρα τοι πρόφρων θεὸς ὤπασε θέσπιν ἀοιδήν). See Martin (1989) 97, 102, on the meaning of κατὰ μοῖραν as “proportionate”; cf. κατὰ κόσμον at Odyssey 8.489. Also relevant are 17.108 and 122, where Telemachus insists to Penelope that he will tell her the “truth” and that he had told Menelaus the “truth” (ἀληθείην καταλέξω and ἀληθείην κατέλεξα). At 23.225–26, Penelope comments that Odysseus has given “very clear signs describing our bed” (ἐπεὶ ἤδη σήματ᾿ ἀριφραδέα κατέλεξας ͅ εὐνῆς ἡμετέρης). At Odyssey 3.97 and 4.327, Telemachus asks Nestor and Menelaus, respectively, to “tell me well how you got sight of him” (ἀλλ᾿ εὖ μοι κατάλεξον ὅπως ἤντησας ὀπωπῆς). On this last passage, see Heubeck, West, and Hainsworth (1988) ad loc. for ἀκουῆς as a variant of ὀπωπῆς. There are variations, of course: Telemachus asks Nestor to tell the “true story” (ἀληθὲς ἐνίσπες) about the death of

Agamemnon at Odyssey 3.247, and Nestor replies that he “will tell all the truth” (бјЂО»О·ОёбЅіО± ПЂбЅ±ОЅП„бѕї бјЂОіОїПЃОµбЅ»ПѓП‰, 3.254). Cf. Fournier (1946) 117; Bakker (1997) 60; Dougherty (2001) 65. 221. See Huebeck and Hoekstra (1989) on Odyssey 9.14–15, noting that “katalegein suggests a methodically ordered account.” Cf. Montiglio (2005) 142–46 on the phrase бјЂО»О·ОёОµбЅ·О·ОЅ ОєО±П„О±О»бЅіОѕП‰: “To catalogue and to tell the truth are the same thing.” 222. See Innes (2003) 11 on the notion of “semantic stretch.” 223. Cf. Russo, Fernandez-Galiano, and Heubeck (1992) ad loc.: “This is the only occurrence of бјђПЂО№ПѓП„бЅ±ОјОµОЅОїП‚ with the gen., as if it were a substantive.” 224. The П†бЅ№ПЃОјО№ОіОѕ is explicitly said to be the instrument of the бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚ at Odyssey 4.17–18. 225. De Jong (2001) ad loc. She reiterates the claim that these similes are the means by which the narrator “suggests his own importance.” 226. Cf. Odyssey 9.15, where Odysseus says that the gods have given him “many cares”: ОєбЅµОґОµбѕї бјђПЂОµбЅ· ОјОїО№ ПЂОїО»О»бЅ° ОґбЅ№ПѓО±ОЅ ОёОµОїбЅ¶ ОїбЅђПЃО±ОЅбЅ·П‰ОЅОµП‚. 227. Cf. Moran’s (1975) discussion of the formula “Don’t you remember when?” (бј¦ ОїбЅђ ОјбЅіОјОЅбїѓ бЅ…П„ОµНѕ) in Homer. This phrase occurs only once in the Odyssey (24.114–17), where the respondent, Amphimedon, says that he does remember the events alluded to by Agamemnon. Moran comments that Amphimedon “knows the story from his personal experience of the events, and he knows how to act like a bard” (207). But this only raises the question of whether a bard “knows” or “remembers” events because of his “personal experience.” The answer I propose is that the bard/singer necessarily sings about events he does not know from “personal experience” (i.e., events at which he could not have been present) and that this is an inherent feature of bardic discourse. To put the matter another way, Amphimedon is not, as Moran states, “in effect, a bard” (207); rather, he is an eyewitness. Cf. Svenbro (1976) 22, who notes that both Demodocus and Homer are singers who know how to sing things about which they have “no personal knowledge”: “C’est seulement grГўce au вЂdon de la parole’ que l’aГЁde sait chanter les choses dont il n’a aucune connaissance personnelle.” Hardie (2000) discusses the relationship between singing and knowing in authors later than Homer. 228. Russo, Fernandez-Galiano, and Heubeck (1992) ad loc. note that ОёО·О·П„бЅµПЃ only occurs here “in antiquity” and that “some prefer the more banal reading ОёО·ПЃО·П„бЅµПЃ, or вЂhunter.’” See also their note on 21.405 regarding the emphasis on Odysseus’ “careful scrutiny of the bow.” 229. Cf. the speech of Polydamas at Iliad 13.729–34. 230. Granger (2000) 268 suggests that Heraclitus may have this passage in mind in his famous aphorism about the bow and the lyre (B51). 231. Cf. Segal (1994) chapter 6. 232. In the Ion, бјђПЂО№ПѓП„бЅµОјО· and П„бЅіП‡ОЅО· are paired by Socrates to describe what the rhapsode (qua rhapsode) lacks. On this dialogue, see the excellent analysis of Ledbetter (2003). 233. Cf. H. Foley (1978). 234. See Dougherty (2001) 66–78, pointing to the contrast between the kind of fixed songs that a bard like Demodocus sings and the “wandering” songs of Odysseus, the eyewitness: “OdysseusВ .В .В . is a poet on the move, singing new songs for new audiences at new places, and his songs are equally mobile. Never the same twice, his songs represent a flexible and mercurial notion of poetic truth, one that is authorized not by the Muses but rather by the actual travels of the poet himself” (70–71). See also Murnaghan (1987) 171–72, cited by Dougherty (2001) 71 note 24. 235. Cf. de Jong (2001) 286: “Although strictly speaking he is not in a position to judge, the Phaeacian king’s trust in the truth of Odysseus’ tale is not unfounded: nowhere does the narrator call Odysseus’ Apologue a lying tale and in several places he authenticates parts of his story.” 236. Heubeck and Hoekstra (1989) ad loc. take ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ to refer to Odysseus’ “charm.” This reading is plausible but fails to take account of the more literal meaning of ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ as a visible shape. Dougherty (2001) 57 argues that ОјОїПЃП†бЅґ бјђПЂбЅіП‰ОЅ is part of the “language

appropriate to the Demodocus model of a poet who sings as part of a closed aristocratic social context.” Bakker (2013) 8 suggests that “Alcinoos is taking ОјОїПЃП†бЅґ бјђПЂбЅіП‰ОЅ, вЂshapely form of words/lines’ in the external sense: not as words represented in epic, but as the hexametric lines that are epicВ .В .В . The hero becomes a poet, epos is posing as aoidé” (emphasis in the original). Cf. Ford (2002) 30. On the phrase ОєПЃбЅ·ПѓО№П‚ ОјОїПЃП†бЅµП‚ in Euripides’ Helen, see Bassi (2000). 237. This correspondence is implied at Odyssey 11.367 (ПѓОїбЅ¶ Оґбѕї бј”ПЂО№ ОјбЅІОЅ ОјОїПЃП†бЅґ бјђПЂбЅіП‰ОЅ, бј”ОЅО№ ОґбЅІ П†ПЃбЅіОЅОµП‚ бјђПѓОёО»О±бЅ·), where the forms бј”ПЂО№ and бј”ОЅО№ also suggest an equation of Odysseus’ outer form (ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ) with his inner thoughts or understanding (П†ПЃбЅіОЅОµП‚). Cf. Iliad 3.216–24 (the teichoscopia), where Antenor comments that Odysseus’ unimpressive physical appearance is compensated for by the effectiveness of his words. On hearing Odysseus speak, Antenor remarks that “we were then not so astounded as we looked at his form” (ОїбЅђ П„бЅ№П„Оµ Оібѕї бЅ§Оґбѕї бЅ€ОґП…Пѓбї†ОїП‚ бјЂОіО±ПѓПѓбЅ±ОјОµОёбѕї Оµбј¶ОґОїП‚ бј°ОґбЅ№ОЅП„ОµП‚, 3.224). 238. Cf. Odyssey 19.124–28, where Penelope says that her excellence, or бјЂПЃОµП„бЅµ, resides in her Оµбј¶ОґОїП‚ and ОґбЅіОјО±П‚, that is, in her physical appearance. This passage is discussed by Moran (1975) 208. 239. I take “your mind is without substance” to be the correct meaning of ОЅбЅ№ОїОЅ Оґбѕї бјЂПЂОїП†бЅЅО»О№ОїП‚ бјђПѓПѓО№. In Homer, бјЂПЂОїП†бЅЅО»О№ОїП‚ only occurs in the Odyssey; in addition to the passage cited here, see 5.182, 14.212, 11.249. 240. The figure of Thersites in the Iliad provides the (negative) model for a strict correlation between a man’s physical appearance and the words he speaks. On Thersites, see Martin (1989) 109–13; Bassi (1998) 133–40. 241. The verb ПѓП„бЅіП†П‰ (to crown) and related forms are found twenty-three times in the Homeric poems. Eight are in the Odyssey, where, in addition to its usage at 8.170 and 175, it modifies the city of Mycenae and the goddess Aphrodite; both are “well crowned” (2.120, 8.267, 8.288, 18.193). The verb is also used in the Odyssey to describe the relationship of the sea to Circe’s island (10.195) and the relationship of clouds to heaven (5.303). The expression “the crown of war” (ПѓП„бЅіП†О±ОЅОїП‚ ПЂОїО»бЅіОјОїО№Ої) occurs at Iliad 13.736; this is the only use of the noun in Homer. Thus, the function of these terms is primarily metaphorical in epic; that is, it does not describe a literal act of giving a crown (or wreath) to a god or a human being. The same is true for the Hesiodic corpus, with the notable exception of Pandora: Athena places a golden crown on her head (Theogony 587), and the Horai “crown” her (Erga 75). In the case of Pandora, of course, her beautiful exterior (including her crown) conceals the lying mind of a bitch (Erga 62–67). 242. Chantraine (2009) 687: “Par un hazard les deux ex. Hom. (Odyssey 8,170 et 11,367) concernent des paroles, des propos mis en belle forme; en fait, le mot s’ applique notamment au corps humain ou Г sa belle forme, cf. P. I. 4, 53, Aesch. Pr. 212, 449, S. El. 1159, distinguГ© de Оµбј¶ОґОїП‚ вЂaspect’ В .В .В . cf. Plato RГ©p. 380d.” 243. At [Aeschylus], PV 212, Prometheus refers to Gaia, who, although she has one shape (ОјОїПЃП†бЅґ ОјбЅ·О±), has many names; at PV 449, Prometheus likens humans to “shapes of dreams” (бЅЂОЅОµО№ПЃбЅ±П„П‰ОЅ бјЂО»бЅ·ОіОєО№ОїО№ ОјОїПЃП†О±бї–ПѓО№). In Sophocles’ Electra, Electra refers to the beloved shape (П†О№О»П„бЅ±П„О·П‚ ОјОїПЃП†бї†П‚, 1158–59) of her dead brother, which is now dust and shadow. She goes on to address his “pitiable body” (бЅ¦ ОґбЅіОјО±П‚ Оїбј°ОєП„ПЃбЅ№ОЅ, 1161). 244. Cf. Fournier (1946) 211–12, cited by Martin (1989) 17 note 53. Fournier also suggests that, as an attribute of бј”ПЂОµО±, ОјОїПЃП†бЅµ in Homer may refer to the beauty of expressions (213–14). 245. Martin (1989) 14. 246. Martin (1989) 12. In one of the two instances of Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚ in the Histories, Herodotus says that the Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚ (Hecataeus’?) about Ocean is “grounded in obscurity and needs no disproof” (бЅЃ ОґбЅІ ПЂОµПЃбЅ¶ П„Оїбї¦ бЅЁОєОµО±ОЅОїбї¦ О»бЅіОѕО±П‚ бјђП‚ бјЂП†О±ОЅбЅІП‚ П„бЅёОЅ Ојбї¦ОёОїОЅ бјЂОЅОµОЅОµбЅ·ОєО±П‚ ОїбЅђОє бј”П‡ОµО№ бј”О»ОµОіП‡ОїОЅ, 2.23.1). Hartog (1999) 183 comments, “Located somewhere beyond what is visible, a Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚ cannot be proved.” 247. Martin (1989) 30. Of course, бј”ПЂОµО± can also be deceptive or dangerous. Nestor says that while

the Greeks were in Troy, Aegisthus “kept beguiling the wife of Agamemnon with ἔπεα” (бј€ОіО±ОјОµОјОЅОїОЅбЅіО·ОЅ бј„О»ОїП‡ОїОЅ ОёбЅіО»ОіОµПѓОєОµОЅ бјђПЂбЅіПѓПѓО№ОЅ, Odyssey 3.264). Demodocus says that Achilles and Odysseus “strove with violent ἔπεα” (ОґО·ПЃбЅ·ПѓО±ОЅП„ОїВ .В .В . бјђОєПЂбЅ±ОіО»ОїО№П‚ бјђПЂбЅіОµПѓПѓО№ОЅ, Odyssey 8.77). These examples illustrate what Martin (1989) 37–38 calls the private context of бј”ПЂОµО±. 248. Martin (1989) 29–30. 249. Singers produce song (бјЂОїО№ОґбЅµ), of course, but they can also produce бј”ПЂОµО±. Thus, the Phaiacians take delight in Demodocus’ бј”ПЂОµО± (бјђПЂОµбЅ¶ П„бЅіПЃПЂОїОЅП„бѕї бјђПЂбЅіОµПѓПѓО№ОЅ, Odyssey 8.91). But the implication here too seems to me to be that Odysseus is listening to the story of his own sufferings. On Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚ as referring to “actual genres of discourse which are also poetic genres” in the Iliad, see Martin (1989) 42 and chapter 2. 250. Cf. Pucci (1987) introduction; Ferrari (1988). 251. This observation may give greater specificity to Martin’s conclusion that бј”ПЂОµО± in the epics are private utterances as opposed to performance-based speech acts. In this context, however, “private” does not mean “everyday,” nor is it the opposite of “public”; Odysseus obviously tells his story to a formally constituted audience in a public setting. Rather, I am using “private” to refer to the act of telling his own story, defined as such by his self-reported physical presence at the events he recounts. 252. The semantic range of the verb ПЂО»бЅ±О¶П‰ is very wide. Cf. Aeschylus, Septem 784, where ПЂО»бЅ±О¶П‰ is used to describe Oedipus’ act of blinding himself: бЅЂОјОјбЅ±П„П‰ОЅ бјђПЂО»бЅ±ОіП‡ОёО·. 253. Dougherty (2001) 64–65 discusses the enigmatic relationship between wandering (expressed in the verb бјЂО»бЅ±ОїОјО±О№), truth telling, and lying in the Odyssey. See also the discussion of wandering and truth telling in Montiglio (2005) 92–98. 254. Cf. Russo, Fernandez-Galiano, and Heubeck (1992) ad loc.: “This simile (518–21) is also noteworthy in that it is spoken by a character in the poem. Normally similes represent the poet speaking, with the anonymity required by the conventions of epic narrative. But here the simile is able to refer back to its speaker as one of the points of comparison (бЅЈП‚ бјђОјбЅІ ОєОµбї–ОЅОїП‚ бј”ОёОµО»ОіОµ).” That this particular simile is spoken by Alcinoos and Eumaeus—rather than the narrator—gives further support to the idea that they are cross-referenced as I suggest. 255. On ОёбЅіО»ОіП‰, see Russo, Fernandez-Galiano, and Heubeck (1992) on Odyssey 17.514, with reference to the erotic connotations of the term as discussed by Segal (1974). 256. Although Demodocus depends on the court for his livelihood, he is not a beggar and presumably does not look like one. In other words, the parody extends to Eumaeus’ implied assertion that a beggar can look like an бјЂОїО№ОґбЅ№П‚. 257. See Segal (1994) 87 on the fact that Odysseus speaks of his own ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ at Odyssey 9.19–20, when his ОєО»бЅіОїП‚ “normally would be recited in the third person about him.” 258. This ethical dimension of the equation between a man’s outer appearance and his inner disposition deserves more attention than I can give it here. 259. Histories 1.1–5. I discuss Herodotus’ programmatic statement in chapter 4 of the present study. 260. Cf. Hartog (1992) 92 on Thucydides: “From kleos to ktГЄma a significant shift appears. The period of the epic is clearly past. (Perhaps one would have to wait for Michelet to find another epic conception of history, but with a historian who would have himself both вЂseeing’ [voyant] and the вЂseer’ [voyeur].)” 261. Preface to Histories of the Latin and Germanic Peoples, 1st ed. (1824), in SГ¤mmtliche Werke 22:v–viii, translated in Iggers (2011) 86.В On Ranke’s phrase, see Iggers (2011) xiv, esp. on the meaning of eigentlich as “characteristic, essential,” as opposed to “actually.” On the metaphor of “seeing” the past in nineteenth-century history writing, see Ankersmit (2005) 41–43. 262. I am grateful to Josine Blok for drawing my attention to Ranke’s use of zeigen here. 263. Cf. Jameson (1985) 56: “Narrative history and the realistic novel are indeed closely related and in the greatest nineteenth-century texts virtually interchangeable. In our own time, this ongoing crisis has been re-thematized in terms of the critique of representation, one of the fundamental slogans of poststructuralism: briefly, the narrative representation of history necessarily tends to suggest that history is

