Classics in Contemporary Culture

Thucydides' Gamble Succeeds, or, Herodotus Loses Paternity Suit

As reported in the Paly Voice:

Stanford University history professor David Kennedy made his annual presentation to the Palo Alto High School AP United States History classes on Wednesday, May 19.

Beginning his visit with a light-hearted presentation of humorous excerpts from student essays, Kennedy, co-writer of the renowned U.S. History text book, “The American Pageant,” proceeded to lecture on the nature and origins of history.

“History is not [a] universal law,” Kennedy said. “It is distinguishable from science and it is distinguishable from literature.”

In his lecture, he emphasized the meaning of history and its significance in both philosophical and academic aspects. Kennedy focused his speech on Thucydides’ monumental account of the Peloponnesian war, which marked the first historically accurate recording of an event in human history.

“‘The History of the Peloponnesian War’ is really the first recognizable kind of history,” Kennedy said. “That’s what we’ve tried to write ever since. Before Thucydides, history was more about myth-making than being a reliable account of events.”

Following his lesson on the origins of history, Kennedy addressed the more profound purpose of history beyond academics.

“History answers what it means to be a man...what it means to be a man in this time and place...what it means to be a man different from any other man,” Kennedy said.

President or Pater Patriae?

Gene Healy (Cato@Liberty) writes about unwarranted public / media expectations of presidential responses to such things as the present Gulf oil spill: "...most of the complaints dominating the airwaves are far vaguer: centering on the atavistic notion that just by Obama traveling to the site, the magical force of Presidential Concern might cause the slick to recede." He cites himself citing I, Claudius:

In the BBC production of Robert Graves’ “I Claudius,” Emperor Augustus tells his wife Livia that the Senate had voted to make him a god in the Syrian city of Palmyra, and the people there had put a statue of him in the temple, to which they’d bring offerings in the hopes that the emperor would grant rain or cure their ailments. “Tell me Livia,” Augustus says, “If I’m a god, even in Palmyra, how do I cure gout?”

Augustus’s frustration is all-too-familiar to the modern president. He can no more “manage” the economy or provide seamless protection from all manner of hazards than Augustus could bring rain or cure gout.

Hydrocracy

The link between natural resources and cut-throat politics...observed by the premier Greek choral lyric poet?  Here's Bill Hatch at counterpunch.org, showing off some Latin & Greek-itude:

However, homo californiensis cannot change the weather any better than King Oedipus could. The San Luis – Delta Mendota water Authority uses as its slogan the first line of the first poem of the ancient Greek athlete-loving poet, Pindar: “The noblest of the elements is water.” Aside from the little chemical mistake, not made by Pindar, that water is a compound and not an element, the shrewd agribusiness water thieves of the west side of the San Joaquin Valley did not complete Pindar’s clause, “while gold, like fire flaming at night, gleams more brightly than all other lordly wealth …”

Gryllus to the Rescue

A noteworthy book for young people:  The Pig Scrolls, by Paul Shipton (2005).  Looks like fun!  Here's a summary from a Library Science website (?) [pdf]:

This hilarious story is set in Ancient Rome. Gryllus, who was once a crewman of Odysseus, tells how he was transformed into a pig and then chosen to save the world. Circe had turned Odysseus’s crew into pigs, but when she changed the crewmen back into their original forms, Gryllus, who was enjoying his life of leisure, elected to stay a pig. Unfortunately, his quiet life in the woods was interrupted one day by Sibyl, who informed Gryllus that he had been chosen by Apollo to save the cosmos. Gryllus thought Sibyl was crazy and ignored her, so Sibyl kidnapped him. On their journey to Delphi, they encountered monsters, gods, a strange goat herder and a man wearing trousers. Gryllus came to realize that the fate of the world really was in the hooves of a talking pig.

I'm not sure where I picked up this reference, but I've been meaning to post this for a while now...