something you can see, be a witness to, be present at,—an obviously inadmissible proposition. On the other hand, as the word itself suggests, history is always fundamentally storytelling, and must always be narrative in its very structure.” It is perhaps more accurate to say that the proposition is admissible, even if the proposed possibility (i.e., to be present in the past) is not. Jameson’s reference to the “word itself” simplifies the semantic history of ἱστορία. 264. Ricoeur (1984–88) 3:185, with reference to H. White (1973). On the “fourfold conception of the tropes,” conventional since the Renaissance, see H. White (1973) 31 note 13. See H. White (1974) 26–27 for a summary of Ranke’s method of historical emplotment. 265. On the complicated history and meaning of the term historicism and its adherents, see Iggers and Moltke (1973) introduction, esp. xviii–xix; Iggers (1995b); Iggers (2011) introduction. 266. It is accurate, if reductive, to say that these approaches—source criticism and the accumulation of data—are the fundamental principles of traditional historicist research. See Iggers and Moltke (1973) introduction. 267. Wilhelm von Humbold’s pertinent remarks in “On the Historian’s Task,” quoted in Iggers and Moltke (1973) 10, are also of interest: “For events are only half understood or are distorted, if one stops with their superficial appearance; moreover, the common observer constantly imbues this appearance with errors and half-truths. These are dispelled only by the true form of events which reveals itself solely to the historian whose eyesight is naturally keen and has been sharpened by study and practice.” As presented in Humboldt (1905) 41, Humboldt’s original German text reads, “Denn man erkennt die Begebenheiten nur halb, oder entstellt, wenn man bei ihrer ober flächlichen Erscheinung stehen bleibt; ja der gewöhnliche Beobachter mischt ihnen alle Augenblicke Irrthümer und Falschheiten bei. Diese werden nur durch die wahre Gestalt verscheucht, die sich allein dem von Natur glücklichen, und durch Studium un Uebung geschärften Blick des Geschichtforschers enthüllt.” 268. Hegel (1956) 60. 269. Cf. Ankersmit (2005) 36–37 (commenting on White [1973]): “The tropes, especially metaphor, [are] the most prominent and effective organizing principles in the historical text. Strong and convincing historical narratives or interpretations are typically supported by strong and imaginative metaphors” (36). 270. On the belatedness of meaning, see Bielek-Robson (2000), esp. 72–76. 271. See Partner (2013) introduction to part 1. 272. Ankersmit (1994) 128 (emphasis in the original). 273. On this topic, see the remarks of Partner (1995) 22–23. 274. Pieters 2000, 28. Cf. H. White (1999) 1–2. 275. Ankersmit (1995) comments on the epistemological utility of these metaphors as expressed in the relationship between “picture and text”; Ankersmit is not concerned with the particular epistemological effects of descriptions of visible or material objects in history writing, however. Cf. Iggers (1995a) and Pieters (2000). 276. Riegl ([1903] 1928). Citations of Riegl’s essay are taken from the English translation by Forster and Ghirardo (1982), with reference to the German edition. 277. Gubser (2005) 456. For a fuller overview of Riegl’s essay, with a focus on his views of time and history, see Gubser (2006) chapter 8. See also Olin (1992) xxi. 278. See Gubser (2005); Gubser (2006); Olin (1992); Jás Elsner (2006). Olin (1992) 180–82 summarizes the importance of Riegl’s work for other disciplines in the humanities and social sciences. 279. Gubser (2005) 458. 280. In assigning the two values to two different centuries, Riegl (1982) attempts to keep them separate. But he also admits that the “cult of ruins” is a form of age-value that can be “traced back to the seventeenth century” (31). 281. Riegl ([1903] 1982) 38. Cf. the remarks on Riegl’s “radical conservatism” in Olin 1992, xvii. 282. Riegl ([1903] 1982) 32–33. 283. Riegl ([1903] 1982) 24 maintains that age-value is “evoked by mere sensory perception” (durch die bloße sinnliche Wahrnehmung) and can therefore be appreciated by the masses; historical value, in contrast, is the purview of the educated classes. Gubser (2006), esp. 135–63, provides a good overview of these aspects of Riegl’s work. For a pertinent discussion of Riegl’s significance for

archaeological discourse, see Naginski 2001. Bann (1995) 198 comments on the “material vestiges of the past” in the context of Riegl’s work. 284. Riegl ([1903] 1982) 23. The German phrases are from Riegl ([1903] 1928) 149; the second one is not translated in the English 1982 edition. 285. If this account of reception in Riegl’s scheme is somewhat circular, it also challenges his premise that historical value is the purview of the educated classes while age-value is the purview of the uneducated masses. To be fair, age-value also has a democratic ring in Riegl’s work. Olin (1992) 177 notes that “the value for age-value, unlike the historical value, aspires to be accessible to all because it takes no special expertise to recognize its signs (GA, pp. 164–65).” For the English version of the passage Olin references, see Riegl ([1903] 1982) 33–34. 286. On Riegl’s “plea for isolating objectivity” in the history of art, see Olin (1992) 179. 287. Riegl (1982) 24. 288. Gubser (2005) 464. Cf. Olin (1992) 176: “Memorial values, for their part, are divisible into вЂintentional’ (gewollte) and вЂunintentional’ (ungewollte) values. Intentional monuments retain their value only as long as the conditions that brought them into being prevail. Unintentional monuments are preserved either for their historical value or for the signs of the ravage of age-value, including the destructive or reshaping human hand.” 289. Riegl ([1903] 1928) 34. 290. Riegl ([1903] 1928) 166. 291. Thomas (2000) 196 (emphasis in the original). 292. Cf. Kress and van Leeuwen (1996) 168: “Seeing has, in our culture, become synonymous with understanding. We вЂlook’ at a problem. We вЂsee’ the point. We adopt a вЂviewpoint.’ We вЂfocus’ on an issue. We вЂsee things in perspective.’ The world вЂas we see it’ (rather than вЂas we know it’ and certainly not вЂas we hear it’ or вЂas we feel it’) has become the measure for what is вЂreal’ and вЂtrue.’” This synonymity can be attributed in part to the invention and pervasive adoption of photography and related technologies. 293. Payne (1997) 80–101 discusses the relationship of visual perception (including photography) to the “real” in the work of Barthes, Althusser, and Foucault. Cf. Moser (2001) on visual representations in the history of archaeology. 294. Descriptions of visual vividness, or бјђОЅО¬ПЃОіОµО№О±, are found in both epic poetry and history, where they are often interpreted as sources of “presentness” in both genres. See Bakker (1997) on Homer; Walker (1993) on Thucydides; Schepens (1980) on autopsy. 295. Dewald (1981) 91. On the “origins” and development of Greek historiography, see Fowler (1996), esp. 62–69; Boedeker (1998) 197–99; Kurke (2011) chapter 10, with reference to Fowler (1996) and Thomas (2000). Boedeker shows how contemporary historical events are mythologized in Athenian public art (verbal and visual); they are made analogous to events in the heroic or legendary past. She contrasts this practice with narrative history, particularly that of Thucydides, which demythologizes the past and is not publicly sponsored. 296. Dewald (1993) 56. Dewald takes a broad view of the category of “objects” in this article, in which she includes bodies and corpses. Cf. Hedrick (1995) 49: “Th[e] simultaneous dependence and preeminence of things to words springs from a peculiarly Greek vision” (i.e., the “vision” of the Greek historians of the fifth century). See also Hartog (1999) 195 on the process in Herodotus of “making visible and readable through narrative the invisible and, ultimately, divine structure of what happened (ta genomena).” Hartog is concerned not with visible phenomena per se in the Histories but with the metaphorical effects of divination. On the function of “signs” in Herodotus, see Hollmann (2005). 297. See esp. Thomas (2000) chap. 6. See also Lateiner (1986). On Thomas’ argument, see Bakker (2002) 8–11. 298. A detailed analysis of the proem is provided by Bakker (2002), with particular attention paid to the phrase бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅ·О·П‚ бјЂПЂбЅ№ОґОµОѕО№П‚ ἥδε. Bakker concludes, “It is obvious that no accomplishment or achievement whatsoever precedes the apodexis. The apodexis of great deeds is their accomplishment, their enactment, not their display or showing” (25; emphasis in the original). See also Harrison (2000) 31–33. Bowie (2001a) explores the possible relationships between earlier verse

narrative and the emergence of historiography, especially in light of the 1992 publication of Simonides’ poem on the battle of Plataea. See, in particular, Bowie’s comments on the “formal proemion” as a feature of this relationship (57–58). Kowerski (2005) 64–74 reviews and disputes Bowie’s conclusions about “narrative elegy.” 299. Cf. Hartog (2000) 394: “The shift from kleos to aklea indicates that the historian refers continually to the epic, but also makes more modest claims than the bard.” I am not convinced that the historian’s claims are “more modest.” Cf. Moles (1993) 91–98. On the semantic convergences between Homer and Herodotus, cf. Nagy (1990b) 215–73. Hartog (1999) 186 provides a summary of Nagy’s argument, as does Bakker (2002) 8–9. See also Immerwahr (1960), arguing that бј”ПЃОіО±, referring to both deeds and monuments in the Histories, signify human greatness or fame. 300. The adjective бјђОѕбЅ·П„О·О»ОїП‚ seems to be derived from бј”ОѕОµО№ОјО№, meaning “to go out”; the verb is used in time constructions to mean “to come to an end.” But metaphorically, as translated here, the adjective means to fade or to become less visible. It is found only one other time in Herodotus, where it refers to the potential disappearance of the ОібЅіОЅОїП‚ of Eurysthenes (5.39.9). Based on this shared usage, Moles (1999) section 8 presents the evidence for taking бјђОѕбЅ·П„О·О»О± in the proem as “inscriptional in two ways,” as a “genealogical term” in the sense of “extinct” and as a reference to the fading of an inscription. Cf. the remarks of Sauge (1992) 11–12 on the relationship between бјђОѕбЅ·П„О·О»О± and бјЂОєО»Оµбѕ¶. Cf. also Porter (2010) 472: “Herodotus famously equates the memory of human achievements with monuments, and implicitly equates history with an inscription that preserves the memory of the past against its being вЂblotted out by time.’” Porter goes on to argue that it is Herodotus’ “juxtaposition of the hard monumentality of things with their vulnerability to time’s passing that contributes to their sublime aura.” 301. At Pausanias, PeriГЄgГЄsis 10.38.9, бјђОѕбЅ·П„О·О»ОїП‚ describes the wall paintings in the temple of Artemis near the Locrian city of Oeantheia: “The paintings on the walls I found had faded with time, and nothing of them was still left worth seeing” (ОіПЃО±П†О±бЅ¶ ОґбЅІ бјђПЂбЅ¶ П„бї¶ОЅ П„ОїбЅ·П‡П‰ОЅ бјђОѕбЅ·П„О·О»ОїбЅ· П„Оµ бј¦ПѓО±ОЅ бЅ‘ПЂбЅё П„Оїбї¦ П‡ПЃбЅ№ОЅОїП… ОєО±бЅ¶ ОїбЅђОґбЅІОЅ бј”П„О№ бјђО»ОµбЅ·ПЂОµП„Ої бјђП‚ ОёбЅіО±ОЅ О±бЅђП„бї¶ОЅ). The only other usage in Pausanias refers to the ruins of the city of Kromoi, which “were not completely faded,” but no word for “time” appears in that reference (ОєО±бЅ¶ бјђОЅ О±бЅђП„бї‡ ПЂбЅ№О»ОµП‰П‚ ОљПЃбЅЅОјП‰ОЅ ОїбЅђ ПЂО±ОЅП„бЅ±ПЂО±ПѓО№ П„бЅ° бјђПЃОµбЅ·ПЂО№О± бј¦ОЅ бјђОѕбЅ·П„О·О»О±, 8.34.6). Xenophon refers to purple garments whose fading indicates that they are not genuine (ПЂОїПЃП†П…ПЃбЅ·ОґО±П‚ бјђОѕО№П„бЅµО»ОїП…П‚, Oeconomicus 10.3). The word бјђОѕбЅ·П„О·О»ОїП‚ is not found in Homer, is rare in extant tragedy and comedy, and is not used by Thucydides. Similar expressions with бјЂОјП…ОґПЃбЅ№П‚ (dim, indistinct) are found in Pausanias. For example, at 6.15.8, an inscription on the base of a statue of the athlete Eutelidas is said to be “dimmed from time” (бјЂОјП…ОґПЃбЅ° бЅ‘ПЂбЅё П„Оїбї¦ П‡ПЃбЅ№ОЅОїП…). Thucydides describes the letters on the stone altar dedicated to Apollo by Peisistratus, the son of Hippias, as бјЂОјП…ОґПЃбЅ№П‚ (бјЂОјП…ОґПЃОїбї–П‚ ОіПЃбЅ±ОјОјО±ПѓО№, History 6.54.7). Cf. Nagy (1990b) 225; Kurke (2000) 138. I discuss this passage in Bassi (2016). 302. Cf. the extended and figural meanings of бјµПѓП„П‰ПЃ and бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅіП‰, which, as Nagy and others have argued, are founded in literal acts of seeing or witnessing in a juridical context. See Nagy (1990b) 250, with reference to B. Snell’s 1924 doctoral dissertation; Thomas (2000) 164; Crane (1996) 79, with note 31; Connor (1993) 3–4; Bakker (2002) 8, 13; Hartog (2000) 394. See also Hartog (1992) 87, with reference to Sauge (1992), on the distinction between the бјµПѓП„П‰ПЃ as one who sees (the eyewitness) and one who knows (the judge): “Thus between what the historian may see [voir] and what he may know [savoir], there develops a gap in which the relation between the two becomes increasingly complex.” 303. German and French translations follow suit. Marg (1973) translates the phrase “zu meiner Zeit”; Legrand (1970) translates it “de mon temps.” 304. Herodotus does, of course, make absolute calculations in time, chiefly expressed in a given number of years (бј”П„ОµО±). Such calculations are not unique to history writing. They also appear in archaic poetry. For example, Hesiod calculates the number of days and nights (9) it would take an anvil to reach the floor of

Tartarus (Theogony 720–25; on this passage, see chapter 1 in the present study). 305. The phrase бј”П„О№ ОєО±бЅ¶ бјђП‚ бјђОјбЅі occurs, with some variation, twenty-one times in the Histories, mostly in the first two books, as might be expected: see 1.52.5, 1.66.21, 1.92.8. 1.93.9, 1.181.6, 2.122.8, 2.130.2, 2.131.12, 2.141.26, 2.145.14, 2.146.1, 2.181.20, 3.97.18, 4.124.5, 4.204.6, 5.45.11, 5.58.15, 5.77.17, 5.88.13, 6.42.11, 8.121.6. Similar expressions include бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјОµбї¦ (1.5; 2.30, 46, 113), бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјбЅіОї (4.148), ОјбЅіП‡ПЃО№ бјђОјОµбї¦ (2.154, 182; 3.10, 92; 5.115; 6.98; 7.111, 115), and ОјбЅіП‡ПЃО№ бјђОјбЅіОї (6.119). Of these latter variations, only two refer to physical objects, the winches and ruined houses that the Ionians and Carians had abandoned (2.154) and two wooden statues of Amasis (2.182). The others refer to activities or practices. See also 4.11.23, where it is remarked that the grave of the Cimmerian princes is “still visible” (Оґбї†О»бЅ№П‚ бјђПѓП„О№ бЅЃ П„бЅ±П†ОїП‚); 8.39.2, where the rocks that fell from Mount Parnassus “were still visible up to our time” (О»бЅ·ОёОїО№ бј”П„О№ ОєО±бЅ¶ бјђП‚ бјЎОјбЅіО±П‚ бј¦ПѓО±ОЅ ПѓбЅ№ОїО№); 2.113.2 and 4.12.1, where a temple of Heracles and the Cimmerian walls in Scythia, respectively, are said to “exist even now” (ОєО±бЅ¶ ОЅбї¦ОЅ бјђПѓП„бЅ·). Fehling (1971) 98 thinks that the phrase бјђП‚ бјђОјбЅі always refers to fictional objects. Bakker (2002) 26 observes, “Throughout the Histories, Herodotus imparts to the players in the historical process the desire to distinguish themselves in the eyes of posterity, to leave signs by which their existence on earth can be remembered. The typical phrase is mnГЄmosunon (mnГЄmosuna) lipesthai вЂto leave things (of oneself) to be remembered.’ The mnГЄmosunon is usually an artifact or monument, but not necessarily so.” 306. On the use of the phrase “in my time” in Pausanias, see Habicht (1985) appendix 2. AkujГ¤rvi (2005) 65–89 offers an insightful discussion of what AkujГ¤rvi calls Pausanias’ role as a “dater, ” defined by “those instances in which he relates an event or object from the past to his own temporal position” (66). AkujГ¤rvi explains these instances in terms of continuity and discontinuity, that is, whether the event or object in question is represented as remaining the same or changing over time. 307. RГ¶sler (2002) 91–93; the quotation is on p. 92. RГ¶sler’s examples are Histories 2.182 and 5.45. RГ¶sler (1991) provides a more detailed argument. 308. RГ¶sler (2002) 92. Grethlein (2009) discusses Xerxes’ role as an “embedded writer” in the Histories. Elton Barker (2006) 5–6, with reference to Kurke (2000) and D. Steiner (1994), summarizes the scholarship on the uniqueness of Herodotus as a writer of prose “in a culture where literature was publicly performed—if not composed—and sanctioned.” 309. RГ¶sler seems to mean that the use of the first-person in these phrases would compromise the authority of the speaker/reciter whose “own time” would be contemporaneous with the members of his listening audience. But if the perception that a work is “from the past” means that it is meant to be read rather than heard, the destruction of the wall of the Achaeans in the Iliad (12.9–37), which is presented as a past event from the point of view of a projected future, may be further evidence for what have been called the “writerly” effects of the orally derived epic. On these effects in the Odyssey, see chapter 3 in the present study; Saussy (1996). 310. Dewald (1993) 57 comments on the fact that visible objects in Herodotus are “prominently presented to the mind’s eye of the reader.” Dewald goes on to suggest, on the same page, that “only the historian and his readers see the object as the charged and potent conveyor of meaning that it is.” I emphasize the fact that such objects define readers by the fact that the objects cannot be seen. 311. Cf. Flower (1991) 60: “Croesus is the start of Herodotus’ histories and the start of history for Herodotus.” Drawing on anthropological studies of oral traditions to explain the process of selection and deletion that culminates in the Croesus narrative as we have it, Flower concludes: “Herodotus was drawing largely on oral traditions which were preserved at Delphi because they explained Croesus’ dedications which were still on display there” (77). Cf. M. E. White (1969) 45–48 on the structure of the first book; Keesling (2005) 47–48 on the oral tradition. I am more interested in the written tradition that Herodotus seems to have inaugurated, however, than in the oral traditions that may have presented themselves to him. The most challenging and compelling account of the Croesus narrative is provided by Kurke (1999) chapter 4, showing how the complex interplay of oracles and dedications in Herodotus’ account confronts the ideological and social tensions between aristocratic gift exchange and a money economy. 312. The fullest expression of the unpredictability of ОµбЅђОґО±О№ОјОїОЅбЅ·О· is found in

Solon’s remarks to Croesus at 1.32. On the “moral perspective” in Herodotus and Homer, see Nagy (1990b) 240–49. Kurke (1999) 146–65 deepens this perspective by focusing on the city as “the arbiter of value” in Solon’s verbal exchanges with Croesus (147). See also Grethlein (2010) 188–200; Harrison (2000) chapter 2. That a meeting between Solon and Croesus is unlikely on chronological grounds only stresses the ideological content of the narrative. For the chronology, see How and Wells (1928) on 1.29. 313. Immerwahr (1960) 264, with note 7, with reference to Pohlenz (1937) 8 note 2 and Jacoby (1909) 89. 314. On the Herodotean notion that “small becomes big, and big becomes small,” see the comments of Dewald (1993) 70. 315. The relevance of Odyssey 1.3 to Histories 1.5.3 is noted by Nagy (1990b) 231–33. 316. Cf. 1.88.2, where Croesus “sees the Persians laying waste to the city of the Lydians” (ἰδόμενος τοὺς Πέρσας τὸ τῶν Λυδῶν ἄστυ κεραϊζοντας). In the same passage, however, both Cyrus and Croesus use πόλις when referring to the plundering of Sardis. My argument does not depend on a strict distinction between the uses of πόλις and ἄστυ in the Histories. At the same time, the use of ἄστυ in the proem can be said to anticipate the destruction of Sardis. 317. Immerwahr (1960) 264 suggests that the relative size of cities in Herodotus’ proem lays stress on “concrete objects” and, by extension, on “the idea of monuments” (264). But Immerwahr does not elaborate on the interesting idea that a city can be a kind of monument. 318. At the beginning of his History (1.10.1–2) Thucydides is explicit about the temporal effects of the physical remains of cities. I discuss this passage from the History in Bassi (2005a) 17–20. 319. On the significance of Gyges in Croesus’ downfall, see Pelling (2006) 162–63. 320. On the doubtful historicity of Herodotus’ account of Gyges’ offerings, see Parke and Wormell (1956) 128. How and Wells (1928) on 1.13 suggest that the prophecy of future vengeance is “clearly post eventum.” See Flower (1991) 65 on the question of “real and ex eventu oracles.” See Grethlein (2010) 196–200 on prolepseis that “emphasize the force of contingency of chance” in the Croesus logos (199). 321. Fontenrose (1978) introduction and 111–13. See also Parke and Wormell (1956) 111–12. 322. Flower (1991) 65–66. 323. Maurizio (1997) 310; see also 316–17, discussing Herodotus’ account of the “wooden wall” oracle. For a different view, see Robertson (1987) 1–20. See also Elton Barker (2006) 3 on Herodotus as a “key figure in constructing the tradition of Delphi’s oracular ambiguity” (emphasis in the original). 324. Cf. Flower (1991) 70–73. 325. Kindt (2006) 37, following Manetti (1993) and others, concludes that “the obscure language of the oracle represents and maintains the restricted nature of human knowledge and the resulting human ignorance of the future, and translates these into its own linguistic signs.” But oracular language is not always obscure (consider, e.g., “you will destroy a great empire”), even if its meaning is ambiguous. In the Rhetoric, Aristotle gives as an example of an “ambiguity” (ἀμφίβολα) the oracle given to Croesus, quoted in hexameter verse: “Croesus, by crossing the Halys, will destroy a great empire” (Κροῖσος ῞Αλυν διαβὰς μεγάλην ἀρχὴν καταλύσει, 1407a). Aristotle’s point is that diviners speak in generalities rather than in specifics; they say “it will be” rather than “when” (καὶ τὸ ἔσται ἢ τὸ πότε). The ambiguity here is not in the locution itself but in its failure to specify which ἀρχή will be destroyed and when it will happen. 326. Cf. Purves (2010) 156–58 on Croesus’ gifts at Delphi. 327. Parke and Wormell (1956) 131. See also Flower (1991) 66, with note 64, and the sources cited there. As Flower notes, Fehling (1971) 98 doubts the material reality of objects in Herodotus but is ambivalent about Croesus’ dedications. On this question, see also Mills (2014). 328. Cf. Jás Elsner (2006) 757–58 on the accumulation of empirical examples as the precondition for constructing the grand narratives of the natural sciences in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and on Riegl’s analogous idea of Kunstwollen (an epochal “artistic will”). Gubser (2006) 155–56 argues for the “flexibility of [Riegl’s] empiricism.”

329. Hartog (1999) 191. 330. Parke (1984) 209–32 speculates that Herodotus was the first to describe Croesus’ offerings and that his visit to Delphi happened sometime in the 440’s (209). 331. On the rearrangement of statues in sanctuaries, see Keesling (2005) 48–49, with note 22. Croesus is last mentioned in the Histories (8.122.1) in connection with the silver bowl mentioned at 1.51. 332. Cf. Keesling (2005) 41 on “iconatrophy as a process by which oral traditions originate as explanations for objects that, through the passage of time, have ceased to make sense to their viewers.” Keesling concludes that “information that could not be obtained by reading dedicatory inscriptions, such as the subject the statue represented or the occasion for its dedication, was supplied over time by oral traditions” (47). Herodotus’ story of the golden sprinkling vessel shows that oral tradition could correct an inscription as well as fill in the gaps. Of course, we do not know whether the “correction” is itself correct. Flower (1991) 64 suggests that the correction shows that Herodotus could challenge Delphi, although not openly. This does seem like an open challenge to something like Delphic honesty in the public display of the shrine’s dedications. But perhaps the fact that the false inscription was the work of a single individual mitigates the act, and perhaps Herodotus’ refusal to name the perpetrator softens his “challenge.” 333. The subject of both verbs of saying is the Delphians, of course. But a formal feature of “they say” statements, even when an agent is named, is their susceptibility to refutation. In this particular instance, that Herodotus makes a point of agreeing with the Delphians about the maker of the bowl (ОєО±бЅ¶ бјђОібЅј ОґОїОєбЅіП‰, 1.51.3) signals the existence of counterclaims. What the Delphians “say” about the ОµбјґОґП‰О»ОїОЅ has generated a number of responses in the scholarly literature; Garrett and Kurke (1994) 82–83 argue convincingly that “bread baker” is a term for courtesan that was no longer in use in Herodotus’ time. In doing so, they present another “iconatropic” aspect of oral tradition, on which see Keesling (2005) 41. On the story of this ОµбјґОґП‰О»ОїОЅ, see also Parke (1984) 219–20; duBois (1988) 115–16. 334. See Parke (1984) 223–24 for the hypothesis that the gold the fire had “melted away” was turned into the objects Herodotus describes as “without an inscription” at 1.51. Parke also suggests that the gold lion may have been the only object dedicated in response to the “test” of the oracle (224). 335. Cf. Flower (1991) 70 on what has happened to the offerings over time: “This type of information is not very interesting in itself, and is not the kind of thing which it is likely that someone would feel the need to invent later. Herodotus’ careful attention in recording this type of detail reflects his own belief in the reliability of these particular traditions.” The idea that what seems superfluous in a given narrative can be taken for proof of its overall historicity seems logical. But it also begs the question of what is superfluous (or uninteresting). I take these changes in the objects to be an essential part of the narrative. See also the remarks of Pelling (2006) 161–62, with note 76, in which Pelling quotes Harrison (2000) 61: “[Herodotus’] lengthy description of Croesus’ dedications, each act of dedication compounding Croesus’ certainty in his success, is inevitably a prelude to his вЂbetrayal’ by Delphi.” 336. On the burning of the temple, see Parke and Wormell (1956) 143; Parke (1984) 210, with note 2. Parke (1984) 213–15 discusses the chronology of events surrounding the fire. On the dating of Croesus’ defeat and the burning of the temple, see Childs (1993) 402, 434–35. 337. Parke (1984) 215–16. 338. Examples of this phenomenon are provided by Parke (1984) 215, using the term superstition. 339. Crane (1996) 76. 340. See Kurke (1999) 152 on the Lydian envoys’ “easy assumption of equivalence between the material and oracular economies” at 1.53.2. 341. Cf. Keesling (2005) 48 note 21 (on the relevant comments of Gabba [1981] 60–61, referring to Polemo’s Roman successors): “It seems clear that monuments, statues, toponyms, whose significance was for various reasons unclear, were at first invested with fantastic meanings of different kinds, but always related to legendary episodes or episodes of earliest Roman history; this took place in the context of an antiquarian and guide-book tradition aiming to explain and expound the monuments involved. In a complete reversal of roles, the monuments then became the documents which guaranteed the historicity

and credibility of the legends and stories which had grown up.” 342. On Alyattes’ offering, see Parke and Wormell (1956) 128–29, with note 8, for other late references to the bowl, such as Philostratus, Vita Apollonii 6.11. 343. Parke and Wormell (1956) 128. 344. Cf. the chains of the Tegeans that can still be seen ἔτι καὶ ἐς ἐμέ (Histories 1.66) and the chains that Croesus wants brought to Delphi as a reproach to the god (1.90). See Kurke (1999) 160–61 on 1.90. 345. Arafat (1996) 18. 346. A third assumption is also at work here, namely, that Herodotus’ account of the stand and bowl is based on fact, if not on his own autopsy. Thus, Arafat (1996) 17 concludes, “[T]here is no reason to doubt the autopsy either of Pausanias or of Herodotos himself.” On θεωρήματα as the bases of Wilamowitz’ virulent attack against Pausanias, see Habicht (1985) 166 note 7. On Herodotus and Thucydides as Pausanias’ models, see Bowie (2001b) 25–27. 347. Alyattes is referred to only one other time in the Periêgêsis, at 5.10.3, where he is a temporal marker. Pausanias also says almost nothing about Croesus, although he knows and refers to the account of Herodotus ( Ἡρόδοτος ἐν τῷ λόγῳ τῷ ἐς Κροῖσον, κτλ., Periêgêsis 3.2.3). Croesus is also mentioned at Periêgêsis 3.10.8, 4.5.3, 8.24.13, and 10.8.7. 348. Hutton (2005) 212–13. The Lamian War took place in 323 BCE. As Hutton also points out, Pausanias’ reference to the Lydian Adrastus in book 7 recalls and inverts Herodotus’ introduction to the story of Croesus: Croesus was the first Lydian man that Herodotus personally knew of (τὸν δὲ οἴδα αὐτὸς πρῶτον, Histories 1.5) to initiate hostile acts against the Greeks. The irony of the passage is due to the implied substitution of Adrastus for Croesus (at the level of content) and of Pausanias for Herodotus (at the level of form). But the fact that the “good” Lydian Adrastus shares a name with the Phrygian Adrastus who—in Herodotus’ narrative—killed the son of Croesus (Histories 1.34–45) also results in a chiastic structure: Adrastus is to Pausanias as Croesus is to Herodotus. Like the stand of Alyattes, the anecdote about Adrastus refers both to the existence of Herodotus’ Lydian logos and to its absence from Pausanias’ text. 349. Arafat (1996) 46. 350. Herodotus calls the stand a ὑποκρητηρίδιον; Pausanias calls it a ὑπόθημα. 351. Cf. Porter (2010) 478 on Pausanias’ observation that “no ruins of Parapotamii remained in my time” (Periêgêsis 10.33.8). 352. Speaking about the Periêgêsis, Porter (2001) 91 concludes, “The mythemes of decline, nostalgia, and irretrievable loss, and the fetishization of the traces of the past at the expense of the present, are not only a persistent feature of Greek writing but arguably one of its least recognized conventions” (emphasis in the original). 353. Cf. Koselleck (2004) 111–12 for the idea that historical sources “provide control over what might not be stated” (emphasis added). 354. Croesus will, of course, be brought back later in the Histories—for example, in the story of his encounter with Alcmaeon at 6.125. See the excellent discussion of Kurke (1999) 143–46. On the evidence for the date of Croesus’ death and speculation about why Herodotus extends his life as a “Persian courtier” to twenty years after the fall of Sardis, see S. West (2003) 420–28. 355. Kurke (1999) 164 describes the dedications as “treasure devoted in exchange for acquiring the rule of the Lydians.” Cf. the scholion to Pindar, Pythian 7.9–12, discussed by Childs (1993) 417, with note 100. Here Philochorus, an early third-century Atthidographer, is credited with a story about the successful attempt of the Alcmeonidai to overcome the Peisistratids in Athens. The Alcmeonidai “made a vow to the god beforehand” (εὐξάμενοι πρότερον τῷ θεῷ); the vow presumably refers to the rebuilding of the temple after the fire. The political capital of a preemptive vow to the god is only earned, of course, when the vow turns out to be successful in hindsight. 356. Rösler 2002, 88–91. 357. The quotation is from Kurke (1999) 163. There are nine instances in the Histories in which εἰρήσθω is used to bring an account to an end; the occurrence at 1.92.4 is the first.

358. How and Wells (1928) ad loc. suggest that this section of the Histories consists of “a fragment of H.’s original material, which he has not worked into harmony with his narrative.” 359. According to Pausanias, the Delphians say that the golden shield described by Herodotus was “stripped off” the statue of Athena (ἐσύλησε, Periêgêsis 10.8.7) by Philomelos, the Phocion who seized the Delphic sanctuary. 360. The verb ἐξαπόλλυμι is rare in general and appears only five times in the Histories, always in an emphatic sense. See, in particular, 6.37.2, where Croesus’ threat to destroy the Lampsacenes “like a pine tree” is interpreted to mean that he will destroy them utterly (πανώλεθρος ἐξαπόλλυται), since a pine tree, once cut down, never sends out any shoots. 361. See chapter 2 in the present study. 362. H. White (2002) xiii. Cf. Barthes (1981) 17 on historical discourse: “This type of discourse is doubtless the only type in which the referent is aimed for as something external to the discourse, without it ever being possible to attain it outside this discourse.” 363. On the Spartans’ role in oracular discourse in the Histories, see Elton Barker (2006) 15–19. 364. On the general topic of prolepsis in the Histories, see de Jong (2001). On this particular narrative, see Grethlein (2010) 198–99. 365. Beginning with Homer, ships, rather than the men who row them, are routinely said to come or go. Cf., for example, Odyssey 3.175–76: “And [the ships] ran very swiftly through the fish-filled ways” (αἱ δὲ μάλ᾿ ὦκα ἰχθυόεντα κέλευθα διέδραμον). 366. Cf. Histories 1.83.1, where Herodotus returns to Croesus’ appeal to the Spartans: “The Sardian herald came after this had happened to the Spartans to ask for their help for Croesus, now besieged. Nonetheless, when they heard the herald, they hastened to send aid; but another message came to them when they were already equipped and their ships ready [νεῶν ἐουσέων ἑτοίμων], saying that the wall of the Lydians was taken and that Croesus had been captured alive. Then, though they had made a great effort, they stopped.” It is somewhat unclear where the story of the bowl fits into this chronology of events (cf. 1.77). In contrast with 1.70.1–3, however, this passage includes the military preparations made by the Spartans on behalf of Croesus. But Herodotus’ use of ἕτοιμος may have an ironic meaning here too. This word occurs forty-four times in the Histories, where it often refers to a politically compromised action. See, for example, )3.137.2, where some people of Croton are “ready” to give up their fellow countryman Democedes to the Persians; 3.157.1, where the Babylonians are “ready” to do what Zopyrus asks of them; 5.91.1, where the Spartans perceive that the Athenians are not “ready” to obey them. A study of ἕτοιμος in the Histories might yield insight into its political discourse. 367. Of course, the bowl could still have been stolen even if Herodotus had reported seeing it in the temple. Cf. Histories 3.47.1, where “the Spartans say” that their reason for attacking Samos is to take revenge for the stealing of this bowl. How and Wells (1928) ad loc. state, “There is no reason to doubt that the theft of the bowl (which H. must have seen at the Heraeum) was a provocation to the Lacedaemonians; but for the attack on Polycrates the Lacedaemonians had motives of general policy.” No reasons are given for accepting the Spartans’ story or for believing that Herodotus must have seen the bowl. On the question of Herodotus’ Samian sources, cf. B. M. Mitchell (1975) 75: “There can be no doubt that Herodotus’ Samian material was obtained at first hand on a visit or visits to Samos which lasted for a considerable time.” 368. The verb ὑστερέω appears only one other time in the Histories. At 6.89.1, the Athenians, on their way to helping Nicodromus betray Aegina to them, arrive too late by one day (ὑστέρησαν ἡμέρῃ μιῇ). 369. Other examples include 2.106.1 (the pillars erected by Sesostris) and 4.195.3 (pitch emerging from the water in Zacynthos). 370. How and Wells (1928) on 2.148.4. Armayor (1985) surveys the evidence for both the Egyptian labyrinth and Lake Moeris and concludes that both are “out of the question” (3–4) in the “real” world of Egyptian history: “We should look for the Labyrinth not in Egypt but rather in what the Ionians made of Egypt” (6).

371. Cf. Momigliano (1978) 5: “As the simplest way of knowing the facts is to see them, it is not surprising that Herodotus rated direct visual observation best, and next to it the collection of reports from reliable witnesses.” Momigliano suggests that Herodotus’ choice of a “near contemporary subject (the Persian Wars)” is explained by the availability of (presumably) living eyewitnesses. This explanation is plausible but also borders on being tautological. In noting how both Herodotus and Thucydides preferred “direct observation and oral reports” to “written evidence” (5), Momigliano also raises the question of how their own texts function as “written evidence.” Although Momigliano does not reflect directly on the irony of the situation, he notes that Herodotus could be called a liar “because nobody was in a position to check the stories he had told” (8). 372. Cf. Thucydides, History 2.50.1, describing the plague as “stronger than its telling” (κρεῖσσον λόγου). On this passage, see Connor (1984) 100–101. On the labyrinth at Moeris, see Purves (2010) 147–48. 373. Cf. Histories 2.148.7, where the figures carved on the pyramid that lies near the labyrinth are described as ζῶᾳ μεγάλα ἐγγέγλυπται; 2.124.4, where Herodotus describes the “carved figures” on the road used to transport the stones for Cheops’ pyramid as ζῴων ἐγγεγλυμμένων. In both these passages, ζῷον may be as generic as τύπος, but in 2.148.7, it may also refer more specifically to the shapes of animals or living creatures. The point here is to stress the lack of specificity conveyed by τύπων ἐγγεγλυμμένων. 374. Cf. Krischer (1965). 375. Nagy (1990b) 259, with note 55, says, without elaborating, that “the wording of Herodotus 2.99.1 is worth scrutiny.” On this passage, see also V. Hunter (1982) 50; Bakker (2002) 15–16. Bakker concludes that “the core of the concept [of ἱστορίη] is not so much seeing yourself as acquiring knowledge through the interrogation of others who have seen, and who therefore know, or claim they know” (16). 376. Cf., for example, “I say” (λέγω) at 2.53.3. For participial constructions similar to λέγουσα at 2.99, see 2.102.4, where the stelae set up by the Egyptian king Sesostris “speak” the γράμματα inscribed on them. 377. Herodotus appeals to ὄψις more than eighty times in theHistories. In the first book, ten out of eleven occurrences refer to the dreams of Croesus, Astyages, and Cyrus. The majority of the occurrences in the second book—outside the second preface and its revision at 147.4—also refer to dreams. Lloyd (1988) 23 argues that “opsis is being relegated from first to third position in the discussion of Egyptian history where Herodotus uses it as a major instrument for evaluating the truth of his traditions.” In the instances he cites from book 2, however, ὄψις refers both to an “instrument for evaluating the truth” (2.99.1, 2.147.4) and to dreams. On the relationship between dreams and dreamers in Herodotus, see the remarks of Hollman (2005) 303–5. Cf. Plutarch, Theseus 1.3, where Plutarch uses the phrase ἱστορίας ὄψιν in describing his attempt to make μυθώδης submit to reason (λόγος). This passage is cited by Bowersock (1994) 2 note 1. 378. The visual content of Croesus’ dream is rather vague; it tells him but does not show him what will happen (μοι ὄψις ὀνείρου ἐν τῷ ὕπνῳ ἐπιστᾶσα ἔφη, κτλ., 1.38.1). 379. The phrase τὴν ἀκοήν is taken as an interpolation by some commentators who note that κωφός, used to describe the “other” son at 1.34.2, was understood to mean only that he could not hear. See, for example, Blakesley (1854) 1:24–25, with note 119. This is the same word used in the oracle’s response to Croesus in answer to his “test” question: “I understand the deafmute [?] and hear the one who is unable to speak” (κωφοῦ συνίημι καὶ οὐ φωνεῦντος ἀκούω, 1.47.3). This enigmatic oracle both passes Croesus’ test and, it seems, foretells—although very indirectly—the culminating event of his fall from power. In hindsight, the oracle makes reference to Croesus’ lack of understanding even while it satisfies his faith in its veracity. 380. Cf. Pelling (2006) 153. 381. In this first instance of the verb λογίζομαι in the Histories, Croesus’ statement about what he “reckons” about his other son constitutes a rather unusual use of a verb whose