Sapphic Songs

Bernard Rands' new vocal setting of fragmentary poems by Sappho, now again, was performed at the University of Chicago's Harris Theatre (in the "Contempo" concert series)--it sounds pretty interesting:

Scored for mezzo-soprano soloist with backing septet, now again draws upon Paul Roche’s translations and free renderings of the few surviving fragmented stanzas of the celebrated yet historically nebulous poet of Lesbos. The score is less a dramatic song cycle than a reflective meditation, painting a spare, melismatic evocation of the broken, elliptical texts.

Yet Rands’ luminous music is consistently compelling and ear-catching, lyrical yet cast with neo-Classical restraint as with the bardic opening for solo harp that introduces the words “Far sweeter-tuned / than a lyre/ Golder than gold / softer than velvet.” Rands adds pointillist dashes of trumpet, flute and percussion amid effective use of an echoing soprano and alto (Amy Conn and Nina Heebink).

Susanne Mentzer proved a fine advocate for this music, her dark-hued voice assaying the leaps and challenges of the restless vocal line and conveying the texts’ sensuality and expressive nuance. Conductor Cliff Colnot brought his usual meticulous preparation and concentrated direction to the score, allowing all the crystalline subtleties to register.

Vergilian Heresy: A Cautionary Tale

An old post at Classico & Moderno (in Italian) puts me in mind of Medieval "demonization" (literally, as Nico Narsi points out) of Classical culture and literature, in the tradition of Jerome's dream, where he was accused of being a Ciceronian, not a Christian.  The story--about how a certain Vilgard was treated to a vision of demons in the form of Vergil, Horace and Juvenal, and was subsequently condemned to death for heresy (circa 970)--comes to us from one Ralph the Bald (Rodulfus Glaber):

A certain man named Vilgard occupied himself with more eagerness than constancy in literary studies, for it was always the Italian habit to pursue these to the neglect of the other arts.  Then one night when, puffed up with pride in the knowledge of his art, he had begun to reveal himself to be more stupid than wise, demons in the likeness of the poets Vergil, Horace, and Juvenal appeared to him, pretending thanks for the loving study which he devoted to the contents of their books and for serving as their happy herald to posterity.  They promised him, moreover, that he would soon share their renown.  Corrupted by these devilish deceptions, he began pompously to teach many things contrary to holy faith and made the assertion that the words of the poets deserved belief in all instances.  But he was at last discovered to be a heretic and was condemned by Peter, archbishop of that city [Ravenna].

Many others holding this noxious doctrine were discovered throughout Italy, and they too died by sword and pyre. Indeed, at this same period, some went forth from the island of Sardinia--which usually teems with this sort of folk--to infect the people of Spain, but they were exterminated by the Catholics...

[In Wakefield and Evans, Heresies of the High Middle Ages, p. 73]

So, once again, if you're feeling distressed about the marginalization of Classics in the modern era...repeat again with me, "At least it's not the dark ages!" Actually, I'm more intrigued by the fact that this "heresy" was found to be so pervasive in the "dark ages," and especially that Sardinia was a hotbed of Virgiliolatry.

Classics in America: Against Yale

James Fenimore Cooper's [justly?] neglected novel, Satanstoe, contains a picture of Colonial-era life in the area of New York...quite interesting, actually.  In the early chapters it gives an account of the celebration of the Pinkster festival, which Cooper refers to as a kind of "black Saturnalia."  (Meanwhile, two of the slaves of the main character's family are called "Caesar" and "Pompey"...)

In non-African-American-related matters, there is also an amusing comparison of (Classical) learning in New England (Yale:  bad) versus in New Jersey (Nassau Hall, the antecedent of Princeton:  good).  Jason Newcome, the Puritan and graduate of Yale, "had not the smallest notion of quantity; and he pronounced Latin very much as one would read Mohawk, from a vocabulary made out by a hunter, or a savant of the French academy..."  The main character, Cornelius Littlepage, considers that his own "knowledge of the classics went beyond that of Jason..."  That being so, it is also interesting to note Corny's account of his training and curriculum.  Before college, he studied "until [he] could translate the two first Aeneids, and the whole of the Gospel of St. Matthew, pretty readily."  At college: 