common semantic range is found in passages that pertain to spatial, temporal, or numerical calculations. The closest parallel is at 3.65.5, where, after relating the dream (бЅ„П€О№П‚) that led him to murder his brother Smerdis, Cambyses tells the Persians that the magus Smerdis is now on the throne and that they should “reckon that Smerdis, the son of Cyrus, no longer exists for you” (ОєО±бЅ¶ ОЈОјбЅіПЃОґО№ОЅ П„бЅёОЅ ОљбЅ»ПЃОїП… ОјО·ОєбЅіП„О№ бЅ‘Ојбї–ОЅ бјђбЅ№ОЅП„О± О»ОїОібЅ·О¶ОµПѓОёОµ). In both instances, О»ОїОібЅ·О¶ОїОјО±О№ refers to an implied temporal calculation figured in a son who no longer exists; in this sense, the two sons of Croesus are analogous to the two Smerdises, with the further complication that the son of Cyrus is impersonated by the magus. Thus, while there are some obvious differences between these two narratives, they share three essential features: the dream, the disputed “existence” of another son or a pseudo-son, and the fate of an empire. 382. Cf. Elton Barker (2006) on oracular ambiguity in the Histories. Barker argues that this ambiguity puts Herodotus’ readers in competition with the kinds of debates that structure ПЂбЅ№О»О№П‚ institutions. 383. RГ¶sler (2002) 92. 384. Hartog (1992) 91. 385. In Bassi (2007) 173–77, I discuss Thucydides’ opening lines. See also Loraux (1986); Hartog (1992) 92; Bakker (2006). 386. Moles (1999) section 10. The distinction Moles makes between “oral performances” and “readings” seems to be based on the possibility that Herodotus gave oral presentations of material that he then wrote down at a later date. But Moles later refers to reading out loud or recitation as a form of oral performance. Referring to scholarship on the Histories, Bakker (2002) 11 note 21, rightly notes “the fundamental and persistent ambiguity in the use of the term вЂoral’ in that it refers both to the вЂmentality’ or вЂconception’ of a discourse (вЂoral’ vs. вЂliterate’) and to its mode of presentation (вЂoral’ vs. вЂwritten’).” I would add that this ambiguity extends to reading as a mode of presentation and reception; the fact that the Histories were produced in written form presumes a reader, even if we assume that they were delivered “orally” in a public lecture. On the publication date of the Histories, see Fornara (1971). 387. Selden (1999) 61 comments on the rhetorical effect of Herodotus’ text, “Only if the historical narrative engendered meaning in the same way that things engender signs, that is, without the intervention of any act of reading, would the issue be simply one of factual veracity.” 388. H. White (2002) xiii, quoted above. See Shapin and Schaffer (1985) 69, discussing the claims of the “naked eye” and the proof of those claims in terms of what Shapin and Schaffer call a “literary technology” in the history of science. Cf. Langbein (2004) on the two-eyewitness rule in the history of European penal law. 389. In his programmatic statement at the beginning of the History, Thucydides attests to the value of his own presence for the accuracy of his account (1.22.2–3). There, the phrase Оїбј¶П‚ П„Оµ О±бЅђП„бЅёП‚ ПЂО±ПЃбї†ОЅ (1.22.2) recalls Odysseus remarks to Demodocus in the Odyssey (8.487–91), as discussed in chapter 3 of the present study. Hornblower (1991) ad loc. translates the phrase as “IВ .В .В . myself saw.” Schepens (1975) 84 also equates autopsy with the phrase О±бЅђП„бЅёП‚ ПЂО±ПЃОµбї–ОЅО±О№. It should be noted, however, that in Thucydides’ work, phrases that mean “up to my time” do not refer to objects or physical features. For example, at History 8.68.2 and 8.97.2, “up to my time” (бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјОїбї¦ or ОјО-П‡ПЃО№ бјђОјОїбї¦) refers to rhetorical and political practices, and at 7.86.5, Thucydides says that “of all the Hellenes up to my time,” Nicias least deserved the fate he met in Sicily (ἥκιστα ОґбЅґ бј„ОѕО№ОїП‚ бЅўОЅ П„бї¶ОЅ ОіОµ бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјОїбї¦ бј™О»О»бЅµОЅП‰ОЅ бјђП‚ П„Оїбї¦П„Ої ОґП…ПѓП„П…П‡бЅ·О±П‚ бјЂП†О№ОєбЅіПѓОёО±О№). Immerwahr (1960) 281 comments that in Thucydides, the phrase is “more commonly used of customs than of buildings, and for proofs of intellectual arguments rather than to express the idea of permanence.” 390. On the significance and persistence of the theme of the mutability of human fortune in Herodotus, see Shapiro (1996); Bravo and WeГ§owski (2004) 156. 391. De Man (1984) 121. The quotation within the quotation from this essay on Shelley’s The Triumph of Life is from Thomas Hardy’s “Barbara of the House of Grebe” (1891). 392. Froma Zeitlin (1994) 140 notes a “new emphasis on the role of the spectator and on the many

different uses of visual perception in the cultural life of [Athens]” in the fifth century. See also the essays presented in honor of Zeitlin in Kraus et al. (2007) and my remarks in Bassi (2005b) with reference to Wiles (1997). 393. H. White (1990). 394. Cf. Hanink (2014) 4 on the divided “theatrical landscape between an era that died with Euripides and Sophocles and one which was born with all subsequent production.” Hanink goes on to note that “the first signs of these contours are evident in Frogs.” 395. Halliwell (1998) 18–19 notes the importance of Frogs in the history of criticism but laments the fact that it “cannot be trusted as an accurate historical record.” Hunter (2009) chapter 1 treats Frogs as the fons et origo of the Greek critical tradition. Porter (2006a) 301–5 discusses Frogs in the context of the relationship between criticism and classicism. Aristophanes is not the only comic playwright to make tragedy his theme. For an overview of relevant comic fragments from the fourth century, see Hanink (2014) chapter 5, with extensive bibliography. According to Hanink, “the comic playwrights [of the fourth century] now parodied and poked fun at the excesses of classical tragedy’s admirers and crafted various situations in which comic characters (mis)apppropriated tragic verses to their own ends” (166). As in Frogs, bits of tragic scripts continue to be the stuff of comic plots. 396. Poetics 1450b16–20. 397. The bibliography on the relationship between vase painting and dramatic production is vast. A comprehensive study is Taplin (2007), with a focus on South Italian and Sicilian vases from the fourth century BCE. But what Taplin means by referring to the “interaction” of vases and tragedy in the title of his book is often unclear and sometimes contradictory. While Taplin argues that the scenes depicted on the vases—all of which he ascribes to plays by known Athenian tragedians of the fifth century—are not based on actual fourth-century performances (27), he also insists that they are not based on literary sources, since “there is no evidence to lead us to think that the reading of tragedy was usual or that it was widespread beyond intellectual circles” (7). He does not allow that this “lack of evidence” may be contradicted by the fact that the inscriptions on the vases are “almost, without exception, in Attic Greek and not in the local dialect” (13). Nonetheless, it seems clear that the fourth-century painters discussed by Taplin are evoking a Greek past in the form of mythological scenes whose content is sometimes exemplified in fifth-century tragedy (whether or not these tragedies were performed in the fourth century). Cf. Giuliani (1996)—cited by Taplin—for a nuanced negotiation between what he calls “philodramatic” and “iconocentric” approaches to scenes depicting the death of Rhesus on Apulian vases. See also Nervegna (2007) 16–17; Green (1991); Green (1994) chapters 2–3; Green (1999); Padel (1990) 356–59 (with particular emphasis on the significance of the σκηνή door); the cautious remarks of Mastronarde (1990) 250–53 on external evidence for the tragic σκηνή. Green’s review of Taplin (2007) is also useful. 398. Lyons (1977) 644. 399. To the extent that they refer to the original performance of the text, subsequent performances also testify to this absence, even as they work to deny it. See States (1985) 21–23 on the phenomenological approach to the theater. States also discusses the visual perception of absent scenes in drama (52–53). I am grateful to Victoria Pedrick for calling States’ book to my attention. 400. Perris (2010) provides a persuasive corrective to the divide between readers and spectators in the scholarship on performance reception and notes that “the so-called original texts of Greek drama, due to their unique status and historical provenance, have a foot in both camps as both book and script” (186). Kunze (1988) offers a pertinent discussion of the relationship between architecture as virtual space, where “virtuality is the presence of what is not literally present” (28) and, as such, calls for a theory of reading. 401. Cf. Deleuze (1991) 55–56 on the past as a concept that is both ontological (as opposed to psychological) and virtual (as opposed to actual). As a commentary on Bergson’s Matter and Memory, Deleuze’s book takes up the concept of “duration” as an antiteleological account of time in Bergson’s theory of memory. In this context, the past is virtual in the sense that it is, in Deleuze’s terms, “pure ontology” or “pure recollection” or “the past in general” (56). I am here using the term virtual not in Deleuze’s ontological sense but to refer more specifically to the mediated visual experience of reading a dramatic text. On Bergson’s concept of the past as duration, with an

emphasis on the role of material objects, see Olsen (2010) 116–21. On Matter and Memory more generally, see Guerlac (2006) chapter 4. May (2005) 45–57 provides a useful summary of Deleuze’s account of the ontology of the past. 402. The manuscript problems that plague the Greek dramatic texts are not pertinent to the arguments here, since these arguments do not depend on the “authenticity” of the texts. See the pertinent discussion of textual variants in Nagy (1996) 28–32 and, on the development of a Homeric “script,” Nagy (2001). On the relationship between text and performance, see MacDowell (1982) 25–26 (on Aristophanes); Green (1991) 28–28 (on the notion of “verbal enhancement” in both tragedy and comedy). Cf. Goldhill (1986) 284: “[P]erformance does not efface the textuality of drama.” Goldhill is cited by Green (1991) 17. Halliwell (2012) 113 argues, “The importance of verbal criticism in Frogs (whose own audience in 405 was certainly listening and watching, not reading) is not primarily a matter of literate versus oral experience of poetry. It has much more to do with disputes over how the values of poetry are to be identified, demarcated, and assessed.” Certainly, the audience, defined by their presence at the play in performance, was “listening and watching, not reading.” But this does not contradict the proposition that Frogs makes comic use of tragedy as both a textual and a performance medium, as I argue below. 403. Green (1994) 2. 404. Nervegna (2007) 41. 405. Revermann (2006) 107–12. See also Wilson (2000) 22; Green (1994) 9–10; Hall (2002) 5–6; Padel (1990) 337–39. 406. See Griffith (1995) 73, with note 48. 407. Basing their conclusions on the orthography of the dramatic texts, Csapo and Slater (1995) 20 argue, “The absence of music or even metrical arrangement in early texts suggests that the texts were made available primarily for the benefit of the reading public, and the scholarly notes that we possess are largely meant to explain details for this public or for students.” The absence of musical notation and metrical arrangement is here taken to infer that the dramatic texts were not used in the preparation of the performance and were intended for a reading public for whom these technical features would be otiose and /or indecipherable. In this case, what is missing or absent from the text is evidence for a lack of musical literacy among this reading public; it also implies that the text would not have been consulted by singing actors and members of the chorus, at least for the purpose of learning the music. Here again, the notion that the text is “primarily for the benefit of the reading public” elides the extent to which that public may have also constituted a significant segment of the theater audience. Musical notation is found in later dramatic papyri, as discussed by Nervegna (2007) 28–29, 39. But it is doubtful whether these were actors’ scripts; they might have been used for musical performances, but this too is far from certain. Thus, if the absence of musical notation in a dramatic text supports the conclusion that the text was not written for the performance of the play, it does not follow that the presence of musical notation means that it was written for such a performance. On this topic, see also Wilson (2002) 49–54. On singing actors, see Hall (2002). 408. Csapo and Slater (1995) 29 refer to scholarly notes that often comment on stage movements or gestures, such as, for example, the scholion to [Aeschylus], Prometheus Bound 287: “Ocean, coming in, gives the Chorus a chance to get down from the mechane.” The visual information in these notes, intended for a reading public that is also a viewing public, suggests that reading and viewing the plays became mutually reinforcing activities, or, more concisely, that readers were potential viewers and vice versa. 409. On this passage from Frogs, Stanford (1968) ad loc. notes, “Commentators explain the difference in pronunciation either as a failure to mark the elision (but I have seen no evidence that Greek elision was perceptible in pronunciation) or as a slip in pronouncing the acute accent as a circumflex . . . which seems the more likely explanation.” Cf. Dover (1993) ad loc. Sommerstein (1996) ad loc. includes evidence for Hegelochus’ reputation for having an “unpleasant voice.” Revermann (2006) 112–13 takes the anecdote as evidence for audience competence. But cf. Halliwell (2012) 109: “[Frogs] stages the problem of judging tragedy for an audience that is itself projected as collectively incapable of such judgement!” On audience competence, see also Rosen (2008), esp. 162–66. 410. Based on the assumption that reading referred to reading out loud in the archaic period, Svenbro (1993)

47 concludes that “the voice must submit to the written word” and that “the reader has but one means of resistance: he can refuse to read.” This makes sense at an abstract level. But, as the anecdote about Hegelochus suggests, the voice can also be a source of resistance to the written word. 411. Roach (1995) 11, cited by Worthen (1998) 1100. In the context of his account of the emergence of “literary” criticism in Greece, Ford (2002) 4 argues, “It is necessary to think of вЂperformances’ rather than вЂtexts’ as the objects of criticism, since Greek poetry did not become an affair of private reading until late in the fifth century (and even then only for a small minority of the population).” It is telling that Ford wants to maintain this distinction as a historical/statistical datum even though Aristotle, who read the fifth-century plays as texts, is a pivotal figure in his account. 412. Worthen (1998) 1104. 413. Cf. Goldhill (1999) 60 on what he calls the “scene of reading” and its connection to the social and political development of citizens. In the conclusion to his article, Goldhill argues that “reading itself needs a history that goes beyond book production and vocalization and literacy” (84). 414. Deipnosophistae 448b. 415. Rosen (1999) 150–52 puts the situation concisely: “Athenaeus’ knowledge of Callias almost certainly came secondhand through the mediation of Clearchus’ treatise On Riddles, written some five hundred years earlier. Any mistakes Athenaeus made in the details of his account, therefore, may derive as much from his sources as from his own carelessness.” In other words, Athenaeus is firstly a reader—however distant—of Clearchus’ text. The fragments of Clearchus’ О ОµПЃбЅ¶ ОіПЃбЅ·П†П‰ОЅ are collected in Wehrli (1948) 31–36. On Clearchus, see the suggestive remarks of Porter (2010) 373–78. It should be noted here that Athenaeus is reporting in the Deipnosophistae the events of a dinner party he had attended, “in emulation of Plato” (ОґПЃО±ОјО±П„ОїП…ПЃОіОµбї– ОґбЅІ П„бЅёОЅ ОґО№бЅ±О»ОїОіОїОЅ бЅЃ бј€ОёбЅµОЅО±О№ОїП‚ О¶бЅµО»бїі О О»О±П„П‰ОЅО№Оєбї¶, 1f); that is, his work is explicitly based on a reading of Plato’s Symposium. Cf. Wilkins (2000) 23–24. 416. Rosen (1999) 153. It is indicative of the problem posed by the text that Rosen translates О»бЅіОіОµО№ОЅ in the passages he discusses (Deipnosophistae 453c–453f) as both “to read” and “to speak.” 417. On the Letter Tragedy as a riddle, see also Rosen (1999) 162–66. 418. J. A. Smith (2003) 328. On the title of Callias’ work, see Rosen (1999) 165–66; Smith (2003) 313 note 2. See also, Dority (2016). 419. J. A. Smith (2003) 326, following Rosen (1999), convincingly argues that Letter Tragedy is a send-up of what had become canonical tragedies by the late fifth century, that is, that it is a form of what has been called paratragedy. Cf. Rosen (1999) 157; Pohlmann (1971) 239. 420. See the remarks of Svenbro (1993) 183–85 on the Letter Tragedy. See also Svenbro (1990) 366–84; in a lighter vein, Golder (1996) 188. 421. Wise (1998) 15–18 and 22 discusses Callias’ play in the context of arguing that the emergence of drama in Athens is contemporaneous with the increasing use of alphabetic writing and that this use is in fact a necessary precondition for the “invention” of drama. Her discussion of Callias’ play is more or less a paraphrase of Svenbro’s, however, and fails to take account of the context in which the fragments of Callias’ text are preserved in the Deipnosophistae. 422. Braund (2000) 3. In a discussion of the libraries of Hellenistic North Africa, Too (2000) 113 concludes that “books are to be seen as the receptacle and monument of the prior knowledges which constitute the civilized Greek world and which now stand as the basis for the Hellenistic world.” But Too also goes on to examine the fragility of such a claim: “The physical library renders the whole cultural legacy (which it ideally serves to protect) liable to destruction and to irrecoverable erasure” (114). Cf. Nervegna (2007) 25–29 on the evidence for the performance of dramatic “extracts” or selected scenes in the Hellenistic period. Nervegna demonstrates that the papyrological evidence, contra Gentili (1979), contains not “the performance scripts from excerpted scenesВ .В .В . but quotations as brief as two lines” (28). Porter (2006a) 315 calls the ancient library “a kind of temple to the imagination, and especially to the imagination of the vanished past.” 423. On this passage, see Csapo and Slater (1995)10, section 14. Kovacs (2005) 382 argues that an official copy of the plays may have existed before Lycurgus’ law. See also Jebb (1962) 2:376, with note 1;

Taplin (2007) 7, 24; Porter (2006b) 32; Ford (2003) 35; Wilson (2000) 23–24. Most recently, Hanink (2014) chapter 2 notes that the “Lycurgan triad was . . . rooted in an idea and celebration of Athenian identity, as well as in nostalgia for the days of the empire” (65). Hanink makes a case for the Lycurgan law as a response to the growth of Macedonian cultural hegemony during this period and suggests that it was aimed at fostering what—by anacronism—we might call the international prestige of “tragedy’s illustrious past” (112). My point is that Lycurgus’ archiving of the authoritative scripts of the three fifth-century tragedians establishes the written play text as the means of guaranteeing that illustrious past. See Hanink and Uhlig (forthcoming) on Aeschylus’ inclusion in the triad. 424. Cf. Hanink (2014) 63–66. 425. Hanink (2014) 68 suggests that “the Lycurgan law must . . . have been largely rhetorical: surely not every actor intending to perform a palaion drama [old drama] at a deme festival . . . travelled to Athens to collate his script with the official texts.” The phrase “largely rhetorical” has an implicitly negative connotation here. My point is that this rhetorical effect is decisive whether or not actors collated their scripts with those in the archive. 426. Cf. Hanink (2014) 74–83 and 112 for an analysis of the statues and their placement in the Theater of Dionysus. 427. The quotation is from Dover (1993) ad loc. Stanford (1968) translates Dionysus’ phrase as “reading aloud to myself.” On silent reading, see Svenbro (1993) chapter 9, with reference to Knox (1968). It is worth noting that the evidence for silent reading in ancient Greece is principally from dramatic texts, that is, Euripides’ Hippolytus (856–86), Aristophanes’ Knights (118–27), and Euripides’ Erechtheus (frag. 369 Nauck); Svenbro does not discuss Frogs 52–54. See also Ford (2003) 31. For my purposes, the question of whether reading was done silently or out loud in the fifth century is not decisive. Even if we assume that the play texts were read out loud, the plays in performance were simultaneously seen and heard. What the text necessarily elides, in other words, is drama’s visual content. 428. Hunter (2009) 22. 429. Hunter (2009) 25. 430. That Aristotle is credited by Diogenes Laertius (5.26 opera 135–37) with writing three works on the dramatic contests helps to corroborate his role as a lector scrupulosus. On the evidence, see Hanink (2014) 191–92. Earlier, Hanink (2011) 320 speculates that “in addition to being a compiler of didascalic records and a likely witness to new tragedies that premiered at the Dionysia, Aristotle would also have had access to the texts of more fifth-century tragedies than he ever saw reperformed.” 431. See Goldhill’s (1999) discussion of the relationship between reading as a practice and literature as an ancient category. 432. Porter (2006a) 301–2. 433. Porter (2006a) 303–4. 434. Porter (2006a) 304. 435. Porter (2006a); the second quotation is from p. 315. 436. Hanink (2014 ) 133–51 discusses Aeschines’ presentation of Euripides as a moral exemplar in Against Timarchus and Demosthenes’ response to that presentation in On the False Embassy. Both orators rely on quotations excerpted from Euripides’ fifth-century tragedies, and as Hanink points out (155–58), both texts resonate with the moral and political parodies of tragedy in Frogs. It is likely that these quoted passages were culled from written texts, even (it seems) before Lycurgus’ legislation. 437. Scholion on Frogs 53: διὰ τί δὲ μὴ ἄλλο τι τῶν πρὸ ὀλίγου διδαχθέντων καὶ καλῶν, Ὑψιπύλης Φοινισσῶν, Ἀντιόπης; 438. Sfyroeras (2008) 300. On the reception of Euripides’ Andromeda, see also Gibert (1999–2000). 439. Sfyroeras (2008), reversing the conclusions of Moorton (1987). On the fragments, see Collard and Cropp (2008). 440. Dobrov (2000) 133–57 argues convincingly that Frogs is a parody of—or, to use Dobrov’s useful term, a “contrafact” to—Euripides’ katabasis play Perithous (if indeed the play is by Euripides). Given the fragmentary state of the Perithous, Dobrov necessarily focuses on the “situational and thematic similarities” (134) between the two plays, framed by the proposition that Euripides was

Aristophanes’ “favorite (tragic) counterpart and rival” (145). Dobrov consistently refers to the “script” of the Perithous, but does not have a lot to say about the fact that much of the comic business of Frogs has to do with quotations from tragedies. 441. Sfyroeras (2008) 302, with note 8. See also Halliwell (2012) 101–2. There is an inherent anachronism in the use of “nostalgia” in Sfyoeras’ argument. But the desire for what is absent due to the passing of time is a good definition of Dionysus’ ПЂбЅ№ОёОїП‚. On the history of nostalgia and its modern forms, see Boym (2001), esp. the introduction and chapter 1. 442. Stanford (1968) ad loc. notes that Andromeda “apparently expressed much nostalgic yearning”; as evidence, he refers to the “extraordinary account of its affect on the Abderites given by Lucian, On Writing History 1.” Lucian’s account of this event, however, is not about a “nostalgic yearning” for the play. Rather, the anecdote is a means of illustrating the sort of mental affliction that makes everyone in Lucian’s time write history (ОїбЅђОґОµбЅ¶П‚ бЅ…ПѓП„О№П‚ ОїбЅђП‡ бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃбЅ·О±ОЅ ПѓП…ОіОіПЃбЅ±П†ОµО№, 1). There is sickness (ОЅбЅ№ПѓО·ОјО±) and suffering (ПЂбЅ±ОёОїП‚) in Lucian’s account, but no ПЂбЅ№ОёОїП‚. Sfyroeras (2008) 300 rightly calls Stanford’s argument “vague speculation.” Moorton (1987) 434–36 assumes that Dionysus is “smitten by the beauty of the play.” But there is no indication in the text that Dionysus’ desire corresponds to what Moorton calls an “aesthetic passion” (436). Dionysus’ ПЂбЅ№ОёОїП‚ is for the poet, not the play. As summarized above, however, Sfyroeras shows how this play is pertinent to the characterization and plot of Frogs. Cf. Sfyroeras (2008) 309 note 33; Gibert (1999–2000) 78, 90. On a complicated triangulation of Andromeda, Frogs, and Perithous, see Dobrov (2000) 148. 443. Sfyroeras (2008) 303. Hanink (2014) 181 discusses this longing for Euripides as a feature of fourthcentury comedy. See Gibert (1999–2000) 77 note 8 on the distinction between ПЂбЅ№ОёОїП‚ and бјµОјОµПЃОїП‚. 444. Sfyroeras (2008) 305. 445. Dover (1993) ad loc. notes that Molon may refer to “a famous actor from the past.” See also the remarks of Hanink (2014) 145. 446. For the notion that “Dionysus’ desire for Euripides recalls Perseus’ desire for Andromeda, ” see Gibert (1990–2000) 77. If this is so, Heracles’ question implicitly equates that desire with necrophilia. 447. See Halliwell (2012) 116–17 on the place of “biographical poetics” in Frogs. 448. Sommerstein (1996) ad loc. 449. On tragedy as a public medium, see the remarks of Grethlein (2010) 96–97. Halliwell (2012) 106 comments that the second half of Frogs raises “issues about the whole character and history of a theatrical genre, including its relationship to the community at whose civic festivals its plays are performed.” Halliwell bases his analysis of the comedy on the “clashing values” (117 and passim) represented by the two dead poets. Dobrov (2000) 160 comments on “comedy’s superior power to resolve problems of society as represented in tragedy. The clever juxtaposition in Frogs of a tragic contest and the вЂimaginary rivalry’ between genres is the climactic expression of this power in the work of Aristophanes.” The idea that comedy resolves these problems is, as Dobrov seems to indicate, problematic. 450. On Dionysus’ shipboard reading, Ford (2003) 32 comments, “Officers in the army had much leisure that had to be filled in a dignified way, and song books would furnish them with materials for their messes.” Yet, on the previous page, Ford seems to agree with Woodbury (1986) 242 that books would have been “the object of some suspicion and derision” at the end of the fifth century. In contrast, Wiles (2007) 96 comments, “Reading plays for pleasure is a new thing to do and clearly preposterous in the context of a military campaign.” See also the remarks of Halliwell (2012) 103, with note 17. 451. Aristophanic wordplay includes puns, etymologies, and definitions—the topics that will be systematically and humorously treated by Plato in the Cratylus—and these technical aspects of language theory have dominated contemporary scholarship on the language of the play. On language theory in Frogs, see Dover (1993) 29. On the related history of etymology, see Sluiter (1997) 159–63. 452. On paratragic intertextuality in Aristophanic comedy, see the excellent article by TelГІ (2010). See also Gibert (1999–2000); Rosen (2005); Slater (1996); Taplin (1986) 170–72.

453. Parody in Frogs extends to the musical accompaniment of tragic lyrics. See Dover (1993) 343–62 on the musical accompaniment inferred in the parody of lyric verses in lines 1251–1363. On Aeschylus’ parody of Euripidean monody at Frogs 1329–63, Dover notes, “Nothing in the text tells us what music accompanies the monody” (362). 454. See JГЎs Elsner (2007) for an excellent discussion of a series of ecphrastic passages based on known fifth-century tragedies in Philostratus’ Imagines, dated to the third century CE. Elsner points out that Philostratus’ ecphraseis are based on the written texts of the “canonical literary masterpieces” and, more specifically, on events often described in messenger speeches and therefore not enacted in performance. They also contain what seem to be direct quotations (words and phrases) from the texts themselves (311–13). Elsner sums up this process of description from text (the fifth-century tragedy) to painting and back to text (Philostratus’): “From the specific angle of visuality, this procedure emphasizes both the visualization of written drama as picture and the occlusion of the visual (the purported original painting) in competition with the Philostratean ecphrastic text” (310). I would add that Philostratus’ work attests both to the emergence of drama as a literary form and to reading as a practice that constitutes the past as a visual absence. In Philostratus’ text, this doubled or hyperbolic absence (a play described as a painting) not only raises the question of “what painting can do better than tragedy” (329), as Elsner suggests. If, as Elsner maintains, Philostratus’ “antiquarianism, which includes a very profound veneration for the things of the past, isВ .В .В . acutely aware of what the present may have lost” (336), this awareness is expressed in terms of what can no longer be seen. 455. Dover (1993) 34. 456. Dover (1993) 35. Cf. Halliwell (2012) 137 on the lyric contest: “The global effectВ .В .В . is a kind of вЂde-composition’ or dismantling of the originals, driven by the aim of collapsing sense, structure, and ethos into jumble and confusion.” By “the originals,” Halliwell seems to mean the original plays in performance. 457. In other words, Frogs invites what has been called a deconstructive reading avant la lettre. Olsen (2010) 45 defines such a reading as “aimed at shaking up the text’s unity and individuality to reveal its polyvalence as a tissue of quotation from innumerable other texts.” In Frogs, this “shaking up” is literalized. 458. Halliwell (2012) 130 note 64 comments, “To feel part of the era of Aeschylus, spectators in 405 would have had to be born earlier than Euripides—so no later than, say, 490: there can have been very few of them indeed. It is impossible now to estimate with precision what the вЂaverage’ spectator’s familiarity with Aeschylus’ tragedies may have been in 405.” The uncertain evidence for possible restagings of Aeschylus’ plays in the fifth century does not help. 459. Ford (2003) 29–30 suggests that ОІО№ОІО»бЅ·ОїОЅ refers to the “popularity of school anthologies” of the sort described by Plato in Laws 811a. Sommerstein (1996) ad loc. offers a good overview of the possible interpretations of this passage. Revermann (2006) 119–20 argues that the passage is evidence for Aristophanes’ belief that “things have changed—for the better,” that is, that the theater audiences are more competent judges than in the past (119; emphasis in the original). Halliwell (2012) 133 notes that the chorus members here “elevate the contemporary theatre audience” and, in so doing, “seem more than a little inclined toward вЂEuripidean’ priorities.” See also Rosen (2008) 165, with note 38; Lada-Richards (1998) 281. The chorus’ reference to the audience’s knowledge of П„бЅ° ОґОµОѕО№бЅ± harkens back to Dionysus’ need for a ОґОµОѕО№ПЊП‚ poet (71–72). Given the treatment of both Aeschylus and Euripides that intervenes, the reference suggests that Aristophanes is elevating or complimenting his audience only in an ironic sense. Euripides is clearly being ironic when he refers to Aeschylus as ОґОµОѕО№ПЊП‚ at line 1121. On ОґОµОѕО№бЅ№П‚, see Dover (1993) 13–14. Dover notes that “δεξιός” as an evaluative term is on its way out from Attic at the time of Frogs” (13). If this is correct and if the ОІО№ОІО»бЅ·ОїОЅ in question is some kind of handbook of tragedy (as seems to be the case), the use of the adjective also infers a genre whose time has passed.

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Index Locorum Aeschylus Eumenides 1012–1013: 174; 929: 174n108 Libation Bearers 846: 166 Prometheus Bound 212: 97n88, 97n89; 287: 149n18; 449: 97n88, 97n89 Seven Against Thebes 784: 99n98 Apollonius of Rhodes 3.1088–89: 21n1 Aristophanes Frogs 1: 168; 2: 163n71; 12: 167; 15: 167, 168; 24–32: 167; 52–53: 155; 52–54: 154, 154n37; 53: 157n47; 54–59: 159; 55: 159; 62: 159; 66–67: 159, 168; 67: 167; 68: 159; 71–72: 160, 163n69; 94–95: 164; 96: 164; 98: 165; 98–102: 164; 108: 167, 167n86; 141–44: 163n70; 165: 167; 171: 167; 172: 167; 173–78: 168n88; 211–19: 163n70; 303–4, 149; 311: 164; 439: 167; 497: 167; 502: 167; 521: 167; 523: 167n86; 525: 167; 548–78: 168; 596: 167; 627: 167; 717–37: 165n81; 866ff.: 167n85; 868–69: 167, 172, 175; 943: 175; 959: 166; 980–88: 166; 986: 167; 1008: 174; 1016–17: 170; 1023: 174; 1050–88: 166n83; 1082: 172n100; 1109–18: 180n125; 1113–14: 162; 1114: 169; 1121: 163n69; 1158–59: 168; 1198: 169; 1200ff.: 169, 169n91; 1201: 173; 1201–4: 169; 1251–363: 161n63; 1323–25: 164n77; 1329–63: 161n63; 1365–410: 173; 1419: 170; 1436: 170; 1476: 167; 1476–78: 172; 1478: 173; 1504–14: 168n88; 1526–33: 173; 1528–33: 174n105; 1529: 174; 1530: 174 Knights 118–27: 154n37 Lysistrata 1261: 47n21 Thesmophoriazousae 272–76: 165n78 Wasps 1312: 167n86

Aristotle Athenian Constitution 23.5: 31n30 Physics 216a13: 32n31 Poetics 1447b30: 178; 1447b30–1448a6: 178n119; 1448b10: 183n136; 1449b31–34: 178; 1449b35: 182n133; 1450a15: 177; 1450a16–24: 177–78; 1450a21–23: 178; 1450a23–28: 178n119; 1450a31: 183n136; 1450a33–35: 177n115; 1450a38: 177n115; 1450a38–b4: 178n119; 1450b3–4: Page 228 →Aristotle (continued) Poetics 178; 1450b6: 183n136; 1450b16–20: 145n6, 176–77; 1450b18: 177n116; 1451a36–b9: 180; 1451a36–38: 60; 1451a37: 183n136; 1451a37–39: 9n21, 60; 1451b4–5: 60; 1451b11: 61n51; 1451b15–16: 60; 1451b16–19: 61–62; 1451b29–32: 62; 1452b12: 182n133; 1452b30: 183n136; 1453a17–22: 156; 1453a22: 61n51; 1453a27: 177n116; 1453b3–4: 178, 182; 1453b3–5: 182n133; 1453b3–7: 177; 1453b3–6: 177, 178n121; 1453b6–7: 178; 1453b7–10: 179n122; 1454b8–15: 178n119; 1454b21–22: 179n124; 1455a22–25: 180; 1455a27–29: 181; 1455a28: 181; 1455a28–29: 181; 1457b27–28: 179n124; 1458b15: 179n124; 1458b19–24: 179n124; 1459a17–24: 178; 1460a15: 182n133; 1460b6–11: 178n119; 1460b30–33: 178n119; 1461b9–15: 178n119; 1462a5–6: 178n118; 1462a5–10: 179n122; 1462a6: 183n136; 1462a7–8: 183n136; 1462a11: 182n133; 1462a11–18: 182; 1462a12–13: 177; 1462a14–18: 179n122; 1462a16: 179n122 Rhetoric 1407a: 121n58; 1404b22–24: 175n110; 31403b33–34: 175n110; 1405a25–26: 175n110 Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 1f: 150n25; 276a: 152; 453c–453f: 151n26; 448b: 150n24 Callimachus fr. 26.5: 27n17 Diogenes Laertius 5.26 opera, 135–7: 155n40 Euripides Bacchae 888: 164 Erechtheus

frag. 369: 154n37 Hippolytus 612: 165n78; 856–86: 154n37 Orestes 279: 149 Eustathius 2.498.15–17: 55; 6.18.25: 27n17; 690.63–64: 55 Gilgamesh poem Tablet I.243–300: 34n39; Tablet II.43: 34n39 Heraclitus B51: 93n76 Herodotus Histories 1.1: 7, 15, 18, 106; 1.1–4: 117; 1.1–5: 103n105, 114; 1.5: 116n38, 128n81; 1.5.3: 119n48; 1.5.3–6.1: 118, 124; 1.5.4: 143; 1.13–14: 120, 120n53; 1.25.2: 125; 1.29: 118n45; 1.32: 118n45; 1.34–45: 128n81; 1.34.2: 139n112; 1.38.1: 139, 139n111; 1.38.2: 139; 1.47.3: 47n21, 139n112; 1.50.3: 123; 1.51: 122n64, 123n67; 1.51.3: 123, 123n66; 1.51.5: 123; 1.51–52: 121, 130; 1.52.5: 116n38; 1.53.2: 124n73; 1.53.3: 132; 1.66: 127n77; 1.66.21: 116n38; 1.69: 132; 1.70.1–3: 132–33, 134n99; 1.75.2: 130; 1.77: 134n99; 1.83.1: 134n99; 1.84.1: 119; 1.86.1: 140; 1.88.2: 119n49; 1.90: 127n77; 1.92.1: 131; 1.92.1–3: 129–30; 1.92.2: 131; 1.92.3: 131; 1.92.4: 130, 130n90; 1.92.8: 116n38; 1.93.9: 116n38; 1.165: 31n30; 1.181.6: 116n38; 2.23: 98n92; 2.30: 116n38; 2.46: 116n38; 2.53.3: 138n109; 2.99: 138n109; 2.99.1: 137, 137n108, 139n110; 2.102.4: 138n109; 2.106.1: 135n102; 2.113: 116n38; 2.113.2: 116n38; 2.122.8: 116n38; 2.124.4: 137n106; 2.130.2: 116n38; 2.131.12: 116n38; 2.141.26: 116n38; 2.145.14: 116n38; 2.146.1: Page 229 →116n38; 2.147.2: 135; 2.147.4: 139n110; 2.148.1: 136; 2.148.4: 136n103; 2.148.5: 135; 2.148.6: 135, 136; 2.148.7: 137, 137n106; 2.154: 116n38; 2.180.1: 124; 2.181.20: 116n38; 2.182: 116n38, 116n40; 3.10: 116n38; 3.47.1: 135n100; 3.65.20: 140n114; 3.92: 116n38; 3.97.18: 116n38; 3.137.2: 134n99; 3.157.1: 134n99; 4.11.23: 116n38; 4.12.1: 116n38; 4.124.5: 116n38; 4.148: 116n38; 4.195.3: 135n102; 4.204.6: 116n38; 5.39.9: 115n33; 5.45: 116n40; 5.45.11: 116n38; 5.58.15: 116n38; 5.77.17: 116n38; 5.88.13: 116n38; 5.91.1: 134n99; 5.115: 116n38; 6.37.2: 131n93; 6.42.11: 116n38; 6.89.1: 135n101; 6.98: 116n38; 6.119: 116n38; 6.125: 130n87; 7.111: 116n38; 7.115: 116n38; 8.39.2: 116n38; 8.121.6: 116n38; 8.122.1: 122n64 Hesiod Ehoeae fr. 2–6: 21n1; fr. 234 M–W: 21n1 Erga 624: 33n37; 75: 97n87; 62–67: 97n87 Theogony 22: 26, 29; 22–23: 24; 22–35: 24; 24: 26; 25: 30; 26: 25, 25n12; 27–28: 28, 28n20; 28: 28n21; 30: 31,