I read all of the New Testament, in Greek; several of Cicero's Orations; every line of Horace, Satires and Odes; four books of the Iliad; Tully de Oratore, throughout; besides paying proper attention to geography, mathematics, and other of the usual branches.  Moral philosophy, in particular, was closely attended to, senior year, as well as astronomy.  We had a telescope that showed us all four of Jupiter's moons.  In other respects, Nassau might be called the seat of learning.  One of our class purchased a second-hand copy of Euripides, in town, and we had it in college all of six months; though it was never my good fortune to see it, as the young man who owned it was not much disposed to let profane eyes view his treasure.  Nevertheless, I am certain the copy of the work was in college; and we took good care to let the Yale men hear of it more than once.  I do not believe they ever saw even the outside of a Euripides...

Finally, and unsurprisingly, the sense that English schools were far ahead in the teaching of the Classics appears:  "Mr. Worden laughed at both; said that neither [Yale nor Nassau] had as much learning as a second-rate English grammar-school; and that a lower-form boy, at Eton or Westminster, could take a master's degree at either, and pass for a prodigy in the bargain..."

Classics in African-American Life, part 3

In case the previous two posts give the impression that I don't realize that people have indeed studied this seriously, here are a few real treatments of "Classics in African-American Life":

• T. L. Walters, African American Literature and the Classicist Tradition... (2007)
• M. V. Ronnick (ed.), The Autobiography of William Sanders Scarborough (2005)
• P. D. Rankine, Ulysses in Black: Ralph Ellison, Classicism, and African American Literature (2008)

Classics in African-American Life, part 2

The previous post, on W. E. B. DuBois, reminded me to mention also Phyllis Wheatley, whose poetry includes the following:

To M AE C E N A S.

MAECENAS, you, beneath the myrtle shade,
Read o'er what poets sung, and shepherds play'd.
What felt those poets but you feel the same?
Does not your soul possess the sacred flame?
Their noble strains your equal genius shares
In softer language, and diviner airs.
While Homer paints, lo! circumfus'd in air,
Celestial Gods in mortal forms appear;
Swift as they move hear each recess rebound,
Heav'n quakes, earth trembles, and the shores resound.
Great Sire of verse, before my mortal eyes,
The lightnings blaze across the vaulted skies,
And, as the thunder shakes the heav'nly plains,
A deep felt horror thrills through all my veins.
When gentler strains demand thy graceful song,
The length'ning line moves languishing along.
When great Patroclus courts Achilles' aid,
The grateful tribute of my tears is paid;
Prone on the shore he feels the pangs of love,
And stern Pelides tend'rest passions move.
Great Maro's strain in heav'nly numbers flows,
The Nine inspire, and all the bosom glows.
O could I rival thine and Virgil's page,
Or claim the Muses with the Mantuan Sage;
Soon the same beauties should my mind adorn,
And the same ardors in my soul should burn:
Then should my song in bolder notes arise,
And all my numbers pleasingly surprise;
But here I sit, and mourn a grov'ling mind,
That fain would mount, and ride upon the wind.
Not you, my friend, these plaintive strains become,
Not you, whose bosom is the Muses home;
When they from tow'ring Helicon retire,
They fan in you the bright immortal fire,
But I less happy, cannot raise the song,
The fault'ring music dies upon my tongue.
The happier Terence all the choir inspir'd,
His soul replenish'd, and his bosom fir'd;
But say, ye Muses, why this partial grace,
To one alone of Afric's sable race;
From age to age transmitting thus his name
With the finest glory in the rolls of fame?
Thy virtues, great Maecenas! shall be sung
In praise of him, from whom those virtues sprung:
While blooming wreaths around thy temples spread,
I'll snatch a laurel from thine honour'd head,
While you indulgent smile upon the deed.
As long as Thames in streams majestic flows,
Or Naiads in their oozy beds repose
While Phoebus reigns above the starry train
While bright Aurora purples o'er the main,
So long, great Sir, the muse thy praise shall sing,
So long thy praise shal' make Parnassus ring:
Then grant, Maecenas, thy paternal rays,
Hear me propitious, and defend my lays.

and:

On RECOLLECTION.