27n17; 30–31: 27; 31–32: 26; 32: 28n20; 35: 29, 31n26, 33n37; 38: 28n20; 182: 34n38; 184: 34n38; 210: 34n38; 453–506: 33; 482–83: 36–37; 485–91: 36; 487: 35n42; 488: 33n35, 37; 490–91: 37; 492–93: 35; 493: 33–34; 496: 35n41; 498–500: 34; 500: 35n43; 575: 35n43; 581: 35n43; 585: 78; 587: 97n87; 588: 35n43; 592: 35n43; 715: 33n37; 720–25: 33n35, 116n37; 720–28: 31–32; 720–819: 31n30; 722: 33, 33n36; 724: 33n36; 756: 173n103; 785–92: 33n37; 786: 35n43; 792: 35n43; 836–38: 33n35; 886–929: 35 Homer Iliad 1.6: 89n62; 1.225: 85n53; 1.272: 81n45; 1.448: 54n37; 1.493: 45n16; 2.186: 44n13; 2.46: 44n13; 2.460–73: 72; 2.484: 77; 2.484–93: 71–72; 2.485: 72, 76; 2.488–93: 26n14; 2.489–90: 53n34; 2.490: 53n34; 2.492: 77; 2.760: 73; 3.125–28: 75n30, 80; 3.126: 82; 3.126–27: 82; 3.130–35: 80–81; 3.132: 81n45; 3.146–244: 75; 3.156–60: 76; 3.156–58: 77n36; 3.157: 78; 3.160: 78; 3.162–67: 77; 3.163: 79; 3.178–80: 79; 3.200–2: 79; 3.216–24: 95n83; 3.442: 47n23; 4.404: 90; 4.461: 47n23; 5.302–4: 35n40; 5.304: 81n45; 5.553: 47n23; 5.703: 89n62; 5.724: 45n13; 6.11: 47n23; 6.146–49: 53n33; 6.357–58: 34n38; 6.448: 58; 7.84–91: 52; 7.334–35: 42; 7.336–43: 42; 7.338: 43; 7.389–91: 43; 7.428: 45; 7.431: 45; 7.443–53: 43–44; 7.451: 47; 7.454–63: 46–47; 7.462: 47n23; 8.192: 44; 8.305: 76n36; 9.115: 90n66; 9.189: 44n10; 9.378–416: 46n18; 9.413: 45n13; 9.443: 82; 9.524: 44n10; 10.261–65: 22; 11.218: 72n23; 11.299: 89n62; 11.638: 76n36; 12.9–18: 48–49; 12.9–37: 117n42; 12.15: 58; 12.17ff.: 58; 12.22–23: 49; 12.27–37: 49–50; 12.29: 51; 12.31: 47n23; 12.36: 54, 54n37; 12.105: 49; 12.116: 47n23; 12.137: 54, 54n37; 12.154: 54n37; 12.381–83: 35n40; 12.383: 81n45; 12.435–41: 49; 12.445–49: 35n40; 13.21–22: 44n13; 12.449: 81n45; 13.37: 53n34; 13.339: 46n20; 13.360: 53n34; 13.577: 47n23; 13.729–34: 93n75; 13.736: 97n87; 14.56: 53n34; 14.68: 53n34; 14.90–94: 90n65; 14.294: 47n23; 14.328: 44n13; 14.508: 72n23; 14.519: 47n23; 15.20: 53n34; 15.282: 90; 15.361–66: 91; 15.578: 47n23; 16.112: 72n23; 16.316: 47n23; 16.325: 47n23; 16.502: Page 230 →Homer (continued) Iliad 47n23; 16.692: 89n62; 16.700: 54n37; 16.855: 47n23; 18.250: 34n38; 18.396–70: 44n13; 19.10: 44n11; 19.18: 44n11; 19.80: 90; 19.186: 90n66; 19.286: 76n36; 20.150: 53n34; 20.217: 44n8; 20.285–87: 35n40; 20.287: 81n45; 20.341–48: 85; 20.393: 47n23; 21.111–13: 45, 46n17; 21.181: 47n23; 21.295: 44n12; 21.308–23: 50–51; 21.446–47: 52; 21.447: 53, 53n34; 21.461–67: 52–53; 21.466: 53; 21.515–17: 53–54; 21.516: 54n37; 21.536: 54; 22.126: 29n23; 22.195: 54n37; 22.361: 47n23; 22.441: 82n46; 23.66: 85n53; 23.243–44: 82n46; 24.88: 45n13 Odyssey 1.1: 88, 99; 1.1–2: 99; 1.3: 99, 119; 1.10: 89n62; 1.32: 78n38; 1.32–43: 78n38; 1.345–60: 88n57; 1.368–71: 88n57; 1.159: 88n57; 1.208: 85n53; 1.370–71: 88n60; 2.120: 97n87; 3.93–95: 84, 100; 3.94: 65; 3.97: 90n66; 3.175–76: 134n98; 3.247: 90n66; 3.254: 90n66; 3.264: 98n93; 3.266–75: 87n57; 3.267: 87n57; 4.17–18: 91n71; 4.226: 85; 4.269: 85; 4.323–25: 84, 100; 4.324: 65; 4.327: 90n66; 4.539–40: 84n51; 5.244–57: 90n64; 5.245: 90n64; 5.182: 96n85; 5.303: 97n87; 6.4: 81n45; 6.160: 85; 7.100: 54n37; 7.291: 77n36; 7.297: 90n66; 8.63: 89; 8.63–64: 66; 8.66ff.: 93; 8.73: 44n10; 8.77: 98n93; 8.91: 98n95; 8.169–77: 95–96; 8.170: 96n87, 97n88; 8.175: 96n87; 8.222: 81n45; 8.240: 90; 8.267: 97n87; 8.275: 53n34; 8.288: 97n87; 8.487–91: 65–66, 93, 142n122; 8.487–48: 84n50, 85n54; 8.488–91: 84n50; 8.489: 90n66; 8.491: 84; 8.496–98: 90n66; 8.63: 89; 8.63–64: 66; 9.1–11: 88; 9.4: 88; 9.6: 89; 9.12–13: 88–89; 9.14: 89, 91; 9.14–15: 91n67; 9.15: 89, 92n72; 9.19: 89; 9.19–20: 102n103; 10.4: 53n34; 10.16: 90n66; 10.195: 97n87; 10.291: 102; 10.318: 102; 10.326: 102; 10.498: 84n51; 10.502: 88n58; 11.225–329: 72n22; 11.249: 96n85; 11.362–69: 98; 11.362–76: 86–87; 11.363: 94; 11.363–66: 101; 11.366: 87n55;

11.367: 65, 94, 95, 95n83, 97n88; 11.368: 87n57, 90–91, 92, 101; 11.368–69: 92; 11.370–71: 91; 11.374: 81n44, 101; 11.376: 101; 11.610: 75n30, 81; 12.35: 90n66; 14.212: 96n85; 17.108: 90n66; 17.122: 90n66; 17.508–11: 100; 17.512–21: 100–101; 17.514: 102n101; 17.518, 101; 17.518–21: 101n100; 17.521: 102; 18.53: 25n12; 18.193: 97n87; 19.124–28: 95n84; 19.163: 29n23; 19.203: 87; 19.221–23: 82n46; 19.225–26: 82n46; 19.241: 82n46; 20.302: 54n37; 21.397: 92; 21.404–7: 91; 21.405: 92, 93n74; 22.24: 54n37; 22.126: 54n37; 22.297: 46n20; 22.344–53: 88n60; 22.348–49: 88n60; 23.137: 44n10; 23.225–26: 90n66; 23.243–54: 82n46; 24.3: 102; 24.82–84: 81n45; 24.114–17: 92n73 Homeric Hymns To Aphrodite 22–23: 35n41 To Apollo 115–16: 35n42 Lucian On Writing History I: 158n52 Lysias 21.4: 167n86 Mimnermus 1.8: 84n51 Pausanias PeriГЄgГЄsis 3.10.8: 128n80; 3.2.3: 128n80; 4.5.3: 128n80; 5.10.3: 128n80; 6.15.8: Page 231 →115n34; 7.6.6: 128; 8.24.13: 128n80; 8.33.1: 37n47; 8.34.6: 115n34; 10.5.13: 124; 10.8.7: 128n80, 131n92; 10.16.1: 128; 10.16.1–2: 125–26; 10.16.2: 129; 10.24.6: 37; 10.33.8: 129n84 10.38.9, 115n34 Philostratus Vita Apollonii 6.11: 125n75 Pindar Isthmian 3/4 56: 27n17 Olympian 2 98: 7n21 Olympian 8

70: 170n93 Olympian 9 44–56: 21n1 Pythian 7 9–12: 130n88 Plato Cratylus 420a: 158 Ion 530b10-c1: 85n54 Laws 811a: 162n69 Republic 380d: 97n88; 614b2: 88n58 Plutarch Theseus 1.3: 139n110 Pseudo-Plutarch Vitae decem oratorum 841F: 153 Sophocles Electra 1158–59: 97n88, 97n89; 1161: 97n89 Strabo Geographica 1.1.2: 56n43; 1.1.23: 60n48; 7.3.6: 56n43; 13.1.1: 56n43; 13.1.35: 56; 13.1.36: 41, 55; 13.1.38: 57–58, 59; 13.1.41: 57–58; Rose fr. 162: 41, 55–56 Thucydides History 1.1.1: 141; 1.1–23: 141; 1.10.1–2: 119n51; 1.22.2: 142n122; 1.22.2–3: 142n122; 1.22.4: 141; 2.50.1:

136n105; 3.82.4: 173n104; 6.54.7: 115n34; 7.86.5: 142n122; 8.68.2: 142n122; 8.97.2: 142n122 Xenophon Oeconomicus 10.3: 115n34

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Greek Terms бјЂОіПЋОЅ, 161, 165, 177n116 О±бјґП„О№ОїОЅ, 61, 78 бјЂОєО·ПЃОЇОїП‚, 53 бј„ОєОјП‰ОЅ, 17, 31–33, 33n34, 33n36, 35 бјЂО»О¬ОїОјО±О№, 99n99 бјЂО»О®ОёОµО№О±, 27n18 бјЂОјП…ОґПЃПЊП‚, 115n34 бјЂОјП†ОЇОІОїО»О±, 121n58 бј„ОЅОµП… П„Оїбї¦ бЅЃПЃбѕ¶ОЅ, 178–179, 182, 182n133, 184 бјЂОїО№ОґПЊП‚, 18, 65, 86, 87n57, 88–91, 89n63, 91n70, 93–94, 99–100, 101, 102n102, 103 бјЂПЂПЊОЅОїО№О±, 57 бјЂПЃОµП„О®, 95n84 бј„ПЃПЃО·ОєП„ОїП‚, 53, 53n34 бјЂПЃП‡О®, 121n58, 140 бј„ПѓП„ОµО±, 118–19 О±бЅђП„ПЊПЂП„О·П‚, 12 бј„П†ОёО№П„ОїОЅ (бјЂО№ОµОЇ), 44, 44n13, 45n14, 46. See also ОєО»О-ОїП‚: ОєО»О-ОїП‚ бј„П†ОёО№П„ОїОЅ бјЂП€П…П‡ОЇО±,57 ОІО№ОІО»ОЇОїОЅ, 162, 162n69, 169, 180n125 ОІО»О-П†О±ПЃОїОЅ,85 ОіОµОЅПЊОјОµОЅО±, 7, 9, 18–19, 60, 106, 114–15, 119, 132 ОіО-ОЅОїП‚,115n33 ОіОЅПЋОјО·, 138 ОіПЊОЅО№ОјОїП‚: 164–5 ОіПЃО±П†О®, 151, 178n119 ОґО±ОЇОјОїОЅОµП‚, 174, 174n108 ОґОµО№ПЂОЅОµбї–ОЅ, 173

ОґО-ОјО±П‚,95n84, 97n89 ОґОµОѕО№ПЊП‚, 161, 163n69 ОґОЇПЂО»О±Оѕ, 82, 82n46 ОґПЌОЅО±ОјО№П‚, 177 ОґП…ОЅО±П„ПЊОЅ, 62 Оµбј¶ОґОїП‚, 95–96, 95n83, 95n84, 97n88 Оµбј¶ОґП‰О»ОїОЅ, 123n66 Оµбј°ОєПЊП„П‰П‚, 56, 57, 59 Оµбј°ПЃО®ПѓОёП‰, 130, 130n90 бј”ОјПЂОµОґОїОЅ, 48 бјђОЅО±ПЃОіОµОЇО±, 113n27 бјђОѕО±ОЇП†ОЅО·П‚, 160 бјђОѕО±ПЂПЊО»О»П…ОјО№, 131n93 бјђОѕОЇП„О·О»ОїП‚ (бј”ОѕОµО№ОјО№), 115, 115n33, 115n34 бјђОѕОїПЂОЇПѓП‰, 34, 34n38 ἐπ’ бјђОјО-Ої,19, 116n38. See also бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјОµбї¦; бјђП‚ бјђОјО-; ОјО-П‡ПЃО№ бјђОјОµбї¦ бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјОµбї¦, 106, 116, 116n38, 118, 119. See also ἐπ’ бјђОјО-Ої; бјђП‚ бјђОјО-; ОјО-П‡ПЃО№ бјђОјОµбї¦ бј”ПЂОµО±, 97, 97n90, 98–99, 98n93, 98n95, 99n97 бјђПЂОЇПѓП„О±ОјО±О№, 90–91, 90n64, 91n69, 92–93, 93n78 бј”ПЃОіО±, 81, 81n44, 114n32 бј”ПЃП‰, 130, 131 бјђПЃбї¶П‚: 47n23 бјђП‚ бјђОјО-,116, 116n38, 117, 121, 127n77, 130–32, 134. See also ἐπ’ бјђОјО-Ої, бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјОµбї¦; ОјО-П‡ПЃО№ бјђОјОµбї¦ Page 234 →бј•П„ОїО№ОјОїП‚, 134, 134n99 бј”П„П…ОјО±, 28n20 ОµбЅђОґО±О№ОјОїОЅОЇО·, 12, 19, 107, 118, 118n45, 119, 124, 143 бјђО°ОґОјОµП„ОїП‚: 54 бјЎОјО№ОёО-ОїО№,49n25

бј П†О¬ОЅО№ПѓОµОЅ, 56 ОёО¬ОЅО±П„ОїП‚, 47, 48, 182n133 ОёО±бї¦ОјО±, 34, 35n43, 36, 37 ОёОµО±П„О®П‚, 181, 181n132 ОёО-О»ОіП‰,102, 102n101 ОёОµП‰ПЃО®ОјО±П„О±, 127n79 ОёО·О·П„О®ПЃ, 92, 92n74 ОёОЅбї„ПѓОєП‰, 166, 167, 175 ОёП…ОјПЊП‚, 88 бјґОґОµ ПЂО¬ОЅП„О·, 92 бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃОЇО±, 18, 60, 60n50, 60n51, 104n109, 139n110, 158n52, 180n128 бј±ПѓП„ОїПЃОЇО·, 114n31, 115, 138, 138n108, 141 бјµПѓП„П‰ПЃ: 115n35 бјґП‡ОЅОїП‚, 58, 59 ОєО±ОёОµПЌОґОµО№ОЅ, 173 ОєО±О»ПЌПЂП„П‰, 37n45, 47, 47n23, 49, 51 ОєО±П„О±О»О-ОіП‰,90–91, 90n66, 91n67, 93 ОєО±П„ОёО±ОЅОµбї–ОЅ, 173 ОєО®ОґОµО± О»П…ОіПЃО¬, 92 ОєОЇОЅО·ПѓО№П‚, 179n122, 182n133, 183n136 ОєО»О-ОїП‚,12, 18, 41, 41n4, 43–48, 44n10, 44n11, 44n12, 45n15, 51–52, 71, 73, 102n103, 107; ОєО»О-ОїП‚ бјЂОЅОґПЃбї¶ОЅ,89; ОєО»О-ОїП‚ бј„П†ОёО№П„ОїОЅ,18, 45n13 ОєПЃПЌПЂП„П‰, 36, 37n45 ОєП‰П†ПЊП‚, 139n112 О»О-ОѕО№П‚,179n124 О»О·ОєПЌОёО№ОїОЅ, 169, 169n91 О»бЅµОєП…ОёОїП‚, 169–70, 169n90, 169n91 О»ОЇОёОїП‚, 33, 33n37, 35n43, 36–37 О»ОїОіОЇО¶ОїОјО±О№, 140n114 О»ПЊОіОїП‚, 135, 136n105, 139n110, 166

ОјО-ОіО±ПЃОїОЅ,80, 87, 101 ОјО-П‡ПЃО№ бјђОјОµбї¦,19, 106, 116n38. See also ἐπ’ бјђОјО-Ої; бјђПЂбѕї бјђОјОµбї¦; бјђП‚ бјђОјООјбЅґ бЅЃПЃбї¶ОЅП„О±, 181–182 ОјОЇОјО·ПѓО№П‚, 166n83, 177, 177n117 ОјОЅО®ОјО·, 12 ОјОїПЃП†О®, 65, 95, 95n82, 95n83, 97–98, 97n89, 97n90; ОєПЃОЇПѓО№П‚ ОјОїПЃП†О®П‚, 95n82; ОјОїПЃП†бЅґ бјђПЂО-П‰ОЅ,65, 95, 95n82, 95n83, 96, 98–99 Ојбї¦ОёОїП‚, 61, 84, 86–88, 90–92, 90n65, 97–99, 98n92, 98n95, 145–46, 156, 177–78, 177n115, 177n117, 178n121, 180, 183 ОјП…ОёПЋОґО·П‚, 139n110, 141 ОЅОїПѓО®ОјО±, 158n52 Оїбј± ОґбЅґ ОЅбї¦ОЅ, 81–82 Оїбјі ПЂПЃОЇОЅ, 81, 81n45 Оїбј¶ОґО±, 47n21, 72, 87n57, 128, 128n81 Оїбј°ОєОµбї–ОїОЅ ПЂПЃбѕ¶ОіОјО±, 166 бЅ„ОјОјО±, 85, 85n53, 99n98 бЅЂОјП†О±О»ПЊП‚, 34n39 бЅ„ПѓПѓОµ, 47, 47n23, 85 бЅЂП†ОёО±О»ОјПЊП‚, 66, 84, 85, 85n53 бЅ„П€О№П‚,19, 137–40, 138n110, 139n110, 140n114, 145, 156, 175–79, 175n111, 178n119, 179n122, 179n125, 181n130, 183; бЅ„П€О№П‚ бЅЂОЅОµОЇПЃОїП…,139–40, 139n111 ПЂО¬ОёОїП‚, 158n52 ПЂО-П„ПЃО·,25, 29, 29n23, 33n37, 35n43 ПЂбї†ОјО±, 35n43, 78 ПЂО»О¬О¶П‰, 99, 99n98 ПЂОЅОµбї–ОЅ, 173 ПЂПЊОёОїП‚, 19, 154, 158n51, 158n52, 159–60, 159n53, 163 ПЂОїбЅ·О·ПѓО№П‚, 18, 60, 60n50, 175, 180n128 ПЂПЊО»О№П‚, 52, 58, 119n49, 140n115, 170, 177 ПЂПЃО¬ОѕО№П‚, 178

ῥάβδος, 27, 27n17 ῥήματα, 164, 173 Пѓбї†ОјО±, 34–36, 35n43, 51, 51n29, 70, 90n66 ПѓОєОµП…О¬О¶П‰, 167n86 Page 235 →ПѓОєОµП…О¬ПЃО№О±, 167, 168n88 ПѓОєОµПЌО·, 167–68, 167n86 ПѓОєбї†ПЂП„ПЃОїОЅ, 24, 27, 44n13 ПѓП„О-П†П‰,96n87 ПѓП„ОїО№П‡Оµбї–О±, 151 ПѓП„ПЃПЋОјО±П„О±, 167 П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚, 44n12, 50, 52, 53n34, 54; бјђП‚ П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚ бј…О»О·П„О±О№, 54; П„Оµбї–П‡ОїП‚ бјђО°ОґОјО·П„ОїП‚, 50, 54 П„О-О»ОїП‚,47, 47n23, 178 П„О-П‡ОЅО·,93n78, 177 П„ПЌПЂОїП‚, 137n106 бЅ‘ПЂОїОёО®ОјО±, 129n83 бЅ‘ПЂОїОєПЃО·П„О·ПЃОЇОґО№ОїОЅ, 129n83 бЅ‘ПѓП„ОµПЃО-П‰,135n101 П†О±ОЅОµПЃПЊОЅ, 182n133 П†ОёО№ПѓОЇОјОІПЃОїП„ОїП‚, 46n20 П†ПЊПЃОјО№ОіОѕ, 91n70 П†ПЃО-ОЅОµП‚,95, 95n83 П‡ПЃПЊОЅОїП‚, 115, 115n34; ПЂОїО»бЅєОЅ П‡ПЃбЅ№ОЅОїОЅ, 78 П€П…П‡О±ОіП‰ОіО№ОєПЊП‚,177

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General Index Achaean wall. See walls: Achaean Achilles, 50–51, 52, 54, 56n42, 85; ОєО»О-ОїП‚ of,45–46, 45n13; shield of, 22, 44n11; tomb of 81n45 aГ©docentric poem, 65, 102 Adorno, Theodor, 40 Aeschines: Against Timarchus, 157n46; On the False Assembly, 157n46 Aeschylus: as character in Frogs, 19, 163n69, 167, 168–75, 170n94, 172n98; Choephorae, 168; Eumenides, 174, 174n105; Oresteia, 173, 174–75, 174n107; Seven Against Thebes, 170 age-value, 107, 109–12, 109n13, 110n16, 110n18, 111n21, 143; Alterswert, 109. See also historical value Alphabet Tragedy. See Callias the Athenian: Letter Tragedy anachronism: in contemporary analysis, 7, 20, 22, 97, 158n51, 163, 185; in the teichoscopia, 75 anatomization of tragedy, 19, 145, 171, 173, 175 Ankersmit, Frank, 13n5, 106n2; History and Tropology, 108; on “looking at” and “looking through” historical texts, 107–8, 108n8, 112, 142–43 anomaly: metrical, 164n77; temporal, 18, 41, 75, 79 anvil of Hesiod, 17, 24, 31–33, 39, 116n37. See also бј„ОєОјП‰ОЅ Apollo: in the Iliad, 43–44, 49, 52–54, 91; in the Odyssey, 65–66, 85, 85n54; offerings to, 129, 132; temple of at Delphi, 37, 120, 122 Apollonius of Rhodes, 21n1 Appadurai, Arjun, 23, 23n8 Arafat, K. W., 127–29, 127n79 archaeological positivism. See positivism, archaeological archaeological semiotic. See semiotics, archaeological archaeologists, 1, 8, 16, 20, 185, 190–92, 201; classical, 9, 168; dilemma of, 188–89; historical versus prehistoric, 194–95 archaeology: discipline of, 5, 15–16, 38, 62, 185, 187–88, 191, 193n23, 195n27, 196–201; historical, 191, 193, 200; postprocessual, 11, 20, 187–88, 188n6, 190n11, 199 Aristophanes Acharnians, 157, 168n89 Frogs, 145, 149, 153–62, 157n46, 158n50, 160n59, 162n67, 164n73, 170n94, 201; material objects in, 165, 168–70, 168n89; parody in, 161–62, 161n63, 163–64, 163n70; protoarchaeological effect of, 19, 175,

185; reading tragic texts in, 12, 150, 154–57; reception of, 150, 155, 157; tragedy as failed medium in, 145, 171–75; as a work of criticism, 8, 145, 145n5, 147n12, 155, 184–85 Thesmophoriazusae, 157–58, 159–60 Page 238 →Aristotle, 9, 18, 32n31, 40–41, 60n50, 121n58, 155, 155n40, 175n110, 176n112, 177n115, 178n121; on the Achaean wall, 56–57, 59–63; Poetics, 18, 19, 60–62, 60n51, 145, 156, 175–84, 175n111, 176n112, 178n119, 179n123, 179n124, 183n136, 184n139; on reading tragedy, 182–84, 182n133; Rhetoric, 121n58, 175n110; on tragic бЅ„П€О№П‚,145, 156, 175–80, 176n111, 178n119, 179n122, 179n125, 181n130, 183–84, 184n139 Athena, 35, 35n42, 85n53, 97n87, 131n92, 174 Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae, 150–152, 150n25, 152n31 Atys, 139–40 authenticity: of oracles, 120–21; of past events, 22; of performance, 153, 156; of texts and passages, 31, 31n28, 31n30, 62, 70, 105, 147n12 autopsy, 127, 127n79, 129, 142n122; negative, 129 Bahrani, Zainab, 14n33, 187n4, 191n16 Bakker, Egbert, 14, 95n82; on the Catalogue of Ships, 73–75, 73n25; on epic performance, 66–69, 67n9, 67n11; on Herodotus’ Histories, 114n31, 114n32; 116n38, 137n108, 141n119; on memory, 13n33, 44n9 Bann, Stephen, 12n31, 110n16 Bauer, Alexander A., 192n20, 195–97, 195n29 Benjamin, Walter, 37n48, 200n46 Bennett, Tony, 2n1 Best, Stephen, 6n11 Bielik-Robson, Agata, 23n9, 107n3 blindness, 18, 66n7, 99; of Demodocus, 66, 71, 73, 84, 92–93, 180; versus sight, 86, 92, 94, 102–3, 105 Boswell, James, 38n50 Braund, David, 152, 152n32 Brill’s New Pauly Online, 20, 187 Brown, Bill, 21n1, 23–24, 23n9, 24n10, 198 BГјhler, Karl, 5n10, 15, 178n120 Calame, Claude, 26–27, 26n14, 26n15 Callias the Athenian, 150–52, 150n25, 151n28, 152n31; Letter Tragedy, 150–52, 152n29 Camp, John McK., II, 40, 40n2, 41

catachresis, 194 Catalogue of Ships, 22, 71, 73–74, 75–77, 79–80, 83–84, 86 Certeau, Michel de, 186, 186n2 Chantraine, Pierre, 85n53, 97–98, 97n98 chiastic displacement, 73, 93, 102, 128n81 Clay, J. S., 28n20 Clearchus of Soli, 150–152, 150n25 consciousness: historical, 13n35; introverted, 67 conformity, implied, 22 Cook, A. B., 34n39 Crane, Gregory, 115n35, 124 Croesus, 117, 117n44, 118, 118n45, 128, 128n80, 128n81, 130n87; downfall of, 120, 120n52, 122, 129–31, 139–40; offerings at Delphi, 8, 12, 19, 121–25, 121n60, 122n63, 142–43; dealings with the Spartans, 132–35, 134n99 Cronos, 17, 33–34, 35n41, 36, 37 damage (LГјcken), 112 Daston, Lorraine, 23n8, 23n9, 24 Davidson, John, 34n39, 37n46 dawn, 45–46, 45n16 de Jong, Irene, 15n41, 87–88, 87n56, 91, 91n71, 94n81, 133n97 de Man, Paul, 37, 144, 144n1, 190n12 death, 41, 43, 63; of Achilles, 45–46, 50; of Atys, 139–140; of the bowl in Frogs, 166–67, 170; covering, 37n45, 47–48, 47n23, 50; dying, 46, 172–73; of Euripides, 160; in Frogs, 145; of Lycaon, 45; of Odysseus, 84; of tragedy, 163, 172–73, 175 decay, 2, 45, 46, 107, 109–10, 125, 142, 197; AuflГ¶sung, 112 Delphi, 19, 27, 120–21, 124, 130; burning of the temple of, 122–23; Pytho, 34; silver bowl of, 125–26; stone of Zeus at, 34–38, 34n39, 35n43, 64 Page 239 →Demodocus, 18, 65–66, 73, 84, 85–86, 93, 94n80, 102n102, 103–5, 180 Derrida, Jacques, 74 destruction, 3, 45, 107, 132; of the Achaean wall, 18, 41, 41n4, 43, 46–49, 48n24, 51, 54, 58–59, 117n42; of the past, 2; of Sardis, 119, 119n49, 124 Dewald, Carolyn, 113–14, 113n28, 113n29, 117n43, 119n47

Dionysus: as character in Frogs, 154–57, 164–70, 173; choice of in Frogs, 171–72, 171n96, 172n98, 174–75; πόθος of, 19, 158–160, 158n51, 158n52, 159n56, 163 Dover, J. K., on Frogs, 154n37, 159n55, 161–62, 161n61, 161n63, 163n69, 163n70, 164–66, 164n76, 165n77, 167n85, 169n91, 173n102, 174n105 dreams, 34n39, 97n89, 138–40, 138n110, 140n114 Dueck, Daniela, 56n43 ecphrasis, 22, 22n3, 68, 161n64 Edwards, Anthony T., 44n10 Edwards, M. W., 72n22 Egyptian Labyrinth, 135–38, 136n103, 137n106 Elmer, David, 72–75, 75n30, 77n36, 78n37, 79–81, 79n39, 79n40, 83, 99 Elsner, Jás, 22n3, 122n61, 161n64 empirical data, 14, 22, 59, 68, 84, 125 empirical knowledge, 72, 93 empirical evidence. See empirical data empirical observation, 2, 9, 30, 80, 103, 136, 138, 142; relationship to linguistic representation, 7, 16, 20, 40, 63, 68, 132, 137, 145, 186, 201 empiricism, 16, 20, 38, 122n61, 194; in postprocessual archaeology, 199, 200 ephemerality, 19, 37n48, 110–12, 124, 142; ephemeral speech, 192; of human life, 52–53, 53n34 epigram, 73–75, 79–80, 83 epigrammatopoias, 83 ethical dimension of past events, 12, 41 ethics, 57, 63, 96, 102; in Frogs, 165, 169–70; in the Histories, 107, 119, 121–22, 135, 143; in the Iliad, 18–19, 45, 48, 54n38, 107 Eumenides (Kindly Ones), 173–74 Euripides, 152–53, 157, 157n46, 158n50, 160, 163–65, 167n85, 172n98, 176; Andromeda, 19, 154, 156, 157–60; as character in Frogs, 19, 155–56, 158–59, 163n69, 165–66, 166n82, 167–73, 175; Erechtheus 154n37; Helen, 95n82; Hippolytus, 154n37; Orestes, 149; Perithous, 158n50, 170n92; Eustathius, 55 eusynopsis, 180n129 evidence, 7, 9, 10n25, 16–17, 20, 22, 31n26, 40, 68, 94–96, 138, 142, 156, 187–92, 193n23; empirical (see empirical data); textual, 9, 10n24, 16, 136n104, 187–92; visible (material), 9, 16, 18, 20, 22, 39, 40–41, 59, 67–68, 67n11, 94, 96, 106, 114–15, 187–92

eyewitnesses, 67, 71–72, 75, 79–80, 83–84, 84n50, 99, 105; Demodocus as, 84; in history writing, 8, 12, 113, 115n35, 127, 136–37, 136n104, 180; Odysseus as, 64–65, 94, 94n80; speakers, 18, 94 eyewitness speakers. See eyewitnesses: speakers Fabian, Johannes, 31n28 failure, 131; to act, 57; to deliver the great bowl of the Spartans, 134–35; of description, 137; poetic, 177, 182–83; of tragedy, 171–72, 174 Farago, Claire, 5 Fernandez-Galiano, Manuel, 46n20, 88n60, 91n69, 92n74, 101n100, 102n101 fetish, 23, 23n8 Findlen, Paula, 11n30 Flower, Harriet, 117n44, 120, 120n53, 121n60, 123n65, 123n68 Foley, John Miles, 68–69, 68n15 Fontenrose, Joseph, 120 Page 240 →Ford, Andrew, 49n25, 65n3, 75n30; on the Achaean wall, 41, 51n27; on Frogs, 150n21, 161n60, 162n69, 165n78; on the Odyssey, 84n50, 88n57; on the Poetics, 176n112, 179n124 Foster, Hal, 14–16, 14n38 Froeyman, Anton, 15–16, 189n8, 201 Frow, John, 38, 38n51 future, 34n38, 199; divine knowledge of, 26, 28n20, 29, 37, 121n58, 125, 143; events, 38, 42, 59, 110, 130, 139–40, 144; generations of men, 34–37, 78–79; projected, 49, 82, 117n42; readers, 116–17, 140 Garcia, Lorenzo F., 45n14, 52n30, 53n36, 56n42 gewollte. See intentional versus unintentional: monuments Goldhill, Simon, 22n3, 43n6, 44n9, 147n12, 150n23, 155n41 Gombrich, E. H., Art and Illusion, 82 grave goods, 38, 168, 168n87 Green, J. R., 146n7, 147–48, 147n12, 181n131 Grethlein, Jonas, 3n2; The Greeks and their Past, 13, 13n34; on the Histories, 117n41, 120n53, 133n97; on the Iliad, 22n6, 35n40, 42n6, 44n9, 53n33, 81n45, 84n49; on tragedy, 160n59, 174n107 Gubser, Michael, 108–9, 109n10, 110n16, 111, 111n21, 122n61 Hades, 84n51, 88, 88n58, 163, 163n70, 167–68, 168n88, 172, 175 Halliwell, Stephen, 145n5; on drama, 162n68, 163n69; on Frogs, 61n51, 147n12, 149n19, 160n57, 160n59, 162n66, 163n70, 165n80, 169n91, 170n94, 171, 174n106, 174n109; on Poetics, 60, 60n49, 175n111, 176n112, 177n117, 184n138

Hamilakis, Yiannis, 17 Hanink, Johanna: on comic playwrights, 145n5; on Frogs, 145n4, 159n53, 157n46, 171n96; on Lycurgan law, 153n33, 153n35, 176n113, 184n138; on the Poetics, 172n98, 175n110, 184, 184n139; on theatre culture, 176n112; on the Theatre of Dionysus, 154n36, 155n40 Hartog, FranГ§ois, 35n43, 63, 64, 98n92, 103n106, 113n29, 114n32, 115n35, 122, 140–42 Hauser, Stefan, 187, 187n5 Hegel, G. W. F., 106 Hegelochus, 149, 149n19, 153, 182 Heidegger, Martin, 3n2, 38n51 Helen, 43, 75–83, 75n30, 77n37, 79n40, 85, 95 Helicon, 17, 24–26, 64 Henning, Michelle, 2n1, 23n8 Herbert, Zbignew, 38n51 hermeneutics, 151, 191n14, 193n23; hermeneutic gap, 37 Herodotus, 9, 17, 61n53, 103, 141n119, 186 Histories, 7–8, 15, 47n21, 98n92, 106–7, 112, 114, 116–17, 117n41, 118–20, 131n91, 137, 141n119, 201; the Egyptian labyrinth in, 135–38, 137n106; on oracles, 120n56, 121, 125, 140n115; бЅ„П€О№П‚ in, 138–40, 138n110; story of Croesus in, 117, 117n44, 120–21, 122n63, 124, 130–31, 130n87, 134–35, 134n99, 142–43; visible objects in, 18–19, 113n29, 117n43, 119, 121–23, 121n60, 123n66, 123n67, 134n100, 142–43. See also Lydian logos methodology of, 112–17, 113n29, 116n37, 123n68 and Pausanias, 127, 127n79, 128n80, 128n81 and Thucydides, 60n50, 61n52, 136n104, 140–41 Hesiod, 17, 28–38, 31n27, 78, 97n87 as a narrator in Theogony, 24–30, 25n12, 65n5, Theogony, 8, 11, 21–22, 33n35, 41, 65n5, 70, 78, 201; description of Page 241 →the underworld in, 31–32, 116n37; encounter with Muses in, 24–30, 26n15, 28n20, 65, 73; story of Zeus in, 33–39, 41; visible objects in, 17, 24 Heubeck, Alfred, on Homeric language, 46n20, 66n6, 81n44, 88n60, 89n62, 90n66, 91n69, 92n74, 95n82, 101n100, 102n101 Hippocratics, 114 historical fact versus poetic fiction, 8–9, 17, 40, 55, 57–58, 60–62, 61n51, 61n53, 84n49, 121, 141 historical value, 107, 109–12, 110n16, 110n18, 111n21, 143; historischer Wert, 109. See also age-value

historiography, 13, 108, 113n28, 114n31 history, philosophy of, 8, 15–16, 16n42, 107, 142 Hodder, Ian, 12n32, 188–91, 188n6, 191n14, 192n18, 192n19, 193, 199 Homer, 8, 17–19, 68n14, 70n18, 75, 118n45, 201 audience of, 84n50 blindness of, 66, 66n7 the Homeric narrator, 26n14 Homeric poems, 26, 27n19, 65n5, 71, 89n63, 201; comparison between Iliad and Odyssey, 64n2, 70n19, 78n38, 89n62; fictional objects in, 55; memory in, 13n33; as products of an oral culture, 13, 68–69, 83; reading the past in, 63; simile in, 53n33, 89n63, 91–92 Iliad, 75, 86, 95, 96n86; boar’s tusk helmet in, 22, 22n5; death in, 50, 52; epigram in, 80, 83; historical reception of, 18, 41, 71, 105; seeing in, 85, 84n53; walls in, 8, 12, 18, 41, 44, 44n12, 48, 52, 54–55, 54n38, 56–59, 62–63, 107 Odyssey, 8, 11–12, 54, 65n5, 73, 180; “as-if” statements in, 18, 78, 84, 84n49, 93–94, 102–5; epistemological discourses in, 18, 65, 71, 93, 99, 101, 105; protoarchaeological effect of, 18, 64–65, 71, 86; use of ОјОїПЃП†О® in, 97–98; wandering in, 99n99, 100; writerly effects of, 70–71 as a source, 56n43, 60 Homeric Hymns, 26, 35n41, 35n42 human time. See time: human versus divine Hunter, Richard, 145n5, 154–56, 164n75, 166n82, 171, 171n96, 175, 175n110, 177n115 Hutson, Scott, 188–91, 188n6, 191n14, 192n18, 192n19, 193 Hutton, William, 128, 128n81 hyperbole, 72, 138, 152 hypothetical past. See past: hypothetical Immerwahr, H. R., 114n32, 119, 119n50, 142n122 immortal fame, 18, 41, 46–47, 63. See also ОєО»О-ОїП‚: ОєО»О-ОїП‚ бј„П†ОёО№П„ОїОЅ immortality. See mortality versus immortality immuration of objects, 3–4 implied conformity. See conformity, implied inscriptional, 74–75, 83, 99, 115n33; definition of; 74. See also Derrida, Jacques intentional versus unintentional, 4, 6, 190; monuments, 111–12, 111n21 intertextuality, 125, 157, 160, 161n62

introverted consciousness. See consciousness, introverted invisibility. See visibility versus invisibility Jakobson, Roman, 53n35, 55 Jay, Martin, 17n45, 23n8 Jeffrey, I., 34n39 Johnson, David, 31–33, 31n28, 31n30, 32n31 katabasis, 145, 158n50, 163n70, 174 Katz, J., 25n12 Kirk, G. S., 43n7, 44n11, 51, 51n29, 72n23, 75, 75n31, 79, 89n62 Page 242 →Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Barbara, 12, 12n32 Kurke, Leslie, 61n53, 117n44, 118n45, 123n66, 124n73, 130n87, 130n88, 130n90, 165n81 Lake Moeris, 136n103 language: everyday, 13n33, 67n12, 68n14, 99n97; of risk, 164n75; paralinguistics; 146 Latour, Bruno, 38n50 Laurence, Ray, 9, 9n22, 194n24 Lazenby, J. F., 22, 72n22 Leaf, Walter, 53n33 lector scrupulosis, 155, 155n40, 175 legibility, 7, 20, 185, 197, 200 linguistic representation. See empirical observation: relationship to linguistic representation literacy, 69, 147–48, 148n17, 149, 151–52 looking at versus looking through, 6n4, 107–8, 112, 143 LГіpez-Ruiz, Carolina, 21n2, 26n15, 29n23; on the Theogony, 27, 27n18, 29–30, 29n22, 31n26, 33n37, 51n28 Lycaon, 45 Lydian logos, 12, 19, 106, 121–22, 128n81, 129, 143 Lyons, John, 146 Marcus, Sharon, 6n11 Martin, Richard: on the Homeric poems, 90n66, 96n86, 97–98, 98n93, 99, 99n97; on material and literary evidence for the past, 9–11, 187, 187n4 Marxism: critique of materialism (see materialism: Marxist critique of); theory, 23