MNEME begin. Inspire, ye sacred nine,
Your vent'rous Afric in her great design.
Mneme, immortal pow'r, I trace thy spring:
Assist my strains, while I thy glories sing:
The acts of long departed years, by thee
Recover'd, in due order rang'd we see:
Thy pow'r the long-forgotten calls from night,
That sweetly plays before the fancy's sight.
Mneme in our nocturnal visions pours
The ample treasure of her secret stores;
Swift from above the wings her silent flight
Through Phoebe's realms, fair regent of the night;
And, in her pomp of images display'd,
To the high-raptur'd poet gives her aid,
Through the unbounded regions of the mind,
Diffusing light celestial and refin'd.
The heav'nly phantom paints the actions done
By ev'ry tribe beneath the rolling sun...

All right, so this doesn't exactly qualify as "Contemporary"...Nevertheless...

Classics in African-American Life

I had never looked at W. E. B. DuBois' Souls of Black Folk before, but I was pleasantly surprised to find a fun "fantasia" on the city of Atlanta and the mythological character Atalanta in chapter 5 (not to mention a reference elsewhere to teaching / translating Cicero's Pro Archia):

Perhaps Atlanta was not christened for the winged maiden of dull Boeotia; you know the tale,—how swarthy Atalanta, tall and wild, would marry only him who out-raced her; and how the wily Hippomenes laid three apples of gold in the way. She fled like a shadow, paused, startled over the first apple, but even as he stretched his hand, fled again; hovered over the second, then, slipping from his hot grasp, flew over river, vale, and hill; but as she lingered over the third, his arms fell round her, and looking on each other, the blazing passion of their love profaned the sanctuary of Love, and they were cursed. If Atlanta be not named for Atalanta, she ought to have been.

Atalanta is not the first or the last maiden whom greed of gold has led to defile the temple of Love; and not maids alone, but men in the race of life, sink from the high and generous ideals of youth to the gambler's code of the Bourse; and in all our Nation's striving is not the Gospel of Work befouled by the Gospel of Pay? So common is this that one-half think it normal; so unquestioned, that we almost fear to question if the end of racing is not gold, if the aim of man is not rightly to be rich. And if this is the fault of America, how dire a danger lies before a new land and a new city, lest Atlanta, stooping for mere gold, shall find that gold accursed!

It was no maiden's idle whim that started this hard racing; a fearful wilderness lay about the feet of that city after the War,—feudalism, poverty, the rise of the Third Estate, serfdom, the re-birth of Law and Order, and above and between all, the Veil of Race. How heavy a journey for weary feet! what wings must Atalanta have to flit over all this hollow and hill, through sour wood and sullen water, and by the red waste of sun-baked clay! How fleet must Atalanta be if she will not be tempted by gold to profane the Sanctuary!

The Sanctuary of our fathers has, to be sure, few Gods,—some sneer, "all too few." There is the thrifty Mercury of New England, Pluto of the North, and Ceres of the West; and there, too, is the half-forgotten Apollo of the South, under whose aegis the maiden ran,—and as she ran she forgot him, even as there in Boeotia Venus was forgot. She forgot the old ideal of the Southern gentleman,—that new-world heir of the grace and courtliness of patrician, knight, and noble; forgot his honor with his foibles, his kindliness with his carelessness, and stooped to apples of gold,—to men busier and sharper, thriftier and more unscrupulous. Golden apples are beautiful—I remember the lawless days of boyhood, when orchards in crimson and gold tempted me over fence and field—and, too, the merchant who has dethroned the planter is no despicable parvenu. Work and wealth are the mighty levers to lift this old new land; thrift and toil and saving are the highways to new hopes and new possibilities; and yet the warning is needed lest the wily Hippomenes tempt Atalanta to thinking that golden apples are the goal of racing, and not mere incidents by the way.  [...etc.]

Much better, in my view, than the more prosaic possibilities (after a railroad or the governor's daughter)...Incidentally, the "Quest for the Golden Fleece" of chap. 8 looks promising (mythologically speaking), but is not so well-developed.