Mason, Rhiannon, 2n1, 4, 6, 6n15 material culture, reading of, 9–10, 189–92, 191n13, 192n18, 195–96, 198–99 materialism: Marxist critique of, 198; new, 23–24, 38 materiality, 20, 24, 38, 38n50, 142, 189, 195n27, 196–98, 200–201, 200n46 Maurizio, Lisa, 120, 120n56 Menelaus, 79, 81, 84, 85 metaphor, 7, 53n34, 106, 106n2, 164n73, 172, 179n124, 190, 200; death of Euripides’ bowl in Frogs, 166, 170; fading with time, 115, 115n33, 186; reading as, 2, 5–7, 5n10, 6n11, 14, 20, 63, 69, 186–88, 192, 194, 197, 200–201; text-based, 199; visual, 15n41, 17n45, 18–19, 34n38, 83n48, 84n51, 95–97, 103n107, 103–4, 107–8, 108n8, 113, 142–43, 149, 157 metonym, 27, 30, 37, 54, 104, 117, 133 Minchin, Elizabeth, 13n33, 67n9, 67n12, 70n19, 72n22 Mitchell, B. M., 135n100 Mitchell, W. J. T., 22n3 Moles, J., 60n50, 114n32, 115n33, 141, 141n119, mortality versus immortality, 25, 28, 28n20, 46–47, 48n24, 52–54, 53n34, 63, 65, 73, 76–77, 78n38, 163; anachrony, 36n44 Muses, 65n5; in the Homeric poems, 13, 18, 26n14, 53n34, 65–66, 71–73, 72n23, 76–78, 85, 85n54, 89, 89n62, 94n80, 99; in Theogony, 17, 24–30, 25n12, 28n20, 28n21, 37, 64 museums, 2–6, 2n1, 17, 105, 187n5; definition of, 2, 12; museum-as-text, 4n8, 5–6; museum studies, 2, 5, 7 Nagy, Gregory, 27n17, 46n19, 115n35, 147n12; on comparison between Herodotus and Homer, 114n32, 118n45, 119n48; on Herodotus, 137n108; on the Homeric poems, 64n2, 75n33, 88n57; on ОєО»О-ОїП‚,44n10, 45n15, 46, 51n29; on the Theogony, 27n18, 29 Nervegna, Sebastiana, 146n7, 148, 148n17, 152n32 Nestor, 41–43, 44, 84, 90n66; shield of, 44, 44n11 Nevett, Lisa C., 10n24 nostalgia, 129n85, 156, 158n51, 172 Page 243 →objects: defense of things, 197n34; object/thing dialectic, 23; relationship of objects to texts, 189. See also words and things observers, 79, 83, 85n53, 110, 112. See also eyewitnesses; spectators Odysseus, 70, 75, 87n57, 88n59, 89n62, 119; in comparison/contrast to a singer, 65n5, 78, 86–94, 89n61, 89n63, 90n64, 94n80, 98–99, 101–3; in disguise as the Stranger, 25n12, 29n23, 82n46, 100–102; as an eyewitness, 8, 11–12, 18, 64–65, 85; physical appearance of, 94–96, 95n82, 95n83, 98; in praise of Demodocus, 66, 84, 103–105, 180

Olsen, Bjørnar: on archaeology, 188n6, 191n41,195n27, 195n28, 197–201, 199n41, 200n48; on fetishism, 23n8; In Defense of Things: Archaeology and the Ontology of Objects, 197, 200n47; on material objects, 38n50, 147n11, 191n13, 197–201, 197n34, 200n46; on visuality, 14n38 oracles, 34n37, 47n21, 106, 117n44, 120–25, 121n58, 135, 139–40, 139n112, 143; authenticity of (see authenticity: of oracles); ex eventu, 120 Osborne, Robin, 3n3, 9n23, 10n25 Ovid, 21n1 Palaima, Thomas G., 7n16 Papadopoulos, John K., 40n2 paralinguistic features of utterance. See language: paralinguistics paratragedy, 152n29, 161, 161n62 Parke, H. W., 120n53, 121, 122n63, 123n66, 123n67, 124, 124n69, 124n71, 125n75, 126 Parry, Milman, 69 past: as demonstrated by dramatic texts, 146n3, 147, 161n64, 164, 182, 185; as demonstrated by eyewitnesses, 65, 67, 75, 80, 83–84, 92, 99, 102–3, 105; as demonstrated by material objects, 27, 33, 38–39, 132, 187–88, 190–91; as demonstrated by walls, 40, 41, 52, 57, 63; as demonstrated by what is visible in the present, 1–3, 7–9, 11–13, 15–20, 24, 26, 68, 83, 106, 111, 113, 119, 132, 143, 145, 186–87; as demonstrated by written texts, 187–92, 191n14, 192n18, 199–200; in history writing, 16, 59–60, 111–12, 116–17, 129, 140, 142, 200; hypothetical, 18, 41, 49, 51–2, 62–63, 82, 107; knowledge of, 31, 64, 71–73, 76, 125; men of, 82; reality of, 26–27, 33, 39, 74, 83, 107, 112 Pausanias, 17, 34n39, 37, 37n48, 64, 116n39, 124–29, 127n79, 128n80, 128n81, 131n92; Periêgêsis, 17, 37, 37n47, 39, 115–16, 115n34, 128–29, 129n85 performance, 199; of Demodocus, 65; epic, 83, 107; hypothetical, 12, 19, 146, 151, 168, 171, 180, 183–84; oral, 13n33, 18, 67–71, 67n11, 98, 127, 141, 141n119, 155; theatrical, 19, 144–53, 145n7, 146n9, 147n12, 148n17, 152n32, 155–56, 159–63, 165, 168n89, 173–76, 175n110, 176n112, 178–84, 183n136; of the Theogony, 27 Phemius, 65, 88n57, 88n60 phenomenological analysis, 194–95 philology, 10, 11, 16; philologists, 1, 7, 10 philosophy of history. See history, philosophy of Pieters, Jürgen, 16n42, 108 Pindar, 21n1, 27n17, 47n21, 87n57, 130n88 Plato, 177, 177n117, 183; Cratylus, 158, 161n61; Ion, 85n54, 93; Phaedrus, 70n18; Symposium, 34n38, 150n25 Plotz, John, 23n9 poetry, orally derived, 13–14, 14n35, 17, 68, 117n42

Page 244 →Porter, James I., 9n23, 38n52, 42n5, 49n25, 53n36, 69n17, 150n25, 152n32, 191; on the Achaean wall, 47, 54n38, 55, 55n40, 59; on Aristotle, 176n111; on Frogs, 145n5, 156–57, 164n73, 171n96; on Herodotus, 115n33; on the PeriГЄgГЄsis, 129n84, 129n85; on “speaking objects,” 11n29, 52n31 positivism: archaeological, 23, 121–22, 126–27, 131, 187; historical, 140 poststructuralism, 6n15, 104n109, 108, 187, 192 prehistory, 18, 191, 193, 194–95, 195n28, 200 present: in epic, 35n40, 36, 41, 49, 52, 67–68, 67n9, 81–83; eternal, 68, 109–10; locations, 56–59; men of, 81–82, 81n45; visible phenomena in, 2, 9, 19–20, 24, 41, 106–7, 111, 113–14, 119, 129, 129n85, 132, 201 Preucel, Robert W., 192n20, 195–97, 195n29, 199 Preziosi, Donald, 5–6 Prier, Raymond Adolph, 35n43 prolepsis, 120n53, 133n97 protoarchaeological: effect, 17–19, 22, 24, 27, 31, 41, 48, 60, 63–65, 71, 79, 83, 86, 103, 105–6, 112, 122, 129, 132, 135, 145, 164–65, 175, 185; narratives, 2, 7, 14–16, 17–20, 38–39, 63, 75, 135, 143, 186–87, 188, 197, 201; potential, 40–41 Proust, ValГ©ry, 40, 40n1, 54, 200n46 Pucci, Pietro, 65n5, 71n21, 72n22, 88n60 Purves, Alex, 26n14, 51n29, 121n59, 136n105, 180n129 Quine, Willard van Orman, 38n50 Ranke, Leopold von, 103–4, 103n107, 104n108, 104n110 readers. See spectators: and readers reading: of objects, 5, 6, 6n15, 7, 191, 194, 200; the past; 2, 7, 14, 20, 80, 83, 186–90, 192, 192n18, 200–1; scene of, 150n23; surface, 6n11 (see also metaphor: reading as); time of, 150 Ready, Jonathan L., 27n19, 46n18, 87n57, 89n63 receding visual field. See visual field, receding relationship of words to things. See words and things, relationship of remains and ruins, 1, 3, 17, 108, 109n13, 110 Revermann, Martin, 148, 149n19, 162n69, 179n125 Ricoeur, Paul, 3n2, 104–5, 104n110, 186n2 Riegl, Alois, 108n9, 109n10, 109n11, 110n17, 111n19, 122n61; on “historical value” and “age-value, ” 107–12, 109n13, 110n16, 110n18, 142–43; The Modern Cult of Monuments, Its Character and Its Origin, 108; on objects, 23n9

Ripa, Cesare, 3, 3n5 Roach, Joseph, 149, 149n21 Rosen, Ralph: on audiences, 149n19, 163n69; on Deipnosophistae, 150, 150n25, 151n26, 151n28; on Frogs, 161n62, 166n83, 170n95, 171n96; on the Letter Tragedy, 151n27, 152n29 RГ¶sler, Wolfgang, 116–17, 116n40, 117n41, 117n42, 130, 140 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 69, 70n18 Russo, Joseph, 46n20, 88n60, 91n69, 92n74, 101n100, 102n101 sand, 47, 47n21, 49, 51, 71 Sauer, Eberhard W., 187, 187n3 Saussy, Haun, 69–70, 70n18, 70n19, 117n42 scepter, 17, 24–25, 31–32, 39, 44n13, 67n12, 70; as symbol of rhapsodes, 27–28. See also ПѓОєбї†ПЂП„ПЃОїОЅ Schaffer, Simon, 12n31, 142n121 Schwenger, Peter, 21n1, 38n51 Page 245 →Scodel, Ruth, 21n1, 41n4, 67n12 seeing with one’s own eyes, 18, 84–85, 99–100; the past, 14–17, 34n38, 103n107, 105, 147, 182; versus reading the past; 2, 7, 63, 71, 75, 83, 192n18, 201. See also eyewitnesses Segal, Charles, 27n16, 27n17, 65n3, 102n101, 102n103 self-consciousness of poets, 65, 89n62, 102 semiology, 195, 196–197 semiotics, archaeological, 196 sense perception, hierarchy of, 73, 96 Serres, Michel, 12n32 Sfyroeras, Pavlos, 157–70, 157n48, 158n49, 158n51, 158n52, 160, 169n91 Shanks, Michael, 2n1, 188n6, 190n11, 191n13, 194n24 Shapin, Stephen, 12n31, 142n121 ships, 42–43, 42n6, 56–57, 133, 134n98; triremes, 160–61 Shklovsky, Victor, 21n1 sight, 65, 73, 86, 141–42; versus blindness (see blindness: versus sight) simile: in the Iliad, 53n33, 45, 54, 72, 98; in the Odyssey, 18, 85n54, 87n57, 88–93, 89n63, 101–3, 101n100

Simpson, R. Hope, 22, 72n22 Sinos, Dale, 45n15 Smith, Joseph A., 151, 151n28, 152n29 Smith, R. R. R., 194n24 Socrates, 68n15, 70n18, 85n54, 88n58, 93, 93n78 Spartans, 132–35, 134n99; great bowl of, 133–35, 134n100 spectators, 17; of drama, 146, 146n10, 159, 162n68, 163n71, 178–79, 181–84; of epic events, 18, 67–68, 75, 83–84, 83n48; in Frogs, 167, 169–70; at museums, 2; of the past, 15, 140; and readers, 4, 15, 83, 108, 142, 146, 146n10, 149n18, 174 Stanford, W. B., 66, 66n6, 87n55, 87n57, 149n19, 154n37, 158n52 Steiner, Deborah, 35n43, 117n41 Stoddard, Kathryn, 27n18, 28n20, 29n22, 33n35, 36n44, 65n5, 87n57 stone, 21n1, 24, 33, 35n40, 37–38, 38n50, 58–59, 111; logs and, 51, 51n28; monuments, 194; oak and, 29n23, 51n28; proverbial, 30, 33n37, 37; tree and, 29–30, 29n23, 31n26; of Zeus, 8, 11, 17, 33–37, 34n39, 41 Strabo, 41, 55–60, 56n43, 60n48, 62–63, 64, 136; Geographica, 60, 62 structuralism, 80, 195. See also poststructuralism study of things (“thing theory”), 23, 23n8. See also words and things: study of surface reading. See reading, surface Svenbro, Jesper, 65n3, 65n4, 88n57, 92n73, 149n20, 152n30, 152n31, 154n37, 158 symbols, 44n9, 79n39, 189, 199; scepters as (see scepters: as symbol of rhapsodes); symbolic meanings, 15, 189 Tamen, Miguel, 3–4, 3n5, 23n9 tangibility, 2, 20, 113, 187–89, 187n5, 192, 197, 199–200 Tartarus, 31–32, 116n37 teichoscopia, 71, 74, 75–77, 76n35, 79–80, 82–84 temporal anomaly. See anomaly: temporal text as thing, 200 textuality (textual evidence), 4, 9–10, 10n24, 16, 23, 187 textualization of drama, 151–52, 154, 161, 164, 169, 172, 175 Theodorus the Cynic, 152, 175n110 Thomas, Rosalind, 113, 113n28, 115n35

Thucydides, 9, 61, 87n55, 103n106, 113n28, 115n34, 119n51, 136n104, 140–42, 142n122, 173n104 Tilley, Christopher, 6n14, 193n21, 194–95, 195n27, 195n28, 199 Page 246 →time: as a feature of narrative structure, 8, 13, 25, 33n35, 81–83, 116, 125; measurement of, 4, 7, 17, 31–33, 45, 45n16, 129; objects affected by, 122; passing of, 4, 7, 12, 19, 35, 39, 103, 112, 122n65, 143; of reading, 150; visible surface of, 109 triremes. See ships Trojan walls. See walls: Trojan truth: claims, 5, 8, 30–31, 59, 63, 68, 73, 85n53, 102–3; versus lying, 17, 28, 28n21, 39, 64, 84n50, 86–88, 87n57, 90n66, 94, 94n81, 99, 99n99, 101–3, 113 ungewollte. See intentional versus unintentional: monuments “up to my time,” 19, 108, 112, 115–16, 121, 131–32, 134, 140, 142n122. See also бјђПЂНґ бјђОјО-Ої vase and the poem, problem of, 10, 23, 187 viewers, virtual, 4, 74, 83 visibility: partial, 16–17, 75, 117, 138; versus invisibility, 7, 16–17, 20, 24, 48, 63, 70, 75, 82–83, 114, 117, 132, 145, 157, 184, 194 vision, 8, 14–15, 31n28, 113n29, 194, 195n27; double, 82; of Muses in Theogony, 24–27, 26n15, 64; tragic, 174; versus visuality, 16. See also dreams visual: absence, 18, 48, 83, 146, 161n64; corroboration, 72, 136, 137; field, receding, 7, 15, 17, 19, 41, 65, 145, 201; order of knowledge, 72; perception; 2, 8, 12, 14, 17–18, 26, 71, 76, 78–79, 84, 84n51, 92, 94, 99, 102, 141, 144–45, 195n27 visualism, 31n28 visuality, 14–16, 14n37, 14n38, 64, 146, 150, 161n64, 201 Volk, Katharina, 25n12, 45n13 walls, 2, 40–41, 42n6, 44n9; Achaean, 8, 12, 18–19, 41, 43–48, 48n24, 51–52, 54–55, 54n38, 57–60, 62–64, 79, 82, 84, 107, 117n42, 132; Trojan, 43–44, 44n12, 46–47, 48n24, 52–54, 54n38, 79, 79n39, 80, 82–83 Watkins, Calvert, 29n23, 51n28 West, Martin, 35n42; on Hesiod, 26, 27n17, 30–31, 31n28, 31n30, 32n31, 33n34, 34, 34n39, 35n41; on Homer, 25n12, 42n5 West, Stephanie; 66n6, 89n62, 90n66, 130n87 White, Hayden, 7n17, 104, 104n110, 106n2, 132, 132n95, 138, 142n41, 144 White, M. E., 117n44 Whitehead, Christopher, 2n1, 4n8

Whitley, James, 7n16, 22n3, 22n5 Williams, William Carlos, 21, 21n1 Winter, Irene J., 26n15 words and things: relationship between, 10n25, 145, 173, 188, 195–97, 201; study of, 1, 10 Wormell, D. E. W., 34n39, 120n53, 121, 124n69, 125n75, 126 writerly effects, 70, 117n42, 200 writing, 69–70, 70n18, 74–75, 154–55, 176n112, 196, 200n48; dramatization of, 80; history, 2, 8, 9, 11–12, 14, 16, 18, 40, 63, 106, 108n8, 112, 116n37, 129, 142, 143, 180, 189n8 Xanthias, 149, 164, 167 Xenophon, 115n34 Yamauchi, Edwin, 22n5 Zeus, 17, 33, 33n35, 35, 35n41, 35n42, 36–38, 43, 46–47, 78n38; stone of (see stone: of Zeus) Zeuxis, Helen, 77n36